And now for my experiment... Do you recognize the following? I spent three days in the woods last week and the forest was absolutely rife with these plants ... wild strawberries!!! Well, I have so many wild plants growing in my yard anyway, that I thought why not strawberries. So I just dug up a number of these plants and transplanted them into my own little garden. I don't know if they'll bear fruit this year, but I'll let you know how they fare as time goes on.
My Rhodo is in full bloom. The blossoms sport a soft pink which turn to an almost snowy white once they're fully opened.
The Chives are blooming wildly...and although I probably shouldn't be letting them go to seed so quickly, they look so lovely that I can't bare to pluck off the purple blossoms.
The following is a parade of Pansies that are coming up just about everywhere. Somehow I even have a slew of tiny delicate wild ones that have somehow seeded themselves. They are so cheery that I am more than happy to let them do their own thing.
The Iris stands proudly surveying the whole yard. You don't see it in this picture, but there is actually a little bee seeking shelter from the rain inside its petals.
My garden sings in the rain. How about yours?
The sea swallows me with her ancient rhythms luring me to her watery depths while the gruff wind's howling loudly echoes in despair. Suddenly she retreats leaving me washed up, abandoned on a lonely beach.
I sat amongst the debris still coming down around me, the smoke choking my lungs as I stifled a cough. "Quick, he whispered, there's no time." I pulled out a kerchief and tied it loosly around my head covering my nose and mouth. We crawled out of our hiding spot still shrouded by the black smoke.
I let myself flow onwards, I swim through my mind back and forth. My soul still sings the song that once we wrote together. We had a dream. We had everything. We rode together to the end of the world. We slew dragons. We climbed skyscrapers. The peace is gone now. I lack balance, I fall down. Still, I let myself flow onwards. I swim through my mind. But I always come back to that same place.
You have splintered my soul.
The festivities span from Friday through Monday of the May long weekend. They include events such as the choosing of the May Queen, pancake breakfasts, ball games, carnival games, logger sports, car shows, craft fairs, dances, parades, beer gardens, live music, outdoor movies and, of course, the May Pole dance. It is a festival not to be missed.
Sunday’s events included the Logger Sports, a very typically Canadian event; although I must confess that this was my first time attending such a spectacle. The town was there in full force with testosterone thick and heavy in the air. The fellow sitting next to me, an Acadian who had made his way out west decades ago, gave me a brief run down on each event, then proceeded to show me his tattoos, as he put it, his mid-life crisis a little after mid-life. I’m so sorry I didn’t get a picture.
Enthusiastic crowds cheered each event, but the highlight was the log rolling finale. That was when we got to watch Darren, a Nova Scotian boy as well as the world log rolling champion. I tell you, does that boy ever have fancy footwork and I bet he’s a great dancer too. With him on the log, those other boys couldn’t have avoided getting wet had their life depended on it. I’m including a video clip a little further on of a similar event that took place at Gross Mountain in Vancouver for those of you who are interested (and I actually think it might Darren on the log…apparently he was at that event as well).
After that, I took a walk down the main street to see the vintage cars, everything from a 1924 Model T to an antique hearse from the 40’s or 50’s.
Finally, out of mere curiosity, I ended the afternoon by checking out the Burnout Contest, an “exciting tire spinning burnout” competition. No one seemed to be able to tell me what the actual purpose of this final event was or how one determined who won, but I think it’s nothing more than to see who can burn the most rubber and make the most smoke…definitely an event for the guys. And I must admit, their enthusiasm was contagious, that was until the noxious fumes almost knocked me out. Perhaps that is the same reason why the men were having difficulty articulating more than how “cool” they thought the event was.
Overall it was a fun day full of festivities and I would definitely recommend checking it out if you are ever in the area over the May long weekend.
All things in moderation with the exception of love and laughter; one can never have too much of those.
Faint murmurs on a wispy breeze
Another busy week and I'm totally drained. Think I'm going to tap out for the evening. I'll be back soon with more pictures and stories.
