One of the world's heroes

Dr. Jane Goodall, DBE

I said yesterday I would tell you why my husband and I went to Calgary. Here is the reason...yes...to meet Dr. Jane Goodall and to listen to her talk to a crowd of thousands in the Jubilee Auditorium.

We fell in love with her.

Having admired her for so many years, we both expected to enjoy her talk, but we were completely blown away.

How many 81-year-olds could bring so many people to their feet, applauding, laughing, and crying at once?

Meeting a woman who has long been a heroine to both of us.

Hugging Icelandic horses on a farm northwest of Calgary, as I told you about yesterday, was a bonus. The real thrill of the week was meeting Dr. Jane.

Now my husband Dick (Richard Schear) and I are contemplating ways in which we can join in the amazing work this wonderful woman is doing.

You see, it's not just studying chimpanzees any more. Dr. Jane is now an activist rather than a scientist. She established the Jane Goodall Institute in 1977,  and since then she has been actively working to save the planet, one child, one school, one town, one city at a time. Calgary, Alberta, has been completely won over. The mayor of Calgary, Naheed Nenshi, calls her one of the world's heroes.
Her Roots and Shoots program is active in Calgary schools and the children who participate are already making a difference to their world.

We both came away inspired, each with a copy of her latest book 50 Years at Gombe, with its fabulous National Geographic cover shot of a young Jane grooming a chimpanzee (i.e. looking for bugs) while the nonchalant chimp munches on bananas.
Thanks to Vets to Go for producing a wonderful evening and for bringing one of the world's heroes to Alberta.

Communicating with one of her chimps in Gombe

Better late than...I don't know what

It's now almost three months since I posted anything to my blog.
I can't really call myself a blogger any more, can I?

Well, to help remedy the situation, here are some photos my husband, Richard Schear, took during our recent trip to Calgary and beyond.

These are from the Wild Rose Icelandics horse farm, owned by our new friends Danielle and Kyle.

Danielle and I share a laugh.

My history with horses

I grew up in British Columbia, in what was then a small city surrounded by farms and orchards. I had plenty of opportunities to ride horses, and I did try, more than once, but the horses would always know I was afraid, so they would all toss me off. Very scary stuff, that.

I retained my fear of horses into adulthood, and into my old age, until last year when we visited Iceland and I met a herd of Icelandic horses. All they wanted was for me to hug them, and cuddle them, and sweet talk them. I was in love.

This week I was able to hug Icelandic horses again, and it was just as wonderful. We've been invited back, and I will certainly make sure we go.

Meanwhile, the photos...

This is Aurora.

This is Aurora's trick.
A finger held horizontally, then raised up in front of her nose, always produces this reaction.
Needless to say, I thought it was great fun, and had her do her trick again and again.

Next:

Coming soon to a blog near you: the reason we went to Calgary.

Limerick

via Google

I just realized it's been almost three weeks since I posted anything to my blog. I hardly dare call myself a blogger at all any more.

However, here is a little ditty for today. It sprang pretty well full blown into my head this morning, and is about a wooden puppet who met up with a very handy thief.

Amby Dexter was bereft

on discovering the theft...

now it seemed that

his right hand

was all that he had left.

Kay Davies, January, 2015

Flash 55— Man, you gotta go

hit the road

the open road

the long and very winding road

on your bike—

a biker’s bike—

so nevermore will you hitchhike

on your way

because today

you’ll know why the bikers say

gotta go

you gotta go

oh yeah, now, man, you gotta go...

the sky...the sun...the wind...the open road

55 words by Kay Davies, Jan. 3, 2015

I never wrote for Flash 55 when it was the purview of Galen Haynes, aka G-Man, aka Mr. Knowitall, clearly the man to be reckoned with if anyone exceeded his number count for this popular monthly challenge.

I was saddened, however, when many of my blogging friends expressed their grief for his death last month. I wish I had written for Flash 55, and wish I had come to know Galen in that special interpretation of the word know which only other bloggers can understand.

Kerry says that when Galen knew he had to retire from blogging, he turned the reins and the rights to Flash 55 over to The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, 

once a place where I had my own toadstool, and a place I am happy to visit whenever I can.

