Northern night

I’ve only seen the Northern Lights once. Really seen them I mean. Not just a blush of green faintly tinting the dome of night. 

No, I saw them once, like a great wide river of writhing, pulsing light, green and blue and swirling across the wide night sky.  The air crackled and hissed with a strange, dazzling, beautiful splendour.  

more than anything

More than anything else, as far as wishes go, she wished she could go blueberry picking. She wished she could get in her car and drive through the mountains to Blue River and take her pails out into the woods. She thought she might meet our Mom there. (I thought she might meet a bear there!)

Our mom grew up picking wild blueberries. So did we. We shared the patch with hosts of mosquitoes, and black flies and no-see-ums. No bears that I remember but my oldest sister remembers a friend of our mother crashing out of the woods with terror stamped on every feature. If making noise is the best defense against a bear attack, she was positively invincible. 

I'm sorry I didn't think of making this quilt the moment my sister mentioned our Mom and blueberries. Sometimes I need neon lights and a marching band to wake up and smell the coffee. But the moment a quilt appeared before my glazed eyes I rushed to my sewing cupboard. A few years ago, my sister had given me a quilters panel with bears on it. Hazah!!! Perfect! I phoned the nearest quilt shop to see if they had blueberry inspired fabric but Covid had closed their doors permanently. I phoned another store and another. No blueberry fabric was to be found. I trolled about online and finally found some but the shipping time was six weeks!! And that was just an estimate. 

Fortunately, desperation saved the day. I cast my net further afield and turned up a quilt shop in a nearby town, a shop I didn't even know existed. They had a smidge of blueberry fabric left but were closing in less than an hour. Was it a fools errand to lurch out of the house, just as every sensible person was hastening homeward? Gamely, my husband agreed to drive. He gripped the steering wheel and headed off, changing lanes and taking back alleys. I gripped the door handle and breathed shallowly. 

But we were triumphant. I spent the weekend slicing and dicing and piecing and pinning. When the new week dawned, I had a moment of clarity. I had tried every possible fabric combination and there was no other possible way forward except to have more blueberry fabric. Not much. Just a smidge really. Likely just the amount that had been LEFT ON THE BOLT by me!!! 

I drove back to the shop myself. Sadly, I had not paid attention during my husbands wild race to the store and it was as though I had never been there before. I completely lost my inner compass before I let my phone help.

Amazingly, they still had the snippet of blueberry fabric I had unwisely left behind. And it was reduced in price now because it was a scrap. I could have kissed it. I staggered out to my car with a giant roll of quilt bat and a teeny tiny wisp of fabric.

The backing is a bunch of black bears boldly browsing....... That fabric was from my sister too!! I'm telling you, this quilt was meant to be hers!

 I folded the finished quilt into a postal box and put my faith in Canada Post. They didn't let me down.

limited visibility

 

This very blurry picture is one of those "limited visibility" shots that the delete button usually takes care of.

Not in 1964 though, apparently. 

No, then you took aim, counted your money, mailed away the film and waited. 

And waited. 

You expected a few limited visibility shots. 

I don't remember this picture being taken. 

I don't remember...oh wait....a flicker.

I sort of remember those dogs.

I think at least one of them belonged to my friend Evelyn, who is the little girl on the far right.

I'm the little girl on the far left hoisting a dog of my own. Such an armful. It may have been our own dog although I feel doubtful about that. 

See my little feet, so Mary Poppins? Kind of reminds me of my Gramma. Heels together, toes out.

The little boy beside me was my dearest friend. Literally the boy next door. 

My older sister, also happily clutching a dog is in the middle. 

It's Blue River so of course there is snow. 