Things don't fall apart. Things hold. Lines connect in thin ways that last and last and lines become generations made out of pictures and words just kept 
The thirties were the hey-day of cinema and crowds flocked to see nightly shows complimented by live acts to introduce the movies. In the mid-thirties, the old Opera House in Nelson burnt down and the 1000 seat Civic Theatre, which I understand was a depression "make work" project, was built. It's initial purpose was for live theatre.
During the wartime forties, cinema began to fall out of fashion as people had less time and money. Eventually, Famous Player, holding the lease on both theatres, opted to book the larger Civic Theatre for films. The Capitol continued to sporadically show films along with live acts and music shows, however, as time went on, these began to dwindle in number. By the fifties, as necessary repairs and improvements to the building were neglected, the Capitol fell into disrepair. For awhile, it was used as an auction hall and furniture warehouse and at some point in the sixties, the seats were eventually removed. By this point, the roof leaked and the Theatre which had once held audiences spellbound, sat in a dank pool of water. Indeed, its future looked bleak.
By the early eighties, the seeds of a dream had been planted, and the Capitol Theatre Restoration Society had formed. Locals began to raise funds, and soon thereafter, the City of Nelson acquired the building. Through a fortuitous stroke of luck in the mid-eighties, a significant government grant allowed the project to really get under way. The Theatre was completely gutted, and received an extreme makeover. The original side murals on the walls were lovingly restored, the stage area was increased, and among other things, rich crimson carpets and seats were installed. By the time the repairs and restoration were finished, this original Art Deco Theatre had never looked more grand. Since this time, the Capitol Theatre has reclaimed its prestigious place in Nelson's history as it has once again become the hub of the performing arts in this community. If you're ever passing through, make sure you check out.
I'm struggling with whether to tell you a nice / funny story, which is most tempting, or to go on a rant. The present inclination is to rant.
I had one mother come in with her daughter absolutely frantic when she heard that her daughter had only achieved a C+. I explained to this mother that it wasn't the end of the world, her daughter had a C+. Now you must understand that a C is supposed to be considered average. Therefore, anything above a C is above average. One really can't have everyone in the class having an "A" or an "A" would have no value, it would simply be average. An "A" is supposed to be exceptional. In fact, the definition we are given is "someone who exceeds expectations and outcomes." Now a student who hands in projects late and fails to take responsibility for making up missed tests hardly sounds like an exceptional student who has exceeded expectations. All that aside, at this point, the mother says, in front of her daughter, mind you, "You don't understand, this IS the end of the world for my daughter." My first thought was, "Your poor daughter, you are setting her up for a miserable life and failure." One can't always be the top and the best at all one does. And if one expects to always be, isn't he/she being set up for horrible disappointment. Isn't it more important that one enjoys what one does and feels motivated to continue...not so stressed that one doesn't even want to try? Isn't it more important for one to have acceptance and support from a parent regardless of academic performance?
I had another mother come in with her daughter, and you must understand that this was after term cut off and the day that I was supposed to have my marks into the office. The mother said that her child was surprised at and disappointed in her mark. The more the conversation went on, however, the more obvious it was that it was the mother who was surprised and disappointed, I say this because of disparaging comments the mother made to her daughter regarding the quality of her work. This was another child with a "B." The mother wanted her child to be able to redo all assignments and tests. The child had already redone one test. Is it fair that a child is able to use her tests as practice sheets until she gets the mark she wants? How fair is that for the students who studied hard the first time and only wrote the test once? The other issue is that each time a student wants to rewrite, I need to rewrite the test...it wouldn't be fair to give the exact same test. If I did, it would mean that the students who only wrote the test once, wouldn't know the questions I was going to ask, but the student who writes it three times most certainly would. Also, if I have all this extra rewriting of tests and marking, then how am I going to adequately prep for the classes I have to deliver? How fair would it be to the other students that I deliver a less than satisfactory lesson because I am busy rewriting tests and doing extra marking so that one parent is happy and that I meet my obligation of getting my report cards written and handed in in a timely manner.
