I felt like I was in a sepia photograph this morning. A light bulb reached its best before date over night and when I flicked the switch, our bedroom was bathed in a feeble wash of pale light. I found myself squinting as I assembled my garb of the day; dressing by braille.
I actually had a bit of trouble dressing in the gloom, relying on colour as I do.
It's probably not surprising that I chose to wear a beige blouse.
I'm aware this time of year of the effect that light and colour has on most of us.
Our eye craves the light. Our soul craves the colour.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
where's my face
I tried to slip a fresh summery top over my granddaugher's head without undoing the top button.
"Where's my face?" I heard a tiny muffled voice query.
"Where's my face?" I heard a tiny muffled voice query.
nocturnal
"Are you getting sleepy?" I kindly asked my grandson riding in the backseat.
"Not a bit. I'm nocturnal Gramma," he assured me.
"Not a bit. I'm nocturnal Gramma," he assured me.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
out of the murky depths
There is a scene in the movie Crocodile Dundee that I love. A ridiculously unsuspecting woman crouches by a river to wash as out of the murky depths a crocodile lunges.
I'm not sure what it is about that scene that I find so entertaining. Perhaps the thrill of fright experienced from the safe vantage point of my couch. Or the sense of superior wisdom in knowing that only a fool would crouch and wash in a murky, crocodile infested river. Or maybe even the vicarious relief in seeing Crocodile Dundee rescue the frail female using nothing more than his bare hands, and of course his huge knife.
This scene flashed through my mind yesterday as I found myself crouching to wash by equally murky water.
We had headed out at dawn for a day of fishing. The lake we frequent is difficult to get to and boats must be carried some distance or navigated through a winding stream and hauled over a beaver dam.
This tends to keep the riff raff down and we enjoyed a blissful day of quiet fishing. Well, as quiet as nature ever gets. The marshy borders of the lake rang and buzzed and trilled with bird song. The sky was high and blue and the air was sweetly crisp and fresh.
As the afternoon sun deepened and slanted, we headed stiffly for shore. The boat was emptied to lighten it for its return trip up and over the beaver dam, my husband at the helm, while I lugged gear over hill and dale to our rendezvous spot, ever watchful of snakes. If I were a car, I would sport the bumper sticker, "I brake for snakes." I break out in a run sometimes too, but I always brake. As usual, a snake paused mid-path to ponder, a sort of reptile version of "chicken" before slithering into the underbrush.
I eventually stood patiently waiting beside a small mountain of fishing gear at the edge of a swampy waterway.
As I bent to wash, crocodiles came unpleasantly to mind.
Just as I dipped my hands into the cool dark water, two decidedly reptile eyes locked with mine, and a frog dressed casually in camouflage lunged out of the water.
"Arhhhhh," I gasped.
On cue, my husband suddenly appeared, standing in our inflatable and paddling madly for shore.
Unlike me, the frog was unimpressed by this display of force and courage and refused to surrender the shore.
Our boat is an amphibian too though and needed to come ashore, so my husband, armed only with bare hands and a paddle, gently launched the frog in a beautiful arch to safety.
A scene worth replaying.
I'm not sure what it is about that scene that I find so entertaining. Perhaps the thrill of fright experienced from the safe vantage point of my couch. Or the sense of superior wisdom in knowing that only a fool would crouch and wash in a murky, crocodile infested river. Or maybe even the vicarious relief in seeing Crocodile Dundee rescue the frail female using nothing more than his bare hands, and of course his huge knife.
This scene flashed through my mind yesterday as I found myself crouching to wash by equally murky water.
We had headed out at dawn for a day of fishing. The lake we frequent is difficult to get to and boats must be carried some distance or navigated through a winding stream and hauled over a beaver dam.
This tends to keep the riff raff down and we enjoyed a blissful day of quiet fishing. Well, as quiet as nature ever gets. The marshy borders of the lake rang and buzzed and trilled with bird song. The sky was high and blue and the air was sweetly crisp and fresh.
As the afternoon sun deepened and slanted, we headed stiffly for shore. The boat was emptied to lighten it for its return trip up and over the beaver dam, my husband at the helm, while I lugged gear over hill and dale to our rendezvous spot, ever watchful of snakes. If I were a car, I would sport the bumper sticker, "I brake for snakes." I break out in a run sometimes too, but I always brake. As usual, a snake paused mid-path to ponder, a sort of reptile version of "chicken" before slithering into the underbrush.
I eventually stood patiently waiting beside a small mountain of fishing gear at the edge of a swampy waterway.
As I bent to wash, crocodiles came unpleasantly to mind.
Just as I dipped my hands into the cool dark water, two decidedly reptile eyes locked with mine, and a frog dressed casually in camouflage lunged out of the water.
"Arhhhhh," I gasped.
On cue, my husband suddenly appeared, standing in our inflatable and paddling madly for shore.
Unlike me, the frog was unimpressed by this display of force and courage and refused to surrender the shore.
Our boat is an amphibian too though and needed to come ashore, so my husband, armed only with bare hands and a paddle, gently launched the frog in a beautiful arch to safety.
A scene worth replaying.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
anchoring the wind
Those that dwell in tents tend to keep an eye trained on the horizon.
We headed off for a weekend of camping once as dusky purple clouds hunched their shoulders along the horizon, darkly foreboding. Dramatic skies are not camping friendly skies.
