Joy Across the World

It’s Tuesday, 20th January, 2009. Inauguration day in the United States of America. The country next door—our best friend and closest neighbour—is celebrating en masse. And so are we, and people in countless other cities, towns, communities, in countries across the world.

President-elect Barack Obama—he’s still about 30 minutes from taking the oath of office as I write this—is a human being. He can’t fix everything wrong in the US, in the world, over night. He knows this. Most of us know this. But he embodies a hope that has been long missing for many of us, of all races, of all nations.

I’m a bit of a political junkie, although I keep most of my political thoughts to myself in most regards. It’s no secret that I despise our current Prime Minister, but he also is just a human being, doing what he does. However, as a Canadian and a citizen of the world I’ve been pulling for Barack Obama for well over a year, and I’m so happy and excited and proud of our US neighbours right now. What I like about this man is that he doesn’t do ad hominem attacks on opponents. He has been respectful of the 43rd president, and kind and respectful to his former opponent in the presidential race. In his dignity and respectfulness, his intelligence and kindness, he represents a spirit that we know is at the root of most humans, but that sometimes gets suppressed as we get caught in the rat race, in stress and worry and fears and concerns.

It’s kind of fun to watch three different stations (BBC, CNN and MSNBC) all roughly at the same time as well as scanning various sites and blogs on the Interwebs. Keith Olbermann just called this “a cold but hopeful morning” in Washington, and so it is across the US, across Canada too. I love Obama’s spirit of non-partisanship, his reaching out across party lines. I hope that continues through his presidency, and that those who are his opponents in doctrine continue to also reach out and work together in common concern for their country, and for the world.

There are touchstones of time that we can remember across the years. We know, those of us who are old enough to remember such instances in history, where we were when John F. Kennedy was sworn in. When he was taken too early from all of us. When Martin Luther King Jr. gave his “I have a dream” speech. When Elvis died. When the Million Man March happened. When 9/11 happened. Some happy stories, some terribly, terribly sad stories.

We will remember where we were when the networks called it for Obama, and we will remember where we were today, when he is sworn in as the 44th president of the United States. I’ll be sitting here, laughing and crying at the same time, as I was the night he won.

May God—whoever or whatever you conceive that to be—bless Barack Obama, his family, his government, and his country.
And because this is normally a gardening blog…a patriotic bouquet for all my US friends.

New Year...Same Ol' Weather Tantrums

A slightly belated but still heartfelt Happy New Year to my gardening friends near and far! I'm healing slowly but surely from the great semi-colon adventure, and while I won't be out lugging firewood or digging in the dirt any time soon, each day finds me a bit better. Than you again for all your warm notes, cards, emails, comments and wishes across the miles. I am quite sure they have accelerated the healing process for me. Those and the ministrations of my Long Suffering Spouse and the cats, of course!



It will come as no surprise to anyone who is a regular visitor to bloomingwriter that our year ended and began with assorted weather tantrums. Granted, days are somewhat blurred together as a result of doing a lot of sleeping but we've had a herd of snowstorms, thaws, icepellets, rain events, and of course, all leavened out with a generous variety of winds, generally blasting in off the Bay of Fundy.


Christmas was extremely mild, which made it a good day for travelling, and then Boxing Day was also quiet. New Years, of course, came in with Yet. Another. Snowstorm...


...and did I mention we get lots of wind here to go around with it all?

Well, anyway. Then we'll have a day like today, when sunlight breaks out and paints everything in shiny brightness, and we figure that yes, we'll make it through another winter, no matter what Nature throws at us.


All in all, it's a good time to be recuperating, because certainly nothing can be done outdoors. So I'm getting lots of reading done, looking forward to making gardening plans for spring, and oh yes, taking a page or two from Simon Q's book and napping whenever possible.


This just proves to me, yet again, that cats are among the smartest creatures on the planet, and that if we emulated them a little bit more, we'd probably have fewer problems with our health. Time to retire for yet another nap (not related to Yet. Another. Snowstorm).

Next time, I promise to talk about gardening; at least to let you in on my favourite gardening books of the past year.

