tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52087937046106241372024-03-19T00:53:22.887-07:00Views From Mount DunbarRamblings, writings ... and catsCarol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.comBlogger487125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-52315935086846915242023-04-09T22:15:00.000-07:002023-04-09T22:15:54.174-07:00Soggy Socks Easter Sunday<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCImzXaNhzIXrJMZHpHM7MdEUOFIv8dRjojv1PbWo_ye3M2AbNEwZ9TGOUw5JvRevcwKqZVm_J8_6v7VpI-cP1ud1o_N-S1zNQMYpNoNSXMU6eYiOwatL8qm7MBGJL0uV8kgmgPAkRUnHjE0ZYugMJwRwGspAMlcKrlroIXg1eVebYXTRUvJ-4JNoZA/s1000/2023-04-09_10-51-51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCImzXaNhzIXrJMZHpHM7MdEUOFIv8dRjojv1PbWo_ye3M2AbNEwZ9TGOUw5JvRevcwKqZVm_J8_6v7VpI-cP1ud1o_N-S1zNQMYpNoNSXMU6eYiOwatL8qm7MBGJL0uV8kgmgPAkRUnHjE0ZYugMJwRwGspAMlcKrlroIXg1eVebYXTRUvJ-4JNoZA/w400-h266/2023-04-09_10-51-51.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Choose a miserable enough day -- like Easter Sunday -- and you have the West Vancouver seawall almost all to yourself. Photos by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-T54WdOONzasBRZI_5uF7Psv5Xa1p67V23YNcX5CSiyHe9_Lu6ytWmafGBSUJxpgL_7YEOL8BZo9rQz1LeWwLKIoR1yP6NaFLHoeA8V9kgtIjRtE0x5cz6siwNv-4u9TiLxY2Kdb-1scBuS-1qAPZ4cKRAvcG-0anvCPq_jpdjiAblBPaJ2l04XJPEQ/s1000/2023-04-09_10-24-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-T54WdOONzasBRZI_5uF7Psv5Xa1p67V23YNcX5CSiyHe9_Lu6ytWmafGBSUJxpgL_7YEOL8BZo9rQz1LeWwLKIoR1yP6NaFLHoeA8V9kgtIjRtE0x5cz6siwNv-4u9TiLxY2Kdb-1scBuS-1qAPZ4cKRAvcG-0anvCPq_jpdjiAblBPaJ2l04XJPEQ/w400-h266/2023-04-09_10-24-12.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But here's the prize for walking the seawall: the Ferry Building art gallery is finally open after a years-long renovation. Built in 1913, the one-time ferry terminal has been upgraded and raised to protect it from rising sea levels.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8atQkf_hHrFiWCJrciswYjkJqj5O9Gig52f34i_QHn23gD_GYSh_tbGM4Kh7EH8wt55oijHVygWPWJZ6VfDZRP3TA3ONWFiFJ6HjtEBsFoqw-IczfoNvum17ba4xvCsh81K2Hw4legSk6DR6_aiT3wfq_CnaT_gao3LsRQs6VqO1zpUCyHUUO-3VaMw/s1000/2023-04-09_10-24-48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="1000" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8atQkf_hHrFiWCJrciswYjkJqj5O9Gig52f34i_QHn23gD_GYSh_tbGM4Kh7EH8wt55oijHVygWPWJZ6VfDZRP3TA3ONWFiFJ6HjtEBsFoqw-IczfoNvum17ba4xvCsh81K2Hw4legSk6DR6_aiT3wfq_CnaT_gao3LsRQs6VqO1zpUCyHUUO-3VaMw/w400-h258/2023-04-09_10-24-48.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the ferry building, flags wave and cherry trees bloom against a rain-filled sky.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Easter, once a joyous romp of egg-hunting and chocolate-overdosing, can look a little gray at this stage of life. Especially at 7 on a Sunday morning, in the midst of a "long duration rainfall event" expected to dump 20 to 50 mm of rain during the day.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So what did we do? Headed to ultra-rainy West
Vancouver for a seawall walk.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Genius, it turned out.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Stanley Park causeway and Lions Gate Bridge, where
fast commutes go to die, were virtually empty. Ditto the seawall. What would
have been shoulder-to-shoulder crowds on a sunny Easter Sunday was instead a
few indefatigable joggers, and crows and seagulls posing on the rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Even our treats
were available. The holiday hordes hadn’t yet cleared out the chocolate/coffee place
where we fuel up for our seawall walks. And we were first in the door for our
first look at the renovated Ferry Gallery, a favourite stopping-off point that’s
been behind construction fences for three years.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, we did get wet. The wind turned my umbrella
inside-out. John’s pants and shoes were so saturated that he was reminded of a miserable motorcycle event he used to attend that was so wet and muddy it was called the Soggy Sock race. We decided this would be our Soggy Socks Easter Sunday. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But we had our walk, our coffee, our treats, and a glimpse
of art in a bright new space. And socks dry out.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPImO6IsvOL6d2M_DZo6IsqHlku6Tc0NdobP0nfaZhrcHkEAVP6DPSr7eFcuazXWCACtDPf2xnodJ54hj1P8KOYudH8vcQbtstAItolnTGduh5yfGPiJEtOsP7a4PgU33TB68_hrsu1L5qspJQz4iVIC55VLtkox7CiJNLaFuEiNQ-4JG4LYVgkSRvw/s1000/2023-04-09_11-06-02-mm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="1000" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPImO6IsvOL6d2M_DZo6IsqHlku6Tc0NdobP0nfaZhrcHkEAVP6DPSr7eFcuazXWCACtDPf2xnodJ54hj1P8KOYudH8vcQbtstAItolnTGduh5yfGPiJEtOsP7a4PgU33TB68_hrsu1L5qspJQz4iVIC55VLtkox7CiJNLaFuEiNQ-4JG4LYVgkSRvw/w400-h281/2023-04-09_11-06-02-mm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artwork in the newly renovated gallery -- a log with embedded seashells -- was spectacular against the cherry blossoms outside.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHR7tJ8qk3DIqcBds1DHgfwcHouMGfuLpHwAEAfSQ8ZRKBdzzbCUyT5Ylqk24HujDvMXObXQ8Gz9pM2tenyEYM24ktODbrpcAmKg2EfyTy90x9NtpVbu7xKqy5xVH03R9KTBglJ41p8goMqMabiyhTWHOhPpEpkxjfpu3ruSJqsFm8IIyu4Gu1Qt8Gg/s1000/2023-04-09_11-06-59-m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHR7tJ8qk3DIqcBds1DHgfwcHouMGfuLpHwAEAfSQ8ZRKBdzzbCUyT5Ylqk24HujDvMXObXQ8Gz9pM2tenyEYM24ktODbrpcAmKg2EfyTy90x9NtpVbu7xKqy5xVH03R9KTBglJ41p8goMqMabiyhTWHOhPpEpkxjfpu3ruSJqsFm8IIyu4Gu1Qt8Gg/w400-h300/2023-04-09_11-06-59-m.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The art is by West Vancouver's four siblings, who all work in different mediums.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFQYmxAXj1tWxhu6ULx-qJp7tr_-bohBhB2u3weY44c3Bc020GF6FFWXXbcp6cHX2_jOlh7PJ-bgX_KFl9bchkGz5uSMG9eo95nu1RlFW01CNU2iPSSkReJks_pWBlMMYKaVIcHUA4MN9lHHtWyCUOs17mth2STkAG3hbjqzy_ywUHIuomfm4AXqPAA/s1000/2023-04-09_11-07-08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="1000" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFQYmxAXj1tWxhu6ULx-qJp7tr_-bohBhB2u3weY44c3Bc020GF6FFWXXbcp6cHX2_jOlh7PJ-bgX_KFl9bchkGz5uSMG9eo95nu1RlFW01CNU2iPSSkReJks_pWBlMMYKaVIcHUA4MN9lHHtWyCUOs17mth2STkAG3hbjqzy_ywUHIuomfm4AXqPAA/w400-h270/2023-04-09_11-07-08.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hooked rugs depicting rocks and sea urchins are among the art pieces on display.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0wk8SaQrItWbMJyQrU2XXC6AThbXGEOw3byLemP7_c1puvwANNkqB57Q4qUZGg61hSq8CXZw2ZXmcwdFYU3ORY22tQnfjnbpd7dlIipc4UVDCppJSi1AN5ZOsTKblnmPHScjU-T6rLJzU71e2KI8UBhbLG9QNKWgvKASiIEojdX79sVTGpXF0SXZtA/s1000/2023-04-09_10-52-44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0wk8SaQrItWbMJyQrU2XXC6AThbXGEOw3byLemP7_c1puvwANNkqB57Q4qUZGg61hSq8CXZw2ZXmcwdFYU3ORY22tQnfjnbpd7dlIipc4UVDCppJSi1AN5ZOsTKblnmPHScjU-T6rLJzU71e2KI8UBhbLG9QNKWgvKASiIEojdX79sVTGpXF0SXZtA/w400-h266/2023-04-09_10-52-44.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John's pants below the knees and shoes were saturated with water... </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyXROLjZgvnYtSYH50p0lobyTMxEZbPDHrQnLALQ0wJ-Dx4j0zKa34zoM6Nckb5zbiL0ItzfT56p5iB1RetIQRFU4pKwbYcKQCQEPUOdR7glgltHFi8YgS0HZFrzYry61Gb3r7PfOpoHuE3con313OnLmcu_vKrpkgJgo2wNd7JgaoR-Dqv2UhS98dsQ/s1000/1986-00-00_SS_032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyXROLjZgvnYtSYH50p0lobyTMxEZbPDHrQnLALQ0wJ-Dx4j0zKa34zoM6Nckb5zbiL0ItzfT56p5iB1RetIQRFU4pKwbYcKQCQEPUOdR7glgltHFi8YgS0HZFrzYry61Gb3r7PfOpoHuE3con313OnLmcu_vKrpkgJgo2wNd7JgaoR-Dqv2UhS98dsQ/w400-h266/1986-00-00_SS_032.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...but he wasn't as miserable as the guy he photographed in the Soggy Sock motorcycle race in the Fraser Valley in 1986.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-29003170654009451562023-04-02T16:33:00.000-07:002023-04-02T16:33:15.110-07:00Peggy writes John<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jiuWuEgCRD1hy_cvn0Kq4zfNpNB05EOobne_ejZFKlxjumoe23blLmP9YIUG1dQOz_q3ud8JUM0_9KZ30SPIlBf4TMppkWW5AZq1sh5KQif1hy7pQkctMVhHonGao1AQ9GITF6c9b67GLckHvHpCWVu1RqZ5vzijTK40dvle0rbnBit8QHeUmN-9hw/s1000/2023-04-02_09-19-52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jiuWuEgCRD1hy_cvn0Kq4zfNpNB05EOobne_ejZFKlxjumoe23blLmP9YIUG1dQOz_q3ud8JUM0_9KZ30SPIlBf4TMppkWW5AZq1sh5KQif1hy7pQkctMVhHonGao1AQ9GITF6c9b67GLckHvHpCWVu1RqZ5vzijTK40dvle0rbnBit8QHeUmN-9hw/s320/2023-04-02_09-19-52.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margaret Atwood's "Burning Questions" book prompted John to write her a letter recalling an early encounter. She answered!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">admit to being
a bit miffed that I, the writer in the family, am not the one who received a
letter from world-famous Canadian novelist Margaret Atwood the other day.</span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No, it was my ex-newspaper photographer partner John Denniston
whom Peggy (once you’re in correspondence, the nickname is quite in order) saw
fit to address.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Dear John,” she wrote in response to his Jan. 17 letter to
her about a memorable encounter at the Edmonton Journal in 1969. In those fraught
early-feminism days, the paper had decreed that every woman had to be
identified as “Miss” or “Mrs.” – the new term “Ms” was verboten. After the photo
session, John asked, and Margaret (definitely not Peggy in this situation),
refused to say. The look she gave him was something he remembers to this day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“How interesting to read this story after so many
years,” Atwood's March 21 letter continued. “As your memory of our meeting suggests,
choosing a female honorific was a touchy subject at the time – for those on
both sides of the question. It was evidently also a matter of whose wrath would
be worse. Your letter suggests mine, which is probably correct.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Kind regards,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Margaret Atwood.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Here’s what John wrote to prompt this response:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Margaret, <br />
<br />
In your book “Burning Questions” there is a story that refers to your time at
the University of Alberta when you were, as I remember it, the poet in
residence. One of the perks of this position was that you had your photograph
published in the Edmonton Journal newspaper. <br />
<br />
The photograph was taken in the Journal’s photo department and I was the
photographer assigned. After taking your picture I asked your name, which you
gave me, and then I said, “Is that Miss or Mrs?” You said nothing. I repeated
the question and again you said nothing. I started looking around for clues, a
ring on your finger, then at your companion whose face indicated only, “don’t
ask at me.” I asked the question again and was met again with silence but the
look on your face had changed and your companion had started moving slowly
away, out into the hallway, which I, not being completely clueless, realized
was from his fear of harm being done to me and him not wanting to be collateral
damage. At this point I gave up, said thanks for coming in and left the picture
captioned as Margaret Atwood. <br />
<br />
What you didn’t realize is that the day before you came in to have your picture
taken, the editor-in-chief had declared, because of his opposition to the newly
created title “Ms”, that every woman whose name appeared in the newspaper would
be identified as “Miss” or “Mrs” without exception. <br />
<br />
I had decided to take my chances with the wrath of the editor-in-chief rather
than with you. <br />
<br />