Today is the first Saturday of the month, and time for the Flash 55 challenge. Kerry added a new element to the prompt for the first Saturday of the year: a photo of a biker and his motorcycle, and she wrote "During the 50s in America,  a sub-culture emerged, depicting bikers as heroes who had cast off the shackles of a society they could not come to terms with. In fact the motorcycle and rider became symbolic of a rebellion against a system that the young rejected. This was manifest in the popular slogan 'Man, you gotta go' which expressed an inexplicable urge to be in motion for motion’s sake, rather than for some articulate reason – such as a destination."

I remember the 50s, when I was very young and thought motorcycles an extremely scary mode of transportation. When I was a little older, in the 60s, I realized my poor sense of balance probably had something to do with my opinion, and I've never, therefore, ridden a motorcycle nor even been a passenger on one. Nevertheless, I think I understand that 'inexplicable urge' Kerry mentions, 'to be in motion for motion's sake' and I've written 55 words about it here.

Free Wallpaper

WOMEN ARE THE WARRIORS

Women are the warriors our times call for. 

                         Aaron Paquette

Aaron Paquette is a First Nations Metis artist, author and speaker in western Canada.

He is the artist who created this, and is also the writer who wrote it. When I got in touch with him, he said, "Feel free to share..." so here is his message.

Thank you, Aaron. This is not only beautiful, I also feel it is important. I have changed only small things, but none of your words.

As a woman I cry for my country, my world, my planet...for our oceans and forests and the creatures who dwell therein. Thank you for granting us permission to share your words, and to display your art.

— Kay

Some people make the mistake of thinking women are only gatherers … gardeners … that they can only dig and pick and cultivate and hide.

I tell you that women are the strongest, smartest and most dangerous hunters the world has ever seen.

Individually, they may be physically overpowered, but in planning, in vision, in purpose and explosive action, they can’t be beat.

Any honest man will admit there is nothing that fills them with awe so much as their partner when she has made up her mind. She has become an unstoppable, indomitable will. If it’s against him, he’d better start running!

There’s a narrative that women are weak, that they’re vulnerable, that they are somehow less intelligent or capable than a man.

Well, they said that about serfs, about slaves, about people from other races. They say it about anyone they want to control.

You see, it’s the storytellers that rule the world.

And we repeat their stories.

It’s time for a new chapter.

It’s time to write a new reality.

It’s time to stand up and tell your story.

You are only vulnerable when you let others define you as vulnerable.

You are only weak if you let them convince you it’s true.

You are only ‘less than’ if you believe it.

Women are warriors. They are the ones who run with wolves, the ones who follow the moon. They are the ones who give life and they are the first story tellers their children will hear.

Women have all the power of humanity. All the power to shape the world.

Are you waiting for permission? Give it to yourself.

Are you waiting for your time? It’s now.

Are you waiting for a sign? Look around.

You are the linch-pin, the tipping of the scales.

The moment you say you’ve had enough. The moment you rise …

Everything changes.

We are in a battle for a future that our children, grandchildren and theirs can grow in, be safe in, be challenged in.

Part of it means taking time for yourself, for silence, to breathe and renew. Part of it means to let go for a while. You've been carrying heavy burdens.

There will be men who cling desperately to the idea that they have power over you. Outsmart them. Outmaneuver them. Out-plan and out-strategize.

There are so many more good men willing to be your allies, willing to be your support, willing to be your partners. We are your sons, after all.

We are in a battle for the soul of the planet.

And you are that soul.

You are the warriors.

And this is your time.

hiy hiy.

********

Feel free to print this out, to share it, to hang it where you can see it.

-Aaron Paquette

********

Aaron Paquette is a First Nations Metis artist, author and speaker based in Edmonton, Aberta. His bestselling novel 'Lightfinder' was published in 2014 through Kegedonce Press and is now in its 2nd printing.

To order Lightfinder:

http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/…/lig…/9780986874079-item.html

********

Like the Page!

http://www.facebook.com/AaronPaquetteArt

Once upon a time "Cleese" was "Cheese"

I interrupt the leisurely flow of my first morning in 2015 to bring you a bit of a book review. (I haven't read much yet.)