Three Cheers for our American Neighbours (whoops, NeighBORS!)

Three cheers for the Red...

White...

and Blue!

Happy 4th of July to all my garden blogging buddies flung across the United States of America. It's interesting living next door to a country as diverse, as similar, and yet as different as yours is to mine. In the last year, I've learned a LOT more about the US, because of 'talking' with garden bloggers scattered from Maine to Texas, from Lousiana to California, from Arizona to the Heartland. I've learned I need to win the lottery because there are a LOT of places I'd love to visit in the great country next door, and I have you to thank for enriching my education and my perceptions.

Here's hoping you all celebrate a fabulous day today, and that the coming year brings new hope and joy for your country. With love from us lot up here in Canada...EH?

Garden Bloggers Muse Day...of other muses

A little different post for this Garden Bloggers Muse Day, brought to us by the ever-talented and muse-inspired Carolyn of Sweet Home and Garden Chicago.

Let's see...who is responsible for this current unbearable lightness of being in my mind? Erato? Terpsichore? Polyhymnia? I'm not sure, though I have a theory which Muse has woken me up.

A long time ago, one of my cousins gave me an old guitar. I taught myself to play it. Not well, but adequate enough for college dorm parties, Scouting fireside singalongs, the occasional solo in church and so on. I bought myself a Yamaha guitar and passed the old one along to someone else who still has it as far as I know. I'm lefthanded, but I learned righthanded like most people. I dragged my Yamaha acoustic all over the place, through myriad moves, to many changes in my life, and always managed to find time to play it a little most days.

Then life got way, way way busy, and different. The guitar sat in my closet, ignored and unplayed. For weeks or months on end. Seven years ago, when I sold the car I had at the time to a young couple down the road, I gave the young woman my guitar, as she was learning to play and I just knew it was the right thing to do. I don't know if she still has it or not, but I'm sure if she doesn't, she's passed the old fellow along too.

A couple of months ago, I started feeling like I needed a challenge, something that would pull me out of the routine of work, work, work, work. The garden gives me tremendous pleasure, of course, but its sometimes a 'to-do' as opposed to a pleasure, and I feel guilty when I don't have an hour or two to spend in it. Guilt is not good. Guilt stifles creativity. Yoga has become a great pleasure, and something I can do for only a few moments if that's all I have for time. But it still wasn't exactly what I wanted.

Then it came to me, like a crashing crescendo. I wanted to start playing guitar again. Just for me. Just in this office, or out in the back yard. And take lessons. Call it an exercise in right-brain stimulation. Call it something that doesn't need a reason other than I want to do it.


Meet my new friend, Skittles. (I believe in naming guitars. They've got their own personalities, after all.) A Seagull S6 acoustic, made in Quebec. He sang to me in the music store on my third trip in to reconnoiter the possibility of buying a guitar after all these years. Well, to be precise, I had narrowed down the choice to two: a mid-range and decent Epiphone, and this guitar. I turned my back on them and asked the salesman to play exactly the same thing on both guitars, and not tell me which was which. He did, and I said, "The first one." And he told me I had good ears.

I took it home and played Cowboy Junkies Misguided Angel (one of the best. songs. ever.) for the first time in years. Then for good measure I learned to play Collective Soul's The World I Know that afternoon. Some of you will know exactly why that was the first song I had to learn. Followed by U2's I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For. I'll pass on trying Within Temptation's Ice Queen, much as I love it, though.

What I didn't have was good callouses. Or long fingers. The callouses are coming, and I WILL learn a few bar chords this time no matter what. I start taking lessons next week. This is a pure self-indulgent thing to do, because like I said, this is just for me and to give my brain something else to think about. You can practice a guitar for ten or fifteen minutes at a time at any time of day or night and not feel guilty.

And sitting out in the garden, surrounded by the scent of roses and the hum of bees, practicing guitar? It's good for all aspects of this gardener's soul.