Regards,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">John Denniston<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfwkMRzLhzX3-r6nY0_hFpkH5auQsZOjps1sXa-n7YMrIuohZAziMDiuh_LZW_-KRR_fPeeCygs3VbNteO7jzApa7bakOBeWgi-YW3j2Sau7Ufi-0QguVoPPgTn8pmoxVa_XydF7PIVRAxi6ooq6eCSshXKJpGiOLmL-YN-5-WgM775CYrpIQDVyV3w/s1200/Edmonton_Journal_Sat__Sep_27__1969_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1011" data-original-width="1200" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfwkMRzLhzX3-r6nY0_hFpkH5auQsZOjps1sXa-n7YMrIuohZAziMDiuh_LZW_-KRR_fPeeCygs3VbNteO7jzApa7bakOBeWgi-YW3j2Sau7Ufi-0QguVoPPgTn8pmoxVa_XydF7PIVRAxi6ooq6eCSshXKJpGiOLmL-YN-5-WgM775CYrpIQDVyV3w/s320/Edmonton_Journal_Sat__Sep_27__1969_.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> As this Sept. 27, 1969 Edmonton Journal photo and column indicate, Margaret Atwood had very definite positions from the start of her famous career.</td></tr></tbody></table>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-18750055110504842142023-03-19T21:46:00.000-07:002023-03-19T21:46:38.343-07:00Colours<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EXZdnZZLFxAmJXBTLAQKI4f3LXJdwr9pYe2PLQImS5OfVs6_44FZEQ5mPQ8-Uqiywxd2mT8fQLgdMB-ZKg1a__GZSZn2jI_hoiDvdPRgAkat40N9hZE396SN9KseDCG-2I5ZgcDck6vzCU_X1FR6hkpUkpC0HJcXxnxuy595Dv3_epSHKOy5Q_JIIQ/s2016/IMG_1205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EXZdnZZLFxAmJXBTLAQKI4f3LXJdwr9pYe2PLQImS5OfVs6_44FZEQ5mPQ8-Uqiywxd2mT8fQLgdMB-ZKg1a__GZSZn2jI_hoiDvdPRgAkat40N9hZE396SN9KseDCG-2I5ZgcDck6vzCU_X1FR6hkpUkpC0HJcXxnxuy595Dv3_epSHKOy5Q_JIIQ/s320/IMG_1205.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not enough people wear bright colours in Vancouver, I decided, after my friend Ros showed up for lunch in this cheerful jacket. It was a perfect contrast with the beige cob buildings in the City Farmer garden in Kitsilano.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">When I met
Ros after her return from winter in Mexico this week, the first thing I noticed
was colour. The intense red of her puffy jacket and wide red scarf stood out to
me like a stop sign. The clothes are not from Mexico – they’re Ros’s winter wear
here </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">–</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> but they put me in mind of the bright colours I associate with that
country.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Which made
me think about the colours of Vancouver, and why Ros’s red made such an
impression. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winter here is green and
grey, serene and beautiful. By this point in the year, though, I think most of
us are colour-starved. It may be why we go a bit mad over our spring flowers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">We can’t
do much about nature’s hues, but I wonder why, when we have a choice, we choose drab?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">All winter, our sidewalks
are parades of dark coats under black umbrellas. Our cars are grey or black or
white </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">–</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> what happened to the bright flash of blue and red and yellow on the
highways of my youth? Even our houses, at least in my part of town, are dull whites,
beiges and grays. Except for the totally trendy ones, which are black.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I confess I
fit right in. My house is white. My winter coat is long and grey. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Ros dares to
stand out on our dull winter streets. Her red is a reminder that there are other, more cheerful colours in
this world.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2ONy27cW1lLT7D64qYfFsk0FLhZ_RfriOMgWstyPENGJAljhDgT7KB0gFKViBJHulEjMjxRAoAxD6x0f7LEYnDR1G1R2z0lqRzzMpuFW9JuyB4MZQdpKc8fuATbzpe-9wz_DMg-dfirYkiNNQDL3HJXkLEqF2A-7k9f3ZDx7hnkCHDbzf6mzzSFofQ/s640/IMG_1497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA2ONy27cW1lLT7D64qYfFsk0FLhZ_RfriOMgWstyPENGJAljhDgT7KB0gFKViBJHulEjMjxRAoAxD6x0f7LEYnDR1G1R2z0lqRzzMpuFW9JuyB4MZQdpKc8fuATbzpe-9wz_DMg-dfirYkiNNQDL3HJXkLEqF2A-7k9f3ZDx7hnkCHDbzf6mzzSFofQ/s320/IMG_1497.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm a duller photo subject altogether, although I've ditched my winter grey for slightly brighter purple. </td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLpyoAxRMSJxle0jy7s5o7faCKeMvv9OY6MlrW7yScTEccw7VV3MX8EyqVBtbgOiHQXqWgiG1sglG6shAKH1MSp4spHl8alCxpApkgeGYDOIaDu2HNmn-TLK-ZOxNpX0QIvkbMWQ23KsfCXE5o1ZvKv2bx1c_1CGbJ_c07Y8KLSu7RXlwXXB_d5oChw/s2016/IMG_1219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLpyoAxRMSJxle0jy7s5o7faCKeMvv9OY6MlrW7yScTEccw7VV3MX8EyqVBtbgOiHQXqWgiG1sglG6shAKH1MSp4spHl8alCxpApkgeGYDOIaDu2HNmn-TLK-ZOxNpX0QIvkbMWQ23KsfCXE5o1ZvKv2bx1c_1CGbJ_c07Y8KLSu7RXlwXXB_d5oChw/s320/IMG_1219.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring is late in Vancouver this year, as you can see from this plot at the City Farmer garden. It still has the drabness of winter.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD23pCLSokFTgvC_DFWqzzYrUzy9A2bpwou7SyDHuuU6wKcDHFVaVfDTVD58AGBXxi5mrZbhTZh3GPanE_oEb4TRPowybA-52bLGABm8NvpOke5CZ6x2Yzth4UECoo2sEZPb5yeAdUYszgE4RyqYml0Thi7uZAUc-W1QKlNrZGLDXXfO8Za4EbX-zEw/s2016/IMG_1201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD23pCLSokFTgvC_DFWqzzYrUzy9A2bpwou7SyDHuuU6wKcDHFVaVfDTVD58AGBXxi5mrZbhTZh3GPanE_oEb4TRPowybA-52bLGABm8NvpOke5CZ6x2Yzth4UECoo2sEZPb5yeAdUYszgE4RyqYml0Thi7uZAUc-W1QKlNrZGLDXXfO8Za4EbX-zEw/s320/IMG_1201.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main part of my favourite garden in Vancouver, also in Kitsilano, hasn't burst into full spring colour yet. </td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJLvZ6YfRO2talxnz8gambJhfVRAOHzq2c4fxf0ETNyTocLSY2FSl1lukXT_Ts1byVz9MJiurM3sc7a4bYgYjTA-bFNiANlmmLQf7MGE-sec53ELmyDJp3NUjgMbh8TAgY7P8wxq6c_HplU0UBtkS6PLaMuOgBf_DiFUWsrBKbKK6ykZV3QS1aGhKnsw/s2016/IMG_1192.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJLvZ6YfRO2talxnz8gambJhfVRAOHzq2c4fxf0ETNyTocLSY2FSl1lukXT_Ts1byVz9MJiurM3sc7a4bYgYjTA-bFNiANlmmLQf7MGE-sec53ELmyDJp3NUjgMbh8TAgY7P8wxq6c_HplU0UBtkS6PLaMuOgBf_DiFUWsrBKbKK6ykZV3QS1aGhKnsw/s320/IMG_1192.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But outside the picket fence, passersby can glory in purple crocuses and white snowdrops.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThd-oynCo-QNbONJHjiw67dvHRGWC218DKO16TSGgEFCGFD6LGr8H9XG7igiggEWaIdmR6wxDQdnoeF6sk2N4c1j7DRi7YqL9BV9NjPTl3cY4ubCzZoIQaZb6XUCRHbqk0ShaRSs3iMtom6VGb6N1tH1PyqjbmZWIQMSG2Zsb8csOb2qELJ-YXPRIBg/s2016/IMG_1191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThd-oynCo-QNbONJHjiw67dvHRGWC218DKO16TSGgEFCGFD6LGr8H9XG7igiggEWaIdmR6wxDQdnoeF6sk2N4c1j7DRi7YqL9BV9NjPTl3cY4ubCzZoIQaZb6XUCRHbqk0ShaRSs3iMtom6VGb6N1tH1PyqjbmZWIQMSG2Zsb8csOb2qELJ-YXPRIBg/s320/IMG_1191.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a stunning show of colour the entire length of the fence. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXWw9N9DiqRTbVv3TknNxw2NsCRGlK88OvzRZRcaHhVlj95lRCuksd1rnbN89RAt979mYFh2x7qYRGGDHRrbNaJZEbl6ojXPSCaNGe_aqSzkekw-Ttivwc0qrJykYjVdjZNytEpaeEVpH079rjt8Qkwejo8di0QbwTLgoXgmcxLUIU4d3oXGtYEVtrQ/s2016/IMG_1188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXWw9N9DiqRTbVv3TknNxw2NsCRGlK88OvzRZRcaHhVlj95lRCuksd1rnbN89RAt979mYFh2x7qYRGGDHRrbNaJZEbl6ojXPSCaNGe_aqSzkekw-Ttivwc0qrJykYjVdjZNytEpaeEVpH079rjt8Qkwejo8di0QbwTLgoXgmcxLUIU4d3oXGtYEVtrQ/s320/IMG_1188.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Pink Dawn viburnum is blooming at the front of the house.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OsXBz90l3Pfnh-8lROPp9TulmgKAm4aji-ybzfRTNH5X9X46eUWwyMMbHN80eOqdFVWGrCHe6rs8ydHJwKup-cKELyJf5YAE4dWAPuJLg-ZiCLZRh4wYfiZ26xaaPBEe4togDkYnGd8hWqD94F8LCw-RIBKbqU-jxncywrbSQn8fYU8O6ppMS5yA4A/s2016/IMG_1187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OsXBz90l3Pfnh-8lROPp9TulmgKAm4aji-ybzfRTNH5X9X46eUWwyMMbHN80eOqdFVWGrCHe6rs8ydHJwKup-cKELyJf5YAE4dWAPuJLg-ZiCLZRh4wYfiZ26xaaPBEe4togDkYnGd8hWqD94F8LCw-RIBKbqU-jxncywrbSQn8fYU8O6ppMS5yA4A/s320/IMG_1187.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Under it, what a show of blossoms for colour-starved Vancouverites!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-89232582040624908662023-03-11T22:40:00.022-08:002023-03-11T23:00:46.175-08:00Evolution of a garden<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhYXDIe9O0lLFgbUx50AkFHT1sj3x6Qex1EbcGl9hYct2gRZ8XVGUaQf1ZkE8Nob8JkWYn_b3_ZCU0y223lxEyJ_VXDiJRerIt7XX3YGLUkAhgHmljt-Sety2kP7b_KoQ7s32HJAGXmFJmaGp9Boc-tzgW02JDxB1zIXMezuvULfi6jFQ_zSat8xDgw/s1000/2002-04-06_0905.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhYXDIe9O0lLFgbUx50AkFHT1sj3x6Qex1EbcGl9hYct2gRZ8XVGUaQf1ZkE8Nob8JkWYn_b3_ZCU0y223lxEyJ_VXDiJRerIt7XX3YGLUkAhgHmljt-Sety2kP7b_KoQ7s32HJAGXmFJmaGp9Boc-tzgW02JDxB1zIXMezuvULfi6jFQ_zSat8xDgw/w400-h300/2002-04-06_0905.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In 2002, I was dreaming of transforming this section of our Saltspring Island property into an English country garden paradise. All photos by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSKAeXbLPINJFtqKFxJR3o06YmU88Lat_Nj_w5aQOv6hTrfV9GLQQ-liyRJthkfqIWgwJTrJJqQkeF4gGhaqLuTmPJqWshp518JAiZipX6wiFyVD5EkRpb5L6aS8vZqxvAvfIu-_7F_fPevkop9guwgreIwzYfphGw5NTE5jxX2aa7_AIs9r1moB36A/s1000/2022-05-28_16-22-30.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSKAeXbLPINJFtqKFxJR3o06YmU88Lat_Nj_w5aQOv6hTrfV9GLQQ-liyRJthkfqIWgwJTrJJqQkeF4gGhaqLuTmPJqWshp518JAiZipX6wiFyVD5EkRpb5L6aS8vZqxvAvfIu-_7F_fPevkop9guwgreIwzYfphGw5NTE5jxX2aa7_AIs9r1moB36A/w400-h266/2022-05-28_16-22-30.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By 2022, it looked pretty lush, with a weeping silver pear to the left, roses to the left and centre front and California lilacs to the centre and right. But you don't want to know what was growing in the jungle underneath.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwxcSVUEU08_3MiZvb2YIAf9Pr9HoRXlue1_mxn5oCyyAEUuSiWy6jpHaQl6HxcesvRFFbvWtXk2I6qygX3XI3I4MbtYim8jFHDxoM-GMCTdKeiEK_BRHRQTKmSZthY446sWvkJ7QFyEDZ5heR6O6hG6xHOu7e7wW9X08v1mPNbwXpymxVnx1nS7Rng/s1000/2023-02-16_14-56-15.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVwxcSVUEU08_3MiZvb2YIAf9Pr9HoRXlue1_mxn5oCyyAEUuSiWy6jpHaQl6HxcesvRFFbvWtXk2I6qygX3XI3I4MbtYim8jFHDxoM-GMCTdKeiEK_BRHRQTKmSZthY446sWvkJ7QFyEDZ5heR6O6hG6xHOu7e7wW9X08v1mPNbwXpymxVnx1nS7Rng/w400-h266/2023-02-16_14-56-15.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In early 2023, John took a weed-whacker and mattock to the jungle, clearing the way for some new plants.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Oh, it was
the chance of a lifetime! From a shady garden in Vancouver to a sunny one in
Saltspring with plenty of room for every plant I’d ever fantasized about.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">And so, a
silver weeping pear (as seen in all the best English gardens!), a “golden” mock
orange, a hardy rugosa rose, a delicately pink magnolia, two California lilacs,
and a pink lavatera were among the treasures I lovingly dug into our Saltspring
property 20 years ago. Plus, at least at
first, flats of home-started seedlings of all kinds of colourful sun-loving annuals
and perennials.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Well,
things wax and wane over the years, and I learned that sporadic maintenance of
a dry, hot garden has its costs. The magnolia died quite soon, the mock orange
struggled and the lavatera scraggled. The spreading rose moved in on the
weeping pear with deadly intent, and while the California lilacs grew and grew,
large dead brown spots appeared. The sun-loving flowers, both annuals and perennials,
vanished after a season. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">After
awhile, that dreamed-of garden turned into a jungle of tall grasses, English
ivy, periwinkle, blackberries, and fast-propagating mystery trees with cruel
thorns. I was grateful to see occasional sparks of colour from the lavatera and roses, but chose
not to look too closely at what was happening underneath all that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Which brings
us to this year, when a friend offered us some plants from her Saltspring
garden. “Do you have space?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">A little
ashamed of our neglect in the face of her new-gardener’s enthusiasm, we began
delving into the undergrowth, me with a garden fork, John with a weed-whacker and mattock. We
discovered the California lilacs, planted as shrubs, had become huge trees with
massive trunks, oddly contorted because of their struggles with the undergrowth.
