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Monday, September 18, 2017

The World is Too Much...


.

“The World is Too Much with Us” (circa 1802) is a sonnet by the English Romantic poet William Wordsworth. In it, the poet criticizes the world of the first Industrial Revolution for being absorbed in materialism and for its people distancing themselves from nature. (Wikipedia)

In the early 19th century, Wordsworth wrote several sonnets blasting what he perceived as "the decadent material cynicism" of the time.
"The World Is Too Much with Us" is one of those works. It reflects his view that humanity must get in touch with nature in order to progress spiritually.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours:
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. —Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.



Triton fountain in Rome
by Gianlorenzo Bernini
Who among us can fail to see the similarities between the ancient world, as described here by Wordsworth, and the world in which we live today?

As writers and poets, we can all read his words "getting and spending, we lay waste our powers..." and "for everything we are out of tune, it moves us not"... and we can't help but apply those words, from 1802, to life in the 21st century.

Yes, our world has seen changes which, in so many ways, would amaze and even, we suppose, awe Wordsworth, were he to see it today.

However, I doubt if he'd be impressed.

With his discerning eye, the poet would know without doubt that our modern reality bears out his opinion..."we lay waste our powers" indeed.

What would the sea god Triton think of the melting polar ice caps... what could a sea god think as we pollute his very oceans along with the lakes and rivers a poet once could love? ...The rapid extinction of one wild species after another would break a poet's heart... and, of course, war always war, never a decade or even a day without war...what kind of sonnet could Wordsworth write today?

Yes, we "lay waste our powers," and now we have to live in the world that Man's arrogance created. Who of us can really believe that 2017 is better than 1802?

And who among us really cares? "I've got what I want, and the rest of you be damned!" That is the mantra of too many.


RIP, William Wordsworth. Yes, may you rest in peace despite us!


Written for Lady Fi's memorable meme,


Thank you, Fiona, for the world as you see it through your discerning eye, every Tuesday.

Monday, September 11, 2017

A Daddy and dog reunion

When in doubt about a blog post, I always have dog photos on hand. These are from our recent trip to Red Deer, Alberta, to see Dick's daughters, Andrea and Randi.
We took our darling little dog, Bonnie-Belinda, who had never travelled that far before, and who had never met that many people in one place at one time, and she got along just just fine with everyone she met!
She even attended a skate-boarding bonanza. I don't seem to have photos of that, however. I was too busy worrying one of Andrea's two boys would go splat, but I fretted for naught. They knew what they were doing.
Bonnie-Belinda was fascinated with the skateboarders down in that concrete bowl, and would have joined them if I hadn't held her leash short and v-e-r-y tightly.
In these photos, we met up with Randi and Andrea at a beautiful park, complete with an off-leash area for dogs.
We didn't let our Bonnie off her leash (we don't feel she's quite ready for that in places where there might be interesting critters to chase) but she met the other dogs with aplomb.
Andrea's elderly pup, Grommet, used to the ways of the world, ignored everyone but Andrea.
After Bonnie had some sniffing and pleased-to-meetchas, we continued walking.
I, of course, gave up first...not quite exactly really quickly, mind you, but definitely first. I found a bench on which to sit, and from there I could watch the most amazing spectacle. But more on that another time. First, the Bonnie pictures, now my favourite things.
In these photos, I met up with the others at a nice grassy area, complete with facilities, ever the objective of old ladies out walking. Here, I was holding Bonnie on her leash while I sat at a picnic table.
Then she saw her daddy coming...

HERE HE COMES, HERE HE COMES...

HERE HE IS, HERE HE IS

OH DADDY, DADDY, I MISSED YOU SO MUCH

SEE? I MISSED YOU THIS MUCH...



I'm posting these for Lady Fi's wonderful meme,
Our World Tuesday



Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Because it is still in print...



A vers libre bard.
So, my fellow bloggers...I do believe I can't reproduce, here, a poem I have always loved—because the book (in which it appeared when I first read it) is still in print!

