Life in the Palm

Many long years ago, I was temping in a local government office. The woman I was employed to assist was friendly and jovial in the workplace, so I enjoyed my extended stay at the reception desk.

One day close to the end of my assignment, my co-worker decided to do an office clean up; so, we rolled up our sleeves and scoured and organized every nook and cranny.

Toward the end of the day, I discovered that the potted office Dracaena - one spindly four-foot-tall stem with a sad frond on the top - was the subject of debate; and, the upshot was that it was dying and should be thrown out.

That's when I weighed in. I believed there was still life in the palm, so I offered to take it home with me. I carried it out to my car, crammed it into the front passenger seat beside me, and gave it a home on my back deck for the summer.

And there the Dracaena's lived every summer, since ... wintering in the family room on the other side of the sliding glass door. I've potted it up several times in the last ten years and after one such pot change, it grew a second stem.

This fall when the Dracaena made the transition indoors, I discovered the whole frond top of the second stem had been broken off - I blame the squirrels! I was devastated, though my husband optimistically assured me it might grow a new top.

So, I gave it a good watering and hoped there was still life left in the palm. Fast forward to this week, nearly 3 months later, when hubby's prediction came to pass in dramatic style: The Dracaena didn't just grow one new top, it grew two!

I hope my rescued plant lives on for many more years to come. It's a gentle living reminder that happy surprises can often sprout from unfortunate circumstances, if just given the chance. 

Honesty Ruled

On Boxing Day evening, I stopped at a gas station to fill my gas tank. The big marquis sign wasn't showing a gas price but the pumps appeared to be in working order and two other cars were apparently pumping gasoline.

When I pulled into pump #9 after the previous customer pulled away, I discovered a credit card still in the machine. Pulling the stranger's card out and temporarily placing it in my pocket, I moved forward with my transaction ... inserting my own credit card.

That's when I realized my mistake: The gas pump was actually off-line, although lit up as if ready for business. More problematic, I discovered, was that my credit card was now stuck in the machine - Seriously stuck!

I hung around for quite a while, trying everything I could think of to convince the gas pump to release my card; but, to no avail. Eventually, I had to leave my card and pump gas elsewhere using spare change I scrounged from purse and car.

When my husband arrived home, he headed up to the gas station to see if he could pry my credit card from the machine, only to discover the card was not there; however, running his hand over the top of the machine - something I wouldn't have been tall enough to do - he found my card had been placed on top by another customer.

When I reached home, I Google searched the name on the credit card in my pocket and found a phone number I thought might belong to it's owner. I left a voice message on his answering machine, and amazingly received a reply from Rodney the next morning.

Rodney was easily able to prove ownership of his card, and I handed it off to him when he arrived an hour later to pick it up. He turned out to be a really nice young man, whose story about the previous evening was ironically similar to mine.

I have to wonder just how many gas patrons were stymied by that improperly shut-down gas station on Boxing Day. There were 10 pumps to choose from and every one could have been snatching and holding credit cards all evening. Luckily, at least for Rodney and I, honesty ruled the day and our credit cards made their way back to us, albeit, in different ways.

For that, I say Cheers to the honest people who showed the true spirit of the holidays and who "payed it forward," just like in the movie.

Snow

Winter is finally upon us, although we've had snow for the better part of a week.

Traditionally, the first snows of the season bring driving and traffic complications, shoveling and snow-blowing adventures, and the dreamy anticipation of school cancellation.

Luckily, a good dumping of packing snow, in my part of the world, usually precedes the construction of countless incarnations of snow creatures: snowmen, snow-women, snow-babies, snow families, and some unique snow-creatures that truly defy recognition.

The other day I photographed the snow family, pictured above, simply because they made me laugh. The snow dad's mustache especially caught my fancy ... he looked like a cross between the legendary Frosty and Super Mario.

Snow does make a lot of work for many; but it also brings the opportunity for tobogganing, skiing, snowshoeing, sleigh-riding, and other much loved winter sporting activities for those who live for the great chilly out-of-doors.

That said, I am not a fan of winter: I really do not like being consistently cold or having to bundle up. Daily I can be heard playfully lamenting, "Have I told you lately that I hate winter?" - My kids grew up on it! - Yet, somehow, snow and snow people always take a bit of the frosty sting out of my winter-weary mood.

So, here’s to the first day of winter; and, while we're at it, here's to snow! If you can get past the cold and the wet heaviness of clearing it, snow magically creates a fun and festive atmosphere that almost warms even my grouchy winter-phobic heart.

G. I. Joe's Peg Leg

In 1973, Kirk Douglas starred in and directed the movie Scalawag. In the movie, he portrayed a peg legged pirate searching for buried treasure. The film wasn’t a critical success but, at 15-yrs young, I remember enjoying it.

My dad had won a pair of tickets to the Hamilton premiere of Scalawag plus an upscale meet-and-greet at the Hamilton Club: The latter gave my mother a chance to shake hands with the legendary movie actor and bring me back Mr. Douglas’ signature in my autograph book that she’d taken in her purse.