The pear had survived, but competition from the roses had killed off branches
on one side, leaving it asymmetrical. Dry sticks of lavatera poked up from
roots that still had some life to them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Once the
jungle was cleared away, we could see once more where we’d started 20 years
ago. There was room for the new plants, which are tough ones suitable for island
conditions. We dug them in, wishing them well against the competition coiled in
the ground all around them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Sadder but wiser, we have no more illusions that
our garden will ever be a slice of English-country paradise.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLAXL6CWgUR--H--BuYP0U7WxWWtddf8u51wi_EVPq5QNwXCa1UU81k16UGoi32UU9VfaZQLXxrFI3jGo-2-KUcGrqkWnULruHqsMZ_H9RkBl71jn7vi_qAtnf3OeSUisQBq22O--jIq2-L8Mj521TJJE2S1QWhuZJdqLEsDxb6nQrCpdJC2tNap1RQ/s1000/2004-10-16_003.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLAXL6CWgUR--H--BuYP0U7WxWWtddf8u51wi_EVPq5QNwXCa1UU81k16UGoi32UU9VfaZQLXxrFI3jGo-2-KUcGrqkWnULruHqsMZ_H9RkBl71jn7vi_qAtnf3OeSUisQBq22O--jIq2-L8Mj521TJJE2S1QWhuZJdqLEsDxb6nQrCpdJC2tNap1RQ/w400-h266/2004-10-16_003.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The garden in 2004...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIBhSpWSHUrSyccFzFDmwGwHEwfLc6R-k58kDuahwXRC3xNI9r4FroPGuIqm7m9kRFLKBcElOkBaZlyX2A59VE2_8WIGKxS401E7nMWWeqBzy7lkg8e-9fwqX4DE0stXAZAvE-sQ6B2pBtQCRH_YFXtXn9J44CwhIHQxnMXwckST86rnqgg4FWm44zg/s1000/2007-05-02_09-04-56.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="1000" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtIBhSpWSHUrSyccFzFDmwGwHEwfLc6R-k58kDuahwXRC3xNI9r4FroPGuIqm7m9kRFLKBcElOkBaZlyX2A59VE2_8WIGKxS401E7nMWWeqBzy7lkg8e-9fwqX4DE0stXAZAvE-sQ6B2pBtQCRH_YFXtXn9J44CwhIHQxnMXwckST86rnqgg4FWm44zg/w400-h268/2007-05-02_09-04-56.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...in 2007...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifrZaaz6L5KIKr3THkVjyMiGGS28-3stQO8quDaYD1GZ7OPfcN4BFyciMELstHypYw-PxpPSfIb-oUjPd5ddhTCpMZbYgk4jyCPnLE1ZdTmPOS-GV7v4OPxJQ-6aWCuZMx0_hn4p-qoaR-xQxNjjch5vMcjAcWMxWPvXh2vMMvqYTGRZGr434Girs-7Q/s1000/2009-05-25_11-17-19.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="1000" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifrZaaz6L5KIKr3THkVjyMiGGS28-3stQO8quDaYD1GZ7OPfcN4BFyciMELstHypYw-PxpPSfIb-oUjPd5ddhTCpMZbYgk4jyCPnLE1ZdTmPOS-GV7v4OPxJQ-6aWCuZMx0_hn4p-qoaR-xQxNjjch5vMcjAcWMxWPvXh2vMMvqYTGRZGr434Girs-7Q/w400-h265/2009-05-25_11-17-19.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...in 2009... (we'd obviously been away for awhile, but notice the regular lilac to the left in full bloom)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6CTazrG-hH9pXRqvgsk0SKvW8_L0trgG0nlvvk3jkt4hPYEZEJdEAIW8yJOyUDpGJ8XGvzZS3QbEMbxYtSSzs2JGNp4TqvEQP4iv-S9XkapcQM2753q1zB-yPfQ_mUjlY-Q--hACtyfLQOgL1yahT_QtxYMLswLSThskdDaPBwRV_fBh-6UXR-x0ZA/s1000/2014-05-27_11-15-55.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="1000" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz6CTazrG-hH9pXRqvgsk0SKvW8_L0trgG0nlvvk3jkt4hPYEZEJdEAIW8yJOyUDpGJ8XGvzZS3QbEMbxYtSSzs2JGNp4TqvEQP4iv-S9XkapcQM2753q1zB-yPfQ_mUjlY-Q--hACtyfLQOgL1yahT_QtxYMLswLSThskdDaPBwRV_fBh-6UXR-x0ZA/w400-h265/2014-05-27_11-15-55.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...in 2014...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgqBpZXwZMYIRsrzBWvhXw1yehfB59w7eLK8CY4PVikj7zCbgiEL6WKXUpwA7EH6aaCc06iNsJrUBTieAKNErnsE2SYuMaiapf0aB2ByGDrv-Et7f-opDbXkryrK2-V9OVtUCiNCNliu1NDy2ZgQHgzl8zm9Nz1uj06Rvo_-XR6uux9mMgx2_51vxzg/s1000/2017-07-16_10-38-33-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgqBpZXwZMYIRsrzBWvhXw1yehfB59w7eLK8CY4PVikj7zCbgiEL6WKXUpwA7EH6aaCc06iNsJrUBTieAKNErnsE2SYuMaiapf0aB2ByGDrv-Et7f-opDbXkryrK2-V9OVtUCiNCNliu1NDy2ZgQHgzl8zm9Nz1uj06Rvo_-XR6uux9mMgx2_51vxzg/w400-h266/2017-07-16_10-38-33-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...in 2017... (once again, the garden is overgrown, but this time the pink lavatera is thriving to the right front.)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1d9YrjqgYf_j0e_SwfLSoYoh5rpeJ10bT0BD4HuEPJgKzvcphuP-qv2j2hgbREQnjGTIN7wuC9E9C2Dgeo2IBIu7jaY1dweL_giva_RJWjqYVaYiuzG34_-SdqqDOuvqLEk4a0X4asIB9_p-hfBYFIdqweZe0X2pvKjvPmX87CwJoMZa_IJ2oxInFyw/s1000/2023-02-16_15-00-31.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1d9YrjqgYf_j0e_SwfLSoYoh5rpeJ10bT0BD4HuEPJgKzvcphuP-qv2j2hgbREQnjGTIN7wuC9E9C2Dgeo2IBIu7jaY1dweL_giva_RJWjqYVaYiuzG34_-SdqqDOuvqLEk4a0X4asIB9_p-hfBYFIdqweZe0X2pvKjvPmX87CwJoMZa_IJ2oxInFyw/w400-h266/2023-02-16_15-00-31.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earlier this year, a good clear-out of the undergrowth exposed full-grown California lilacs. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52WRm5pTUHwyKuHqYKbsDf5TgqG_vEQcbggIcVx5rdf-ooOlBAl3A4rLd2qo8hT0XW7Q1Je32N8o_pe1H3QeUq7tU1JkKqZUkoIEvrfBiTSwVxcm0X7QSF8dooU3hMRRvMlDl_3w2bn85VdYy-W9gKxGs-2uz4hINdKtvb_--YV_9vdjUFLopOOI8YA/s1000/2023-02-16_15-56-54.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52WRm5pTUHwyKuHqYKbsDf5TgqG_vEQcbggIcVx5rdf-ooOlBAl3A4rLd2qo8hT0XW7Q1Je32N8o_pe1H3QeUq7tU1JkKqZUkoIEvrfBiTSwVxcm0X7QSF8dooU3hMRRvMlDl_3w2bn85VdYy-W9gKxGs-2uz4hINdKtvb_--YV_9vdjUFLopOOI8YA/w400-h266/2023-02-16_15-56-54.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One was badly contorted by the tough life it's led in the undergrowth. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv3xT7wWr7P9QFNrZfoBXACuTwcg97Uk_aIjfN0nDFkbEIVQNk7EeBxS0z6S22JotN980LpUOPEtxeOy_DHVeqgZiJ6ajyXn6t2Jl_3qPeJMVR4VLyeNPzNSeFeQxkd3oLnJxEqWK-5g344UAjFuC7hsUFamcWA5aHHrqC2D-Hd_qzs1E44LG3fbA_mQ/s1000/2023-02-15_15-09-40.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv3xT7wWr7P9QFNrZfoBXACuTwcg97Uk_aIjfN0nDFkbEIVQNk7EeBxS0z6S22JotN980LpUOPEtxeOy_DHVeqgZiJ6ajyXn6t2Jl_3qPeJMVR4VLyeNPzNSeFeQxkd3oLnJxEqWK-5g344UAjFuC7hsUFamcWA5aHHrqC2D-Hd_qzs1E44LG3fbA_mQ/w400-h266/2023-02-15_15-09-40.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Back
to shovels and bags of fresh soil. Let's see how tough these new plants are!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-68066348955135236232023-03-04T20:35:00.001-08:002023-03-06T21:26:39.480-08:00Look down<p> Sometimes you're just walking along minding your own business when something on a boulevard catches your eye and you look down and say: "What?" In this case, it was little rustic houses made from odds and ends that first made me stop. But the more I looked, the more that was revealed. Somebody had positively stuffed the boulevard in front of their house with bits and pieces of whimsy.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojm_OtdjI_hSHgSX8dkpBQ27RpRVJXkENa95m9ofKL-qOIviIBZwOU-ucIdo98IBeM2L5VI-AO9kfRu8vWy_ETZDA9pUTecXI5_2OZ7MUQT9srUi2ylyYqX4HUpBYJD2wzcpCNzSh-K1lPxN5c5UIq90nbxJ5hhvTGDZn7Cawywo5FdsG0_KZBXnjXw/s2016/IMG_1169.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojm_OtdjI_hSHgSX8dkpBQ27RpRVJXkENa95m9ofKL-qOIviIBZwOU-ucIdo98IBeM2L5VI-AO9kfRu8vWy_ETZDA9pUTecXI5_2OZ7MUQT9srUi2ylyYqX4HUpBYJD2wzcpCNzSh-K1lPxN5c5UIq90nbxJ5hhvTGDZn7Cawywo5FdsG0_KZBXnjXw/s320/IMG_1169.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These creations, tucked into clumps of winter grass, were my first signal that this was an unusual boulevard. Apparently birdhouses, they're tall and skinny, with metal roofs and one has an old tap for a perching post. But ground-level birdhouses? The neighbourhood cats must be happy!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>So I looked some more and discovered, just around a tree trunk, another kind of house:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXKgj1rubQg_1fK1pIr9Y-TcPgjy7sx9awKIZuoUVVwpAF2HmqKKsMfDE2YYPBabS-nsy9k1j7TK-EuajiElXnUmPvqBoZauDFcEQTRgkKHSk2DXsU_q0iAZ7Hc1myDWYGj4CMX4Ler0RltO5A7tP5Uk0WmwZmM3EdZ-1lzTYC7dxjTV_pZVoVfvkuQ/s2016/IMG_1162.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXKgj1rubQg_1fK1pIr9Y-TcPgjy7sx9awKIZuoUVVwpAF2HmqKKsMfDE2YYPBabS-nsy9k1j7TK-EuajiElXnUmPvqBoZauDFcEQTRgkKHSk2DXsU_q0iAZ7Hc1myDWYGj4CMX4Ler0RltO5A7tP5Uk0WmwZmM3EdZ-1lzTYC7dxjTV_pZVoVfvkuQ/s320/IMG_1162.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's no hole for birds in this little construction smack up against the tree, so maybe it's a fairy house. Somebody has gone to a lot of effort to decorate its grounds.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Further investigation revealed that the building was just part of a bigger scheme -- perhaps it's a building complex for fairies! </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNvpJxTV-qBLoun_3XzdWNwVn0cx5Z9bhFxXQEXJGd459zjDCiPJKtaoEg1UJrOaFlE3h_AUWraaXT771q942fDY8RzJ92LPfO2Q3XbwGy3hnQ9eq9YLzZpy0Bh-_Z8VjTifyT2AYdkRI8wgV8Qr_WUHTpGirnB6i6dKtKILQCyPuGDLTd7Z5NfPFyIQ/s2016/IMG_1163.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNvpJxTV-qBLoun_3XzdWNwVn0cx5Z9bhFxXQEXJGd459zjDCiPJKtaoEg1UJrOaFlE3h_AUWraaXT771q942fDY8RzJ92LPfO2Q3XbwGy3hnQ9eq9YLzZpy0Bh-_Z8VjTifyT2AYdkRI8wgV8Qr_WUHTpGirnB6i6dKtKILQCyPuGDLTd7Z5NfPFyIQ/s320/IMG_1163.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I missed it at first, but right around the corner is a fairy door and window, built into the trunk. There's a broom for sweeping and a dragon peering out of the snowbank. Notice the old door knob on the bigger building, which also appears to have a tiny door at the side.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTDuTkiOnt3rqtDIOXSnHwHAEs5uDJNdl3lcsudbENoTEYx_UMetKFeNJ7FXI0ytc6EbVDtbabz7SeyVVwmExf5Da7ts8TOFsrZm0LRGjnRYJfRI-gxPsXT9x1hA_7VgRDi1oNFNgBnOcw5h6ubQFKCYrJLRGE8qUYA4-pfL1EeCd41SmLJiNSzCyQw/s2016/IMG_1166.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTDuTkiOnt3rqtDIOXSnHwHAEs5uDJNdl3lcsudbENoTEYx_UMetKFeNJ7FXI0ytc6EbVDtbabz7SeyVVwmExf5Da7ts8TOFsrZm0LRGjnRYJfRI-gxPsXT9x1hA_7VgRDi1oNFNgBnOcw5h6ubQFKCYrJLRGE8qUYA4-pfL1EeCd41SmLJiNSzCyQw/s320/IMG_1166.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I missed these too, on the first go-round, but behind the fairy complex is another clutch of those tall, skinny birdhouses. The perch posts are old drawer-pulls and knobs. Somebody was using up their odds and ends!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Along with the rustic-style buildings, there is clear evidence that kids are a big part of what's happening on this boulevard. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGJovFG7WzZeaAQBlvWkTFcJBwWX503qGLjsLQZ1WC8wjEnTceK1Iiq3QyBhhcJxSMRRsU64kNAi_0lAoqsC2IgB4-_ewYvgLxzRbBSCQKk4lrKNkTvaxbHwbySj-l0mvKHCim1Hr4c9RTTWWeh2u--zTrrgk8BAAelaeceGlouGXKmg1HpbVjIuzLQ/s2016/IMG_1175.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGJovFG7WzZeaAQBlvWkTFcJBwWX503qGLjsLQZ1WC8wjEnTceK1Iiq3QyBhhcJxSMRRsU64kNAi_0lAoqsC2IgB4-_ewYvgLxzRbBSCQKk4lrKNkTvaxbHwbySj-l0mvKHCim1Hr4c9RTTWWeh2u--zTrrgk8BAAelaeceGlouGXKmg1HpbVjIuzLQ/s320/IMG_1175.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Medieval knights stage a battle, maybe with each other, maybe with the green dragon off beyond the snowbank. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fUJqHSuJboT1QpIckypX12HIY-Xa3OlzbEk_Rc7imHYx314HIUrxXafEqEiVWNfkatFh-1du7IyHycsvcqLTifpiMUb5jKSVYE-O-tTpnRLZvFxzVRCEZjWFgaqlSc2JFf8AG2UMSBibs3ZzT1TAhsdLEl2MvYIBmxLm8CItNYIiRVrrUJERYpnOew/s2016/IMG_1173.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fUJqHSuJboT1QpIckypX12HIY-Xa3OlzbEk_Rc7imHYx314HIUrxXafEqEiVWNfkatFh-1du7IyHycsvcqLTifpiMUb5jKSVYE-O-tTpnRLZvFxzVRCEZjWFgaqlSc2JFf8AG2UMSBibs3ZzT1TAhsdLEl2MvYIBmxLm8CItNYIiRVrrUJERYpnOew/s320/IMG_1173.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somebody had fun hiding pink, yellow and green ladybugs among the pebbles.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HPhqEYEro2_ESPRXxor0FJvf13DYkLfCwhlOnjwOnwXLvH32M9KDOXYcJcUZv9wI4Xlx1f5mHucKzwgYCubaPVZBp6VKC8gxBLqT-z9_8gGTi_pLV3xp7uSxm2j9voBi4x-JtbZmCZmEGJ_aDauTzB1r25NjRyKUtQATBe8EE2OFT0T86cVOasnN9A/s2016/IMG_1172.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HPhqEYEro2_ESPRXxor0FJvf13DYkLfCwhlOnjwOnwXLvH32M9KDOXYcJcUZv9wI4Xlx1f5mHucKzwgYCubaPVZBp6VKC8gxBLqT-z9_8gGTi_pLV3xp7uSxm2j9voBi4x-JtbZmCZmEGJ_aDauTzB1r25NjRyKUtQATBe8EE2OFT0T86cVOasnN9A/s320/IMG_1172.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the African animals had to have their patch of the boulevard, even if it's a bit snowy for the giraffes and tigers.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Just as I turned to go, this popped out at me, on another tree on the boulevard:<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzJ94EN_4cGfWplC0wRtTdXRQW2CfLlV30RfjI0ecfk6qOdKbQa8D5XfWDL_trgY7TsrY6rJTNbpWvAznyKJ90-4-FmUpmnR8sLqBt5AV0cjWHo8Zs6fn9LtA3ceBagrQgSNlXBYjButxCY8J7_ZJsVKWia7aWquz380CD3HSPkLgHAA09iO5dA1vJw/s2016/IMG_1176.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzJ94EN_4cGfWplC0wRtTdXRQW2CfLlV30RfjI0ecfk6qOdKbQa8D5XfWDL_trgY7TsrY6rJTNbpWvAznyKJ90-4-FmUpmnR8sLqBt5AV0cjWHo8Zs6fn9LtA3ceBagrQgSNlXBYjButxCY8J7_ZJsVKWia7aWquz380CD3HSPkLgHAA09iO5dA1vJw/s320/IMG_1176.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yet another fairy door, this time for a high-flying fairy, with colourful pebbles beneath. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyNwQ_8FsDXi5TSuzsFKbrqTw19oBudeLCbHdJ72ylVJa2172kd5KicCc3G1RcKRmB99ehaWrBoEdInMX-JP3B4FJoJB3maAZvnkiSKptvK3cDRqHfslGqnvp-_e-u_VNxYNzqItAeZKUpmePSz3QYdZTvoIwewUvoMZtahmKPjBq7RNZ-8cBk9o1KEg/s2016/IMG_1177.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyNwQ_8FsDXi5TSuzsFKbrqTw19oBudeLCbHdJ72ylVJa2172kd5KicCc3G1RcKRmB99ehaWrBoEdInMX-JP3B4FJoJB3maAZvnkiSKptvK3cDRqHfslGqnvp-_e-u_VNxYNzqItAeZKUpmePSz3QYdZTvoIwewUvoMZtahmKPjBq7RNZ-8cBk9o1KEg/w320-h240/IMG_1177.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A close-up of that highly decorated door, with its flowers, mushrooms and a lantern. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I have no idea what the strange collection on this patch of boulevard -- rustic and plastic, cutesy and natural -- adds up to. But I do know it's amazing what you find sometimes when you look down!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-15767130341222596552023-02-26T21:16:00.000-08:002023-02-26T21:16:26.308-08:00Back-yard surprise<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjDaAsI4I-5nFrYomusmQJT504VKGwCVXFbV2j-40YXrNlh8h4yH3yQzfWBwuJLFblzLqaGHb8O7fZOl05TouzBJQohh034odzM2RC-piK-D4fCPUVzhBJGB2P_pLWmbhwcnyXtuG59D_g8ZMqUBgfSVf-2YWbVHZhK90RAE2y4_1asHRDmjnz9gCAw/s1200/2023-02-23_12-31-12-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjDaAsI4I-5nFrYomusmQJT504VKGwCVXFbV2j-40YXrNlh8h4yH3yQzfWBwuJLFblzLqaGHb8O7fZOl05TouzBJQohh034odzM2RC-piK-D4fCPUVzhBJGB2P_pLWmbhwcnyXtuG59D_g8ZMqUBgfSVf-2YWbVHZhK90RAE2y4_1asHRDmjnz9gCAw/s320/2023-02-23_12-31-12-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We've never seen this guy before, but all the birds in the neighbourhood knew he was bad news. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">We’re used
to a certain set of characters in our back yard – Steller’s jays, Northern Flickers,
robins, crows, hummingbirds and LBJs (little brown jobs) – all congregating and
quarrelling around the bird feeders and bird baths.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">A couple
of days ago, we were surprised by something altogether new – a big, substantial
bird with a hooked bill, a glittering eye and a patient, brooding air. Barely
moving, it sat for more than an hour on a mossy branch of the apple tree, focused
on our bird feeders, waiting, waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">For what? Clearly
not a turn at the dangling suet, the seed cylinder, or even the bird bath,
which were all deserted and his for the taking. It took us awhile to figure out
our visitor was not looking for bird food, but birds <i>as </i>food. It was a raptor, which
the neighbourhood birds knew before we did. And fled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">When our regular
birds timidly began showing up again, we didn’t know
what to do. Who had priority? We didn’t want a backyard massacre, but maybe the
newcomer was really hungry. Could we sacrifice a sparrow or two? As it turned out, we didn’t have to worry. John’s
camera scared it off, and nobody died.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">We learned
later it was a Cooper’s Hawk, also known as a chicken hawk because it likes meaty,
medium-sized birds like chickens and pigeons. Also bats and squirrels. Our
hummers and LBJs were likely safe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Cooper’s Hawks
are fairly common in urban areas, according to the bird websites, and known for
their “ability to hunt large and evasive prey using extremely well-developed agility.”