Therefore, I must assume, it could still be under copyright, because my research has been inconclusive in that regard. The last date I have been able to find is 1977.

However, one poem seriously 'gives me to think' and I can't help but wonder if it will do the same for you. I will provide you with some links, so that you can decide if one of these poems reminds you of anyone alive (and living large) today.


The poem that made me think is one I've always loved, and is from a book, which I have also always loved, by a writer whom I have always loved as well (ever since I could read, and long before I could type). One of the poems linked here "gives me to think" very seriously.

The soul of Cleopatra.
Of course, now I must ask if one of these poems makes you think of one person in particular. It is a someone whom the poem fits to a T, as will probably be obvious once you follow these links and read the poems.
Now, which one person, in particular, comes to mind as you read these poems?


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archy_and_Mehitabel
http://ianchadwick.com/blog/three-archy-poems-by-don-marquis/
https://www.mun.ca/biology/scarr/warty_bliggens_the_toad.html




I'm not following the unwritten rules of Blogland, am I? But I couldn't resist. Who of us could resist linking our childhood and school years with something that overwhelmingly affects the world in which we now live?

Note: I am a Canadian, and have little or no stake in the outcome of any of this (one hopes).
I am not fond of cockroaches or toads, but I am fond of cats.

I am sharing today's post with Our World Tuesday, with many thanks to Lady Fiona for her wonderful meme.


Tuesday, August 29, 2017

The never-say-die Davies brothers

The baby on my mother's lap is my sister Ann at her christening, with grandparents, aunts and uncles. On the floor, very bored,  my brother Clint's face shows how he feels about it, while I played with a toy.
I have two brothers, the one who grew up alongside me, and the one whom I helped raise, and I'm very proud of both of them.
My high school grad photo.
Clinton Fraser Davies was the class clown before he ever entered a classroom. Entertaining people was his goal in life, and he tried hard, to say the least.
His escapades probably reached the pinnacle of success when he climbed out his bedroom window onto the porch roof, and from there up onto the peak of the house roof, in order to carve his initials into it with a butcher knife, but it would be wrong to say Clint's life was all downhill from there. He continued to entertain, eventually learning to do it by playing trumpet, but he always preferred making people laugh.
Now, many decades later, Clint is still almost as old as I am, and should be enjoying retirement alongside his lovely wife Maria, but his ever-nimble ever-surprising ever-enterprising mind has him embarking on yet another business venture now, even as I write this.
Can't keep a good man down, I know...
And as for me, well, I was something of a lowbrow poet, and now I'm lucky if I can manage to visit Facebook every couple of days, and to post something for Our World Tuesday on my blog here at least two weeks a month (while aiming at once a week if I can).
My much-younger brother, Rob (aka Roberto) was also the clown of his class, whether it was in Canada at the beginning and end of the school year, or November-through-April in Mexico.
Our parents had planned their retirement to the Baja Peninsula without ever planning on a new baby, but there he was.
Our poor father was terrified when Robbie was born, because he thought he might lose Mom, whom he adored. They had been high school sweethearts, and were engaged before Dad left to go overseas with the Canadian Army Show, where he was a scenery-painter as well as a musician. When he returned to Canada after his years spent keeping up the morale of Canadian troops in Britain, he and Mom were married.
Clint and Dad. Clint was  in
the Royal Canadian Navy
when Rob was born. While stationed in
Victoria, BC, he pawned his trumpet
so he could buy a motorcycle, but
it wasn't long before he wrecked the
motorcycle. His reaction was a
typically Canadian "C'est la vie."
Then I arrived, followed by Clint, then our sister Ann, as well as another baby girl, Barbara, who only lived a few days.
Years went by, and no one gave thought to another sibling.
But Robbie Davies was determined to make his mark on the world. He was born into the intensive care nursery in a hospital in Vancouver, BC. I was working and living in the city, so was able to visit him every day, reporting his progress to my worried mother who had to stay in the troublesome-mothers ward, without even seeing him, until they finally let her get up to visit him, before she and Dad were able to take him home some weeks later.
Assured that his beloved wife would be okay, Dad turned his attention to the wonderful little mite who had surprised them in what they thought was the beginning of their old age.
By the time Rob was two years old, he let us all know he was talented, beginning slowly by drawing a row of short vertical lines right across the bottom of a blackboard.
"What's that, Robbie?" asked Mom. "Grass," he replied. Mom immediately phoned Dad at the family printing shop and said, "Bring home paper. This one's an artist."
And so he was, and still is.
Rob as a young man
When he reached high school, Rob was told he couldn't keep disappearing to Mexico every winter because the school was on the semester system, so he stayed behind while Mom and Dad went south, living first with our sister for one winter, and then with me for several more while he finished high school and attended college...taking every art class he could find.
My townhouse was close to the high school and, for the most part, I enjoyed having a steady stream of boys coming in and out, saying, "Hi, sis," and hoping I'd prepare them a snack when I got home from work.
I'm very proud of Rob, to say the least, and although I was able to travel to New York to witness him receiving an Emmy Award when he was working for Warner Bros. in Los Angeles, and although he came home when the Warner Bros. studios were sold, and established Atomic Cartoons with three friends, I am proudest of him for his accomplishments other than art:
Robbie Davies, to my great relief and joy, has been a proven survivor from his birth onward. He has survived cancer not once, but twice now, both times feeling there was something wrong in his body, and taking himself off to get medical help immediately.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if every cancer patient could self-diagnose like that? Survival was his goal from the very beginning, starting in an intensive care nursery, and onward.
I am intensely proud of him.
I am thankful, also, to our wonderful parents for allowing me to take an active part on "the committee that raised Rob." I assumed, because he was born when I was 21, that I would some day have children of my own...in fact, I used to drive from the city to the suburbs every weekend, in order to learn how to bathe him despite my innate clumsiness. Nature proved otherwise, however, but I was more than compensated by my part in the raising of Rob.
Posting for Lady Fi's wonderful meme Our World Tuesday