The next day with our parent’s approval, my younger brother David and I took a bus downtown to a matinee showing of G-rated Scalawag. I remember being enamoured of teen co-star Mark Lester, a favourite at the time. My brother, on the other hand, came away from the movie completely taken with the 11-yr-old-boy version of eye-candy – Pirate Peg’s peg leg.

David, you see, was the proud owner of a G. I. Joe doll, unfortunately afflicted with a missing lower right leg. The movie pirate portrayed by Kirk Douglas and the broken toy at home meshed together in the young boy’s brain and a DIY project was about to take shape.

David found a suitable piece of wood and carved it into the shape of a peg leg. He then enlisted my sewing and design skills to fashion leather-like strapping with which the leg could be secured to the doll. Upholstery tacks affixed the leather to the carved wood, and a mini peg leg was created.

Immensely pleased with the final project, our dad suggested that we send a picture of the doll wearing his peg leg to Mr. Douglas. After much thought and discussion, we opted to do more than send a photo: We constructed a second peg leg, and sent it in a small box with a Polaroid photo and a note, addressed simply to: Mr. Kirk Douglas, Hollywood California.
 
Amazingly, more than six months later, I received an envelope in the mail from Mr. Douglas. In the letter, on official Kirk Douglas stationary, he thanked me for the peg leg, apologized for taking so long to reply to our letter - he had been filming movies in Europe - said he hoped David’s doll wasn’t as uncomfortable wearing the leg as he had been wearing the peg leg in the movie, and sent his regards to my brother.

It was and still is, a delightful letter! I've kept the note, personally signed in black ink by Mr. Douglas, and the envelope all these years - They’re treasured keepsakes.

I’m still amazed that a busy film actor, director and family man from California would take the time to respond to an unsolicited gift from youngsters far away in Canada.

It may sound silly, but I occasionally wonder if Mr. Douglas might still have the peg leg we sent him more than 40 years ago, perhaps sitting in it’s box on a shelf in his office: As I never imagined Mr. Douglas would actually answer our letter as he did, I guess anything's possible.
 
Although my brother unfortunately passed away many years ago, his G. I. Joe is with us still and wears his peg leg to this day.

This heartfelt story is posted today in honour of Mr. Douglas’ 100th Birthday. I wish him sincere best wishes on this momentous occasion, and thank him for making such a positive and long-lasting impression on two grateful young people.

CP Holiday Train

Last night I attended the 18th annual Canadian Pacific (CP) Holiday Train with my grand-daughter Rachel. This was the 5th time Rachel and I have attended together but only the first-time Rachel was tall enough to be able to view more than glimpses of the show on the train stage between the heads and bodies of adults in the crowd.

The inspired traveling decorated train is worthy of high praise for it’s ability to raise money and gather food stores for those in need while transporting top notch festive entertainment cross-country; and, it’s wonderful that the Hamilton community has overwhelmingly embraced the Holiday Train tradition.

Worthy cause and fabulous entertainment aside, though, it’s unfortunate that the Kinnear Yard event location in Hamilton’s east end is fraught with viewing, maneuvering, and parking issues; a situation that will only get worse as crowds continue to grow.

To begin with, parking on the Gage Park property is cut off from even those with Accessible parking permits at 6:00 pm, even though the train doesn’t arrive until 7:45 pm. Legal street parking for anyone else is almost non-existent and with bus transportation re-routed, many participants are forced to walk great distances.

Hamilton’s police force seems willing to turn a blind eye to illegal street parking, made necessary by the lack of legal parking in this area; however, normal overflow parking on the ball diamond field in the park is not available for this event, as the field is filled with overflow people who can’t fit onto Lawrence Road to view the show.

Walking on Lawrence Road, where there are no sidewalks and stable footing falls off into a steep gully on the north side, is unnerving in good weather and positively dangerous when mud, snow and ice are involved. Maneuvering around hundreds of people with babies in strollers, toddlers in tow, dogs on leashes, etc., is a recipe for disaster in daylight and worse still after dark while keeping track of loved ones.

Making one’s way from a drop off point at Ottawa Street to the donations truck in the Gage Park parking lot is a journey of epic proportions when carrying heavy bags of food donations. The first year we attended, it took us more than half an hour to find someone who could even tell us where we needed to go.

The biggest problem I’ve found at the Holiday Train event, however, is that most children are not tall enough to see the show: There are at least as many adults as children in the crowd, and most children simply cannot find a viewing angle adequate for seeing the stage.

I’ve tried for five years to squeeze my grand-daughter into a spot where she can view the show, only for her to grow weary and disillusioned. This year 12-yr-old Rachel, finally as tall as my 5 foot 4 inches, still only caught glimpses of the show and again asked if we could go home before Santa even appeared on stage.

Many parents take their children home early, no doubt for the same reason - I’ve seen them. It’s unfortunate, too, because this Holiday Train concept is such a worthy endeavour.

I can’t help but wonder if another location couldn’t be found or changes made at the Kinnear Yard location, so that parking and public transportation is more abundant; maneuvering is safer; and viewing of the show, for children especially, is improved.