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They squeeze their prey to death with powerful
talons, or hold them underwater until they die. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">If you want to attract them to
your yard, here’s what to do: Set up a bird feeder.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">https://birdfeederhub.com/facts-about-coopers-hawks/<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-67863465986278177742023-02-23T21:08:00.000-08:002023-02-23T21:08:25.011-08:00No!<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RrnkTJwk187GRkJltTNJc3fcGckI3sDMRy8NhtbJu5lLgtGhXcdW3CaFW7BVK5J_N5o3M--qSnb40s8mGFj1NpU2D7l1Ml4DtpzuOIRV3U0abPZqi5dlsNRkh__7erArJIojLqs3DHxZS7PvVZXBjrHMH-Od5TAizHq03qnUuzCoVRs2C7RzOYcnig/s2016/IMG_1097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-RrnkTJwk187GRkJltTNJc3fcGckI3sDMRy8NhtbJu5lLgtGhXcdW3CaFW7BVK5J_N5o3M--qSnb40s8mGFj1NpU2D7l1Ml4DtpzuOIRV3U0abPZqi5dlsNRkh__7erArJIojLqs3DHxZS7PvVZXBjrHMH-Od5TAizHq03qnUuzCoVRs2C7RzOYcnig/s320/IMG_1097.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A barrage of discouragement stands between dogs and their need to answer the call of nature in the great outdoors.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Poor dogs!
Anyone who has ever watched the apology on a dog’s face as it does its business
in full public view has got to feel some sympathy. Dogs are trained to go
outside, but when they do, they’re treated like they’re performing an anti-social
act. Owners avert their gaze, pretending not to know them, passersby scoot
past, sniffing, and then there’s all those signs:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“No Poop
& Pee. Be respectful.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Please
keep dogs out of garden.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Woof!
Please clean up after your pet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Physical
barriers are popular, too </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">–</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> wire fences strategically placed to keep dogs away
from plants, or even, in one yard near me, an odd assortment of closely placed sticks
tight along the sidewalk. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My own
hedge is apparently something of a local stopping-off point. Not being a
dog-owner myself, it took me awhile to connect the seemingly lengthy lingerings
of dog-walkers in front of my house and the dead brown spots– just at prime
leg-lifting height – on the front hedge that lines the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I’d sooner
have a pristine hedge, of course, but in the great balancing act that is urban
life, a few brown spots aren’t the end of the world. Between the rules and the
signs and the barriers, the dogs who brighten the lives of my neighbours don’t
have many chances to go off-piste. I hope they enjoy peeing on my hedge.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGowb6IZx_7aJcPsrdTBeukaVeS03JBhBhXiZCD_CN9k4-QNPJ5q3D9cGr3fz32d4SaQPcmpmW_TLn0_o6pjOdMyv9qBvi18r83b69YdZiEyaFVk5mBYpX0AMRBBDl7orL8G7n58QYurX4KQrMN3cORj37VW2f-cFlhXTFpBiFN60pWbkO1ZZ_EQMwAQ/s2016/IMG_1087.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGowb6IZx_7aJcPsrdTBeukaVeS03JBhBhXiZCD_CN9k4-QNPJ5q3D9cGr3fz32d4SaQPcmpmW_TLn0_o6pjOdMyv9qBvi18r83b69YdZiEyaFVk5mBYpX0AMRBBDl7orL8G7n58QYurX4KQrMN3cORj37VW2f-cFlhXTFpBiFN60pWbkO1ZZ_EQMwAQ/s320/IMG_1087.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The brown spots on my hedge were a puzzlement until I figured out that dogs were likely lifting their legs there. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXD8SjDOdvHnZ5UYzK4IZYF3dOE5lewl6z4r2mvfcvdgpOKwLfjAHvTAcm9lgkTazsa449xUu5RfoaseRtrI9FhGoe579kZUCQzCm-C7ap6rz1rtZ3rxSLtZVjsw762uZC0Hyk_HHnKp61Lu0HxrNBPKxoQXZ9W3zIjSOdfGxcwVOAx7Muae-N22PNg/s2016/IMG_1081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXD8SjDOdvHnZ5UYzK4IZYF3dOE5lewl6z4r2mvfcvdgpOKwLfjAHvTAcm9lgkTazsa449xUu5RfoaseRtrI9FhGoe579kZUCQzCm-C7ap6rz1rtZ3rxSLtZVjsw762uZC0Hyk_HHnKp61Lu0HxrNBPKxoQXZ9W3zIjSOdfGxcwVOAx7Muae-N22PNg/s320/IMG_1081.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's a neighbour's answer to the dilemma: create a barrier out of old sticks.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCu7OSCFIguDSOEiJ3QQdFFMDJH01Ygvhsu2lZCPQ_uA6WAUWmgGpNBtR5ECQMozeL2PuEqg8sVp-BJjCLt_H95bevrLaOCNgdOsIxkYNs3Cminw9qLvEgFP7E0H58GW2sR3OQcAlDl8Cu3mb_lIYRc2JVCM_ySx8DraHHXI9O1muU-jYM6uAHdLfag/s2016/IMG_1072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCu7OSCFIguDSOEiJ3QQdFFMDJH01Ygvhsu2lZCPQ_uA6WAUWmgGpNBtR5ECQMozeL2PuEqg8sVp-BJjCLt_H95bevrLaOCNgdOsIxkYNs3Cminw9qLvEgFP7E0H58GW2sR3OQcAlDl8Cu3mb_lIYRc2JVCM_ySx8DraHHXI9O1muU-jYM6uAHdLfag/s320/IMG_1072.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somebody else chose a more elegant solution, with a low wire fence just far enough away from the boxwood hedge.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrib3rXuD0nJJiij_EbgH9XbW3DujXN9nMx09x69XAsXlsckLAz_6uw0ZeusyBXuYK6hpmYPO8PSIFcW8fmX1NE4CXhezvCY424TrfdUycD1Fq0YblMYu8VfJTWkK0wElKYjHWGp0PK0prFgZ6K0HtavEYvcGPLMKs2Tw5dW8NRm1w1XdA4r5BS8nzLg/s2016/IMG_1067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrib3rXuD0nJJiij_EbgH9XbW3DujXN9nMx09x69XAsXlsckLAz_6uw0ZeusyBXuYK6hpmYPO8PSIFcW8fmX1NE4CXhezvCY424TrfdUycD1Fq0YblMYu8VfJTWkK0wElKYjHWGp0PK0prFgZ6K0HtavEYvcGPLMKs2Tw5dW8NRm1w1XdA4r5BS8nzLg/s320/IMG_1067.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eye-catching and specific -- no euphemisms here!</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mlwR7sModn2NeLsQPUoy9F8nyYmDGRH8rRwVh0VTEVouJgg1-Qwtrozw3EtYimEEXDc_UWndxzg0cDQ4A0xRJYeWbBKxWjnW7PjUPLJTi3FVKbDzsa7cneYEMMMVHexV-QqaIyXrwKFt92XJ2XJMUuP9IozWG3-7vtYHtWv5c-vOwzT0wQ-uATKyVA/s2016/IMG_1068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mlwR7sModn2NeLsQPUoy9F8nyYmDGRH8rRwVh0VTEVouJgg1-Qwtrozw3EtYimEEXDc_UWndxzg0cDQ4A0xRJYeWbBKxWjnW7PjUPLJTi3FVKbDzsa7cneYEMMMVHexV-QqaIyXrwKFt92XJ2XJMUuP9IozWG3-7vtYHtWv5c-vOwzT0wQ-uATKyVA/s320/IMG_1068.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And plentiful. There were at least six signs along the front of this property.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyI9af-tML6jOWB2xs_VjpcrG8-HQptnSrYymH5rgdKjrTUkD81-6WCu7vSfyxsisOYIRWf361q--xL8h-6MfeCS4PqL9sPcqwzdDt-guPDI3IkX8vy8g6EGKjrkcnAfGUcH-RQmO9_QpZFpHBd2kHfbVP1WPdvQ6lyKEowseRJ7gqd5SibpseyTlJfQ/s2016/IMG_1149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyI9af-tML6jOWB2xs_VjpcrG8-HQptnSrYymH5rgdKjrTUkD81-6WCu7vSfyxsisOYIRWf361q--xL8h-6MfeCS4PqL9sPcqwzdDt-guPDI3IkX8vy8g6EGKjrkcnAfGUcH-RQmO9_QpZFpHBd2kHfbVP1WPdvQ6lyKEowseRJ7gqd5SibpseyTlJfQ/s320/IMG_1149.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little more polite, appealing to the best sides of both dog and owner.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgic-eHQhHj-NNdKlmFAW3Ub1xREDylh2D5mDEcEUYCx30kvOg24dk1r01_gSE85I0yaQ7aCkp8iCcOdS-UpGr4mHiUcmZlUa12CHZEBFKUzp6zk23Bt70TYoI4obCqoVWDIdrM1bPgfWOoD4oK50qgjbpKDq_-gq-_c1yopzlBU8spHr-cuHZGYdeOVQ/s2016/IMG_1147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgic-eHQhHj-NNdKlmFAW3Ub1xREDylh2D5mDEcEUYCx30kvOg24dk1r01_gSE85I0yaQ7aCkp8iCcOdS-UpGr4mHiUcmZlUa12CHZEBFKUzp6zk23Bt70TYoI4obCqoVWDIdrM1bPgfWOoD4oK50qgjbpKDq_-gq-_c1yopzlBU8spHr-cuHZGYdeOVQ/s320/IMG_1147.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even institutions get into the act. Brock House in Point Grey would hate to see its neatly planted garden bed despoiled. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgic-eHQhHj-NNdKlmFAW3Ub1xREDylh2D5mDEcEUYCx30kvOg24dk1r01_gSE85I0yaQ7aCkp8iCcOdS-UpGr4mHiUcmZlUa12CHZEBFKUzp6zk23Bt70TYoI4obCqoVWDIdrM1bPgfWOoD4oK50qgjbpKDq_-gq-_c1yopzlBU8spHr-cuHZGYdeOVQ/s2016/IMG_1147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEMj1bYX45I92NDgNk4owTQVhI7n3lvDGFdbS6ZT2U9ps9NqLpHNGFvWjJ20NYiPdGiem7rCUYE0cJoGXZ9wbcQ0WYs9ZqFbB-ncbXgVgVm1_BIWfjYtFftkKhG9rp1KxNxrajEZVN0EbnhrFo_nSR0tlur0LqnelBI2RLb4E5YeDoXq1EBvsUpK0jhQ/s2016/IMG_1145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEMj1bYX45I92NDgNk4owTQVhI7n3lvDGFdbS6ZT2U9ps9NqLpHNGFvWjJ20NYiPdGiem7rCUYE0cJoGXZ9wbcQ0WYs9ZqFbB-ncbXgVgVm1_BIWfjYtFftkKhG9rp1KxNxrajEZVN0EbnhrFo_nSR0tlur0LqnelBI2RLb4E5YeDoXq1EBvsUpK0jhQ/s320/IMG_1145.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the official Vancouver Park Board insignia at the bottom right, and the hint at the lower left that a misbehaving dog might merit a 3-1-1 call.</td></tr></tbody></table>,<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEMj1bYX45I92NDgNk4owTQVhI7n3lvDGFdbS6ZT2U9ps9NqLpHNGFvWjJ20NYiPdGiem7rCUYE0cJoGXZ9wbcQ0WYs9ZqFbB-ncbXgVgVm1_BIWfjYtFftkKhG9rp1KxNxrajEZVN0EbnhrFo_nSR0tlur0LqnelBI2RLb4E5YeDoXq1EBvsUpK0jhQ/s2016/IMG_1145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7Rx5Z4k5XgCFODSYgIBsrKdGBf4oNEpdcaM-XXsBizD4Pzg8ygKvDX_6ZQuu-XOfjDWMdsd018L1W0oC8ipHxCwQm0Jujv8AzgIJ8nRjEUSzPfCwQyQNtIRtjhqJ8E-Ht3fR1d3199FYfde91SEVHp_8lx2nq-lPCYQWDyE6tTz55T2yTpiwQ7f6Gg/s2016/IMG_1124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7Rx5Z4k5XgCFODSYgIBsrKdGBf4oNEpdcaM-XXsBizD4Pzg8ygKvDX_6ZQuu-XOfjDWMdsd018L1W0oC8ipHxCwQm0Jujv8AzgIJ8nRjEUSzPfCwQyQNtIRtjhqJ8E-Ht3fR1d3199FYfde91SEVHp_8lx2nq-lPCYQWDyE6tTz55T2yTpiwQ7f6Gg/s320/IMG_1124.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This well-worn sign makes an attempt at humour....</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Wbsga7kakjAvdq5LNfUysMtiIwFIV9DAN0uTN8thimxrxUWtqnwdAk70Ow4FAbKWV1s42i6THUlQO6aY5sdJE2c7Z_LCNulFTlGIVQrD8Au7sU12t0ADFUrJr_q1qKPVeItnsgvjXzxuKeQc-SFfAtYl0p5gp5NSrOf0wvpPiqAyBfV1_28GHjDmqA/s2016/IMG_1123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Wbsga7kakjAvdq5LNfUysMtiIwFIV9DAN0uTN8thimxrxUWtqnwdAk70Ow4FAbKWV1s42i6THUlQO6aY5sdJE2c7Z_LCNulFTlGIVQrD8Au7sU12t0ADFUrJr_q1qKPVeItnsgvjXzxuKeQc-SFfAtYl0p5gp5NSrOf0wvpPiqAyBfV1_28GHjDmqA/s320/IMG_1123.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Under the drawing of the dog with a cocktail glass are the words, "Please do not be...." What? A party pooper, perhaps?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdje3_3LpEP6QzYsOhQc31w-eP4SeNROwAM2ZSUnw6ZzIrHS1Z1BRA1cyFuauqceIoQ7HB975Rl2InrjuNKj61Zj0FCOSWfsf8uFYl3fUnjqJWGPkETQXf_lNSTBO0jgJlaO-BCArFPs8KuwKJLX0oo6T4IbBqkYS5cV6Y7z_xuHkM8D0SytySLM6urg/s2016/IMG_1096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdje3_3LpEP6QzYsOhQc31w-eP4SeNROwAM2ZSUnw6ZzIrHS1Z1BRA1cyFuauqceIoQ7HB975Rl2InrjuNKj61Zj0FCOSWfsf8uFYl3fUnjqJWGPkETQXf_lNSTBO0jgJlaO-BCArFPs8KuwKJLX0oo6T4IbBqkYS5cV6Y7z_xuHkM8D0SytySLM6urg/s320/IMG_1096.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I call this the ghost sign. In contrast to the well-articulated figure that began this post, it's a simple white cutout, minus any words. But I think the message is clear.</td></tr></tbody></table>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-9010734289281980912023-02-19T22:37:00.000-08:002023-02-19T22:37:32.892-08:00The Travelling Burn Pile<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZTpHN9ylnGAMEfCelE0aAQhk_lBhpZ_je2sSbnC05zQoCAqCCgVOdqHvhQv0Z5APYHetBNNefsA2wg1zK54SewcvvXkIOCvl7z7Oz9aa3kx74-wYK4WaeVA2qDoI5ar4MyjK8BvM0zCQOdWH1JQnp1xSryclgife7GtZzZK7bG3xLbiiyrVmUQr9zQ/s1000/carol-rubbish1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1000" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDZTpHN9ylnGAMEfCelE0aAQhk_lBhpZ_je2sSbnC05zQoCAqCCgVOdqHvhQv0Z5APYHetBNNefsA2wg1zK54SewcvvXkIOCvl7z7Oz9aa3kx74-wYK4WaeVA2qDoI5ar4MyjK8BvM0zCQOdWH1JQnp1xSryclgife7GtZzZK7bG3xLbiiyrVmUQr9zQ/s320/carol-rubbish1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When you can haul your garden debris uphill or downhill for burning, which would you choose? All photos by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQweOTbWo5BbYs5waJyLUsJit0if2IFm-BdZqNsDbuHXH9eQBV2GM49cBoIfDLYMk-OxT9nImaBNUk12OMA44JK6VX-qrRoAJ--7wwlWktvF7xh6aU_9UCXufscoT1WA77tqu79oRM-QSjg9cRvjmxzzK-PGWmF6M9wncYnWUTloEK9We0uOlRb7S7g/s1000/2020-08-11_11-15-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQweOTbWo5BbYs5waJyLUsJit0if2IFm-BdZqNsDbuHXH9eQBV2GM49cBoIfDLYMk-OxT9nImaBNUk12OMA44JK6VX-qrRoAJ--7wwlWktvF7xh6aU_9UCXufscoT1WA77tqu79oRM-QSjg9cRvjmxzzK-PGWmF6M9wncYnWUTloEK9We0uOlRb7S7g/s320/2020-08-11_11-15-02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a big dilemma with a property as steep as ours. Here's a view from the very top corner.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A lot of