Monday, August 21, 2017

Progressive puppy portraits

  Enjoying a little nap.










Wait a minute!
Did someone say 'toy'?  
For me?




Oooh, I love this toy!















Watch out, toy, I'm going to shake you to bits!







Well, that was a good day's work. Now I need to nap again!

 

Our darlin' girl, Bonnie-Belinda, knows just who is boss around our house now, and she isn't going to let us forget it!

I'm linking this post to Lady Fi's memorable meme  Our World Tuesday.


Monday, August 14, 2017

It must be jelly...

...'cause jam don't shake like that!

In the 1940s, the late, great Glenn Miller, and others, recorded a song called "It Must be Jelly 'cause Jam Don't Shake Like That."
I don't know whose recording my father played for me when I was small, but I loved it and would ask him to play it over and over. The lyrics, as I remember them, were:
It must be jelly 'cause jam don't shake like that
It must be jelly 'cause jam don't shake like that
Oh, mama, you're so big and fat!

At that time, no one would have considered the lyrics socially unacceptable, and only the chronically overweight would have thought them a slur.
How times have changed, and I'm so glad, because I'm certainly no longer young, nor slim!

When I was three or four years old, I thought 'Must Be Jelly' was wonderful. Other bands and singers recorded it with more lyrics (particularly Woody Herman, whom I considered the height of comedy my in pre-TV days) but I only remember those three lines, and they have stayed in my mind, rightly or wrongly, as Glenn Miller music.
When I became older, and could have my own record-player, Dad insisted I play one Glenn Miller record for every rock'n'roll record. Dad had long realized I couldn't sing (I couldn't even carry a tune in a bucket) so he made it a point to teach me to listen. For that, Daddy Davies, wherever you are, I've been forever grateful.