Bread and Salt for Gabriel

Like most of us, life gets away from me sometimes, and I don't have time in my day to do all the things I normally do at the time I like to do them. Take reading the newspaper, for example. Normally, I read it while I'm eating my breakfast, assisted usually by a cat or two. Simon Q is especially fond of the paper and has been known to devour sections of it before going to sleep in the middle of the editorial pages. But since I've been eating my breakfast at my computer of late, the newspaper gets read in spurts when I have time. Like tonight at suppertime. I was just finishing the salmon and fiddleheads when I pushed Simon off the obituaries page and found this.

FISCHER, Dr. Gabriel - 85, Wolfville, passed away Saturday, May 31, 2008, at his home. Born in Satu-Mare, Romania, he was a son of a respected lawyer, the late Joseph and Ella (Adler) Fischer. He graduated Doctor in Law (Doctor Juris) from the University of Debrecen, Hungary in 1946. Before becoming a professor and eventually the Director at the Institute of International Relations in Bucharest, Romania, Dr. Fischer was Chief Editor of a Hungarian daily newspaper, "Free Life", in Romania. He later collaborated and edited another Hungarian language newspaper, "Forward", in Bucharest. After the Hungarian events in 1956, Dr. Fischer was forbidden to teach or write and was confined to his native city, Satu-Mare. In 1965, he immigrated to France with his family to join his brother, Georges Fischer. In 1966, Dr. Fischer was invited to the University of Alberta as a postdoctoral Fellow in Political Science. In 1969, he began his long career as a Professor of International Relations (Political Science) at Acadia University. He implemented numerous programs and served on a number of committees. He was passionate about his teaching and his students. He gave all of himself, to his students, to his colleagues, to his wife and to his children and grandchildren. He was an avid reader, a lover of fine objects and a chocolate connoisseur. Together with his wife, he traveled extensively to countries with exciting political situations, such as the Middle East and Latin America. He was predeceased by his wife of 31 years, Dr. Lois Vallely-Fischer.

It amazes me how much can be said, and how much omitted, in an obituary. To the casual observer, you read that this man was a political science at Acadia University, the other of my alma maters, and a writer and thinker from Europe who had seen and endured much. And he was eighty-five, and had lived a good life and full. But that doesn't give even the beginnings of who he was to countless students, family members, friends, and colleagues.

I first met Gabriel nearly 20 years ago, when I was working at the Blomidon Inn in Wolfville. He came in to make a request of the guest services department of the Inn. Some Russian and Ukrainian professors--or maybe they were still USSR, I don't remember! were coming to Acadia, and they were staying at the Inn, and arriving later that day. Would I greet them when they arrived with the traditional offering of bread and salt? I would indeed, though I pointed out I could say only one word in Russian, less in Ukrainian, and had no traditional garb. That didn't matter, he insisted, kissing both my cheeks and thanking me profusely. Of all the people I met while I worked there, Gabriel and the Russian professors--one of whom gave me a little trinket of a horse, with some words in Cyrillic text on the back--were among those I remember best.

My next meetings with Gabriel were only a couple of years later, when I decided to go back to university after a ten-year hiatus. His wife, Dr. Lois Vallely-Fischer, was dean of the faculty of arts, and welcomed me into the BA program with open arms--and later, with open funds, as they kindly gave me scholarships and fellowships to continue my studies. I switched into the honours program, decided to do an overload to get the 4 year degree done in 2 years, and asked permission of Gabriel to take his course in Peace Studies. "It would be an honour to have you there," were his words. No, it was an honour to BE there, listening to and learning from this man of peace.

Gabriel was an engaging speaker, with a prodigious amount of knowledge and experience in his mind, and while sometimes he would wander off topic a bit, he always kept it interesting. I don't remember how many languages he spoke, but they were numerous--somewhere between 7 and 9, it seems to me--and he was interested in everything, including the students who showed an interest in his course. I would credit him with being one of those who shaped who I am today in my beliefs and leanings, especially because he was so non-judgmental of all he met.

His wife died suddenly (to me) in September of 2005, and I was shocked and saddened, because Lois and Gabriel were inseparable, and always seen together out and about. In a tribute to her, one of her colleagues said that 'human rights lost a steadfast champion." So it is with Gabriel's passing. We are all poorer for his leaving this world, but richer for having known him in whatever capacity.