My husband received, from one of his many daughters, "So, Anyway...", the autobiography of British actor John Cleese of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers fame.
Said husband seldom reads books, perhaps one a year at most, perhaps one every second year. He doesn't plan to read this one until lolling at Lava Hot Springs for a week during our next road trip.
I, therefore, being out of new reading material myself, and the library being closed due to New Year's Day, am reading Cleese's autobiography.
I'm reading it despite never being a Monty Python fan, and also despite taking years to become willing to watch Fawlty Towers. (I was a few paragraphs into this writing before realizing I didn't know how to spell Fawlty.)
But enough about me, and back to the book: I got all the way to page 11 before I found a typo, so that's a good sign, and I've now finished the first chapter without finding another. However, the real news is that I'm enjoying it because the man can really write.
I recently re-read a number of book reviews by Dorothy Parker. If you haven't read any of those, please do. She could write better than I can, and, I daresay, better than John Cleese, and she did so in the 1920s.

But I digress. I have a long list of things to do in order to ready myself and my house for the new year, but I suspect I'll be more inclined to read the Cleese book than to clean the stove or sort all my old clothes.
Yes, I know the book hasn't received rave reviews, but it is an autobiography of the man, not of the Monty Python group, nor of the Fawlty Towers show, but of the man as he sees himself from the inside. (And, dear reader, please count how many times I used the word 'of' in the previous sentence, because I don't know how many.)
* * *
I am linking this, although it is not a poem, to Susie Clevenger's challenge for the first day of the New Year, in which she asks us to choose one of the quotations she has provided for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

"I think in terms of the day's resolutions, not the years."   Henry Moore

A humbug helper for Christmas dinner

Some years ago, when I was new to Alberta, and Dick was new to me, I told him I wasn't feeling well, late one afternoon, and told him I had to lie down.
"Oh." he said. "Well, then, if you're sick, I'll just have an omelet for supper."
"I'm so glad you know how to make an omelet," I replied.
His face dropped. "I...I...I don't know how to make an omelet."
"Well, then who did you suppose...wait a minute. Me. You expect me to get up to make you an omelet!"
"But, they're easy to make, and wouldn't take you very long."
"Look in the fridge," I replied. "Look in the cupboards. Or go out to get something for your supper. And some day, I'll teach you how to make an omelet."

psu.edu

About a year passed while I entertained myself with ideas for my lesson-plan on omelet-teaching. One day, I caught him coming through the kitchen.
"Are you busy?" I asked.
"Not really," he replied.
"Good, it's almost time for supper, so I'll teach you how to make an omelet."
"Oh, okay."
"First, you assemble the ingredients. Eggs, an onion, a green pepper, salt and pepper, and cheese. Here's the cheese grater. Grate about this much. Then cut up half of the green pepper, and chop up half of the onion."
"But I don't like chopping onions!"
"Sweetie," I said, sweetly, "nobody likes chopping onions."
* * *
So here we are, it's Christmas Day in western Canada. Dick had done the shopping, attempting to adhere to my list, and found what the store called a sweet onion. I laughed this afternoon when he ran out of the room, at my suggestion that he might like to chop it for me.
Unfortunately, in the years between the first omelet and this Christmas, I have had cataract surgery on both eyes, requiring the lenses my eyes were born with to be replaced by artificial lenses. I swear those artificial things trapped all of the fumes from that so-called sweet onion, making me weep copiously.

Photo by Richard Schear

I considered calling for help but, in those same said years, Dick lost a lot of his hearing and doesn't like wearing his hearing-aids. I would have called, he would have replied, "I can't hear you!"
I would have had to fall on the floor, moaning with pain and weeping more loudly, in order to get our old blind dog to go fetch him, so I cut the onion in half, chopped half of it, wrapped up the other half and put it in the fridge.
It can stay there until next Christmas, or until it turns greeny-brown and rots, whichever comes first.
Meanwhile, I hope all of my friends in Blogland have had or are having a wonderful holiday season.

Returning to Our World Tuesday

I've been a long time gone, as I mentioned in a comment to our birding friend Phil in England, but I hope I'm back to contribute some days of my life to Our World Tuesday.
Today I'm ignoring the snow outside and sharing some photos from a summertime dog picnic. That's right. In the summer, Dick and Lindy and I attended a dogs' picnic party hosted by SOS Senior Dog Rescue. We adopted Lindy from SOS some five years ago, and we're not sure about her age, but we definitely know she is a senior dog these days.
I was concerned about her meeting other dogs now that she has lost her eyesight, but she had a wonderful time.