My father had been a musician and a scenery-painter in the Canadian Army Show during WWII, and was forever teaching me, and my brother Clint, everything he knew (our younger sister made it known that she wasn't particularly interested).
Many years later, when Mom and Dad had a surprise baby, Rob became Dad's best student, soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

Laena McCarthy,
without permission,
but many thanks
One of the things my sister and I learned from Mom, and from our grandmother, was cooking. And something else I saw Nanny do every year was canning.
We had fruit trees in the yard, and any fruit that escaped the three of us and all our friends, was 'canned' or made into jam. Canning, at that time, involved a wood stove, huge pots, boiling water, and hot jars, so it was not considered something to teach children. My young sister, however, absorbed it all, unbeknownst to the rest of us, and years later, when she was married and a mother herself, she took to canning all the produce she grew in her garden. (That blew my mind, to be honest.)

And now, to get to the heart of this blog post: I am old and, having had an often-busy life, I never though to take up canning fruit until this weekend. (Something red, halfway between jam and jelly, lurks in the fridge, on its way to becoming whatever it wants to be.)


Our Nanking Cherries
The reason for this sudden industry: I planted two Nanking Cherry bushes about 15 years ago, and this year we really had a bumper crop. Although I have been known to be a little extravagant over my long lifetime, usually buying rather than making, I suddenly said to my husband, "Let's pick those and then we can can them." The fruit is very small, pretty much miniscule, really, so I have already devoted three days to the chore of removing the itty-bitty pits.

More will be revealed, but right now I'm posting this for Lady Fi's wonderful meme "Our World Tuesday." 

But first, re the jamming — as I said, we have a jar and a half of something red and unrecognizable in the fridge — jam, jelly or ice-cream-sundae topping, we figure. At the very least, I did get myself a long-desired over-the-sink colander.

Only time will tell with the project, so I'll have to get back to you on that.





Wednesday, August 9, 2017

To train or not to train, that is the question


A somewhat-recent addition to our family is a mixed-breed terrier we named Bonnie-Belinda. Here she is, in the photo above, looking a lot like the RCA Victor dog I remember from childhood.

There's no doubt that we love Bonnie. She is very intelligent and has learned many things: some good, some not-so-good.
She has learned how to manipulate her daddy, who thinks she is ever so cute, and who is reluctant to train her how to walk properly on a leash.

My walker in the kitchen
when I first bought it.
The other day, Bonnie and I were out with my walker. I want her to get used to walking alongside me, and it.

My husband came with us to watch out for rabbits, because I can't hold the dog back when she sees a rabbit. See one she did, and leapt into killer-mode, nearly pulling my arm off, while my husband wasn't looking at us.

The bane of my existence, that man I love.
And he loves the dog, yes, I appreciate that, but some of it is misplaced, in my opinion. He lets her pull and tug on the leash, and her short-legged, deep-chested 40 lb. body (18kg) weighs a ton when she's pulling.
He is often away on business, and I have to be able to walk the dog, never as far as he can, 8000 or so steps on his iPhone step-tracker gizmo.

Because I paid for Bonnie at the SPCA, and also for her examination at a veterinary clinic soon after we adopted her, she is supposed to be my dog.
At the clinic, they gave me some special dog food that would help her get rid of pieces of the Kong toy in her stomach. Said to be indestructible, the Kong had succumbed to those powerful jaws Bonnie inherited from some of the bigger, stronger breeds in her DNA.
Although we attempted, somewhat successfully, to have our favourite groomer trim our new girl's toenails, we haven't yet introduced Bonnie to our 'personal' veterinarian, a lovely young woman who makes house calls. She was wonderful with our late Golden girl, Lindy, in her senior and final years. Coming to the house regularly to check on her, she was with her right until the end.