A new tree will be planted in my memory garden for Gabriel, beside the amelanchier shrub that marks Lois's passing. United in the garden as they were in so much of their life. And maybe one day, we'll see the peace that they both strove so hard for.

Bouquets of Heartfelt thanks and Lambish Weather

Listen... Can you hear that?

Exactly so. There's little or no wind. What a concept!

We're having an actual spring-like day today for the last day of Farch, so I'm hoping that this seemingly endless period will go out like a new spring lamb. The snow is gently melting, evaporating rather than just running off everywhere, as the temperature isn't that warm, but the milky sunlight and patchwork sky is promising something else for precipitation in the coming hours. I know that one brief respite does not spring make, and that we're apt to have a session of Farchpril before Nature throws up her hands and lets us have real spring. But I'll take each softer day as a real gift. Just as I take the privilege of reading other blogs, and having you read mine, as a real gift.

It's always hard to know how many people come back to read comments after they've commented, and some posts generate a lot of comments, which as others have observed, can take time to reply to. Because I'm pressed for time right now with assorted deadlines and plenty of research to do, I decided to make a brief post taking off my gardening hat to everyone who visits here, to all whose blogs I cherish and read, to friends across the miles, most of whom I may not ever get to meet.

To answer questions asked in comments: the handsome kitty in the previous post is owned by very nice people who have a large workshop where my longsuffering spouse is working on rebuilding his Cape Islander boat. Tigger Ells is a rescue cat who is neutered, needled and much loved, and he LOVES to hang out in the workshop 'helping' hubby. So though he's gorgeous and adorable, he has a great home...but I have a feeling that one of these days I'm going to go into our no-kill shelter and have a look. The last time I did that, I came home with Mungus...

How lucky we are--blessed, some would say--to be able to play in this great medium of the Internet, to celebrate and rant and teach and learn and just be. At least, that's my feeling. My son and I were talking a week or two back about how we are actually net-veterans, having gotten online first with Bulletin Board systems, then with the early days of the Worldwide Web, back in 93 and 94. We never would have dreamed of blogs, or iPods, or lightning fast computers--my first colour computer, bought in 1994, had a 25 mhz chip in it and 4 MG of RAM, which was pretty speedy at the time.

I've said before that I'm a glass half-full kind of person, and firmly believe in encouraging and helping others. I'm deeply touched by the caring I see, both in comments posted here and on the dozens (possibly hundreds--I don't dare count, now!) of other blogs I read on a regular basis. I take great delight in the varied textures and personalities of the blogs and bloggers; like snowflakes, no two are alike, but each one is perfect in its unique tone and texture. Each one enriches me, whether the writer is talking about something blooming in the garden, trying out a hobby, tempting me to try a new recipe, or having a good chortle or rant over something that's tickled them.


I've shown this photo before, but today, I offer it as a bouquet of appreciation to each of you; the rainbow for hope and peace, and the 1st place ribbon beside it, (no, this isn't my arrangement, I'm hopeless at such things!) to show you that you're all stars in my heart. Thank you to each of you for what you do, and for the sharing and caring you give to others, most of whom are perfect strangers--myself included--across the miles.

Namaste, friends.

A garden of eagles

When I got up this morning at 0630 and looked at the thermometer, my heart sank. It was nearly 0 degrees F then, and the wind was blowing, creating a wind chillfactor of about minus a hundred and leventy-three. I figured that the birdwatching wouldn't be all that great in the back yard, but I'd go back to bed for a while and then go check out the eagle situation in Sheffield Mills and Kingsport.


I'm really glad I did. Now, two things about these photos before we go any further. The photos in my previous post aren't mine; one is from US Fish and Wildlife (as noted); the other is just a file in my computer, in one of my graphics/image programs. All the images today, however are mine; BUT! I didn't use the tripod and I didn't get as close as I would have had it not been Eagle-Watching weekend. With so many people around watching them while they fed, I didn't want to either set up the tripod or edge in closer, because then everyone else would have come in closer and disturbed the birds.