She enjoyed meeting other Golden Retrievers, shown here with their owners giving them instructions...

Lindy, of course, was the curliest, but the second dog from the left has some curls, also.

As it was a hot summer day, she was delighted to find one of the wading pools the SOS volunteers had placed around Kin Coulee Park for the dogs.

Mmm, this is good...

But not as good as sneaking behind the barbecue table to get a special treat...

A wonderful time was had by all.

Posted for

Our World Tuesday

An old toad poem for Open Link Monday

I wrote this poem some time ago. I don't remember when, but as today is Monday, and Marian has asked us for a poem, any poem, old or new, for Open Link Monday, I'm hoping this might inspire me to write new poems after a long dry spell.

Posted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

I used to be a Toad

and I was happy

I used to be a Toad

and I was green

with great big yellow warts

on all my toadly parts

the funniest-looking toad

you’ve ever seen.

but then I hibernated

and I waited and I waited

to become a Toad again,

you see.

but waiting did no good

(hibernating, even less)

and I forgot how toadly

I had been.

I forgot my toadly parts

and only could see warts

where once there’d been

a lovely shade of green.

I used to be a poet

of nonsensical verse

but life somehow got worse

’til I lost my sense of verse,

becoming short and shrill and terse

instead of green.

by Kay L. Davies

Lindy returns to visit Bozo in India

"Hi, Bozo," says Lindy. "Guess what! My mom and dad took me for a long, long car ride in our new car. There were so many highways that I had to wear my very own seatbelt. It's red, and kinda pretty.
"It was a fun trip, and when we got home, the paving crew was still working in our neighbourhood, with big, big, noisy machines. They were here for weeks and weeks and weeks.
"I will tell my mom to post some pictures from our road trip as soon as she can. My favourite place was in New Mexico, up in the mountains, where deer came to visit...the same kind of deer as we have at home. That made me happy. I can't see much any more, but I could smell them, and I knew they were our kind of deer. Oh, my mom says they're called "mule deer" because of their big ears."

Posted for Pet Pride
hosted by Lindy's friend Bozo and his family at their Pets Forever blog in India. Lindy misses her other blog friends, too, like Ambrose in Africa, and Yam Aunty in Scotland, so she is very happy to be back.

Lindy hears the road crew outside, and gets onto her window seat,
hoping to see something.

Big machines and big trucks were out on the street.
This big machine gobbled up the pavement and then threw it into a truck. Very exciting.

Late with my homogenia

I'm sharing the art and Wikipedia definition provided by MZ at Words Count with Mama Zen for her recent homophone challenge.
Fewer than 75 words, says Mama Zen...well, I can manage that. Formerly verbose, and happy with it, I have not so much improved as I have actually managed to shrink. Not what I wanted, really, but it means that if I return to verbosity, I will have therefore grown, if only in my own eyes.

A homophone is a word that is pronounced the same as another word but differs in meaning, and may differ in spelling. The words may be spelled the same, such as rose (flower) and rose (past tense of "rise"), or differently, such as carat, caret, and carrot, or to, two, and too.                                                                                                                                                  –Wikipedia

we need to hire the right wright

to write the words for the rite

of marriage

and then—

the two greys who graze

in the field nearby

will wear white bridles 
as they pull the bridal coach

A mere 37 words, submitted late, by Kay Davies, December, 2014

I just had a birthday, so...

I just had a birthday, so

I got to wondering

if there’s a market

for Old Crone porn

(not to be mistaken

 for old cornpone,

 a market for which

 I’m pretty sure there’s not).

No, I was thinking

of wrinkling

in arms and legs and faces,

and many other places

elders got

(but youngsters have not).

Along with 

bellies that bag

and breasts that sag,

and all the hairs

on my chinny-chin-chin.

Do old guys

want to see them?

In living colour yet?

Or do they have

enough of that

themselves?