Lindy was definitely Dick's girl, and they went on those long walks together for years, until she couldn't do it any longer. She behaved impeccably. She was a lady, after all.
Bonnie-Belinda, on the other hand, is an excitable, impetuous, athletic growing girl. A horse of a different colour, as it were.

Linking with Lady Fi's wonderful meme Our World Tuesday.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

And another post presents itself

Blogging will be easy if this continues to happen, with posts delivered right to the blogging corner of what now passes as my brain (the older I get, the less information it contains).
So...
While 'working' (not really the right word) on my Facebook page today, a friend's post about filing cabinets brought back many memories of my early days in the newspaper business.


SUN TOWER,
BEATTY STREET, VANCOUVER
In the mid-1960s, my friend Judith and I both worked in the editorial department of the Vancouver Sun, in the old building on Beatty Street in downtown Vancouver. I was a mere copy-runner (the lowest of the low) while Judith worked in the editorial library.
When editors or reporters hollered "COPY!" it was my job to run over to take their typewritten stories and deliver them where they wanted them to go, sometimes running up several floors of winding stairs to the composing room. Then I'd have to run back down until another editor or reporter sent me elsewhere.
Judith, however, worked in the editorial library, and sometimes she was the one to yell "COPY!" It was up to me to run to the library to take the information she had researched, then deliver it to the appropriate editor or reporter. How she loved the opportunity to push me around like that! I am happy to say that later, and to this day, we meet on equal terms and are the very best of friends.

In 1965, Vancouver's two daily newspapers, the Sun and the Province, moved to a shared building at the corner of 5th Avenue and Granville Street. It was big and shiny and new, and put to shame 'the old building' which we so dearly loved.
The new Sun newsroom was vast, and anything but cozy. There were offices around the perimeter for editors and columnists, all of whom required the services of a copy runner once or twice or more per day.
However,  I no longer had to respond and dash off in a flash. I had a new job...I was the editorial receptionist, with a raised desk overlooking my new realm, a console with a vast number of buttons to pass information to writers and editors..."Call for you on Line 3, Mr. Swangard"...plus a window beside the locked door, through which I could first check and then, perhaps allow visitors to enter, or else ask them politely to wait.
I had become the editorial receptionist.


LINOTYPE OPERATOR

But ink was in my blood, and I returned to the family trade... job printing.

A job printer can read upside down and backwards just as fast as he can read the normal way.

Old-time job printers, like my father, could "set type in a stick" almost as fast as a linotype operator could with that late nineteenth-century marvel of engineering: the linotype machine.

The newspaper and printing industries remained pretty much the same until the mid-twentieth century.

Union membership made printers mobile, able to travel from paper to paper, shop to shop, continent to continent. An ITU ticket was a ticket to the world for many years, and I met union compositors from all over the world.

Then came computerized typesetting equipment.


SMALL NEWSPAPERS, AND JOB SHOPS SUCH AS OURS, TRIED OUT EARLY COMPUTERIZED TYPESETTING MACHINES LIKE THESE TWO (below) BY THE COMPUGRAPHIC CORPORATION

 
















By the time I eventually became a union-certified compositor, things were changing in a big way. We called it "tech change" and it was affecting almost all the developed world in one way or another. My brother and I, and even Dad, joined the International Typographical Union.

More soon, but now
sharing with Lady Fi's popular meme Our World Tuesday.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

A blog post has presented itself

I'm just back from a trip to British Columbia to visit family and friends, and am delighted to say that a Vancouver Island friend has instantly answered a question Dick and I have had for a while now, about some feathers he found while walking around the nearby coulee with our little dog, Bonnie-Belinda.


Many thanks to my longtime friend Pat for identifying the feathers as coming from a Northern Flicker, or perhaps from more than one Northern Flicker.

Therefore, I no longer have to wonder what I should post today for my long-awaited return to blogging. Thanks again, Pat.