I’d hate to see this 18-year tradition become a thing of the past, or my grand-daughter decide she doesn’t want to attend with me anymore. Hopefully, improved logistics would eliminate the problems I see marring this wonderful holiday tradition, and keep the CP Holiday Train rolling through Hamilton for many more years to come.

Hallow e'en

Some of our best Hallowe'en creations

Hallow e'en has always been a favourite time for me. As a child, I loved getting into costume, and trick or treating; most of all, though, I've always loved carving pumpkins.

I guess my mom, Olive, got us started, many long years ago, and was the driving force behind the toothy jack-o-lantern gracing our front porch every year. Lately, though, she prefers to watch, and clean the carving utensils at the end.

My sister, Jennifer, planner of some of the best Hallow e'en parties I've ever attended, also loves pumpkin carving. Each year, she and I plan a carving get-together, and include friends and family in the festive tradition of carving freaky or funny jack-o-lanterns.

Carving skills are learned young in our family; although, modifications are made with safety in mind: This year the youngest grand-daughter, Mattie-Belle, painted her little pumpkins instead of carving, and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Oldest grand-daughter, Rachel is becoming quite the masterful carver and is very creative.

My oldest daughter, Melody, has always gravitated to small pumpkins and gourds and loves to create freakish scenes of murder and mayhem with them; youngest daughter Chelsea's carvings embody her flair for whimsy and optimism; and, though middle daughter, Laurel, has never liked the feel of pumpkin "goo," she's none-the-less open to hanging out with the rest of us who do.

Some years, our carving group is smaller than others: I once carved a single pumpkin, alone. This year, Jennifer advised and mom looked on as Chelsea, Rachel, Mattie-Belle and I transformed six blank canvases into Hallow e'en-worthy works of art. Chelsea and I gave a repeat performance two nights later when we carved the two remaining pumpkins whose carvers hadn't been able to attend.

Pumpkin carving may seem, to some, to be a juvenile activity; however, I always feel that something's missing if I try to go a year without carving into a large orange gooey vegetable; and, the delicious roasted and salted pumpkin seeds are a wonderful added bonus!

Best of all, the finished collection of jack-o-lanterns, glowing together in the dark at the end of each yearly carve-fest, is beautiful and absolutely mesmerizing.

Happy Hallow e'en!

Grampa Macdonald's Peony

My mother grew up in a large family, with two loving parents and seven rambunctious siblings. Although money was scarce and free time even more scarce, mom and I both remember her family home always had glorious flower gardens in both front and back yards.

Mom always recalled her father having a sprawling peony bush in the garden behind the house, which he tended with the same loving care he gave his many children; and, when my mother married and eventually bought a house with my dad, her father gifted her a root of his peony for her own garden.

Twenty something years later, we - my mom and dad, myself and my two siblings - moved to a new house, only five blocks away; and, in the confusion of packing and relocating, mom forgot to bring the peony or at least a part of it with her. Over the next 30 years, she occasionally lamented losing her dad’s peony, and I came to feel the loss of it through her.

This past summer, when mom once again mentioned the ancient plant, I set off on a mission, to see if any of the sought after peony was still in existence. Realistically, fifty-something years had elapsed since mom’s root left her father’s garden, and his original root, had it survived, would easily have been more than 80 years old by now: Chances of my being successful seemed rather bleak.

As I now own my mother’s second house, going back to the home where I grew up was an easy journey; and, I ended up meeting the husband half of the current homeowners ... conversing with him over the garden fence. While chatting, I was delighted to see that my mother’s peony bush was still thriving in it’s original location at the side of the house.

Homeowner Joe, upon hearing my tale about the plant, kindly offered to give me a piece of the root in the fall when the weather cooled down. I was overjoyed to have this exciting piece of news to relate to my mom, and thanked him for his generosity.

Near the end of September, I dropped a note in the mailbox at my childhood home, to let the homeowners know how they could contact me if they were still open to the gift of some peony root. That evening, I received a phone call from Karen, the wife half of the equation, who proved to be equally kind and giving. Following a second phone conversation we eventually arranged a time I could come and dig some history out of their garden.

When the day finally arrived, I took my youngest grand-daughter with me and the visit was quite pleasant. While I took shovel to peony and chatted with Karen and Joe, Mattie-Belle enjoyed running and playing with their dog, Oreo, in the same yard I had played so many years before. I had my husband shuttle my mom over, so she could revisit her old yard and meet her benefactors, and Karen served us tea on the back deck.

It was a wonderful way to get to know strangers with whom we now have a connection. Karen and Joe unselfishly gave of themselves by allowing my mom to revisit happy old time memories, and I owe them a debt of gratitude for their kindness.

I split the peony root into enough pieces to give two to my sister, Jennifer; keep four for my garden; and offer two pieces to my cousin, Kathy, for planting at the Macdonald family grave site. She and I spent a lovely couple of hours together while we planted the roots, one on either side of our grandparent’s headstone ... a fitting location, I thought, as Grampa Macdonald’s peony has traveled full circle and will soon be beautifying his final resting place.

I’ve hedged my bets, in a way, by splitting the aged peony root between several locations tended by family: It’s likely now that we’ll never again be parted from this special piece of family history, and we’ll be able to enjoy beautiful peony blooms for generations to come.