weeds can grow in half an untended acre of Saltspring. Broom, English ivy,
blackberries, holly, curious trees that seem innocuous until you realize
they’re six feet tall and their thorns are glove-penetrating. Plus the
non-weeds – periwinkle, rosa rugosa, St. John’s Wort – that you may have even
planted yourself, but have begun gobbling the garden.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">My first
solution for all the inevitable plant material that would have to be cut down,
dug up and disposed of, was to toss it all into a kind of dip in the lowest part
of our very hilly yard. A wild corner, I liked to think, a refuge where
rabbits, snakes, and mice could hide, snack, and burrow, happy companions to
the decomposing garden litter. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">After a
few years, the dip in that part of the yard began to fill up. John did not
think this was good. It should be used for compost, he thought, and what wasn’t
compost should be burned. At first this was fine. He built a burn pile close to
the dip, and we had some fine fires. Composting didn’t go so well, as we don’t
have much soil and a hot dry climate doesn’t lend itself to compost.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Then the
trouble began. For reasons I’m still not clear on, John decided that composting
would go better if the litter was piled beside the garage, which was located
three-quarters of the way up the steep hill that is our
property. Later, when he tore the garage down, he decided that its level, bare-earth
floor was the perfect spot for a new burn pile.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">These
decisions meant that instead of hauling litter <i>down</i> the hill, we would
always, always, be hauling it <i>up</i>. Gravity would no longer be my friend.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">The
predictable conversations ensued, but John, whose West Vancouver background
prepared him for a lifetime of hill-climbing, prevailed. He didn’t mind hauling
stuff up the hill, he said, so mostly I left him to it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Years
passed, and the annual burning of the summer’s litter on the old garage site
became routine. Until one day – the Day of the Terrifying Inferno – it wasn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"> This time, the burn pile was unusually high
and the flames quickly began looking dangerously exuberant. As we watched them leap upwards, we realized
that nearby trees had grown a lot since the pile was established, and their
branches were now frighteningly close to the flames. The potential of setting
30-foot cedars ablaze was real.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Okay, no
panic. The required hose was right there. But when John turned it on, the
smallest little dribble we’d ever seen came out. The water pressure, as
sometimes happens on Saltspring, was virtually nil.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">So then we
panicked. Frantic raking and smothering and shouting ensued, and we finally got
the fire out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">There were
more fires after that – not so big and never again without a good check of the
water pressure. But this February, as we hauled more dead branches and debris
up the hill to add to a stupendous pile, John began reconsidering.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Maybe, he
thought, there is a better place for the burn pile. Maybe down the hill, with
no high trees overhead. Maybe, in fact, at the old location. Near the dip in
the lowest part of the yard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">So
he spent an afternoon hauling all the debris he’d trundled up the hill back
down again. It made a fine blaze; the hose worked and no trees were in danger.
But I couldn’t help thinking it was awfully close to where I’d started out. How
long, I wonder, until I start rebuilding my wild corner refuge? The rabbits and
snakes are waiting….</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTT57rnOF-D95EijnVJs-emCi-u4QaGnQISnE6zGUjvJ77Kbv11Q00OJ-pakd_wvDoYM14YRKThKTePwkp-I9eLR-Wh5MAbazB9kt92fug1iSBKTluSI-dO3UOxjzOeWCfVZkardtBol5X14srwCqFK31Lhwpt8u3W3EdPr0YCI6cwBv-9-PBbk4Y4Pw/s1000/2023-02-16_15-02-25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTT57rnOF-D95EijnVJs-emCi-u4QaGnQISnE6zGUjvJ77Kbv11Q00OJ-pakd_wvDoYM14YRKThKTePwkp-I9eLR-Wh5MAbazB9kt92fug1iSBKTluSI-dO3UOxjzOeWCfVZkardtBol5X14srwCqFK31Lhwpt8u3W3EdPr0YCI6cwBv-9-PBbk4Y4Pw/s320/2023-02-16_15-02-25.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Way down at the bottom of the property is this little corner where I began tossing my branches, leaves and brambles many years ago. No uphill work required!</td></tr></tbody></table></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCAPBTzTlipwJCkOWcp_pos_AlRmybYDzYqYHUy6Ha4KNhrCAhGtA34UGWeJ8LeRDvWr-ymoO2V8ogE0P_JIlTVweisKfHHvIXcnXN_K9liTuMZA1e3wfWjacj5cJIXJbN_qEsccEbFNLfUwEoC5ix10B2DffwvrqtusdO3sOWo5NWilibEhl89Ca5Q/s1000/2017-12-15_14-49-30-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCAPBTzTlipwJCkOWcp_pos_AlRmybYDzYqYHUy6Ha4KNhrCAhGtA34UGWeJ8LeRDvWr-ymoO2V8ogE0P_JIlTVweisKfHHvIXcnXN_K9liTuMZA1e3wfWjacj5cJIXJbN_qEsccEbFNLfUwEoC5ix10B2DffwvrqtusdO3sOWo5NWilibEhl89Ca5Q/s320/2017-12-15_14-49-30-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's the opposite -- the location of the old garage nearly at the top of the property. The debris piles have begun!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjge1Qoj0YQpApxGeiLDmOCYIqzC-BcoLieUdhEcCtYlJmJaCYHn2Y0xqZV4zCkw4POjhr0XsVvAdlGJsv4RnbNhUWpx2vyKd-VQumTsVt6U-XMSadh8j_2oj9WaJOW9F8RTkSMJ-VMUUUjiO-9r0oEy8MLDFgAeUYpScxwy9CU7uO8GfDjRN1I-K0jnQ/s1000/2021-10-19_17-11-00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjge1Qoj0YQpApxGeiLDmOCYIqzC-BcoLieUdhEcCtYlJmJaCYHn2Y0xqZV4zCkw4POjhr0XsVvAdlGJsv4RnbNhUWpx2vyKd-VQumTsVt6U-XMSadh8j_2oj9WaJOW9F8RTkSMJ-VMUUUjiO-9r0oEy8MLDFgAeUYpScxwy9CU7uO8GfDjRN1I-K0jnQ/s320/2021-10-19_17-11-00.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So neat and tidy, unlike my toss-'em-and-leave-'em handiwork. In the background, there I am, on a downward trek.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7xIDXIB5UfkABaFTtn180DH-llvKI6vNcTIuM_yY7-K6iMIpvqff0EubEk-Wrpdm94W8LwTCT_51j2wnRO-4-qFicV7EL_L5MWDJ-N6BSGOLTUwmuAFdLn-AW8ljnN4qT0KEN0zsNg9Wj8QIYzVK0n3xw1lAKM7t1mqETAmfXZW-fbyVMWiX7GtHBQ/s1000/2021-10-19_16-51-50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7xIDXIB5UfkABaFTtn180DH-llvKI6vNcTIuM_yY7-K6iMIpvqff0EubEk-Wrpdm94W8LwTCT_51j2wnRO-4-qFicV7EL_L5MWDJ-N6BSGOLTUwmuAFdLn-AW8ljnN4qT0KEN0zsNg9Wj8QIYzVK0n3xw1lAKM7t1mqETAmfXZW-fbyVMWiX7GtHBQ/s320/2021-10-19_16-51-50.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A well-behaved fire at the top of the hill burns out. Unfortunately, we have no photos of the Terrifying Inferno. We were otherwise occupied.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7xIDXIB5UfkABaFTtn180DH-llvKI6vNcTIuM_yY7-K6iMIpvqff0EubEk-Wrpdm94W8LwTCT_51j2wnRO-4-qFicV7EL_L5MWDJ-N6BSGOLTUwmuAFdLn-AW8ljnN4qT0KEN0zsNg9Wj8QIYzVK0n3xw1lAKM7t1mqETAmfXZW-fbyVMWiX7GtHBQ/s1000/2021-10-19_16-51-50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidClaqLE9E74QGgrVZMQqqpNVxZp2WSgZ8Uhnr8cwZesGwwWChZQuhkaW1QhACrmSFKeOMFCGE-FkpLARhXYe1zjpGR507yHLDt3AN32_8rovX-Q4HeI9fJq8oGryYELYcsMBwOU_iJUHQbVF5dC17vN2wzfaAQj2Mkfj7qjFAkRgW4i3XvSvGC3QMQ/s1000/2016-06-20_18-43-47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidClaqLE9E74QGgrVZMQqqpNVxZp2WSgZ8Uhnr8cwZesGwwWChZQuhkaW1QhACrmSFKeOMFCGE-FkpLARhXYe1zjpGR507yHLDt3AN32_8rovX-Q4HeI9fJq8oGryYELYcsMBwOU_iJUHQbVF5dC17vN2wzfaAQj2Mkfj7qjFAkRgW4i3XvSvGC3QMQ/s320/2016-06-20_18-43-47.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me again. Up the hill!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFykCzRwNSod2KBtW4bSlzEXPsdHdWCRvCbWZihgTzrUbQfAQ230PHZPnZWcVO66WNO4Yu4n7uvb-_OWUibAKBkRlpaZl2eXaWE15D65t5rPrikqohXO7u9GdUHBkPHRJWglP34gr7exHhLLg9zi4ra7hLg05smulNCigOIXVSrI--B59dPMJC-iDGIQ/s1000/2023-02-16_14-59-52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="1000" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFykCzRwNSod2KBtW4bSlzEXPsdHdWCRvCbWZihgTzrUbQfAQ230PHZPnZWcVO66WNO4Yu4n7uvb-_OWUibAKBkRlpaZl2eXaWE15D65t5rPrikqohXO7u9GdUHBkPHRJWglP34gr7exHhLLg9zi4ra7hLg05smulNCigOIXVSrI--B59dPMJC-iDGIQ/s320/2023-02-16_14-59-52.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On our latest trip to Saltspring, we moved the debris pile back to the lower part of the property. This view from the balcony shows the burn pile in its original location, with my old "wildlife refuge" in the background.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvGZ-azU-eJIqEvaXERTk9v99JGEeY0t627TtV9VrI8EtmcWpuG3VmXD6m7qjmBJdiQfdmpLB2Hnmnl0ezP3P_L3Rs4pehrYR0vrCeFWkKsIjQ-3w8gIR7zGDDPPT2dS13MizscuyDl3Hnxge0zn9Vz2spDYFs2rf7iKAB0s2fRCLSw_LiJ81T5VAxQ/s1000/2023-02-15_13-14-24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvGZ-azU-eJIqEvaXERTk9v99JGEeY0t627TtV9VrI8EtmcWpuG3VmXD6m7qjmBJdiQfdmpLB2Hnmnl0ezP3P_L3Rs4pehrYR0vrCeFWkKsIjQ-3w8gIR7zGDDPPT2dS13MizscuyDl3Hnxge0zn9Vz2spDYFs2rf7iKAB0s2fRCLSw_LiJ81T5VAxQ/s320/2023-02-15_13-14-24.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The debris pile back in the old burning location.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglP29m4NSezM2n0RNTq2cLLjuRbEHcdy_wEI4VCsnLvEc-GjEmC7Jm_9OuRABTgwXxn55XfD-z-WV78ZqfCVGJ5su66TnYr0er6I28cP9PMqFQWRDsmKZvthDVkbkA3H4YEKwqAVv3AGZjpN3UJZa-dsCb581fIDhLpj2ftE5fB5MdEWkYdHKAq9QTw/s1000/2023-02-15_14-21-25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglP29m4NSezM2n0RNTq2cLLjuRbEHcdy_wEI4VCsnLvEc-GjEmC7Jm_9OuRABTgwXxn55XfD-z-WV78ZqfCVGJ5su66TnYr0er6I28cP9PMqFQWRDsmKZvthDVkbkA3H4YEKwqAVv3AGZjpN3UJZa-dsCb581fIDhLpj2ftE5fB5MdEWkYdHKAq9QTw/s320/2023-02-15_14-21-25.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John keeps a close watch, hose in hand. Hopefully, there is some water pressure if needed.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4srMnhy3dUrBoqMhCa1Oaaw9MiNbeXnSbARH2giMQxS40JGXmwF-XvuQT2Iz5icHaQLrxSNYikXE34iumHpFPpfYVjCv4VrNgeRPUNNkprrbcrcY7vttYb68sn3us1qPv5fdXxUBxFX2N9Q6LZ5PdOHURWrsFilDWpvWtS2YWtoBytsY0rVzY1zcag/s1000/2023-02-16_14-56-44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4srMnhy3dUrBoqMhCa1Oaaw9MiNbeXnSbARH2giMQxS40JGXmwF-XvuQT2Iz5icHaQLrxSNYikXE34iumHpFPpfYVjCv4VrNgeRPUNNkprrbcrcY7vttYb68sn3us1qPv5fdXxUBxFX2N9Q6LZ5PdOHURWrsFilDWpvWtS2YWtoBytsY0rVzY1zcag/s320/2023-02-16_14-56-44.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I am, piling on more debris for the next big burn pile. There's always more to come.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-82879478849159537352023-01-19T23:11:00.000-08:002023-01-19T23:11:25.779-08:00Waving goodbye<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScYIC-aCxI4N2xjEW-A5yi5CeSBcBjCi6yrQqLUvxEiqwrz7EblCIwiwdAu27c1RGTXZJL9RIn9LcLqn9XKG-sIRut4RN_H5joYe3dwqAhVKM_apZlswnHX36jh0IRxbYgMwUeMk6TU8eDqMGI3d_KrLTMS9WbVPNRNSRzfU2zsFmdkgSoBoJwmHmaA/s2016/IMG_1043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgScYIC-aCxI4N2xjEW-A5yi5CeSBcBjCi6yrQqLUvxEiqwrz7EblCIwiwdAu27c1RGTXZJL9RIn9LcLqn9XKG-sIRut4RN_H5joYe3dwqAhVKM_apZlswnHX36jh0IRxbYgMwUeMk6TU8eDqMGI3d_KrLTMS9WbVPNRNSRzfU2zsFmdkgSoBoJwmHmaA/s320/IMG_1043.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving and Waving, a new photo show at the Polygon Gallery, brought back memories of farewells with my own parents.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BIouwWFfOZxsK1RQ7UKlIMf7osS0l_KUH0IYBUVf84_51OuRy76C7S-sdv6ePyYjdaW8P_ynIbsoFP83eZNzJD9_1LGn-1JKNsmF7pRyTKVQbwFSg9HCq_-u0CemeoICc5m6enmO5J52xAA0IoJtG3hJrsKmomKdE9a0X9Q95Ol3d9PQTat425GFfg/s2016/IMG_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BIouwWFfOZxsK1RQ7UKlIMf7osS0l_KUH0IYBUVf84_51OuRy76C7S-sdv6ePyYjdaW8P_ynIbsoFP83eZNzJD9_1LGn-1JKNsmF7pRyTKVQbwFSg9HCq_-u0CemeoICc5m6enmO5J52xAA0IoJtG3hJrsKmomKdE9a0X9Q95Ol3d9PQTat425GFfg/s320/IMG_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For 27 years, U.S. photographer Deanna Dikeman took photos of her parents at the end of her visits to them, starting in 1991.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">There was always a moment at the end of my parents’ visits