Snow, dogs, friends and an obliging photographer. No wonder we are all smiling.

timeless play

It is unbelievable to me that this picture of my apple-cheeked Aunt was snapped nearly 100 years ago. Gadzooks! How can 1927 reach out of the past and clasp me by the hand, here in 2020?
I'm beginning to carve a doll head and wouldn't her little face be the perfect inspiration?
Her trendy bobbed hair.
Her dress, just as at home today as then.
It just takes little bits of fabric to sew a dress for a little bit of a girl, a small project, but Gramma has lovingly trimmed the pocket and collar and cuffs.
Oh my Gramma could tweak fabric and sew magic.
The wagon with hand carved wheels is my Grandfather's contribution to childhood happiness. He was creativity itself, which you needed to be if you lived in the boonies in the 1920's.
A wash tub hangs against the log wall making the most of vertical storage space.
A broom that has swept a thousand sweeps leans tiredly against the door frame.
A Toddler Interrupted gazes sternly at the photo taker.
Timeless play.

again and again

I can't believe I haven't written about this picture before! In fact, I scrolled through my blog forth and back and clicked with ever increasing disbelief on labels but lo, and no, this photo was not to be found. It's the 'not to be found' part that is troubling me.
Aptitudes don't destine us, but they do nudge us along. Some people have a natural aptitude for organizing.
For archiving.
For categorizing.
I struggle with this.
I imagine it is why Pinterest is a wilderness to wander into for me. A wonderful wilderness for sure but how to save the pins. Is the quilted bird meant to be saved to my board called Feathers? Or should it go under Quilted. Or perhaps Color as inspiration for painting. And if I don't know where to place it with clarity, how will I find it later? I could place it in all three categories I suppose. That seems to be what I've defaulted to in my blog. One story/post may have several labels but because life is bewildering, some defy categorizing.
This picture could be Blue River, Photo, Family, and/or Childhood and is one my eye has rested on nearly every time I've scrolled happily though old family black and whites. It captures my very young and happy aunt and my very delighted older sister. They are seated serenely in a construction zone which was likely my cousins downstairs suite in the making. My aunt has her hair piled aloft, funky glasses perched on her cute Nelson nose. My sister is hugging a special baby doll. Her toes are turned in with the joy of it.
Joy.
Yes, it's the joy that stops me in my tracks every time.
It radiates out in technicolor and surround sound.
It's why photos are such a gift. They capture more than a moment in time. They capture the feeling of that moment so that you can feel it again and again.

little skiiers

Ahhhhhh, another Blue River photo with the inevitable snow.
I love this picture; my sisters standing like little Hummels, my father hunkered down to make the photographers life easier.
I love the evergreens freshly frosted, the ski suits hand sewn.
Little skiis.
Little ski poles.
Little skiers.

eyes to see it

This photo was taken in 1930's Blue River.
I was a child of the 60's, but I recognize it in a moment.
In fact, because it is so familiar, I had failed to really LOOK at the picture.
I had missed the reason someone bothered to raise viewfinder to eye and snap away.
At first glance, the distant hills with their comforting contour, the wooded shore, the clump of birch are all so Lake Eleanor.
(though we always called it Blue River Lake)
And I can't help thinking the diving platform seems mighty close to shore.
(It was later moved somewhat but not enough. My brother dove from it and broke his wrist on the bottom of the lake which he arrived at too quickly)
It wasn't until this morning, as I wandered through a file of old black and whites that I paused and really looked at this picture for once.
And that is when I noticed it.
Out there in the middle.
On a log.
Stately as a king.
A heron.
Or crane of some kind.
Not something I ever saw growing up in Blue River.
Not something the photographer had grown accustomed to seeing either.
And so they took the picture.
There was no zoom feature.
No crop or resize available.
So the marvelous, amazing, unusual sight remained exactly where it was.
Out in the middle of the lake on a log.
In the center of the photograph.
Right in front, for anyone with eyes to see it.

so much good

My grandfather is bending over a plow as my uncle Don sits astride Old Tommy the school horse. Something about this partnership motivated someone to fetch a camera. I can't be sure, but I wonder if the plow had been 'hacked' by my grandfather who like many in the 30's, was part inventor, part blacksmith and part magician.
Clearly the horse is a newbie at plowing potato patches; a child is going to tell him where to turn and how quick to do it.
Old Tommy's ears are back and he is muttering to himself in 'horse.'
Grandfather is intent and bent.
The potato patch is large.
His horse and a plow didn't come together but he is planning to make them work together.
Sitting aloft is my uncle Don.
His young face is serious.
He and my grandpa are part of a team.
He is needed and important to his father.
I think this is why my eyes go first to this child on the horse every time.
Being part of a team; a useful, working, contributing part of family life, is the foundation of so much good.

much much closer

This is not the Von Trapp children posing in the Austrian alpine.