One way or the other, through the kindness and generosity of others and the tenacity of a long-lived peony plant, I've been reminded once again that new relationships take root in the most unexpected places, and happy old time memories grow everywhere.

Note: Two years later,
all the new peony plants
are thriving in their new homes!

21-12-2016
Karen's Reply:

Music & Memories

Uncle Bruce & I having a piano lesson photo op.

This is a eulogy I wrote and read at my Uncle Bruce Macdonald's memorial service this morning. He passed away September 13th, 2016 in his 81st year. In answer to multiple requests for copies of what I read, I'm posting this tribute to a life well lived.

Music has been a big part of life in the Macdonald family over many years. It’s a gift bestowed on all of us through generations of custodians. I have clear memories of musical influences from my Grampa Macdonald and all six of my maternal uncles.

I treasure memories of: watching Grampa's hands flying over the piano keyboard, singing in the church choir to spend time with my Uncle Glen; joining in a jolly chorus of Santa Claus is Coming to Town or Jingle Bells when my Uncle Murray performed his volunteer activities at Christmas; hearing my Uncle John play the piano in various bands and especially at family gatherings; traveling to Michigan to attend an amateur performance of The Sound of Music featuring my Uncle Ross as Captain von Trapp; attending a performance of my Uncle Doug’s barbershop ensemble, and studying piano with my Uncle Bruce, not just once, but twice in my lifetime

Like many of you, I was born into this large, boisterous and musical family, and during my earliest years Uncle Bruce loomed large. He and my Auntie Marion lived in the upstairs apartment of our home on Samuel Road; and, before they were blessed with a family of their own, they rather took a shine to me. Uncle Bruce told me many times over the years that he spent considerable time trying to record the sound of my early baby babbling on tape. Rarely successful, he lamented that I usually stopped vocalizing altogether, whenever the microphone approached my mouth.

I remember having special relationships with most of my Macdonald cousins, and Kathy and Jim were no exception. I spent a lot of my young years visiting the house on Maple Avenue for swimming, ice skating, sleepovers, and just hanging around. That meant also spending a lot of quality time with Uncle Bruce and Auntie Marion, who always made me feel at home. The welcoming presence of Uncle Bruce’s string bass in the corner of the dining room or front hall, depending on where he was living, remains with me to this day.

At some point, Uncle Bruce succeeded Grampa Macdonald as my piano teacher; and, he spent several pleasant years, once a week, beside me on the piano bench. He guided me through the basics of the Leila Fletcher piano method; and, through his instruction, I managed to complete books 1, 2 and 3 and made a start on book 4. I still have my completion certificates from the back of each book, dated and signed, Bruce Macdonald; and, I can still play Journey by Train and The Captain’s Song from memory, all these years later.

I looked forward to Christmas Eve at Uncle Bruce’s home on Ottawa Street South, when he took over the family home in which he grew up. The casual drop-in affairs for friends and family always ended with a rousing sing-song of Christmas carols that I can still hear in my head. I love watching old videos of family get-togethers, with Uncle John on the piano and Uncle Bruce playing Uncle Glen’s ukulele. Happy moments like those cannot be bought, they just have to happen.

Uncle Bruce tuned our pianos: the giant antique on Samuel Road, the apartment sized replacement, and most recently my 4 foot 11 inch Yamaha Grand on Bettina Avenue. Piano tuning days were always looked forward to because it was a chance to visit and catch up, as much as it was a useful service. I couldn’t take my eyes off Uncle Bruce while he worked his magic with the tuning fork, rubber mutes, red felt, and tuning hammers and levers. Most of all, I loved the mini-recital at the end, when Uncle Bruce tested out his handy-work.

I met my first husband through both my cousins Kathy and Jim, and our life together grew out of Phil’s close relationships with both of Uncle Bruce’s children. Phil never called Uncle Bruce "Mr. Macdonald" or even just "Bruce": He always referred to Uncle Bruce as "Mr. Bruce", even after we married, out of genuine respect and affection.

Several years ago, Uncle Bruce consented to try to teach me Uncle John’s jazz method of piano playing. I dutifully attended lessons at his and Miriam’s apartment once a week for a couple of years, and practiced very hard in between lessons; however, I think I was just too old to be able to grasp and retain the complex chord structures involved. I learned a few songs, and I can play rather awkwardly some of what I learned, but not well enough to lead a family sing-a-long, I’m afraid.

Not to worry, though: We enjoyed the adult time spent together immensely, and got to know each other better as friends. I was surprised by the discovery that Uncle Bruce did not possess the skill of being able to play both treble and bass clefs from sheet music, as he’d taught me during his first stint as my piano teacher. He admitted that he could only play well, the lead line and chords, as taught to him by Uncle John.

During these later piano lessons, I became much better acquainted with Uncle Bruce’s second wife, Miriam. I discovered that Uncle Bruce was fortunate to have found love twice in his life. Lucky for all of us, Miriam is a warm and wonderful woman, who frequently injects comical and musical moments, to lighten any situation she encounters. Uncle Bruce and Miriam always made me feel very welcome in their home.

