naturally

I had a glimpse of the Royal Wedding cakes on television today.  They were as elegant and important looking as the occasion itself and I found myself recalling a different wedding cake every bit as elegant. When my daughter and son-in-law married, his mother graciously made their cake. It was beautiful in its simplicity. Three layers smoothly swathed in creamy white fondant. White orchids had been ordered and were to be added the morning of the wedding. Brides must delegate, and my daughter asked if I would do this final decorating.
I took my task seriously. Such an important cake for such a special day. I carefully clipped each flower from its supple green stem and placed it on a tier. I weighed their placement with my most critical eye. I shifted and tweaked and primped those flowers until that cake said, "wedded bliss."
Off I hastened to other prewedding tasks.
The wedding began in a swirl of satin and a rustle of grass.
Hands were clasped, eyes were gazed into deeply, vows were breathed.
There was laughter too of course, and food and photographers, and finally, the cake.
Ours was an outdoor wedding. The night before the big day had been so windy that the grand white tent we had rented needed to be pegged down a little more securely. The day of the wedding dawned clear and warm although breezy. A breeze in August is such a welcome thing especially to those wearing suits and ties.
I can still see my daughter and son-in-law, silhouettes against the billowing white net curtains surrounding the cake table.
But, the wind had blown the orchids out of their precise placement. Some were even scattered on the tablecloth. A cake decorated by the hand of the wind. A very "natural" look.
It was later that my daughter found me. "Oh Mom," she murmured. "I love what you did with the cake."

travel advisory

Traveling by bus is a test of endurance on every human faculty. In my early teens I traveled by Greyhound  to visit my sister in Alberta. I set off in the early morning light with high spirits and a bulging bag of edible entertainment.
What was this? A stop already?
Ahh, back on the road. Trees flashed past.
Another stop.
More trees.
Another small town.
Trees, towns, trees. My mind slowly became a straight line. My enthusiasm flickered and extinguished.
Hour after endless hour, the bus toiled onward.
Sleep seemed the only hope, a way to swallow up the yawning gulf of time ahead.
I pushed the buttons at the front of the armrests and prepared to float backwards into unconscious oblivion.
The seat remained rigidly upright.
I pushed the buttons again and leaned back on the seat.
Nothing.
I jammed the buttons and hurled myself back.
The seat stood like a stone.
Worse, I could feel my face beginning to burn. It seemed to my adolescent self that every eye was fixed coldly upon me.
Mortified and uncomfortable I shifted about in my seat and mercifully fell asleep.
I don't know how long the bus droned on until it encountered the bump in the road.
With a thunk my seat released its catch and I reclined in an instant, my arms and legs flying into the air.

It was only a few years later that I flew to visit the same sister.
I sat in a centre seat, and as I pushed both armrest buttons to recline, I inadvertently reclined the startled gentleman to my right, his arms and legs flying into the air.
I had not improved with time. I'd gone from being a hazard to myself to being a hazard to those around me.

come....

I have only one fragment memory of my grandfather.
He is sitting in a huge overstuffed armchair, his face warm and kind.
"Come, grandpa's girl," he coaxes.
I see my little self hanging back shyly in the doorway of the kitchen.
The memory of his love is as sweetly tempting now as it was to my childish heart.

essence

I love this picture. It was likely taken in 1929 or 30 and is a picture of my Mother and her two sisters. I laughed out loud the first time I saw it because the expression on each little face is the essence of who they grew up to be. My Mother (in the middle) is smiling sweetly, and is a woman who can extract pleasure from the everyday. The worried toddler on the right is my gentle Aunt Dorothy. The little girl on the left is my Aunt Fran, her focus on the baby, empathy being a trait that started early apparently. I love that the little girls are perched on the railway tracks, all set for the journey of life.
I wish I knew what was in the little hobo-bag my Auntie is holding, and what colours their cloths were, and what the baby has in her hand….

taking things too far.

Winter, and Mosquito Season neatly divided the year in Blue River. As we splashed through ever widening puddles of melting snow, the mosquitoes were beginning to hatch. And then, only weeks later it seemed, the northern winds would bring the first scattered flakes of snow and finish off the last of the mosquito population.
I now live someplace that has neither season. Winter and mosquitoes are both rare visitors here. I don't miss the mosquitoes but winter without snow is taking things too far.

on cue

Elevator companions are often aloof and preoccupied.
These adjectives seldom apply to children and I noted with pleasure the young family with two small boys that would be accompanying my husband and I as we descended to the ground floor. The brothers each clasped a small box, holding it in front like gift bearing magi.
"Do you have a pet in there?" I teased. Two little heads shook solemnly. "Is it a wild creature then," I queried making a face of mock fear.
The eyes of the youngest child flashed with delight.
His older brother proudly lifted the lid to reveal two rows of marvelous crayon colored figurines.
I duly admired them and departed on cue, my heart lighter.

distant relatives

As I crunched up the long, unfamiliar gravel driveway, I heard a dog bark in the distance. By the time I had pulled slowly around in a circle to park, a black dog had bounded to the corner of the yard.
We eyed each other suspiciously.
Just as he feared, I emerged from my car, my eyes on the house.
Just as I'd feared, he slunk closer, grumbling and protesting.
I debated diving back into the car.
"No barking," I warned weakly and unconvincingly.
The dog seemed alarmed and barked sharply. It crept around behind me, a low growl rumbling in its throat.
My nervousness was clearly unnerving him as well.
A part of me isn't the least bit afraid of anything but that part is very, very small and there is a larger part of me that is scared of anything that moves, especially if it also barks.
Fortunately, a child emerged from the house and gave me the necessary moral support to cringe my way to the door un-nipped.
Confidence and courage are cousins, but unfortunately they're only distant relatives of mine.