when I didn’t quite want to say goodbye –they were old after all, and what if this
was the last time? Stretching things out a bit, I’d walk them to their car and
stand there waving them off.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Those moments came back to me Thursday night at a Polygon
Gallery show recording 27 years of just such waves. Over all those years, Deanna
Dikeman snapped photos of her parents waving goodbye after her periodic visits
to their home in Sioux City, Iowa.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">In 1991, her parents look cheerful and strong. In 2009,
there are a curious number of goodbye waves: Many visits? Some problem? And then there is only one parent – her mother
– waving farewell from the open garage. As the years go on, her mother’s face
gets sadder – it’s worse and worse to let her daughter go. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">In 2017, the photos are taken in a care home, her mother surrounded
by the flowery brightness intended to leaven the sadness of such places. The
final photo of the series is of the family home, garage closed. There’s nobody
left to wave goodbye.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">After my father died in March of 1995, my mother drove herself
out to our place for lunch in dad's familiar car. It was when she was leaving, one
person walking alone to that car when there had always been two, that I truly
felt the departure I’d always dreaded. But there was my mother, bravely
carrying on alone.<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"> I waved.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGfhiEeKCaPeECEJ8TQ1hueX5S3PUc4027C8CaABAcxuwHhvtQ0Zeoc_5RjaPGY-_4c9tbIvbAY8dUM9fs3fndro5ZYQnj3hgnc7h-x_Tk-Z3QujBbCuHs_QOl94mKDR1kzUYofNa5Vfwv6GfV54AU5Ju6RhFCb5Np2nhZh5_N7c6qR69qFPzaDvoMw/s2016/IMG_1030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGfhiEeKCaPeECEJ8TQ1hueX5S3PUc4027C8CaABAcxuwHhvtQ0Zeoc_5RjaPGY-_4c9tbIvbAY8dUM9fs3fndro5ZYQnj3hgnc7h-x_Tk-Z3QujBbCuHs_QOl94mKDR1kzUYofNa5Vfwv6GfV54AU5Ju6RhFCb5Np2nhZh5_N7c6qR69qFPzaDvoMw/s320/IMG_1030.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the last photo of Dikeman's parents waving her goodbye together. Her father died in 2009, aged 91.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsD_jt6KHoix45BBX5tSRaWLKkjx1URyCtV-v5VE_wP0ofgvouBtb-TPGUW1NRsMMHPtYy_i-rZxd-Zymq0fJHKbHOvREBApPprZwpDIq-OvOYRsC9aEHeShqI-kUqdzdIcnV4VMreD5IxygOapBNLAwks9efEe3xYeagn6ziY6u6xsCLZzddNDSroQ/s2016/IMG_1033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsD_jt6KHoix45BBX5tSRaWLKkjx1URyCtV-v5VE_wP0ofgvouBtb-TPGUW1NRsMMHPtYy_i-rZxd-Zymq0fJHKbHOvREBApPprZwpDIq-OvOYRsC9aEHeShqI-kUqdzdIcnV4VMreD5IxygOapBNLAwks9efEe3xYeagn6ziY6u6xsCLZzddNDSroQ/s320/IMG_1033.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now her mom says goodbye alone.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsD_jt6KHoix45BBX5tSRaWLKkjx1URyCtV-v5VE_wP0ofgvouBtb-TPGUW1NRsMMHPtYy_i-rZxd-Zymq0fJHKbHOvREBApPprZwpDIq-OvOYRsC9aEHeShqI-kUqdzdIcnV4VMreD5IxygOapBNLAwks9efEe3xYeagn6ziY6u6xsCLZzddNDSroQ/s2016/IMG_1033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWFEgNVtUPyeAt05NfItxFVw54OifBi-m5F2qUnZXqKDVsXd_EAK3ax2nL2MURXpcW1nWCAJshkD_u7TAKu60qbkxi5S1I9oBfHU9UCxG7LMpXuuXbzkLk16PMNqY2lA-mWYOwlCy9khlG1ziiagjuKYdZykB9gDcMCYbcDjDI9s6ndhmLJH8sRYxXA/s2016/IMG_1032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWFEgNVtUPyeAt05NfItxFVw54OifBi-m5F2qUnZXqKDVsXd_EAK3ax2nL2MURXpcW1nWCAJshkD_u7TAKu60qbkxi5S1I9oBfHU9UCxG7LMpXuuXbzkLk16PMNqY2lA-mWYOwlCy9khlG1ziiagjuKYdZykB9gDcMCYbcDjDI9s6ndhmLJH8sRYxXA/s320/IMG_1032.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She looks sadder as the years go along.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJQ3dbc66yiD9p0r7diw5rrxZF8tv_tw2jerSYoLKZhgTGk-iFQuVgmFnVY2v5q_ASWfftgwHHHhgF_Xh-vJ-WAC2EAVkQ_r1qA9Uow7yKAeBD1NlN2M99r8Kyt2hVAo9nxpiNbqCJ-6IMxQMkXi_Ty61eD0-6b2yklhXR46XbtgwrDZOCdwrYLvBGA/s2016/IMG_1040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJQ3dbc66yiD9p0r7diw5rrxZF8tv_tw2jerSYoLKZhgTGk-iFQuVgmFnVY2v5q_ASWfftgwHHHhgF_Xh-vJ-WAC2EAVkQ_r1qA9Uow7yKAeBD1NlN2M99r8Kyt2hVAo9nxpiNbqCJ-6IMxQMkXi_Ty61eD0-6b2yklhXR46XbtgwrDZOCdwrYLvBGA/s320/IMG_1040.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally, she says goodbye from the door of her care home, where she moved in 2017. She died the same year.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXzZPrHvvdpjVtYUNcTFR2vqFoGQqo2hUmt6ubGs4dtBRH2cv1-YVDsPriKny4XhWlTgfVRGYr2t8RWgZu5S7MwbRHCTdUSBglPWbFIUFa1pKB_nGaAdkxbDRFqdX-urXzfDoPPDYMWjKBM231eKQN4biOXl0Nhqm5oGy-QLPngb_tAkWa-IWAJtMxw/s2016/IMG_1038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXzZPrHvvdpjVtYUNcTFR2vqFoGQqo2hUmt6ubGs4dtBRH2cv1-YVDsPriKny4XhWlTgfVRGYr2t8RWgZu5S7MwbRHCTdUSBglPWbFIUFa1pKB_nGaAdkxbDRFqdX-urXzfDoPPDYMWjKBM231eKQN4biOXl0Nhqm5oGy-QLPngb_tAkWa-IWAJtMxw/s320/IMG_1038.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's no one to wave farewell at the family home anymore.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bF3gdDSlTCjQC9WSW9y0WFSWak-dvWs7siUvABUCDypepcOVoQPbgvJXqf3N7-kghpPHcLcxFyoiL8tRvZaXRtTykXdETlcLgqJ_1pkBX8wTTWFuk1z_7ztGtGiGDGxRwp8sfIb8AOw-_Jz5aAW_fri7bO26bt2dV9JM8DSfgmAlvRiW3EGTRHL3Yg/s2016/IMG_1042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bF3gdDSlTCjQC9WSW9y0WFSWak-dvWs7siUvABUCDypepcOVoQPbgvJXqf3N7-kghpPHcLcxFyoiL8tRvZaXRtTykXdETlcLgqJ_1pkBX8wTTWFuk1z_7ztGtGiGDGxRwp8sfIb8AOw-_Jz5aAW_fri7bO26bt2dV9JM8DSfgmAlvRiW3EGTRHL3Yg/s320/IMG_1042.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sequential photos of 27 years of visits were set out on a shelf at the Polygon Gallery. You could walk from 1991 to 2017 and see the seasons and people change.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bF3gdDSlTCjQC9WSW9y0WFSWak-dvWs7siUvABUCDypepcOVoQPbgvJXqf3N7-kghpPHcLcxFyoiL8tRvZaXRtTykXdETlcLgqJ_1pkBX8wTTWFuk1z_7ztGtGiGDGxRwp8sfIb8AOw-_Jz5aAW_fri7bO26bt2dV9JM8DSfgmAlvRiW3EGTRHL3Yg/s2016/IMG_1042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-68702108870263022342023-01-15T22:31:00.000-08:002023-01-15T22:31:38.252-08:00Treats<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbwS8tYKj3dAsMAGj_WvGJ97Yt8PSomyLLHoJghi2hgmuBNNLGrucy5FuyMvYBOFtquApGc72pr43Bdw4lhnDEVPIaScV4YFQ3JLgHonOesl-k7TD_ZTI7hlY1UFWojCbS1ne67ydZVIg-JFPvrPveeWIGiqbUV2I1UHOY5j8vxA-yzzgmmAwRZ_BmeQ/s640/IMG_0987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbwS8tYKj3dAsMAGj_WvGJ97Yt8PSomyLLHoJghi2hgmuBNNLGrucy5FuyMvYBOFtquApGc72pr43Bdw4lhnDEVPIaScV4YFQ3JLgHonOesl-k7TD_ZTI7hlY1UFWojCbS1ne67ydZVIg-JFPvrPveeWIGiqbUV2I1UHOY5j8vxA-yzzgmmAwRZ_BmeQ/w400-h300/IMG_0987.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When life gives you lemons, go to a West Vancouver pastry shop and order coffee and cake. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5i8lXZAfynsZWqhCCTdNvPpbyRd5PWFwVyr-utI6vs7L2xe-Iw6RappDn0PFY4u_bfz5yRW5e8pq1J1Srl0Tea4yqw-fhc8kNhmNX_lOyW8yYLck3PdtJwxCcFYxf4CcfJtSrPHoC1rzQmRmO6ArzTqJKIMd37hAzSy6LZyO9bo9cTtkoUWVad7tmCw/s1200/2023-01-15_11-27-26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5i8lXZAfynsZWqhCCTdNvPpbyRd5PWFwVyr-utI6vs7L2xe-Iw6RappDn0PFY4u_bfz5yRW5e8pq1J1Srl0Tea4yqw-fhc8kNhmNX_lOyW8yYLck3PdtJwxCcFYxf4CcfJtSrPHoC1rzQmRmO6ArzTqJKIMd37hAzSy6LZyO9bo9cTtkoUWVad7tmCw/w400-h266/2023-01-15_11-27-26.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then tour the West Vancouver seawall, where if you're John Denniston, you'll get a photo like this. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">When John and I have had enough – of medical stuff, of being
in the house too much, of the routine, of the relentless bad news on our news
sites – we look at each other and say: “Cake!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Off we go to Temper Chocolate and Pastry in Dundarave for coffee and hazelnut and chocolate cake, our first treat. Our
second is a walk along the West Vancouver seawall, where the people promenade, the birds bob, and an eagle often keeps watch.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes our treats work out better than others: the bridge
traffic can be horrendous, our favourite cake can be gone, the seawall can be lashed
with cold rain. This Sunday, the traffic was clear, the cake was plentiful, and
the seawall beautiful, with a high tide that brought the ducks within a few
feet of our faces.<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">Here are some photos from our day of treats:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2XCK7Pu77aF_FpR2dcT5MLLlbUv9smp_cHSBZqziY63U9ijAYJ6fq8qNF5V8v8RKoo2j4S7VAOwF3S9YnHqNc_RQKDMBkx91vxym-fcOjCB8T7XBCFOZBa7dTcmSa3cE2S7VSXK91GolL2ups8LG5YjBNzb7YulPD6-e1Kp0PThLVuW43-LyVqgmSw/s1200/2023-01-15_11-06-43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2XCK7Pu77aF_FpR2dcT5MLLlbUv9smp_cHSBZqziY63U9ijAYJ6fq8qNF5V8v8RKoo2j4S7VAOwF3S9YnHqNc_RQKDMBkx91vxym-fcOjCB8T7XBCFOZBa7dTcmSa3cE2S7VSXK91GolL2ups8LG5YjBNzb7YulPD6-e1Kp0PThLVuW43-LyVqgmSw/w400-h266/2023-01-15_11-06-43.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The high tide brought the ocean right up to the seawall on Sunday. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjcLJjppmheRy8UC25caIkMBRZp4bs0uS1gyU8t-Qw0fBpEjGcr383KU1p09o0fniMbeWzWKzDioJFhhWdBg8UQzhs8KIgTQlRTx3nUWz4uOZHYaF8TvNZ8fy5grb8LOKynZHY5msDrDnxH44bXbhO0ItxyPKOKCctchovnenHtLDg4WNPGAmzEx_tw/s1200/2023-01-15_12-15-08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="1200" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjcLJjppmheRy8UC25caIkMBRZp4bs0uS1gyU8t-Qw0fBpEjGcr383KU1p09o0fniMbeWzWKzDioJFhhWdBg8UQzhs8KIgTQlRTx3nUWz4uOZHYaF8TvNZ8fy5grb8LOKynZHY5msDrDnxH44bXbhO0ItxyPKOKCctchovnenHtLDg4WNPGAmzEx_tw/w400-h261/2023-01-15_12-15-08.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A row of ducks floated just feet away, cleverly keeping in single file. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J--IZTt0U66bye-tnr-wMx5RYVGVomcfRbgdXfU9lxV5TM_zx2eaJ6oElHJWxpDK56X0ON6srBuvTwNK6pb2VRtOimXM9wuetceTTZduFPtvgEPL-_iqzo49C7Yr20wauboBSdnOVBYhzqRKifPDEtR8vM4qqeY8bKODxORwJqjBXHWanzYXx_2iJw/s1200/2023-01-15_12-40-07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J--IZTt0U66bye-tnr-wMx5RYVGVomcfRbgdXfU9lxV5TM_zx2eaJ6oElHJWxpDK56X0ON6srBuvTwNK6pb2VRtOimXM9wuetceTTZduFPtvgEPL-_iqzo49C7Yr20wauboBSdnOVBYhzqRKifPDEtR8vM4qqeY8bKODxORwJqjBXHWanzYXx_2iJw/w400-h266/2023-01-15_12-40-07.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little drive took us to Pilot House Road in West Vancouver, where a freighter seemed to float within swimming distance. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbouMT6fH-1K-MlnQTjGeF_oO2ojqaZFmVTn2YDldd-xwidcfIjDbEcsfPt__L49kPHTiH737iDFIBNZ1BIqXN47Z7U0P5Y0UHS5bSxSKu0jS0oDwxFPHDZY-gAG3FqpTWotSkG3xeOi5zD3pRXyRwg1x2XoIpQ2kWftkD0YIouO7DPy2XA7o3bTM-Q/s2016/IMG_0984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbouMT6fH-1K-MlnQTjGeF_oO2ojqaZFmVTn2YDldd-xwidcfIjDbEcsfPt__L49kPHTiH737iDFIBNZ1BIqXN47Z7U0P5Y0UHS5bSxSKu0jS0oDwxFPHDZY-gAG3FqpTWotSkG3xeOi5zD3pRXyRwg1x2XoIpQ2kWftkD0YIouO7DPy2XA7o3bTM-Q/w400-h300/IMG_0984.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to where we started; a closeup of that hazelnut cake.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-66908886767812557002023-01-11T17:01:00.000-08:002023-01-11T17:01:34.546-08:00Once a newspaper photographer...<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDPsFoj-i4wDrYA6HC9mwB4MOn-3vmjlFWUZa66Q-_cnqyGnGnvFTU3isk04VX_kZsKcmmjw3SPjbpKBITkLYLHof2h0jVEueh0EBB_JoW-xrrp-16K140SGI5NTjUei6DKqLo8aGnJTRiI-5lsJWckyBIIO0NVjlRmxEz2rrfdLrN5A1vy4asRMdSA/s1200/2023-01-10_14-10-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDPsFoj-i4wDrYA6HC9mwB4MOn-3vmjlFWUZa66Q-_cnqyGnGnvFTU3isk04VX_kZsKcmmjw3SPjbpKBITkLYLHof2h0jVEueh0EBB_JoW-xrrp-16K140SGI5NTjUei6DKqLo8aGnJTRiI-5lsJWckyBIIO0NVjlRmxEz2rrfdLrN5A1vy4asRMdSA/s320/2023-01-10_14-10-18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When John spotted this man clipping a neighbour's plants, his old newspapering instincts kicked in. Photos by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuafYgS1D8KrbeYEdyzrrsjhvkvdSSg5szvfYdYQhs9HROeixqmIfaLkjUeHqEVj3WBB6xSq2DKr6nUCeZlG-XWk83IESP4JGKn2G_zQ8EIYhYua3t8Y5D9YInlhiwsD3wiJqyak4XZni-zt0WKXOCBXqDwtNDvt6kKxv_wmu2wU6gwCjO_9q1sp8pbQ/s1200/2023-01-10_14-10-52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuafYgS1D8KrbeYEdyzrrsjhvkvdSSg5szvfYdYQhs9HROeixqmIfaLkjUeHqEVj3WBB6xSq2DKr6nUCeZlG-XWk83IESP4JGKn2G_zQ8EIYhYua3t8Y5D9YInlhiwsD3wiJqyak4XZni-zt0WKXOCBXqDwtNDvt6kKxv_wmu2wU6gwCjO_9q1sp8pbQ/s320/2023-01-10_14-10-52.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even though John challenged him and was obviously photographing him, the man kept clipping away.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">John has been a patient patient,
