2014-2015: The Year During Which Everything Changed

Sometimes change sneaks up on you – one small adjustment here and another there and eventually, after months or years have passed you realize you are somewhere quite different than anticipated. A farmer, for example, winds up on a sailboat in the Caribbean.

IMG_2896Sometimes change comes out of the blue – you are hiking alone along the base of a cliff and wham, you meet someone who says, “How’s your day going?” and you stop long enough to exchange a few words that take you to the top of a cliff you did not believe you could climb.

Rock climbing in Skaha

Raven’s Castle at Skaha Bluffs near Penticton, BC.

And then you return home and realize your farm is not your farm any more, you are no longer writing much fiction and have, instead, switched to non-fiction and a screenplay – horizons are broadened and change piles up on change and the thought of trying to update the blog in any kind of coherent way becomes more and more daunting as each day brings some new cosmic shift.

IMG_3933One day you are bouldering at the gym, honing skills that might come in handy for a planned trip to Yosemite in the fall…

IMG_3973… and the next day you’ve double dislocated your elbow and torn every ligament and tendon connecting the upper part of your arm to the lower and you find yourself wondering, “What am I doing?” What does this blog become then? A chronicle of travel? Of change? Of recovery? Am I losing the plot? Or is the plot just getting interesting? IMG_4016

You return to yoga and find yourself a one-winged bird, half free, half grounded, unsure what on earth tomorrow might bring.

Yes, I am scratching my head with my good hand considering my blog options, life options, travel options, future options. If you used to come visit regularly – I’ve missed being here. Do I have any idea what sort of identity this blog will have going forward? Afraid not. What I can say is that change is rarely easy and outcomes of life choices are certainly not predictable. Maybe the best I can do is just pick up the story and move forward, filling in essential details as necessary. It would be great if you come along for the ride…

 

 

 

 

Eggs

A bowl full of hard-boiled turkey eggs destined for the very lucky pigs… (With a strange photo filter that makes them look like they are under water and very blotchy).

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Mushroom Monday

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Look at the size of these mushrooms!

Japanese Maple

One of the first ornamental trees we planted when we moved here was a Japanese maple – two, actually. One has stayed tiny and red, the other has become a giant (for the diminutive maple). Both Dad and I have always liked the delicate leaves and interesting forms of these trees.

Japanese Maple by E. Colin Williams

Japanese Maple by E. Colin Williams

While Dad has been sketching away in his studio, I’ve been a regular at the library, checking out various books about trees including a couple by Thomas Pakenham. In the book, Meetings with Remarkable Trees I found lots of odd information about trees with strong personalities. The photos and artwork in the book are inspiring and do, indeed, capture something of the individual nature of trees. What was perhaps the coolest thing, though, was the way a previous patron had pressed leaves between many of the pages.

Leaves, mostly maple, have been carefully pressed between the pages of this library book about trees...

Leaves, mostly maple, have been carefully pressed between the pages of this library book about trees…

So what should I do, librarian friends? Do I leave the leaves alone and let someone else have the pleasure of finding them? Or do I remove them because maybe it isn’t such a good idea to have fauna lurking inside library books?

The Holly and the Ivy (and the cabbage and the cigarette)

Dad is having his revenge. Today as we were driving to the local raw food/wrap shop to pick up scraps for the pigs, chickens, turkeys, ducks, et al (yes, there is still some farming going on around here) he started singing the old English Christmas carol, The Holly and the Ivy and then launched into a list of factoids relating to holly (evergreen, red-berry-bearing and manly) and ivy (evergreen, sinewy and feminine). The fact both plants are green in the depths of winter is reason enough to celebrate them in song, but what was really interesting was the way each had been assigned a gender.

Holly Tree by E. Colin Williams (Tree a day drawing project)

Holly Tree by E. Colin Williams
(Tree a day drawing project)

This tradition of association with one gender or the other was taken to some strange lengths back in the day. According to Dad (and his online sources), ancient Brits (as in, folk of the British Isles who lived long, long ago – not doddering fools living in Leicester) used to hold singing contests when there wasn’t much else to do when the days are short and frosty. It was the men against the women, singing their hearts out in praise of their respective shrubbery, dissing that of the opposition. All, of course, was done in good fun and, apparently, at the end of these vocal feuds everyone kissed and made up under the mistletoe.

Hm. I was still pondering all this when Dad mentioned a powder room and I immediately thought of a small room in which British types powdered their noses and otherwise readied themselves for well-mannered conversations with other primped and prepped pommies. “They were lined with copper,” Dad was on a roll and, as I was imagining what fancy powder rooms they used to have, he was chatting on about how the fine sailing vessel HMS Victory (the one Lord Nelson sailed into the Battle of Trafalgar) was made with wood from 6,000 oak trees and did I know that it was the oldest-still-in-commission ship in the British fleet and currently serves as a museum ship… All of this was coming at me rapid fire as I was driving and, I confess, I was still struggling to understand why anyone would line a powder room with copper.

“So, why did they line them with copper?”

“Because of sparks.”

At which point I burst out laughing because, of course, Dad was talking about powder rooms in old wooden gun ships where, yes, sparks would be a bit of a problem with all that gunpowder lying around. And I was thinking of little old English ladies who had consumed one too many helpings of cabbage and then slipped off to the powder room for an illicit cigarette.