Fallen arches

in our feet,

and toenails which

we now can’t reach,

with aches and pains

in places that

we never even

knew we had,

before...

before Time, once our friend,

turned and bit us in the end,

and we can’t fight back,

because we need to nap.

Kay L. Davies, December, 2014                 

The longest song I ever heard

The longest song I ever heard
but I remember every word,
and also I recall the day
the music died.

Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where I was once a toad myself, Kerry recently asked for poems about iconic people.

Many icons from my youth are said to be mentioned in the song Kerry posted in her challenge: American Pie by Don McLean. However, I've read that McLean hasn't agreed or disagreed with anyone's interpretation of what he calls "just poetry" so perhaps we'll never really know. On the other hand, I've also read online articles claiming they are McLean's explanation of the song.

"The day the music died" is said to refer to the day Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper (JP Richardson) died in a plane crash in 1959. I remember the three so well...







The first 45 rpm record I ever bought for myself was "Oh, Boy!" by Buddy Holly and the Crickets in 1958. Oh, boy, how I loved Buddy Holly!

Everyone thought The Big Bopper was a lot of fun and, believe it or not, his song "Chantilly Lace" was considered somewhat risqué, if not downright scandalous, by parents of the young crowd.

Ritchie Valens wasn't even 18 when he died, but his top song "La Bamba" reached a whole new audience when the movie of the same name was released in 1987.

Music is lovely
music is fine—
music is fatal
to fav'rites of mine:
Bobby Darin also died young
and Mama Cass as well.
Sam Cooke was shot
Otis Redding was not—
he died in a plane crash, too.
Accidents and overdoses,
claimed too many lives.
Brian Jones
of the Rolling Stones,
thought to be suicide.
Jim Morrison
and Janis Joplin,
Jimi Hendrix, too,
at twenty-seven
went to heaven,
all three far too soon.
The list goes on,
and on and on,
of singers dying young,
but in all, or many, cases
the music lives today.
The music
did not die,
after all.

Kay Davies, November, 2014                                                                                           

All I want for Christmas...

There is a book I want for Christmas this year.
That's all, just one book.
In the latest issue of Canada's Maclean's Magazine, copy editor Larissa Liepins has reviewed "The Sense of Style: The Thinking Person's Guide to Writing in the 21st Century" by Canadian-born Steven Pinker.
Oh, yes, please. I need a guide to writing in the 21st century. My biggest problem is thinking too much, which makes this book an obvious choice for a thinking person like me.
Pinker also, says Liepins, "applies his considerable expertise in cognitive science and linguistics to crafting a modern-day style guide for, as he puts it, 'people who know how to write and want to write better'."
Oh yes, that would be me. I've been writing since I was six years old, and have had some experience in the craft, as well as some experience as a proofreader and copy editor, and I know quite a few other writers. I know that, deep down, we all want to write better. Many of us also need to know what the 21st century wants of us as writers.
"If you count yourself in that group," Liepins goes on, "you likely own a style bible of old, be it Strunk and White's The Elements of Style or Fowler's Modern English Usage" and you will find them "frequently in Pinker's crosshairs."
Okay, shoot, Mr. Pinker. I'll get over it, even if you malign those treasured tomes and tell us repeatedly that language purists are "sticklers, pedants, peevers, snobs, snoots, nitpickers, traditionalists, language police, usage nannies, grammar Nazis, and the Gotcha Gang"!
Sigh, but I will get over it.
I will get over it because scientist Pinker has convinced editor Liepins "that, not only will we not go to hell for splitting an infinitive, sometimes it's the only way to boldly go."
I like that.
I need someone with "expertise in cognitive science" as well as linguistics, who "mines everything from obituaries to Dear Abby columns for good writing."
Sigh again.
Writers of my advanced age will remember Dear Abby's skill with words, and may have, as I did, demanded of our parents and siblings, "Read this! What a great line!"
Now, just don't tell Steven Pinker that when I grow up I want to be Dave Barry.

***

I am linking this, quite belatedly, to Open Link Monday at my favourite writers' blog, Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Thanks for being there, dear Toads.

Get listed: The Art of War

Art? in war?

what’s war for?

the silent sound of children dying

tenderness of mothers crying

futility of fathers trying

to explain duty, alliance, tactics

to ears which now can’t hear.

