Very own

Before there was online shopping, there were catalogues.  Nice big thick ones.  The Sears catalogue and Eatons catalogues came as dependably as the seasons.  When I was a little girl, I took up scissors and snipped out the pictures of the babies.  Oh the babies, the babies! There were always a charming assortment. Perfectly wonderful paper dolls.  Not just paper dolls but my children. My very own family. 

 

Illustrating

Art surrounds us. It is on packaging and signs, magazines and books, and children’s books are my favourite. 

When I was a preschooler I badgered my big sister to read and reread The Gingerbread Man.  It didn’t have a happy ending.  A fox gobbled up the little cookie man, but I loved how he jumped off the cookie sheet and hot footed it out of the kitchen.  It was that kitchen that has stayed in my memory. The wooden walls.  The wooden salt box so European. The cast iron stove. The braided rug.  Sure sounds like my grammas log house. I never saw the connection until this moment.  But I do know that recalling that book and its illustrations has always comforted me.  I feel a literal warmth, golden and cinnamon infused. 

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.

for you

If you were here, I would try to make you smile with this very vintage Japanese toy.  

Oh who could that be?

Surprise!

I dance and I clap

for YOU!

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.

alegria

Before there was Google Translate, there was Giuseppe Mezzofanti, chief Vatican librarian, who could fluently speak 50 languages and translate 114 more. Wow! And I can't even read both sides of a cereal box. That wouldn't have held back Sir John Bowring. He, a British governor of Hong Kong, could speak 100 languages and read 100 more. Owed it all to his dictionary collection I bet.  Mind you, what's not to love about dictionaries, words rolling off your tongue, foreign and unknown. They were some of my favourite books when I was young. I especially loved the lists of words arranged by grade level at the front of the World Book Encyclopedia Dictionary, A-K. Vocabulary and spelling from Grade One to College were there, tantalizing and tempting. Words, wonderful words. And of course I loved the Merriam Websters Dictionary, wedged in my desk. Loved its small sketched illustrations too.

I've been savoring two delicious reads of late.
May I recommend Native Tongues by Charles Berlitz. If you love trivia you'll adore this book. Everything you ever wanted to know about language is there for your edification and entertainment.
And I've also been reading Landmarks by Robert Macfarlane. He is brilliant and poetic and completely captivating. He refers to at least ten authors whose books have inspired his own writing and they have been added to 'the list,' along with his other works, The Old Ways, The Wild Places, Holloway, and Mountains of the Mind.

Hay alegria en el aprendizaje!! 

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.

ocka bocka

If you find an old book,
and its covered in linen,
especially if it is wonderfully vintage orange linen,
and especially if it is a collection of children's counting and skipping and bouncing ball rhymes,
just like the collection I've been enjoying,
chant a few for me.

Here, what do you think of these jewels?

Bouncy, bouncy, ball-y,
I broke the head off my dolly,
My Mom came out,
And gave me a clout,
That turned my petticoat
Inside out.

My brother broke a bottle,
And blamed it all on me.
I told Ma,
She told Pa,
Brother got a spanking.
Ha ha ha.
How many spanks did he get?
1,2,3, etc.

My mother, your mother,
Live across the way,
Every night they have a fight,
and this is what they say;
Ocka, bocka, soda crocka,
Ocka, bocka, boo.
Your old man chews tobacco,
And so do you.

What's not to love?

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.

part art

Once upon a time, there were record players.
Then we listened to music on stereos with speakers the size of refrigerators.
Now music wafts out of our computer.
Nothing children enjoy today can compare to the fun we had with record players. George Beverly Shea and Bing Crosby sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks when we switched speeds. We laughed and jumped around the living room like crickets. Then we switched the speed again and the voices  s..l...o..w...e...d  w...a...y  down and took on an ominous tone, a sort of robot voice of doom that we found even funnier.
Interactive music; part sport, part theatre, part art.

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?