Feels like sadness

There’ve been too many fires to count this summer. We hold our breath as we watch the news.  Water bombers drone. The horizon blurs. Eyes smart. Throat tightens. It feels like sadness. 

nearby

Blueberries are ON.

It doesn't take long to fill a pail in the cool slanting light of evening.

Row after row of blueberries, 

some large and tart, some shiny black and tasting of cinnamon.

Nearby, grapes of autumn are soaking up the sweetness of summer.

 

Raspberries are soon gone for another year.

And early apples scent the air.

now we know why

Galiano Island honors Spanish explorer, Dionision Alcala Galiano, who sailed in an out of the Gulf Islands off the coast of B.C. in 1792. He would have felt quite at home gazing out to sea from its sandy shoreline. The same molten sun smolders there as scorches Seville on a hot July afternoon.
To get to Galiano Island though, in the midst of summer, you must keep green coastal forests and salty breezes fixed firmly in mind. There's the gauntlet known as The Ferry Terminal....Doesn't terminal have an ominous note to it? Terminally waiting....
Ferry Terminals are acres of asphalt.
Cars simmer in the sun. 
It's solar heating gone wrong.
People melt out of cars and trucks and motor-homes and draw a bead on a distant patch of shade the size of a small tablecloth. 
Dogs come too; every size and hairy, tongue lolling variety.
Man and beast.
It's close quarters in the shade at Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal on a July afternoon.

A group dropped to the grass near our feet. They lolled on backpacks and leaned on bags. Their restless dog turned around three times as though looking for something he had misplaced. Where was his bag? Oh, there it was. He lifted his leg and sent a steaming stream into the purse of his mistress and down her arm which was resting protectively over it. 
Who shrieked first?
We had noticed the grass was still pretty green there, near the tree.
Now we know why.

u-pick

We went for a sunny Sunday stroll in the woods and were astonished to see ripe Blackberries glistening among the tangled green.
We ate a handful.
Then we saw a Huckleberry bush, its fruit hanging like tiny decorations.
We ate a handful of them too.
Salmon berries were beautifully ripe and sweetly tart, and Thimble berries were everywhere.
We ate both just for comparison sake.
"Look," my husband exclaimed.
A huge Saskatoon bush, and then another..
Plump, dark purple berries.
We each ate a handful.
Summer fresh, U-pick.

i felt it

The Harrison Festival of the Arts was as hot as a jalapeno this year.
Maybe hotter.
I survived by darting under the icy spray of the beach shower several times. My dripping hair was dry in a blink and waywardly curled by the steamy breath of July.
The music was pretty hot too with songs like, Save Me For Later by bluesy Suzie Vinnick.
"They say cookin' it slow brings out the flavor darlin' save me for later."
Her voice, rich and sweet and warm.
Drums like hail and thunder.
And bluesy bass.
Big, bad, bluesy bass that played up and down our spines.
And Matuto shouting, "I say feel it...
feel it,
feel it,
FEEL IT."

I felt it.

adventurous times

A world of wonders is beneath your feet.
An entire civilization lies hidden.
When you walk a sandy stretch of beach they are all around you.
Sometimes you can hear them.
A hissing sound as you walk over the hard, wet, gray sand.
Sometimes a stream of water shoots up and marks a spot, like an x on a treasure map.
Dig here.
All you need to do is look down.
Down at your feet and as far as eye can see.
Under every hole in the sand are clams, clams, clams; Manila, Littleneck, Butter, Razor, and the giant Geoduck.
It's fun to dig for clams.
To pounce on a waterspout, and scoop up the sand until your fingers close upon the prize.
Geoducks are the most fun of all though.
Their siphons are often just at the surface.
Clam lips.
It can be a foot or more to where the giant clam lies smugly safe.
But mollusks are nobodies fool.
They feel the sand being thrust aside and retreat in a rush of water.
Sand is heavy and filled with broken fragments of shell.
Digging by hand can be perilous.
It's a sport of fools apparently.
Spurred on as I was by a reckless desire to show my grandchildren a giant clam, I plunged my hands into an ever deepening hole in the sand.
I could tell right away that the cut was deep.
By the time I pulled my hand to the surface, up through the slurry of sand, blood was everywhere.
I held my hand aloft and stared in amazement as red flowed down my finger and hand and began to drip onto the sand.
Good grief.
I was a bio-hazard.
You never have a hankie when you need one.
Have you noticed that?
I didn't have anything I could wrap around the cut, so I pressed on it with my thumb as we hastened towards shore.
It was low tide and we were at the waterline.
Of course.
A clean bottle of water was sacrificed and a kleenex pressed into service.
Then back to the beach we went.
The children and I disrupted the eco-system by feeding pretzels to the seagulls.
We gamboled and rambled and roamed and roiled.
Then raced for the truck and the parking meter.
We arrived breathless with two minutes to spare.
Adventurous times.