We set up our tent in record time, spurred on by an approaching storm. By the time we unfolded the tarp, wind had started to huff and puff.
My husband takes camp set up very seriously and wrestling with tent poles and flapping ropes had stained his sense of humour.
As he struggled to secure one end of the tarp, I was appointed the task of anchoring the other side. My arms were taking their orders directly from the wind and a feeling of hysteria began rising in my chest. "Don't laugh," I sternly warned myself. "Save your strength." Save yourself would have been more appropriate as it turned out.
Our friend, sizing up the situation, sprang to my side and gripped the tarp as well. His arms joined the puppet like dance.
Our lawn chair had been placidly reposed near the fire pit, and it now hopped twice and hurled itself into the fire. There was a flash and a puff of acrid smoke.
This was our undoing.
Our friend dropped to his knees and gave way to hysteria.
The tarp seized its chance and wrenched free, tearing two grommets in its bid for freedom.
For the rest of the weekend I was prone to little fits of laughter, such are the after effects of hysteria.
We headed off for a weekend of camping once as dusky purple clouds hunched their shoulders along the horizon, darkly foreboding. Dramatic skies are not camping friendly skies.
We set up our tent in record time, spurred on by an approaching storm. By the time we unfolded the tarp, wind had started to huff and puff.
My husband takes camp set up very seriously and wrestling with tent poles and flapping ropes had stained his sense of humour.
As he struggled to secure one end of the tarp, I was appointed the task of anchoring the other side. My arms were taking their orders directly from the wind and a feeling of hysteria began rising in my chest. "Don't laugh," I sternly warned myself. "Save your strength." Save yourself would have been more appropriate as it turned out.
Our friend, sizing up the situation, sprang to my side and gripped the tarp as well. His arms joined the puppet like dance.
Our lawn chair had been placidly reposed near the fire pit, and it now hopped twice and hurled itself into the fire. There was a flash and a puff of acrid smoke.
This was our undoing.
Our friend dropped to his knees and gave way to hysteria.
The tarp seized its chance and wrenched free, tearing two grommets in its bid for freedom.
For the rest of the weekend I was prone to little fits of laughter, such are the after effects of hysteria.
fairies hide-a-way
After I had moved the pieces around and round and finally sewn them together, my mother observed, "It looks like a fairies hide-a-way."
I added the border to emphasise the feeling of being under the leaves and flowers of a garden, looking up into the light.
Kaffe Fassett charm squares are saturated with color and light and they lend themselves so well to a color wash arrangement.
Under the leaves the fairies play
In their garden hide-a-way.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
shell shocked
Breaking egg shell makes a distinctive sound.
I was startled to hear a rustle in tree branches overhead, and then the sound of egg shell crushing on the ground behind me.
I whirled to see a robin's egg in halves, its contents rapidly disappearing into the grass.
A crow leered down at me.
I find robin egg fragments on the ground from time to time. Some no doubt have been tossed from a nest by zealous housecleaning birds after the young have packed up and headed for college. Or perhaps wind plucks the empties and parachutes them safely to the grass.
It always seems such a treasure to happen upon an egg, its shell the colour of a summer sky.
As a teenager, I found a nest on the ground with whole robins eggs in it late one fall.
Humpty Dumpty didn't survive his fall, but these little eggs were like perfect jewels.
I cradled the remains of the nest with its treasure and hastened to the car.
I placed them gingerly on the passenger seat.
I could hardly wait to take them home and show my father.
It was several hours before I returned to the car accompanied by my friend's mother who had been promised a ride home.
She opened the passenger door and tiredly dropped into the front seat.
That moment in time is frozen in slow motion in my memory.
I see her beginning to drop into the seat.
I hear my croaked warning punctuated by the sound of crushing egg.
Some law of physics closely entwined with the law of gravity allowed no possiblity of stopping her descent like an over sized chicken onto its nest.
The tragedy was not without its victims; her polyester pantsuit, and four little eggs that lay reeking among the rubble.
There's a reason BC Gas uses the smell of rotten egg to warn of impending danger.
I was startled to hear a rustle in tree branches overhead, and then the sound of egg shell crushing on the ground behind me.
I whirled to see a robin's egg in halves, its contents rapidly disappearing into the grass.
A crow leered down at me.
I find robin egg fragments on the ground from time to time. Some no doubt have been tossed from a nest by zealous housecleaning birds after the young have packed up and headed for college. Or perhaps wind plucks the empties and parachutes them safely to the grass.
It always seems such a treasure to happen upon an egg, its shell the colour of a summer sky.
As a teenager, I found a nest on the ground with whole robins eggs in it late one fall.
Humpty Dumpty didn't survive his fall, but these little eggs were like perfect jewels.
I cradled the remains of the nest with its treasure and hastened to the car.
I placed them gingerly on the passenger seat.
I could hardly wait to take them home and show my father.
It was several hours before I returned to the car accompanied by my friend's mother who had been promised a ride home.
She opened the passenger door and tiredly dropped into the front seat.
That moment in time is frozen in slow motion in my memory.
I see her beginning to drop into the seat.
I hear my croaked warning punctuated by the sound of crushing egg.
Some law of physics closely entwined with the law of gravity allowed no possiblity of stopping her descent like an over sized chicken onto its nest.
The tragedy was not without its victims; her polyester pantsuit, and four little eggs that lay reeking among the rubble.
There's a reason BC Gas uses the smell of rotten egg to warn of impending danger.
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