Some time ago, Uncle Bruce passed a special gift on to me: He gave me Uncle Glen’s ukulele, which he had been safeguarding since Uncle Glen’s passing. I promised to not only continue to safeguard the instrument but also to learn to play it. Thus began the arduous task of teaching myself how to play simple standards and hymns, so that I might eventually be able to show him some progress. I went to The Clarian often in the last few weeks, to play for Uncle Bruce; and daily, the last few days he was with us. I hoped my halting chord changes and occasional squawking notes didn’t torment his sensitive musician’s ears.

I’m relieved that Uncle Bruce’s long suffering is over; though, I know his two remaining siblings, Uncle Doug and my mother Olive, will miss him terribly now that he’s gone. I know they both had a special bond with their youngest brother, the baby of the eight children born to Clarence and Lillian Macdonald. Sadly, we’ll never again hear Uncle Bruce and my mother singing Silent Night in harmony together; but happily, the memories of their perennial duet remain.

Remember, I mentioned earlier about Uncle Bruce trying to record my voice, when I was first learning to vocalize? Well, this past Thursday, at the cemetery when his ashes were interred, I was charmed by Uncle Bruce’s great-grand-daughter Kendall, who could be heard innocently babbling to herself in her stroller: I thought how much Uncle Bruce would have appreciated the joyful lyrical sound of her voice.

I believe that music helps us remember the happy times and makes the hardships of life more bearable. Thankfully, the Macdonald family’s musical legacy passed through the gifted heart and hands of David Bruce Macdonald, our loved father, grand-father, great-grand-father, husband, brother, uncle, fellow musician, teacher and friend.

Hopefully Miriam and Kathy and Crissy and all the rest of us who loved Uncle Bruce, will be sustained and comforted by the music and by the memories.

Love you, Uncle Bruce!

Built-in GPS

My daughter Chelsea’s two-year old indoor cat escaped from our house yesterday morning, while groceries were being carried in; following which, she literally disappeared!

The humans involved endured nearly 36 hours of worry; numerous journeys by car, foot and bike around the neighbourhood; guilt; a trip to the local SPCA; worry; postings to Lost Pet sites; guilt; multiple Facebook shares; worry; leaflets on light posts; guilt; etc.

River, a shy female long-haired black cat with white paws, belly and chin; returned just as mysteriously on her own tonight, hungry but unscathed.

Cats are truly amazing creatures!

I had a cat many years ago, who returned to our former house every night for over a month after we moved. A journey of only 5 city blocks, I picked Kitty up daily in my car until my dad put a stop to it, insisting the cat would find his own way home if left alone. It took several days, but my dad was right: Kitty finally arrived back at the new house, and never back-tracked again. He’d learned where the food dish lived.

Another cat, Sonny, who’d never before left our fenced yard, fled in a blind panic when our house was invaded by a visiting dog. He flew out the cat door, sailed across the yard, climbed the crab-apple tree and leaped over a six foot fence into a neighbour’s yard. Sonny didn’t find his way home for over 24 hours: Looking back, it probably took him twenty of those hours to calm down enough to even miss or look for home.

It’s uncanny, a pet’s ability to find their home no matter what the circumstances. You hear tales of cats, and dogs, who travel hundreds of miles to find the families from whom they’ve been separated.

It’s amazing! – It’s like they have built-in GPS!

River, tonight after a good meal, had a terrific story to tell of her great adventure in the wide wild world; however, we couldn’t understand any of her enthusiastic meowing.

Hopefully, though, River was letting Chelsea know that she’s happy to be home, and doesn’t care to go traveling again, any time soon.

Wear’s Flower Girl

William Harry (Bill) Wear

1936 - 2016

Starting when I was about 7 or 8 years old, considered old enough to walk to and from school alone, I used to pass by Wear’s Flowers & Garden Centre four times daily.

In the winter months, there wasn’t much to see; however, in the spring, I couldn’t keep away.

I was drawn to the tables of annual and perennial flowers, set out adjacent to the sidewalk; and, most especially to the fallen blossoms that called to me like some people are drawn to chocolate.

One day, as I stood gazing longingly at the wilting cast offs, I was approached by an older woman I thought was going to shoo me away. Instead, she nicely told me, that I could take any of the blooms off the ground, but I must never pick them off the plants.

I knew better, and had never once considered picking the growing flowers; but, I was thrilled to receive permission to scavenge for discarded blooms.

I would squat down and reach far under the tables to collect the cast-offs that I gingerly carried home to my mother: She never failed to display my floral offerings in a glass or bowl of water on the kitchen table, no matter how wilted they were when they arrived.

This past week when Mr. Bill Wear, founder of Wear’s Flowers & Garden Centre, suddenly passed away, online photos of Mr. Wear and his late wife, Marilyn, brought back a flood of memories.

I recalled my last conversation with Bill Wear this past spring when he advised me about the best fertilizer to use for my tomato plants.

I realized that Marilyn Wear, the older lady who had been my benefactress all those years ago, was actually much younger than I remembered. In fact, she had probably not been much older than my own mother, at the time.