into summer

There it was, its wings white against the dark wet sand.
A small butterfly.
Somehow it had fallen and now had wings heavy with water.
I bent and placed my finger against feet waving in the air.
They instantly grasped hold and the little butterfly was soon upright on my hand, opening and closing gossamer wings in the afternoon sunshine.
I do think time stands still.
Just for a moment I think it did.
I can still see those wings so delicately patterned.
Feel the grip of tiny feet.
The breeze always blows at the beach and my granddaughter's hair was being styled by the wind.
I transferred the little feet gripping my finger to my blouse to free my hands so I could corral her hair into an elastic.
When I was finished, I remembered the little butterfly but it had caught a friendly current and sailed away into summer.

fiesta

We've been taking a run at summer, my grandchildren and I.
Who will drop first?

"What should we do today?" I asked my grandchildren. "The pool? The beach? The park?
"I'd like to have a fiesta," my granddaughter stated, as quick as a wink.
"She means, siesta, Grandma," her brother explained.

mixed blessing

I like sunshine.
And I like summer.
I like splashing about in water and hearing the drone of distant lawnmowers.
I like summer gardens, vegetables magically doubling in size over night.
I like wearing skirts and fluttery calico blouses.
I like it all.
All except the heat.
All except the blazing, scorching, parching, wilting heat.
A glass of something cold might save my life.
A cup, dripping with condensed refreshment.
A walk in the dappled light, down over the pebbled shore into the icy water of a creek.
Or maybe watermelon crisply cold, or blueberries.
There are plenty of chances to feel the joy of relief.

Just give me the sound of wind chimes, floating in an open window on the wings of eventide.
A scarlet sunset over silver water.
Sun drunk bees in the roses.
Summer is a mixed blessing.

dragon breath

Summer has swooped down on us, as hot as a fire breathing dragon.
We cower in our houses.
Or scuttle into the shade,
or rush to and from our car.
As the great ball of fire rises ever higher overhead we hasten to close the window,
close the blinds,
hide away in the shadow.
We are surrounded by heat.
We breathe heat.
We are heat.
Night falls, but not the temperature.
The dragon stalks by night.

kind of danger

Do you know how to make a paper airplane?
My husband can seize a piece of paper and wrangle it into a small winged wonder that zips and soars.
Not me.
It seemed a deficit in my resume as a grandmother.
It seemed I SHOULD know how.
Martha Stewart to the rescue.
Her book of crafts for kids is an anthology of wonders and has TWO paper airplanes to master.
Of course!
I should have known I would need two.
One for distance and one for stunts.
The distance flyer soars fast and far.
Its pilot obviously thrives on danger because mid-flight usually includes a flip and the whole world is upside down.
The stunt flyer loops.
And in such a giddy, unpredictable way.
Sort of like a boom-a-rang.
It is just as likely to circle swiftly round and buzz past your ear as it is to loop to the left or right.
That's the kind of danger I thrive on.

at every turn

Today I saw a man living on the edge of danger.
He was smoking,
while wielding a gas weedeater,
as he leveled a patch of tall dry grass....

Today I saw a young mother making time stand still
as she crouched beside her baby in a stoller.
A little flock of Bantam beauty pecked and fluttered just beyond the fence.....

Today I saw row upon green row of bedding plants.
Infant flowers.
A thousand summer gardens all in a row.....

Today I drove down unfamiliar streets.
I let the car choose the path home.
I was surprised at every turn.

clasping hands

A crow drank from our rain barrel in desperation today. That should have been the big tip off. The temperature climbed up out of spring and straight into summer. I felt as desperate as the crow.
My grandchildren plied the garden hose and turned our flower beds into prehistoric swamps. Dinosaurs were swept away by mighty currents and buried by mud. The children got damp and then wet and then muddy. Very muddy. Wonderfully muddy.
They headed home just in time for supper, freshly bathed and wearing strange ensembles of borrowed cloths.
I think that makes it official. We've turned a corner.
Spring and Summer are clasping hands.

abundance

Ahhh summer. Blue River did have summer ever so briefly, savored between the season of old snow and the season of new snow.
Now this is a snapshot of summer if ever there was one; children and water.
The two year old is holding a cup and is learning the principle of abundance. My oldest sister is gently (she's a girl) directing the water into the little cup. The abundance will spill over into the endless sea of a tub.
I love that my sisters are dressed alike. I think that early alike-ness was a gift to them, a bond my mother unknowingly created.
Two little girls hard at the work of play, learning more than is readily apparent.