It's a picture taken high atop Mount Cook and includes my mom and dad perched on the edge of splendor.

Isn't the composition of this photo a rare and wondrous thing?

Aren't the teenagers framed just right?

Don't they look like some lifestyle photographer had a vision?

Doesn't my dad have a bad case of hat hair?

Maybe it's just because my mother is smiling warmly from the center of the photo's foreground that it occurs to me the photographer got the focal point just right.

And, I noticed something for the first time tonight.

My dad is holding my Mom's hand.

He hasn't turned to face the picture taker.

His thoughts are somewhere else.

Somewhere much, much closer.

to matter

A pair of old photos from my mothers childhood makes me smile and nod and ponder. I like to think of them as Exhibit A and B.
Exhibit A, above, shows my visiting great grandmother Minerva. It also shows my Aunt Fran, the toddler beaming on the left, and on the right, my mother. My very, very sad little mother.. Smack dab in the center is a cousin, the little interloper. She has traveled by train across the Rocky Mountains with Gramma Minerva. There is something recognizable in her pose. It's HER Gramma Minerva.  There is also something recognizable in my mother's pose, something so unusual that it stands out like a beacon.
My mother is Sad.

Exhibit B is very telling. The photographer, likely my own kind Gramma has sized up the situation. My Very Sad Mother has now been given the place of honor at Gramma Minerva's knee.
Baby Fran's smile has faded.
There is angst in the air.
Little Interloper has taken up her new position unimpaired and has a hand possessively and comfortably placed.
My mother's mood remains unaltered. Very Sad still has her in its grip. In fact, she may now have added Very Put Out.

Time has swirled by since that long ago afternoon.
Lots and lots of time.
My mother has always been known for the sweetness of her disposition and the steadfastness of her optimistic, friendly nature, for her remarkably ever ready smile.
But here, in black and white is the evidence.
She was once a little girl just like any other little girl.

The steady smile of Great Gramma Minerva, the comforting warm sun, a kindly photographer.... all come together in these pictures.
They prove the universal need we all have to feel important and special.
To matter.

terrified

"We went to the store where you just look at things," my granddaughter says casually, by way of making conversation. "And they have animals there that are like statues."
"Oh," I muse,  a light dawning. "Cabala's. Yes, they have many animals don't they?"
She nods soberly. "One was looking at me Gramma and I was terrified." I hug her a little tighter. "It had hair all over," she says. "And I didn't know what it was," she adds, her eyes wide.
"Goodness," I exclaim. "Was it a bear?"
"Gramma," she says, "I know what a bear is."
"Oh, yes, yes of course," I murmur, "Was it a cougar?"
"I don't know what a cougar looks like," she admits.
I describe one but she looks skeptical.
"Was it a raccoon," I ask hopefully.
"It was big Gramma," she exclaims.
Off we go to consult Google but nothing seems to fit.
I am left pondering a strange and hairy creature with wild eyes.
It has made me remember a mystery creature I once looked at with my own wild eyes.
Fortunately, it never saw me.
I was fifteen I think.
I had hiked up Mt. Cook near Blue River.
Up into the mountain alpine country.
A morning trek alone brought me down to the edge of a small lake. As I stood gazing out over the water I heard the strangest sound. It was almost a jingle. A tinkle of claws on rock and a growl repeated like a chant.
And there it was.
My mystery creature.
I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at.
The creature looked fiercely to the left and right before quickly lapping water. Then It turned and trotted stiffly off.
It hadn't seen me, shielded as I was by a bush.
When I rushed breathless and wide eyed to the cabin, my cousin listened to my description with an incredulous look.
"It must have been a bobcat," she said.
"But it had a tail," I cried.
She gave me that look.
You know the one.
Years, and years later, in a museum display that included taxidermy I spied my mystery creature.
It was a Wolverine. 
Do you think it was too late to be terrified?