The picture of Bill Wear holding a baby goat brought back recollections of taking my children and more recently grand-children to visit the menagerie of farm animals that have inhabited the garden centre property for decades. Many years ago, Wear’s actually became the adoptive home of my two pet leghorn chickens when they outgrew our tiny chicken coup.

Wear’s Garden Centre has been a mainstay in the Bartonville neighbourhood for over 60 years. Bill and Marilyn Wear’s son Scott and daughter Sandi grew up in and around the family business and have continued to make it thrive to this day.

As for me, I continue to shop at Wear’s before venturing out to other garden centres, because I love to shop local: It's a habit this flower girl learned young at the invitation of a kind and generous lady.

It's funny how some things never change: at nearly 60 years of age, I continue to bring fallen blossoms into the house from my own garden, and my mother still never fails to display them in a glass or bowl in her kitchen.

Roddenberry's Reply

 David and I, just before heading off

to the 1977 Star Trek Convention

in Niagara Falls, NY

In honour of the 50th anniversary of Star Trek, I would like to share the following memory of a trip I took in 1977 with my brother, David, to a Star Trek convention in Niagara Falls, New York.

At the time of the convention, David was the big Star Trek fan: I was simply the licensed driver enlisted by my 15-yr-old sibling, to transport him to the desired location.

I had never driven across the Canada/US border on my own before but a road trip without the parents seemed like a fun idea. David had done extra chores to earn the gas money for the trip and rarely asked for a favour, so I agreed.

Star Trek conventions in those days were certainly not the all out costumed and star-studded galas they are today; none-the-less, David thoroughly enjoyed himself. We looked briefly at tables of paraphernalia before being ushered into a large hall filled with folding chairs divided by a central aisle.

We were treated to viewings of a blooper reel that consisted mostly of original cast members walking confidently into non-functional sliding doors; and the un-aired TV pilot episode: "The Cage" from the original Star Trek series.

The real highlight of the day was the appearance of Star Trek creator, Gene Roddenberry, as the keynote speaker: Had I known, then, of his importance to the whole Star Trek phenomenon, I probably would not have had the courage to get up and ask him the question I did.

In all my 19-yr-old emerging 1970's feminist audacity, I stood up in front of hundreds of people - mostly men and boys - and asked Mr. Star Trek, the equivalent of, "Would he consider less suggestive costuming for the women in his upcoming Star Trek, The Motion Picture?"

And, I was well and truly booed!

I wanted the women in Roddenberry’s futuristic ground-breaking sci-fi franchise to move beyond the stereotypical female eye-candy of 1960's television shows. I wondered if I could relate better to Star Trek, moving forward, if the female cast members, with whom I was supposed to identify, looked and acted as though on a more level playing field with their male counterparts.

Admittedly, my simplistically worded question didn’t really explain the complicated ideas swirling around in my head; moreover, looking back I now realize that a little gratuitous flesh was partly why "Trekkies" were tuning in, and that the original Star Trek series aired when mini-skirts were all the rage.

I totally understand why I was booed!

Gene Roddenberry, himself, spared me from what might have been an intensely embarrassing afternoon when he gallantly reclaimed the room and answered simply, that my question was a good one, and that he'd have his people give it some consideration.

I like to believe that Mr. Roddenberry’s kind reply to my question indicated that I may have provided a glimmer of inspiration that he remembered and implemented moving forward; It's more likely, though, that Star Trek’s creator - an enlightened visionary, married to a strong, liberated woman - would have moved with the times, broken down barriers, and released Star Trek’s characters, women included, from antiquated stereotypes, as well he did.

Either way, I love that decades later, Star Trek’s rebooted Uhura in Star Trek: Out of Darkness was a kick-ass full-fledged member of the team: It made me proud!

Booing aside, I came away from that Star Trek convention feeling empowered, and David came away thunderstruck that his normally shy sister had actually conversed with the revered Gene Roddenberry.

Happy 50th Anniversary, Star Trek!

"Live Long and Prosper!"

Luminous Lupines

Two weeks ago, arriving home after a torrential rainstorm, I discovered raindrops suspended in the center of my seedling lupine leaf blades. The droplets looked, for all the world, like sparkling gem stones.

It was a wonderful surprise ... unexpected too, as I didn't think the lupine stems looked strong enough to support even their own weight.

I'd been keeping the young lupine plants covered with soft netting, to deter rabbits from eating the leaves and squirrels from wounding the plants while burying nuts. Somehow during the storm, though, the heavy rain made it's way through the netting and pooled gently onto the leaves.

I've never before seen anything like this!

The heavy drops of water glistened in the waning sunlight as they delicately clung to the silvery hairs on the lupine leaves. The sides of the watery diamonds bulged as though ready to burst, while simultaneously refusing to let go.

This magical moment lasted for less than a minute: In the blink of an eye the luminous droplets had disappeared, and I marveled at the seemingly limitless surprises in our natural environment.

It turns out, though, that I should have been growing lupines all along ... I've unexpectedly enjoyed this sparkly phenomenon several more times since, always after a significant but sheltered rain.

So lupines it is!