In the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, this Wednesday’s word list was from a 1910 edition of The Art of War by Sun Tzu. An ancient book, it has been published and republished until the actual identity of the original author is lost in the mists of time.

And here we are, 100 years after “The War to End all Wars” and our world has never seen a prolonged period of peace.

I have chosen a few words from the list of 13 to include in a short poem on a subject that haunts us all.

Succinctly Yours in 140 characters

"How low can you go?" asks Grandma, at Grandma's Goulash.
Grandma has been asking that question for 182 weeks now, and I used to respond to it regularly. I've been remiss for some months now, but I'm back, at least for today.

Grandma posts a picture for participants, and asks us to write a short story about it in 140 words or 140 characters. I always like to use 140 characters. It's challenging, and it's fun. This week, my contribution consists of a short conversation in 140 characters.
There's usually a word of the week, too, and I like to fit it in if I can. This week's word is "deal".

"What is that animal doing up there?

Someone get it down! I don't want any animals in here."

"Oh, it's no big deal. He's just a little kid."

An ex-Toad appears for Open Link Monday

This sketch of Warty Bliggens the Toad,

drawn by George Harriman for the book

Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis,

was copyrighted in 1927

by the New York Tribune, Inc.

I used to be a Toad

and I was happy

I used to be a Toad

and I was green

with great big yellow warts

on all my toadly parts

the funniest-looking toad

you’ve ever seen.

but then I hibernated

and I waited and I waited

to become a Toad again,

you see.

but waiting did no good

(hibernating, even less)

and I forgot how toadly

I had been.

I forgot my toadly parts

and only could see warts

where once there’d been

a lovely shade of green.

I used to be a poet

of nonsensicable verse

but life somehow got worse

’til I lost my sense of verse,

becoming short and shrill and terse

instead of green.

by Kay Davies, September 7, 2014

Thanks to all my friends in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for inviting me to come back to the Garden when possible, with a special thank-you to Kerry, and to those toads who have become my friends on Facebook.

The unfittie returns at long last

Hello world, I'm still alive, and as well as can be.

There are still some final touches to be done on The Great Canadian Home Renovation...but I have almost reached the picture-hanging stage in the living room. Various pictures are on chairs and bookcases around the room, being "tested" as to colour and appropriateness, with only minor attention as yet to subject.
However, it feels good to have something to write about, at long last, along with the desire to say it.
When we bought this house, it was guesstimated by the realtor and the former owners to be approximately my age.
Old.
And old houses, built piecemeal in the 1940s, 1950s and onward, as time and money allowed, can prove to be a serious challenge to owners in the 21st century. With said challenge can come a lot of surprises, many additional costs, and some creative cussing.
Sigh.
Now I have to hope Blogger will communicate with my camera when I take photos of the "new" house. Much to my surprise, my two new photos appeared when I connected the camera today. The older picture, taken last week, required much ado on my part to get it from the camera to the computer.
Perhaps...and I'm making no promises...perhaps I'm back to blogging!
Meanwhile, you might be wondering about the photo shown above. Well, our darlin' dog Lindy has pretty much lost her eyesight, and gets confused in the house sometimes because the renovation required considerable moving of furniture, and she bumped her head on the wall a few times when aiming for the doorway between the living room and her food dish.
If you know Lindy, you know food is worth far more to her than a mere bump on the head, but my husband panicked, so I had him take me to an upholstery shop. There I purchased two large pieces of upholstery foam, which I covered with pillowcases intended for a child's body pillow.
Now, when Lindy misses the side of the door, she hits her head on the foam. She has also decided that the pillow helping to keep the foam upright makes a nice place for a nap, and for storing her favourite toy, a bright pink fellow named Biggy Piggy.
And now for the renovation project in all of its glory...make that "part of its glory"...
For years I've had a big, heavy, white-painted, wooden bookcase. I had Dick move it out of the shed, where it was stored during the renovation, onto a large piece of heavy plastic in the yard. I started to spray it black.
That's when I discovered that even spray-painting, as easy as it might sound, still requires bending oneself into awkward shapes, and is also quite painful for a person with chronically sore hands.
Who knew?
So I spray-painted the top and the sides black, re-painted the shelves white (because I did, after all, have to cover up the black where my spray went astray) and am quite delighted with the result.
I somehow haven't managed to fix the hole that appeared gratuitously when the bookcase was removed from the shed, but I'm thinking of remedies somewhat more effective than stick-on mailing labels, which didn't work.
Meanwhile, I'm delighted with our colour choices. Two shades of grey on the walls, with white moulding and baseboards, is very soothing.