After much eager anticipation, it seems that spring has finally decided it's time to show its face. She arrived this weekend bringing us weather reaching up to the 20's...that's Celsius for all you Americans reading. Virtually overnight a myriad of tulips and crocus decided to show their pleasure at the arrival of our long awaited visitor by donning the brightest array of colours they could muster up. The songbirds sang their hearts out in a symphony of chorus and we were all most pleased at the performance. We certainly hope honoured guest was too and that she will decide to stay. 
As for me, I even took a wade up to my knees in our frigid Kootenay lake. My Nordic blood was overjoyed at the exhilaration of it all, but not quite enough to go for a total dip. Perhaps that's because I didn't have my swimsuit with me, nor a towel. Perhaps next time.
I find myself high in the mountains enshrouded in thinly veiled mist. We can still, however, look out over the vast range into the valleys far below. I imagine the rush soaring eagles must feel in the midst of each noble swoop peering over such majestic terrain.
The alpine fog thickens slightly as it swirls around the mountains’ highest peaks creating a mystical enchantment that charms us all. Under its spell, we are drawn in and rush towards the edge of the massive granite slab which drops precipitously into treacherous vertical cliffs beneath us.
Mountain weather moves in haste. The once light breeze strengthens its force as the sky begins to undulate and darken above us. The storm quickly envelops us and the others fade out of my view as thick fog quickly snakes around me. The air buzzes like a swarm of angry bees as icy rain bitterly begins to chafe my exposed skin raw. The hissing intensifies and luminous blue sparks explode off nearby rocks dancing fervently.
My hair begins to stand on end literally and I immediately realize the whole mountain is electrified. I call out frantically to the others, but the howling winds silence my pleas. I fight against the gale as I make my way to the nearby cabin to seek refuge. I desperately yell from the doorway into the face of the wind hoping the others will come.
Suddenly my sister emerges through the clouds running towards the doorway. She rushes in as the air explodes with a deafening thunderclap and simultaneous lightning flash. The others are nowhere. We huddle inside waiting for the calamity to pass.
Oh, Madame Konstanz with your coy smile,
You have caught me in a rather domestic moment. Sometimes, when we get older, all we want is the comforts of our childhood, and no comfort is greater than food. Food can instantaneously transport us back to so many places with a mere wisp of an aroma or the tiniest nibble. Well, today the calls from ghosts of the past were strong. Growing up, one of my favorite things about Easter was that Grandma would make Paska, a traditional German Mennonite sweet bread made only at this time of year, although occasionally she would cheat and make it at other times of the year as she knew I liked it so much. 
Carla has a bubbly personality and a smile that would melt the coldest chunk of ice. Like me, she seems to attract interesting, bizarre situations which, if nothing else, make for wonderful stories. One day, she shared the following with me: She had just been in
(As a side note, Trail is known for its large Italian population…for years, and we are just talking
In any case, Carla can’t remember this guy’s name, but in typical Carla fashion, she waltzes right up to him with a huge grin and says, “Hi, how are you?”
He smiles and politely replies, “I’m fine, how are you?”
She continues on, “Great. Wow! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. What have you been up to? What are you doing these days?”
He says, “Well, I’m in the movie business. I’ve just finished making film.”
Carla’s thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty good for a Trail boy,” and blurts out, “Wow! Who would have thought? You making movies? That’s fantastic! You must be pretty proud of yourself.”
The stranger smiles, in fact almost blushes, then says, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
Carla takes a good hard look at his face and suddenly the penny drops. “OMG, you’re John Travolta, aren’t you?” Yes, indeed. She said that he was extremely personable, gracious and polite. And she got to walk away with a good story.