FEMALE NORTHERN FLICKER
(WIKIPEDIA)
MALE NORTHERN FLICKER (WIKIPEDIA)

According to Wikipedia: 

The northern flicker is part of the genus Colaptes,
which encompasses 12 New World woodpeckers. Nine subspecies and an extinct subspecies of C. auratus are recognized. The existing subspecies were at one time considered separate species, but they commonly interbreed where ranges overlap and are now considered one species by the American Ornithologists Union. This is an example of the "species problem".
The northern flicker is protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which has been ratified by the governments of Mexico, Canada and the United States and prohibits the killing or harming of the northern flicker, including its nests and eggs.
Extinction is always a threat, as seen in this paragraph from Wikipedia:
The Guadalupe flicker (C. a. rufipileus; syn. C. cafer rufipileus) is an extinct subspecies formerly restricted to Guadalupe Island, off the northwest coast of Mexico. Its presence was last recorded in 1906.

Extinction is rampant in today's world. It's just a matter of time... 
K
   Posting, only two days late, for Lady Fi's wonderful meme Our World Tuesday

Friday, July 7, 2017

Ta da! It works!

My computer works!
Hooray!

Some months ago, I took my computer to the store from which I'd purchased it. A big store. Part of a big chain, with hot and cold running techies.
"It doesn't work properly," I told the young men at the Geek Squad desk.
"We'll fix it," they said.
Fast forward a few days:
Incoming phone call...it's the Geek Squad, hooray!
Not hooray.
My computer was worse after they messed with it, and it continued to get worse until I was at my wits' end.
Heartbreaking for a blogger.
Time passes.
Then our son-in-law phones to say he saw, on my Facebook page, that my computer is close to being toast.
"Maybe I can help," he offered. "I'll be over right away."
"Bring the kids," I requested, "I haven't seen them in forever because they're so busy. They haven't even met our new dog."
So we put our little Bonnie-Belinda on a leash and walked one block to the lawn by the swimming pool. We'd arranged to meet Wes and Kayen and Kiana there, rather than have them come right into Bonnie's house. In her mind, she's a guard dog.
This way she'd think of our grandchildren as friends rather than burglars .
We knew she would be happier about meeting in neutral territory because she doesn't worry about people and dogs who aren't in her house or yard, or walking past her, or, worse...on bicycles!
Sure enough, a little bit of sweet talk, a whole lot of petting, and quite a bit of shake-a-paw did the trick, so Dick and the grandkids and I were able to enter the house calmly.
Bonnie was somewhat concerned when Wes came in a few minutes later, having had to move his vehicle, but he has plenty of dog experience, and after he put my newly restored computer on my desk, he had her playing shake-a-paw all over again.
Now, I think we should buy Wes a great, huge, and very big gift for the work he did. Overnight he brought my computer back to life.
Take that, Geek Squad, take that!
And guess how much it cost...a thousand, a hundred, or fifty dollars? It cost Wes just twenty dollars for a part, and it cost us that same twenty dollars to repay Wes.
Then we had some fun talking about the Virtual Reality place in Medicine Hat. Or, rather, Dick and Wes and the grandkids had fun talking about it.

I don't know that I'm ready for Virtual Reality, unless there's one that features me as I used to be. Not a chance.

O well. C'est la vie, as Canada's other official language says. I'm just happy that my computer got rejuvenated, but I must confess I don't know how to say that in French. That probably makes my blog politically incorrect, but my French went the way of all good things, because I'm old.


Monday, July 3, 2017

Nothin' ain't workin' nohow


Before I try to get into the intricacies of my computer's failing health, let it be said that I now find my own silly self on the horns of a dilemma. (I've always wanted an occasion to use that phrase, and here I am at last, with just such an occasion, just when I don't need it.)


Unfortunately, it is not a happy occasion. This dilemma has huge horns.
My computer is getting worse and worse every day. For instance, my husband's cute photo of our Bonnie-Belinda-dog with her nose in a peanut butter jar — I can enlarge it, but then it is fuzzy — even fuzzier than it is here, and yet it is sharp and crisp when my husband enlarges it.