how to

How to Make a Summer Quilt

1. Drive to the 'local' quilt shop that is geographically furthest from your home
2. Choose the hottest day on record
3. Take a car without air conditioning
4. Also take your elderly mother
5. Make sure she has inexplicably worn long johns under her dress.
Do not notice this until you are on your way home.
6. Take two hours to choose ten fabrics, a ratio of twelve minutes per selection.
7. Make sure sale ended the previous day
8. Blush as two clerks and a manager find a way to give you the discount anyway
9. Drive cross country in search of cold drinks in direct defiance of Road Trip Recommendation Number One--Always take the nearest freeway entrance and always, always know where it is
10. Drive as quickly as possible to activate manual air conditioning
11. Stagger up the stairs of home at last, feeling like a wide-eyed raisin
12. Calmly show off purchase later to interested parties
13. As the sun riseth, do thou like wise
13. Cut, sew, press, cut, sew, press, press, press
14. Gasp in amazement
15. Begin mental preparation for basting and quilting. This may include, but is not limited to pacing, sighing, sweating, pondering, procrastinating and hunkering
16. Tell everyone that you love quilting

clean and fresh

We headed out for an evening walk but found afternoon stubbornly hanging on instead.
The air still held the heat of the day.
At the half way mark a patch of shady grass called and we dropped limply to the ground.
We watched two children gallop across a field, their small kite bobbing and dipping behind them.
We listened to the distant crack of ball against bat and waves of cheering voices.
A very small yard nearby was hosting a very large party. Smoke and laughter wafted upwards.
"He wasn't a very good father, but he was a wonderful grandfather," a voice behind the hedge declared. "He kind of redeemed himself."
"Thank goodness for second chances," I thought.
As we turned towards home, a breeze began to huff and puff.
The clouds overhead were breaking apart in the cooling air.
They were like soap suds, like spent suds, the sky scrubbed clean and fresh.

still feel the same

My sister is carefully crouching in the sandbox and probably emerged some time later as neat as a pin. I've abandoned frivolous concerns and have settled in up to my knees.
I am noticing that my sister is clad in coordinating separates. I on the other hand, am dressed like a small bohemian in a striped top and flowered shift, a trend that peaked in my teens.
I can see that my pail is full and I am tamping it down. I hope there wasn't a frog in it. The little boy next door and I would often find frogs and pack them around and bury them in random places like sandboxes. It was all in the interest of science. We would find frogs pressed into the mud, soundly sleeping in the early spring and pry them from their comfortable beds. Their lethargy alarmed us and we were sure they were very sick, that their lives were in our hands, which of course was all too true. As we packed them 'round and passed them from hot little hand to hot little hand, the drowsy, cold blooded frogs revived. What a miracle cure. I imagine that the odd, chilled little victim  tenderly buried in warm sand, experienced the same restorative cure that many winter vacationers crave.

P.S. I still feel the same way about sand, and about stripes and flowers, but not about frogs.

farm fresh

Although we live in town, we are surrounded by farmland. Such a variety of farms too; sprawling berry farms with their towering mansions, hobby farms, fields dotted with llamas and black faced sheep, and horse boarding stables. Of course there are also vineyards and nut groves and pumpkin patches and corn fields......
One of my favourite farms though, is Annie's Orchard. Back in the seventies, the owner worked for the Department of Agriculture in the U.S. When he and his wife moved north to Canada, they brought seedlings for an orchard with them. It was easier in those days to bring that sort of thing into the country. Now, more than three decades later, sturdy apple, pear and plum trees lean towards the sun, their arms entwined. Gravenstein, King, Northern Spy, Bramley, Cox Orange and Belle de Boskoop ripen in the sun.
Those old varieties are heady with scent, crisp, juicy and sweetly tart.
Farm fresh.

comrades

"Is that blood or blackberry juice?"
Exactly!
We had grabbed buckets and headed out in the cool morning air to pick blackberries.
Our hearts were as light as our pails.
"Why do people pay a dollar seventy-five a pound to
U-pick blackberries?" my husband wondered aloud as we began.
"Because THEY have no thorns.... ouch," I added right on cue.
"OW!" he responded.
"What beautiful fruit, ow, ow, ouch!" I gasped.
"EEEowwww," my husband howled.
"Ahhhhhh, its got me.... my hair, my hair," I cried.
My husband manfully thrashed to my rescue.
"Ouch, ow, ow."
"Arghhh, aghh, ha, ha, ha, uhh, yike, yip, youch."
Our pails filled in spite of ourselves.
We were sorry to quit.
We were exhilarated as we limped to the car.
We left as comrades.
Danger bonds.
That is my only explanation.

shell shocked

The skies are smudged with gray and dimly lit.
Indigo clouds are piling up along the distant hills.
The air is cool but I still feel shell shocked.
Oh the heat, the sweltering heat of last week!