I'm now able to recommend growing lupines, for the beauty they'll provide for years to come and for their surprisingly luminous gem-catching ability - Enjoy the magic!

Darling Dalvay!

Two years ago today, my husband, Doug and I were touring around PEI together; and, one of the highlights, at least for me, was the charming hotel known as Dalvay by the Sea.

I had been feeling pretty unwell that morning - a victim of lobster in my dinner the night before - and wasn't much appreciating the scenery. When Doug suddenly pulled the van over and suggested that I get out, I couldn't imagine what he could be up to.

As I made my way around to his side of the van, though, I suddenly realized what Doug wanted me to see. The famous Dalvay Hotel - often used as the White Sands Hotel in TV's Anne of Green Gables and Road to Avonlea - stood beckoning to me across a beautiful expanse of glistening water.

Hardly looking for traffic as I crossed the country road, I was drawn down a set of wooden steps to a porch-like viewing area. By the time Doug caught up with me, camera in tow, I was leaning on the wooden railing beaming at the absolutely gorgeous view with delighted tears in my eyes.

It was almost the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen, and the pictures we took hardly do it justice. The photo of Doug and I, above, was accomplished with the camera timer, as there were no other tourists around.

A picture postcard moment, alone together - How perfect!

It was a lovely few moments, gazing across the water, after which we drove around the lake for a tour of the hotel grounds. A delicious lunch in the Dalvay dining room was a welcome treat, especially for me, as I'd had to skip breakfast.

The icing on the cake, so to speak, would have been a chance to stay in the hotel overnight; however, that pricey treat would have to wait for another sojourn ... something to look forward to, don't you know.

Kudos, though, to my awesome husband for surprising me with a wonderful side trip to darling Dalvay: It is, even now, a special memory two years later.

The picture in my mind still brings tears to my eyes and I know I'll remember it always!

We're Feeding Pollinators!

A current resident pollinator
on our Purple Coneflowers

A few weeks ago, I entered our front and side yard gardens in the 2016 Monarch Awards, a program designed to promote, "the validity of gardens that are created to be beautiful, functional and beneficial but fall under a non-traditional aesthetic."

Organizers of the Monarch Awards stated that, "Out of concern for declining insect populations, especially Monarch butterflies and bees [a decision was made] to recognize people who garden sustainably, and create habitat in their yards for pollinator species and wildlife in general."

Just as pesticide use, parasites and pathogens, and loss of habitat due to climate change and urbanization are causing a serious decline in local pollinator populations; programs like the Monarch Awards are springing up in an effort to encourage provision of healthy food and habitat for bees, butterflies, moths, beetles and hummingbirds.

With this in mind, for the last four years my husband, Doug, and I have been transforming our typical urban landscapes from weedy lawn to more sustainable trees, shrubs and perennials. Learning as we go along, we’ve consulted expert and amateur gardeners, books, and internet resources in an effort to infuse our gardens with the most environmentally friendly flora and habitat enhancers.

Fully aware that our gardens - ongoing works-in-progress - were not yet award worthy; nonetheless, I loved the idea of participating in the inaugural year of a sustainability program that celebrates and encourages the planting and maintaining of pollinator habitat.

Looking forward to next year’s Monarch Awards will be valuable inspiration to keep us focused on moving forward: Receipt of our "We’re Feeding Pollinators" sign, the gift to all homeowners who entered the 2016 Monarch Awards program, is a lovely acknowledgement of our hard work and dedication.

Note:
Congratulations to Kirkendall resident Glenn Barrett, winner of the 2016 Monarch Awards! - Well Done!

The Walton's Channel

Where we live, we subscribe to a TV channel called Book Television; however, in our house it is known as "The Walton's channel."

We refer to the channel this way because Book Television plays Walton's reruns 15 hours a day, Monday through Friday. They broadcast five Walton's shows from 9 am to 2 pm, repeat the same five shows from 4 to 9 pm, and replay them once more from midnight to 5 am. 

Book Television broadcasts all the original Walton's episodes - 5 per day - in order; from #1, "The Foundling," straight through to #210, "The Revel;" whereupon, they go right back to the pilot and on it goes.

The Walton's television series was based on the life of writer, Earl Hamner Jr., as described in his bestselling novels, The Homecoming and Spencer's Mountain. Hamner, grew up in a large family with many siblings during the great depression. The heartwarming family drama ran 9 seasons from 1972 to 1981, and it's likeability continues in reruns to his day.

To be fair, Book Television also broadcasts quality writing and publishing related programming and interviews during the 9 remaining hours each day; so, as a writer with an aging parent, this station offers a great mix, and has become one of my favourites.

My mother, in her early 80's, has developed mild cognitive impairment that makes operating the television and TV remote quite difficult. She also has difficulty following many of the new TV shows, or finds them inappropriate to her sensibilities.

Mom loves The Walton's, though, as do we all in our generational home. If mom just wants to take it easy, she could watch up to 5 shows in a row without having to change channels: If she has something else to do, it's possible to catch up later in the day, or skip an episode or two altogether.