One of the poultry farmers was assigned to put out dead stock for the eagles in this particular viewing site three times this morning. Now, I figure eagles must have some sort of ESP (Eagle Supper Perception) because there's one or two...then a few more...and then more. Quite a few more. The most that are in any of these photos is 15 eagles, but there were easily 30 or more feeding at any one time. I just couldn't get them all into my photos!


Quite a few more! Those with brown heads and tail feathers are juveniles, or as I call them, "teenage eagles". They tend to be on the lower end of the pecking order in these feeding sessions.


But there are a lot of arguments about who's gonna get what particular tasty meal. Eagles are opportunistic feeders, meaning they'll eat pretty much whatever they can: fish down at the shore, small animals and other birds, or carrion such as roadkill--or, as in this case, chickens.

If you've never seen eagles on the ground, or doing these take-off and landing routines, you might not know that on the ground, they're rather ungainly. I maintain they have a gait not unlike a drunken sailor, a sort of rolling, comical gait. My husband says when they're coming in to land, they look like they're wearing rubber boots.


They make all kinds of curious noises, from their usual cries when in flight to a host of clicks, screams, chirps, twitters (yes, really). Some of them probably mean, "Back off! Get your own chicken!"

For all I chuckle about their behaviours, they make my heart ache with happiness to watch them. And judging from the faces of the dozens of other bystanders also watching...they make a lot of people happy. And proud that this mighty bird is back from the brink of endangered to a thriving population again.


There are usually some sycophants hanging around; ravens, crows and gulls, who are waiting to clean up whatever the eagles might leave behind. The eagles chase them off, but rather hap-hazardly, depending on just how sated they're feeling.


Some prefer to take their chicken "to go"...


...After which they sit around in the 'eagle trees', preening, grumbling, digesting, and watching the eagle-watchers.


You lookin' at me? You lookin' at ME?

It's supposed to be milder tomorrow, so I'm hoping for better success in my backyard birdwatching; I did check when I came home this afternoon, but the only visitors at the time were my usual collection of chickadees, some redpolls, and the hairy/downy woodpecker. But I figure the eagles more than make up for it!

Life with the catchildren

People sometimes ask casually how many cats we have. When I say eight, a few nod understandingly, while others come to a complete halt and look aghast at me.
"EIGHT CATS! WHAT ARE YOU, A CRAZY CAT-LADY???"


Uh, no....my longsuffering spouse is just as addicted to feline friends as I am.
To explain...when he met me, I had twelve cats, which shortly grew to 18 when the only unspayed female in the herd produced her third set of kittens in less than 9 months; as soon as I could after that, I got her spayed, and started finding homes for some of the herd. That was nine years ago, and while we've had a few come and go, lost a few to illness or misadventure since then, we have been stable at a minimum of eight. All neutered and needled, most of them rescues of one sort or another.


We spend a great deal of time with the cat-children, and they respond accordingly by wanting to help out as much as possible around the house. They like to do laundry, preventing it from leaping down off the table to get dirty on the floor.


Simon Q loves to help me read the morning paper. He devours some sections.


He also is very helpful when it comes to doing the dishes.


The cat-children are sometimes bad. Just a little bit. They do get up on every possible surface, from the top of the refrigerator to the top of doors to the counter--but this end of the counter is 'theirs'. They know where their can of kitty-treats lives, and they spend a great deal of time coaxing my better half into giving them treats at any possible time.


Of course, if that doesn't work, they'll try to get the can down themselves.


This is Mungus, chief instigator of just about anything that goes on in our house. He's one of the smartest cats I've ever seen, and definitely a strong personality. A couple of years ago I walked into the no-kill cat shelter at our veterinary's office, just for a look. I spied Mungus, he spied me, and he proceeded to ham it up tremendously for my benefit. My better half LOVES polydactyl cats, and I knew he'd love this cat, who promptly became Mungus (or Hugh E. Mungus Huntley, when he's naughty.)


He is the original hamcat, posing for the camera, but also to distract his parents from something naughty he might have done, like bugging Thistle.