abiding strictly by the “no-exertion” rules laid down for his recovery from ear
surgery on Saturday.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But on Tuesday, minutes after
leaving the house for one of the few breaths of fresh air he’s taken so far, there
he was, in full confrontational news-photographer mode.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sharper-eyed than myself, he spotted
a man chopping away at a neighbour’s underbrush with a pair of red secateurs.
The back story is that for the past year, Dunbar residents have been flummoxed
by mysterious attacks on trees, shrubs and other plantings along local
sidewalks. Sometimes the foliage was growing over sidewalks, so there appeared
to be a reason. But sometimes it wasn’t, and beloved trees well away from the
sidewalk were inexplicably lopped.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">John’s newsman instincts kicked
in in a flash. “Stop that!” he yelled, dashing toward the crime scene, cellphone
camera at the ready. “You’re the guy whose been cutting people’s trees!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m cutting these,” the white-haired
man, wearing a baseball cap and a bag slung over his shoulder, said as he
continued snipping away. Barely looking up, he almost posed for the series of
photographs that John began taking. Then, after a heated exchange between him and
John, he drifted away across the intersection.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m doing this for disabled people and seniors
and strollers,” he called back. “Sidewalks are supposed to be clear.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; tab-stops: 45.8pt 91.6pt 137.4pt 183.2pt 229.0pt 274.8pt 320.6pt 366.4pt 412.2pt 458.0pt 503.8pt 549.6pt 595.4pt 641.2pt 687.0pt 732.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We still don’t know who the man
is, whether he’s responsible for the previous clipping work, or what to do
about him. But we do know that a retired newspaper photographer, even an
under-the-weather one, can go from zero to 120 in a couple of seconds if a good
story pops up.</span></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-19962155846656711252023-01-09T21:18:00.000-08:002023-01-09T21:18:43.855-08:00Of magic and cats<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYiT78wBy2IclHPzfZmhoX_9Iw8eMW912JhHqe4E0hCT7YaGbvwPnA6Wg_1_sQ40k5C2Enjf01pafju5Qi7-ZQjxKjUc_3AptY9ciBCUYFNqqJqlxoS7PJEKVDMQs7O9v4Mbj4sOAZZo8Qi8gzzdFTgb1nI2QqxdxoobxmyYbWpry6jEzXwCMim6j8Q/s3264/IMG_6999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYiT78wBy2IclHPzfZmhoX_9Iw8eMW912JhHqe4E0hCT7YaGbvwPnA6Wg_1_sQ40k5C2Enjf01pafju5Qi7-ZQjxKjUc_3AptY9ciBCUYFNqqJqlxoS7PJEKVDMQs7O9v4Mbj4sOAZZo8Qi8gzzdFTgb1nI2QqxdxoobxmyYbWpry6jEzXwCMim6j8Q/s320/IMG_6999.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My desk mementoes include a stuffed knit cat (forefront) made by my friend Linda. My grandniece got another one, and thereby lies a tale.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal">Several years ago, my friend Linda was knitting little stuffed
cats – three inches tall, with cunning little tails that curled up or curled
down – and giving them away as gifts. Mine, which lives on my desk with other
mementoes, is green, white, and blue stripes, with orange eyes and tail-tip.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the other recipients was my grandniece Emi, now 8,
who I recently learned had a sad story concerning her cat. Apparently, she’d
become extremely attached to it – her mom said it was the perfect size to carry
around in her jacket and backpack, and it kept her company wherever she went. But
one day the cat disappeared on the school bus and couldn’t be found.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Emi, whose world view includes the real potential of magic,
thought that might be the solution. Every so often, her mom said, she’d ask
whether “magical characters” might be able to find her cat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then with Christmas approaching, she seized on
another possibility. Could Santa (who after all can fly all over the world
distributing presents to every girl and boy) find the kitty and bring it back?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, he missed his chance at Christmas, but when Emi’s mom
told me the story, I passed it on to Linda.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But I have cats!” she
said. “I made some extra who never found homes and just tucked them away. I can
give both Emi and her sister their own cats!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The news made Emi’s day, her mom reported. Not only does she
get a cat, but now she knows for sure that magical characters (who knit tiny cats) do exist.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIk6scVePb2pwFAU34IOTL8kXgYkSV_S4Ab_fHKenT_xO6kwwdvBTi65vMr3CVYdQMO67fi9iu9PNkMOuQ2sXmojKHAT_b19WCu8mtRIsm4DtqYCCm3oJxZoI9sE85abuxp3tYuJhcN0oFUxipjImOTl99EDTie0z9KE0S0CbrEg9WzwdKPpSYOZfKYA/s3264/image0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIk6scVePb2pwFAU34IOTL8kXgYkSV_S4Ab_fHKenT_xO6kwwdvBTi65vMr3CVYdQMO67fi9iu9PNkMOuQ2sXmojKHAT_b19WCu8mtRIsm4DtqYCCm3oJxZoI9sE85abuxp3tYuJhcN0oFUxipjImOTl99EDTie0z9KE0S0CbrEg9WzwdKPpSYOZfKYA/s320/image0.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linda's extra cats <span style="text-align: left;">–</span> one tail up, one tail down <span style="text-align: left;">–</span> will go to Emi and her sister.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-37327682763656923002023-01-08T21:41:00.000-08:002023-01-08T21:41:27.668-08:00John van Gogh<p> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRllp9ymQ3WShO1raPoRGb-giS7GjILWekhp_nU7053YlYGt7mt9U7y36_jtFr_5owXrgLVLpkwKBUPNmyPsfsFT7_bkhtN6eYOHV-Nidx9NRhfSBQ33YSAzGMEiSTdz4eP6lHirWk0WRRaBJrdykXv5lBnluuClGHnk0jBGbn4FYJLFj2AHTm7du2ZA/s1544/IMG_6067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1544" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRllp9ymQ3WShO1raPoRGb-giS7GjILWekhp_nU7053YlYGt7mt9U7y36_jtFr_5owXrgLVLpkwKBUPNmyPsfsFT7_bkhtN6eYOHV-Nidx9NRhfSBQ33YSAzGMEiSTdz4eP6lHirWk0WRRaBJrdykXv5lBnluuClGHnk0jBGbn4FYJLFj2AHTm7du2ZA/s320/IMG_6067.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John can't resist taking a picture of his bandaged ear after dermatological surgery on Saturday. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFINxGJAA7595qmhfli3bJ6p5VD0Fl2waKpdzuEYoQIC9orYG_fqrOikI8UZjFZQNa8r4w7MF3Rho8zhmKfg88IfzI5UxdQe3PzGwDiWlUGu6Io2fd2AjTPNpyStGX0H6bQbO03FqSyE57ubf1v3BDg-ozv1WT-K4aPEkFzNYQTBJ3bMjmfYdPHkYCSw/s624/IMG_2842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="624" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFINxGJAA7595qmhfli3bJ6p5VD0Fl2waKpdzuEYoQIC9orYG_fqrOikI8UZjFZQNa8r4w7MF3Rho8zhmKfg88IfzI5UxdQe3PzGwDiWlUGu6Io2fd2AjTPNpyStGX0H6bQbO03FqSyE57ubf1v3BDg-ozv1WT-K4aPEkFzNYQTBJ3bMjmfYdPHkYCSw/s320/IMG_2842.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look familiar? Vincent van Gogh painted Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear in January 1889.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>When John came home from dermatological surgery on his ear,
what’s the first thing he did? Photographed himself with a bandage covering it so
completely that his ear appeared to have vanished.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">One hundred and thirty-four years ago, to the month, Dutch
painter Vincent van Gogh produced an eerily similar portrait of himself. His 1889
bandage is bigger and clumsier, covering the side of his face from hat to chin,
as well as the ear that he’d mutilated. Stories about the incident differ – it was
a fit of mania, a fight with his housemate Paul Gauguin, or anxiety over financial
support. He either lopped off his ear lobe only, or nearly his entire ear; and
he gave the appendage to either a maid or a prostitute.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">John’s story lacks the drama of a century of myth-making; the
doctors were just excising some questionable tissue, and did a fine stitching
job under that skin-coloured bandage.<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">But it’s interesting to look at the similarity of these
pictures 134 years apart. Two visual artists, two damaged ears and what’s their
response? Make a self-portrait.<o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-19593391255120803172022-12-31T19:52:00.003-08:002022-12-31T22:01:23.576-08:002022: Done!<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6U7GjXL1102zAikLnCeoEuaMwTTxEdR4t8WlvAG-w1NNEM-MEScmKq6V3ZiDxUNnbWKc5AMKUn9-6ZMNn_JV_PKGSBb4qzQ3d7HTjUUMzDblfAJh76aD8SUaz9H6Es4KU8md0ecqwt-_H9wGNl4EJrs0Qdx5P5fkGI-3t2jetpAfYnvYLF_tOQ9upMg/s1000/2022-12-30_15-51-30.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6U7GjXL1102zAikLnCeoEuaMwTTxEdR4t8WlvAG-w1NNEM-MEScmKq6V3ZiDxUNnbWKc5AMKUn9-6ZMNn_JV_PKGSBb4qzQ3d7HTjUUMzDblfAJh76aD8SUaz9H6Es4KU8md0ecqwt-_H9wGNl4EJrs0Qdx5P5fkGI-3t2jetpAfYnvYLF_tOQ9upMg/w266-h400/2022-12-30_15-51-30.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just resting after a trying year. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Apparently,
I’m not the only one happy to see the end of 2022.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">According
to an early-December Leger poll, 31 percent of respondents thought 2022 was
even worse than plague-fraught 2021; only 21 percent said it was better. The
main reasons: inflation, soaring costs of living and the war in Ukraine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Those
aren’t quite my reasons, but count me among the Canadians happy to rip the 2022
calendar off my wall. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There were
bright spots – a siblings’ get-together in the spring, the production of three
community newsletters, several perfect summer weeks on Saltspring. But the
downsides were many. I’m among the many Baby Boomers gaining a new
understanding of why our aging parents talked so much about medical issues and
dying: Now it’s our turn. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That sad
reality was brought to the fore by the death of my youngest brother in June, just
months before his 67<sup>th</sup> birthday. The five “little” Volkart kids are
now four senior citizens.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Add the
continuing COVID crisis, which cuts down on activities and family connections;
crazy weather that sounds the alarm on climate change, and a fall civic
election that drew only one-third of voters to the ballot box despite the many crucial
issues at stake. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Leger poll found</span> a hint of optimism among its respondents: 34 percent believe