When one gets to certain age, there are particular sorts of situations that amuse one immensely. Last week, I had one such incident. Many of you will remember my story a couple weeks ago about some of my students trying to guess my age. Although I found my students highly entertaining, I didn’t give much credence to the situation. What do twelve, thirteen and fourteen year olds really know about the fine art of determining one’s age? But nonetheless, it made for a humorous anecdote which provided an easy segway into conversation amidst peals of laughter. Well, in a completely different class, there is a young fellow, R, who I met for the first time a couple weeks ago. He is presently working with one of my students as a TA (teacher’s assistant). Our initial exchange was short, as there’s really not much time to delve into deep conversation in the midst of teaching a class. After that, I didn’t see R for about a week. Then one day, I walked into the staff room during break, and there he was. He looks at me with a big grin and effusively greets me with a robust, “Hi! How are you?” Only, I misheard him. I flash him an equally wide smile and reply back with a cocky, “Hi,” and then continue on, playful lilt in my voice, with, “I’m twenty-eight… how old are you?” (It really was a blonde moment.)
Now before you all go on about what an absolute ditz I am, hear me out. All this put on was not all for R. Two of my friends, T and S were standing there. It just so happened that they had heard the previous story, so I knew they would “get” it immediately. Oh yes, aren’t I clever one? But there stood poor R, somewhat confused by my response. And then it suddenly dawned on me that he hadn’t actually asked me my age. Oh dear, what could he possibly be thinking? Now, totally overcome by giddiness whilst trying to pull my foot out of my mouth, or perhaps shoving it in further, I start explaining to R the story which engendered my bizarre response (all this, while my lovely friends listened with mounting snickers) . The thing is, the more I explained, the more baffled his expression became…it was a sort of, “and why are you telling me this,” sort of look. Finally, he quizzically says, “So you’re not twenty-eight?” I simply reply, “No, not even close.” To which he slowly inquires, “Then how old are you? Because I’m thirty-one, and I was convinced that you were younger than me.” Oh yes, it was a great day.
In the restorative idleness of solitude, on the other hand, the widows discovered that the honorable way to live was at the body's bidding, eating only when one was hungry, loving without lies, sleeping without having to feign sleep in order to escape the indecency of official love, possessed at last of the right to an entire bed to themselves, where no one fought them for half of the sheet, half of the air they breathed, half of their night, until their bodies were satisfied with dreaming their own dreams, and they woke alone.
When I was growing up, my Mutti had a cleaning lady, Wilma, who came once a week. She was a good Dutch woman and an impeccable cleaner, probably the only one who has ever cleaned to my mother’s standards. This woman could make absolutely anything sparkle and shine and I am sure dust quivered in her shadow, we certainly did. She was just that kind of woman.
Thursday evenings were an inevitable stress for us kids as we had to “tidy” before Wilma came to clean, because you see, Wilma only cleaned. She was not there to pick up after us. She was very strict about that. Those were her rules. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was to get in the way of her cleaning.
The tension on Thursday nights was such that at one juncture one of my sisters, in the midst of a meltdown, took a purple wax crayon and in her scrawly grade one printing wrote, “Wilma, I just can’t take it anymore,” on the inside door panel of my mother’s antique washstand. Those were sentiments that I am sure we had all shared at one point or another, but luckily for us, my mother found this message of distress before Wilma ever happened upon it. If she would have, I am not quite sure what would have happened, but I am sure it wouldn’t have been good. We probably would have been down one good irreplaceable cleaning lady and sentenced to numerous years of cleaning penitence. But that’s not really what this story is about. You see, when Wilma started, she made it very clear to my mother that this was not a long term affair. She would only clean for my mother until her husband returned. He had left her some years previous, but she was adamant that at some point he would come to his senses, change his mind and they would be reunited. Well, weeks turned into months and months into years, but just the same, as if it were her mantra, she would say, “You know, I won’t be here for long. My husband is going to come back to me and when he does I will quit. I’m only cleaning until my husband returns.”
I know many of you are probably now thinking that this is a story of some highly delusional and probably obsessive compulsive woman, and it certainly might seem that way. Wilma was our faithful housecleaner for a good ten years or more, just as faithful to us as she was to her mantra. Then one day, just like that, out of the blue, she phoned my mother and said, “I won’t be cleaning for you any more, my husband has just come home.”
Apparently it only takes the faith of a mustard seed to move a mountain. At present, I’m working on trying to move molehills while attempting to remember that thoughts become things.