Enlarged only slightly but fuzzy already.
Due to this and many other problems, I definitely need a new computer.
However, we also ( and also definitely) need a new dishwasher. 
What to do? What to buy, and which to buy?
Yes, dilemma. Horns and all.
Sigh.
Part of the problem: I have already booked and paid for a multi-stop hop over to my homeland, British Columbia, plus I've already paid a crew of arborists for topping and trimming our huge poplar trees. Definite deficit in the old bank account.
Re the trip, I am flying from Medicine Hat, Alberta, to Calgary (also Alberta) and then from Calgary to Kamloops, BC, to visit my mother's cousin Ian MacKenzie; from Kamloops to Vancouver to visit my family, from The Wet Coast to Kelowna, BC, to visit my friend Gloria and then, on my last day, from Kelowna back to Calgary, and thence a flight in a very slow teeny-tiny plane to get me home to Medicine Hat.
The very definition of a multi-stop hop.
Air Canada had a seat sale, and I couldn't resist.
Yes, booked and paid for.
Paid, however, before a large branch from one of our huge trees came down, hitting the power line between the garage and the house. The power line by then was hitting the metal frame of the hot tub gazebo, and the big branch was forming a link between the power line, the metal structure, and our house.
I came home to find my husband and a neighbour calmly de-limbing and cutting the fallen branch without a care in the world.
"Did you call someone about it?" I asked, but they hadn't.
I think I lost my temper.
My hysterics resulted in the requisite calls being made, followed almost immediately by the arrival of a firetruck ...siren and all... attracting several of our neighbours.
So, at the suggestion of these authorities, I phoned the tree-toppers, and now find myself in a dilemma indeed, re my upcoming trip to BC.
Since then I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out what to pack so that I can get by with one carry-on bag. Gone is the option of buying something to wear when I get to wherever I'm going. Even if the tree-faller-fellers hadn't cost me all my savings and all my credit, I would still need a new computer. And a new dishwasher.
(I'm waiting to see if my husband will offer to wash all the dishes by hand. I suspect it will be a long wait.)



Every good country has its day...




...and Canada just had its 150th birthday. 150 years since Confederation. 150 years of being our own people.
Oh, sure, Canada was around before that, but had to wait for a bunch (er, a gathering, a committee, or some such) of Brits to declare us a separate country all on our own, with only a formal tie to Britain. (If we get on the list early enough, we can rent one of the Royals for a celebration or a bridge-opening.)
Most importantly, this past year has seen much progress in reconciliation with the original people of this land. It isn't perfect, but it's progress, although long overdue.


Prime Minister Justin Trudeau celebrating.


I bought this marijuana-flag t-shirt for the occasion, but didn't wear it in public...I used it as a nightshirt. Canada seems to be headed for legalization of the used-to-be-wicked weed sometime soon, and it will be interesting to see how our young people (and those not-so-young people who still imbibe) will handle it. I fear that having for sale in special outlets won't completely eradicate illegal buying and selling. (But what do I know? I'm old. Right?)

I remember this man. Lester B. Pearson was Prime Minister of Canada when I was in high school.

LESTER B. PEARSON"It is becoming apparent to the world — at last — that we are not merely an Arctic extension of the United States," the prime minister said then. "A London journalist even went so far as to admit that Canada now existed not merely as a fact but also as an idea and an ideal."


And so we progressed.
"Fifty years later, we bask in the reflected glow of a prime minister's socks. Canada is noted in foreign papers for both our leader's whimsy and our status as a relative paragon of pluralism and moderation in a newly fevered world," said CBC News.

It's a good place, this land of mine. I always wear a Canadian Flag pin when I travel to foreign countries. And I don't really say "aboot" — no matter what Americans might say.

Posting this for Lady Fi's memorable meme Our World Tuesday.