zero and beyond

My granddaughter told me this morning that her doll is zero. She is referring to its age of course. Zero. Poor dolly; so young she doesn't even register on the Richter Scale of aging.
I was zero once too. And then I was one. Oh happy day. Then I was big enough to ride the wonderful galloping horse that was pastured in my grandparents living room. It was an amazing contraption and took up nearly as much space as a real pony. I think it really belonged to my cousin who lived downstairs in a compact suite. Too compact, and so the marvelous steed was stabled upstairs. It looks like my grampa made a small modification to the joy ride. A pretty stout two by four allows equestrian spirited toddlers to mount and dismount all by themselves. It is good to fan the flames of independence.

This is one of my favourite photos of myself.
I remember the horse.
It was a Palomino.
And I remember the wool rug with kaleidoscope flecks of color.
And I can even remember glancing over my shoulder warily as I rode grimly onward.
It was because of the cuckoo clock high on the wall.
I was scared of the little bird that lived inside.
It was so unpredictable......

But still I rode ever onward into two and three and four and beyond.

monarch of the mountain

My grampa the skier.
He learned as a boy in Norway.
There he is,
perched on the edge,
surveying his vast kingdom.

in winter

More than half of the long ago photos my mother took in Blue River were frozen in winter but then again, more than half the year Blue River is frozen in winter.

slow escape

We had a pet turtle when I was a child. I don't remember his arrival nor really his departure. Easy come, easy go, like a cowboy in an old western. I can see him climbing out of the tepid water of his shallow bowl, to perch on a flat stone. And I can still see the blinking eyes and tiny yellow striped head and feet. And the patterned shell. And feel the scratchy feet. Tiny, tiny feet with teeny tiny toe nails. He fit so neatly on our hot little palms. And he didn't seem to mind being gripped by the shell and suspended over vast nothingness while he peddled and paddled the air.
He loved to explore. Well, we thought it was exploring when he launched off across the lino and disappeared under the great squat armchair but it may have been a slow escape. Head for the hills!! Keep heading, keep heading....
I don't remember his eventual, inevitable disappearance. Wanted Dead or Alive. It can't have been too traumatic. But i do clearly remember, when we were packing up for our big move to the city, and the World Book Encyclopedia were boxed up, and the shelf lifted and born off to the moving truck, the amazement at finding a turtle shell.
It seemed no one was home, no little occupant.
Just a shell.

'Oh bury me not, on the lone prair-ie.......'
 A lone tumble weed rolls by.

glorified

Did you go to Sunday School when you were a child? Church and Sunday School were a package deal when I was a kid and I have a lot of very early memories with wooden pews and ladies hats right in the middle of them. I must have been part beaver because I can remember kneeling on the pew as a preschooler and peering over the back at the people in the row behind..... and gnawing on the wooden back. It gave way so delightfully to my teeth, just like a pencil did a couple years later in grade one. My mother would eventually spot me defacing the property and give me 'the eye' or a murmured admonition. Oh the advantage of being the fifth born whence your mother's patience is a finely honed thing.
My Sunday School class in the little church of my childhood was up a very curved, steep staircase that opened upon a tiny room with miniature painted plywood chairs. I think if I had one of those chairs now, I'd hang it on the wall like artwork.
My teacher was a very short and very round lady with a wonderfully gravelly voice named Grandma Johnston. She always wore a hat; a sort of glorified head band. Very glorified because it was bedecked with gossamer flowers. I can't imagine how she got down low enough to perch on one of those little painted chairs so perhaps she didn't. I can't remember that detail. I do remember the stories though. Stories like Jonah and the Whale,  and David and Goliath, and Daniel in the Lions Den. Stories of high adventure and high stakes. I loved those stories. They were always told with flannel graph which was 90 percent of their charm. I have a sudden urge to tell you a story using flannel graph but alas, I have only Playmobil handy as a prop. What do you think?