Many times, several of us will sit and watch an episode together ... even mom's 4-yr-old great-grand-daughter will make comments like, "I like Jason," or "What is John-Boy doing, GG?" I watched one of our favourite episodes, "The Pony Cart," guest starring character actress Beulah Bondi, twice today with my mom.

How wonderful it is that my mother, who also grew up in a large family with many siblings during the great depression, can immerse herself in a televised family drama to which she can relate.

So, here's to Book Television's "Walton's channel!" I hope we'll be able to enjoy this heartwarming family entertainment far into the future.

Update - August 29th, 2016

Book Television is no longer "The Walton's Channel."

Book Television's new fall schedule includes reruns of shows like Diagnosis Murder, Matlock, and JAG, which are not as cognitive impairment friendly.

I'd like to thank Book Television for giving us "The Walton's Channel" for as long as it lasted.

Friendships

Today, my grand-daughter, Rachel, had an opportunity to spend part of the day with two former schoolmates. Even though Rachel's been attending school in a different neighbourhood for the last three years, the girls have still managed to find ways to keep in touch.

They reunited this week while attending an annual week-long non-denominational church camp; and, when let out at noon, they received permission to spend the afternoon together.

The girls bounced between Rachel's friend's homes and mine, stopping off at the neighbourhood park by their old school, and finished with a long swim and visit, in and by our backyard pool.

The swim was supervised without invading their privacy, and it was easy to see that the girls were enjoying being together again. While it's often difficult for a threesome to interact without leaving someone out, there was no indication of controversy. In fact, things seemed to go, "swimmingly".

Rachel confirmed later that she really enjoyed her day, catching up with old friends. She is also enjoying camp again this year. Win! Win!

Next year these young ladies will be too old to attend camp as campers, but hopefully they will return as leaders-in-training.

I like to think that no matter what other obstacles might threaten their relationship over the years, Rachel and her former classmates will at least be able to count on this yearly summer reunion.

Friendships needn't end when distance intervenes, as this young trio are learning firsthand. Ultimately, Rachel will be a better person for having had to work at keeping her old friendships alive while continuing to forge new relationships, moving forward.

Bowled Over

This evening, my husband Doug and I went to view a garden on the Hamilton Spectator's Open Garden Tour. The house was located in our neighbourhood, so we headed over just after we'd eaten dinner.

The homeowners, Andre and Sophia, had clearly put a great deal of work into their front, side and back gardens - The front and side garden spaces were very well-manicured and contained a variety of familiar perennial shrubs mixed with annuals; however, their back garden was the showpiece of the property.

There, the homeowners had combined evergreens, shrubs, rosebushes and groundcovers; perennials and annuals; supplemental ivy on the fences, wisteria over a pergola, clematis growing on a gnarly tree, and large colourful pots containing herbs and tomato plants.

It sounds like a lot of diversity; however, the garden was not overcrowded, and the gardener's plan clearly worked.

Sophia, with her plant knowledge and obvious vision; and Andre, her willing assistant and the muscle she says she couldn't do without, are a formidable team. Their collaboration was evident; not only in their garden's appearance, but also in the way they easily worked together, showing their garden off to their visitors.

I've never gone on a garden tour before, but this positive experience already had me thinking that I'd like to do it again.

Just as we were signing the guest book before heading home, Andre said to us, "Take a plant," and at first Doug and I were confused as to what he meant. Looking around, though, we noticed several pots lined up along the base of the garden shed and we realized he meant for us to take one.

When Andre repeated, "Take a plant," my husband suggested, "Take the one with the red flowers." So, I did. At home later, I discovered that the plant we'd chosen is a Maltese Cross Campion, a hardy perennial popular with hummingbirds.
  
In going on the Open Garden Tour, Doug and I really only expected an opportunity to see the handiwork of someone else, and maybe take home some inspiration. Receiving a tangible gift from the homeowners, especially something from their own garden, was an unexpected and lovely surprise.

Once again, I'm bowled over by the generosity of strangers, and the reminder that kindness grows where it's least expected!

A Compromise

The following, is a poem I wrote in Rondeau poetic style. I had a lot to say; so, I embellished, and created a double Rondeau. I hope these words will inspire old-fashioned compromises and encourage tolerance and generosity, both near and far away.

A Compromise

A Compromise is what we need

Let sharing take the place of greed

Abolish hate – small-minded blight

Embracing bold, diverse insight

Perhaps with understanding, we’d

Make sure that everyone can read

Hence, equal prospect to succeed

With thought, a scholar soon could write

A Compromise

Condemn not one-another’s creed  

Let tolerance prevail, I plead

End stench of war; as one we might

Rid all lands of this evil fright

Brave nations all could intercede

A Compromise

A Compromise is what we need

The hungry we still need to feed

Starvation, such an awful plight

It shouldn’t be a child’s birthright

That injudicious rulers, breed

Contempt for lucid thought – Indeed

Through their own actions, oft’ mislead

Most valid efforts to ignite

A Compromise

If we, at once, will all concede

With motives just and envy freed

This world could transform overnight

And warring factions reunite

Accomplishing with lightning speed

A Compromise

© Nancy Haigh Gordon