Having extra thumbs is handy when you're a cat determined to get into something. He pushes this can on the floor if it's left within his reach, and opens cupboard doors. So far, he has yet to learn to open the doors of the house--so far.


Because he's so beloved and loves to go outside, we taught him to go on a harness--which he accepted and learned to walk along on in about fifteen minutes. He's insatiably curious, and though he wanted to make friends with JennyManyLumps, the world's stupidest donkey...she thought he might be a coyote.


Mungus loves to play; he's a giant kitten, although we think he's going to be about 4 in February, three years after we got him. When Nibs first had his back leg amputated, Mungus, like the others, was very gentle with him, but now they play a lot. Sometimes, though, it's just nice to sit in a sunny window and wash each other.


Other times, it's necessary to play...even when Tigger is not interested in playing. Mungus may have the biggest paddypaws in the household, but Tigger is the undisputed champion for having the fastest feet!


The nicest thing about Mungus is his friendliness. He LOVES people, (being a handsome and clever hamcat, he must appreciate his fans) and where some of the others are skittish around small people, he's just great with my better half's youngest granddaughter. And she obviously thinks he's just great too!

Tally ho!

We're taking a bit of a break from the garden this entry, and getting exercise of a different sort. Doesn't this look like fun? Let's join them. You need a horse, English tack and attire, especially boots and helmet, and a sense of adventure. It's the weekly gathering of the Annapolis Valley Hunt, a group of dedicated and enthusiastic equestrians who meet on Sundays throughout the fall, and ride to hounds over some of the most beautiful country in the province.


I've ridden with this group a few times, though not in the last few years; my horse isn't used to travelling fast in large groups and I don't ride English any more due to my knees. I can't see turning up in English gear and a western saddle, though I suppose I could borrow my friend's Australian stock saddle....But this is a hectic, demanding pace and you and your horse must be fit, because the hunts normally last three hours or so, and there's a lot of cantering and galloping--and frequent rest stops, of course.


Now, before anyone worries--no wild animals are injured in the hunt. This is a no kill hunt, known as a drag hunt, where the hounds are trained to follow a special trail (the drag) over kilometers of terrain. Each week the hunt is hosted at a different location, and the hosting member arranges the trail, gets permission from various landowners for the members to cross lands. At hunt's end, the hounds are rewarded for their hard work with meat scraps before returning to their kennels.


Before the hunt, perhaps you want to school your horse a bit, to make sure he's listening to your commands. Heels down, knees against the saddle, into hunt seat position please, and can-ter! Can you feel the horse's exhileration as he gallops across the field? And yet when his rider asks him to whoa, he does, and stands quietly too. He's a fine horse, a big handsome warmblood...makes my horse look small in comparison.


The club welcomes new members, guest riders, and any sort of horse; I've seen draft horses, ponies, Appaloosas (there's a paint on this ride), Arabs, Morgans, quarterhorses, and of course the usual thoroughbrd/warmblood mixtures.


Although some of the riding is fast, there are frequent breaks, called checks, to give the Master of Fox Hounds and his Whippers in a chance to rest their hounds, as well as the horses. Sometimes a hound, especially a young one, will get distracted and go off on a separate trail, and then the whippers-in will go and herd the straggler back to the rest of the pack. The hounds all wear radio tracking collars too, so there's no chance of having one get lost somewhere. They're lovely animals, extremely well behaved and smart; the only problem I found was trying to take their photos, and having them all come to me to give doggy kisses and get pats.


When the hunt is complete, the riders and horses and hounds return to the hunt host's home; the animals are seen too, and then everyone gathers for a potluck meal, known as the breakfast--even though it's late afternoon. This is a nod to hunting tradition, where hunts generally go first thing in the morning; but the AVH members prefer to have an afternoon event because members come from a variety of professions, from farmers to teachers to veterinarians to homemakers.
Every time I go to watch and photo the hunt, I wonder if I can get my horse and I fit to go...maybe next year my knees will be better. If you are a rider, and ever get a chance to join a hunt for a ride, go--because as one rider told me long ago, it's about the most fun you can have on a horse. And that's a perfect description of a Sunday afternoon's exercise.