Bookcase, complete with hole at left, and grey smears
where the spray paint went too far. (My hands shake.)

Bookcase, with random contents, awaits arrival of more
boxes from the shed. Meanwhile, I'm trying out a couple
of items for the wall around it. The copper picture of Lindy
was made by my husband's youngest daughter, Monica.
The abstract painting is by his daughter Andrea. The small
oil portrait of Lindy was done by Canadian plein air artist
Aleta Karstad. Do check out her work here.

Lindy's mom tries to do it herself

I'm sure glad Lindy has been holding the fort for me. I kept looking and looking at my blog and there weren't any new comments. Suddenly, in the middle of the night (or early morning, it is 3:30am) I realized it was my own fault. Of course, I didn't blame Lindy. I found 35 comments, and only one was spam, so now 34 have been posted.
Sigh.
Thanks for being there, my friends.

I'm here because it is time for Fireblossom's Flash 55 at The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where I used to enjoy writing poetry. The following bit of doggerel (all mine, not the dog's) came to me just after 3am, and it has 55 words.
Thanks to my friend Hedgewitch for reminding me about The Garden.

not last night, but the night before

twenty-four robbers came to my door

and one of them said “roll over, roll over”

they all rolled over and one fell out

twenty-three at my door

I don’t know what for

then one of them said

“are we really all dead?”

and I woke up

                                Kay L. Davies, August 3, 2014

Hello world, it's Lindy again, with new news

Maybe you can tell this is me...or at least the curliest part of me. I'm lying on the floor in this picture, not suspecting my mom is taking photos of my backside. And that's my new rug, to lie on when the floor is a bit chilly. You can see a bit of my mom's recliner on the right.

This is my dad's new lamp, beside his new window, behind his old recliner. People can look out this window to see our back yard, where I'm usually sleeping under a tree.

Here you can see rain on the front window. Yes, our neighbourhood is so green because the Canadian prairie is getting a lot of rain. My mom calls it "unseasonable" but I don't think that's a real word. Dogs don't use words like that. The wall isn't really black the way it looks here. Mom said something about the flash not going off because of light from the window. Some things dogs don't understand, but I know one thing: I don't like the flash when it does work.

This is the new little red table for phones and the answering machine. The answering machine has a funny voice because it isn't my dad and it isn't my mom. They say it's a computer voice but I don't really believe that. You can see the nice grey walls, and the white trim on the side of the doorway but not below it yet. We're going to have new floor in the hall, too. My mom says the old floor is "plug ugly" but I like it, because my food and water dishes are in the hall.

There will be two of these black stools in the living room, by the table with my dad's chess set, so someone can play with him. I will play with him, but I don't know chess.
Right now you can see the newly-painted wall and the nice new floor which is cool on hot days. My mom says you can also see that the baseboards haven't been done yet but I don't know what a baseboard is.

My mom says to tell you the living room ren-oh (that's short for renovation) has been keeping her busy, but that's not all. I know she went to British Columbia to see her friends and her brothers, and my cousins, too, and now she is very tired because travel is difficult for her.

Also, she says she is trying to get back to writing poetry, and she's thinking about posting more travel photos. I hope she does it soon, because it is extremely difficult for a Golden Retriever to use a keyboard without making all kinds of mistakes.

                             Lots of dog hugs, Lindy

P.S. I forgot to share these pictures of my cat cousins. Mom stayed with them when she was in Langley, B.C.

My new cat-cousin, named Sochi.

My first cat-cousin, Bailey.

I like this picture of Bailey when he was a kitten. Lucky cat to get into a refrigerator! I try and try to get into the fridge in our house but my mom and dad don't let me. I lie down in front of it when they're cooking, but they always push me away. Sigh.

Posted for Pet Pride
hosted by Bozo and his family
at their Pets Forever blog in Mumbai, India. Thanks, Bozo!