2023 will be better than 2022, while only 22 percent think it will be worse.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My only prediction for the year ahead is that I will probably spend more time with my feet up.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87kLQSDqLqeDYSpPXl8EhgcUKbSehMIqD17urYIL_ABA3YGB2s6d6keMKFVUob3SGDKBRS5lbjVfs3-eBteJzvxkTPtj89bovneRBiliKGwpaojB3G2n998A_2MeDnFqaHmDerGLmlyyDX0xDrJi5iJeAIMtQA2f6SU8YmOVMVR37mJUaXAQK6BFfMA/s1200/2022-03-24_12-15-21-2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87kLQSDqLqeDYSpPXl8EhgcUKbSehMIqD17urYIL_ABA3YGB2s6d6keMKFVUob3SGDKBRS5lbjVfs3-eBteJzvxkTPtj89bovneRBiliKGwpaojB3G2n998A_2MeDnFqaHmDerGLmlyyDX0xDrJi5iJeAIMtQA2f6SU8YmOVMVR37mJUaXAQK6BFfMA/w400-h266/2022-03-24_12-15-21-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the good times from 2022: My sister Betty from Quebec, me from Vancouver and my brother Brian from Alberta together in Victoria. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFEyYN5EYAaQJLbzFNWoTG5hkt1GO8tLK8nxdF8bZTs79H3RrXMu8RyI5YnZ5ryLdEeiDVvgxetjuFy1XBI7zgT5jrwQfSdknsbyRXwRIs2a2W4kCXvs9lUB5u89MF_2EOnESLYB3NzAPZFkWveCGNO_MsLSDGkWULdJB7SPpc78x3qdbEEC80a97Cg/s1200/1971-00-00_Lougheed_005.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFEyYN5EYAaQJLbzFNWoTG5hkt1GO8tLK8nxdF8bZTs79H3RrXMu8RyI5YnZ5ryLdEeiDVvgxetjuFy1XBI7zgT5jrwQfSdknsbyRXwRIs2a2W4kCXvs9lUB5u89MF_2EOnESLYB3NzAPZFkWveCGNO_MsLSDGkWULdJB7SPpc78x3qdbEEC80a97Cg/s1200/1971-00-00_Lougheed_005.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBdQ4RUTp_6jvf_4pjLx1mXrkbam3_tkYvKzURuA6waBK3PpksBPPeDmWPdhQvju_d0DDqsLFqO5PZHlFWCYMV37h00pO3pzDQBT2l2Lve8MqPL15a-BuvIf1hHaWm_SnhZMlVcMTNkwKoRAI5oZpGjqB179uNAoz7HKmch__suTL_k4hYNfYmmo9Iw/s1200/1971-00-00_Lougheed_005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBdQ4RUTp_6jvf_4pjLx1mXrkbam3_tkYvKzURuA6waBK3PpksBPPeDmWPdhQvju_d0DDqsLFqO5PZHlFWCYMV37h00pO3pzDQBT2l2Lve8MqPL15a-BuvIf1hHaWm_SnhZMlVcMTNkwKoRAI5oZpGjqB179uNAoz7HKmch__suTL_k4hYNfYmmo9Iw/w400-h268/1971-00-00_Lougheed_005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My younger brother Larry, who died this year, would have been about 16 when John photographed him on the family farm in Alberta.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-CVXO_y71DScq9O-G5hESAhhty7grBo-0qgfkJax6oBqFScJEkzV32ssLWJSrmQlLWtKihnZ9P_4rPt2chGx4_-if4qlzC_YGXqJkqyLVB4ygOJGUJwrPwi6rrjAudT2q0RaW7wJ541n62n-P-EfvWds6tGugJjYJgeauRDKBMl3e9Vr_My8Jzn7Gg/s1000/1971-00-00_Lougheed_024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-CVXO_y71DScq9O-G5hESAhhty7grBo-0qgfkJax6oBqFScJEkzV32ssLWJSrmQlLWtKihnZ9P_4rPt2chGx4_-if4qlzC_YGXqJkqyLVB4ygOJGUJwrPwi6rrjAudT2q0RaW7wJ541n62n-P-EfvWds6tGugJjYJgeauRDKBMl3e9Vr_My8Jzn7Gg/w400-h266/1971-00-00_Lougheed_024.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another photo of Larry, loading grain on the farm, in 1971. Photo by John Denniston.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPGD4pd3hJcMfj1CCiyRj6qOmPbYPtMBLeOjmQxbSsm6-aEzjb9erhvlbbqQZ1Wnm8Df3DyNCjFLHPmOWNWzpyNTGCvnwZc0Tf_agdDkPKBmbVgFE7M9bh8pGGo5kX_8mVLUKn6JVKh-KM3ZrVH0srMrAYDY4j0TW1uoVWp1InYVvjzKGfGwEqbqTMQ/s1000/1995-03-20_05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghPGD4pd3hJcMfj1CCiyRj6qOmPbYPtMBLeOjmQxbSsm6-aEzjb9erhvlbbqQZ1Wnm8Df3DyNCjFLHPmOWNWzpyNTGCvnwZc0Tf_agdDkPKBmbVgFE7M9bh8pGGo5kX_8mVLUKn6JVKh-KM3ZrVH0srMrAYDY4j0TW1uoVWp1InYVvjzKGfGwEqbqTMQ/w400-h266/1995-03-20_05.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Betty, Larry, Diane, me and Brian in 1995; the five siblings are now down to four. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUG4yYseOeuGRmHLCjYIPEUYTUzQRKMbaDP8sBUW1MM7KXcnX0Pu7a5NQeBx0aGdJJfpTDlktQxk86uaKErJ5jdIzCHFy2BXTzMY2ArpKgjTN105IgZpcKTh6TQXMij6O3KHGwMy4FjvQRN6ns3tef5dD__zyL29P1CB-yS3eIucBrj3LbDVOc9upymA/s1200/2022-12-24_21-18-11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUG4yYseOeuGRmHLCjYIPEUYTUzQRKMbaDP8sBUW1MM7KXcnX0Pu7a5NQeBx0aGdJJfpTDlktQxk86uaKErJ5jdIzCHFy2BXTzMY2ArpKgjTN105IgZpcKTh6TQXMij6O3KHGwMy4FjvQRN6ns3tef5dD__zyL29P1CB-yS3eIucBrj3LbDVOc9upymA/w400-h266/2022-12-24_21-18-11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little Christmas cheer to end this post on a happier note: John and me with our Christmas tree, made out of a garden obelisk wrapped in Christmas lights. Hopefully, it will be supporting sweet peas this summer -- something to look forward to in 2023!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><br />Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-19997364301294511252022-07-07T22:18:00.000-07:002022-07-07T22:18:14.460-07:00Branching out<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZmwTNELccZ1YildslxdKCuWDMqN_wCubdBFq5a7-hioPRoxjyfGlfiLuls3R4TzyFwx4Z6BJ0iE09yLZe6iydLr2AftapWyvNRK9EgylMB0f9-c2XmCtw5ohEwt4V95KByUA5KKuMGy2CW20EmNthx_K1221X1EJymmrIh-IZvgSjKlUJRwez6Gjzw/s1000/2022-07-07_18-32-19-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZmwTNELccZ1YildslxdKCuWDMqN_wCubdBFq5a7-hioPRoxjyfGlfiLuls3R4TzyFwx4Z6BJ0iE09yLZe6iydLr2AftapWyvNRK9EgylMB0f9-c2XmCtw5ohEwt4V95KByUA5KKuMGy2CW20EmNthx_K1221X1EJymmrIh-IZvgSjKlUJRwez6Gjzw/s320/2022-07-07_18-32-19-2.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journalism in all its guises <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left;">–</span> in my retirement, I'm not only writing a newsletter but also delivering it. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">When I took on the editorship of the Dunbar Residents’
Association’s </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">thrice-yearly newsletter
last fall, I was playing a familiar role. From my basement kingdom, I
interviewed people, dealt with contributors, and edited and proof-read copy –
versions of what I’ve done all my professional career. But now, with three editions
under my belt, I’m expanding my horizons.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Tonight, I joined the crew that stuffs those little
newsletters into 6,000 mail-slots all over Dunbar. Volunteers aren’t always as
plentiful as needed, and daily journalism habits die hard: I wanted that hard
work of mine out there sooner rather than later.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So I strapped on John’s old camera bag, stuffed as
many newsletters into it as my aging back would allow, and launched my career
as a newsletter delivery person. I admit I had concerns. Would people yell at
me for venturing onto private property? Would dogs bark and nip? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mostly, except for one very excitable dog who pounded
his paws on the window in hopes of breaking through, I was ignored. The biggest
challenge was negotiating an astounding variety of front steps – stately and
scary – and mailboxes – rusty, dusty, impenetrable or non-existent. Obviously,
people don’t get much mail these days.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ve never been at the delivery end of newspapering before.
But there was something satisfying about seeing the stories I wrote sliding into
the homes of the people I wrote them for. A gift from my basement kingdom. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For a PDF of the newsletter, go to http://dunbar-vancouver.org/dunbar-newsletters/<o:p></o:p></span></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-31649955930416036292022-05-12T22:11:00.000-07:002022-05-12T22:11:51.999-07:00Cold, wet, and pretty<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s been a long
cold spring in Vancouver, with a recent trough of Arctic air keeping
temperatures well below normal. Today, the wind blew and the rain poured down.
I huddled inside, but at one point looked out the window to notice there’s a
lot of beauty happening out there. Here's some of what I saw:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzeSdpw9X_CF2wxCBaJxirzebvPLPBrdOXQD3t_ejV8S34PuoB0kBo-Rf5HwVhuRaHi4GUU7wYnNxqBLn88KSdSvVYBWo76SEHjZuQiIn4b1leqdMdB1kbSrmdS7blegBRzFrlygMjWQM-MYCZ__pFn16ZPklv_OQ7nYJ6aO44d_X5ZlhLAJYOyyjJw/s3264/IMG_6936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzeSdpw9X_CF2wxCBaJxirzebvPLPBrdOXQD3t_ejV8S34PuoB0kBo-Rf5HwVhuRaHi4GUU7wYnNxqBLn88KSdSvVYBWo76SEHjZuQiIn4b1leqdMdB1kbSrmdS7blegBRzFrlygMjWQM-MYCZ__pFn16ZPklv_OQ7nYJ6aO44d_X5ZlhLAJYOyyjJw/s320/IMG_6936.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our dining-room lamp reflected in the laurel hedge set me noticing that the golden chain tree is about to bloom, and that the neighbours' lit window was a cheerful break in the late-afternoon gloom.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LuIOp0TYyuST8O8edlqtp8QiGKMovBaWKbbHDVXjxbJ7tKvo9CO4zHnZZwEHUcJoNAFEcVLfEgYfYo62posesEqOGsugx-9bPGylgoKxZJl0eRLL-5rZe3z8BRj-XshhqhOS87eJgYOoZPCojPQzoULfDbUJHjlNHaKK3aLULUCFhkmD3Ei3w7Ftmg/s3264/IMG_6943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LuIOp0TYyuST8O8edlqtp8QiGKMovBaWKbbHDVXjxbJ7tKvo9CO4zHnZZwEHUcJoNAFEcVLfEgYfYo62posesEqOGsugx-9bPGylgoKxZJl0eRLL-5rZe3z8BRj-XshhqhOS87eJgYOoZPCojPQzoULfDbUJHjlNHaKK3aLULUCFhkmD3Ei3w7Ftmg/s320/IMG_6943.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sun had decided to spotlight the weeping birch by then, making a nice contrast to the shadowy lilacs outside the back door. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlT7WRSM-Ac9uzh0EA9ZEzwgZ9Z1NfDkowhwJlLXsnLI0wqhkYD1nnVJMb5RXNqI9yuYS3lnM9XkRRzKs-qN2pEkzl8BpvE_Y6JiijbNTLSr3bih7IykmJSC8luh4PadZrVvxyVddU49ojAi1moUf8-Wz3I3CEjmVc5vN6mjR3rg-zCyAaGMY9LHUeFA/s3264/IMG_6939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlT7WRSM-Ac9uzh0EA9ZEzwgZ9Z1NfDkowhwJlLXsnLI0wqhkYD1nnVJMb5RXNqI9yuYS3lnM9XkRRzKs-qN2pEkzl8BpvE_Y6JiijbNTLSr3bih7IykmJSC8luh4PadZrVvxyVddU49ojAi1moUf8-Wz3I3CEjmVc5vN6mjR3rg-zCyAaGMY9LHUeFA/s320/IMG_6939.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilacs and the about-to-bloom snowflake viburnum outside the back door.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5__Hs8N9rVSkmDQi6QftqxW9vgb2heeER7XTsltns95E7q4cImzRirZR6RNnCJwAMXWlMTgusqQQPzMvdA_-t_Cd2WK0M7Htfnd5SD6CuYp2e2y0OPCl-Loap2Pdy2mOiF1ZfquihVeFJrxjqr3hFYtkU_5dY35PS3gImlo6mpOaMPjCGK7w0MzLemQ/s3264/IMG_6941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5__Hs8N9rVSkmDQi6QftqxW9vgb2heeER7XTsltns95E7q4cImzRirZR6RNnCJwAMXWlMTgusqQQPzMvdA_-t_Cd2WK0M7Htfnd5SD6CuYp2e2y0OPCl-Loap2Pdy2mOiF1ZfquihVeFJrxjqr3hFYtkU_5dY35PS3gImlo6mpOaMPjCGK7w0MzLemQ/s320/IMG_6941.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The white bleeding hearts seem very happy in this miserable weather. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rQoP_AA0o5MfyFJrxyVW6dFG23DZeVawvNBoONGvFOu1hcxbg_ekqQJxiq9B1EguAuOqzwdoeHmtjx4pn5LXP9R8VI9cs4tC8NcsHT0duvGbs13GRxQLsFRU3ya7zS5ge6bStWIAyiyK_xirSXpUWZkMc2-VBvrm1F8VqYsuy4-Jemw9ifRqPI3pjQ/s3264/IMG_6942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rQoP_AA0o5MfyFJrxyVW6dFG23DZeVawvNBoONGvFOu1hcxbg_ekqQJxiq9B1EguAuOqzwdoeHmtjx4pn5LXP9R8VI9cs4tC8NcsHT0duvGbs13GRxQLsFRU3ya7zS5ge6bStWIAyiyK_xirSXpUWZkMc2-VBvrm1F8VqYsuy4-Jemw9ifRqPI3pjQ/s320/IMG_6942.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such a strange petunia. I saw it at Southlands nursery recently and plunked it in a planter at the base of the back door. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUjvKyA9wia8cnbswKEQrBgpY9Rpi1pjRlbfMKzES9BfAPbirNuNhI2_gIjTVrtZErNXR3ZFMnKU2JSND1Od3XIFwvcwPdfJoXnc_qv7hw6u4CpBOhDJefoaXJFlCP5BJEDMDH1_2kBvZAMydREVvyTOWXJvjbN5-bNrridDjhSMQk0FjjqV95xD09g/s3264/IMG_6944.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUjvKyA9wia8cnbswKEQrBgpY9Rpi1pjRlbfMKzES9BfAPbirNuNhI2_gIjTVrtZErNXR3ZFMnKU2JSND1Od3XIFwvcwPdfJoXnc_qv7hw6u4CpBOhDJefoaXJFlCP5BJEDMDH1_2kBvZAMydREVvyTOWXJvjbN5-bNrridDjhSMQk0FjjqV95xD09g/s320/IMG_6944.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the front door, the late-afternoon light against a stormy sky accentuated our neighbour's huge evergreen tree and red-tip photinia. Our laurel hedge is in the foreground.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbXqtPhsEXC3K9dbh7yk3eD5bpwTSSHmmen1sQs9T88mn-cO39D38q_SMFvIhfeLm1UySi5yyglt8zmBgXCAfZ-17JJjaVflEkrhTF_mo_F9WTnzbEKwYhhssZX3NcwUcbUOh18rC_bX57HnbuWugi9Y1PTtRmvL124mFhx-4OHEibtrFb_BKMWtZ_Q/s3264/IMG_6945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKbXqtPhsEXC3K9dbh7yk3eD5bpwTSSHmmen1sQs9T88mn-cO39D38q_SMFvIhfeLm1UySi5yyglt8zmBgXCAfZ-17JJjaVflEkrhTF_mo_F9WTnzbEKwYhhssZX3NcwUcbUOh18rC_bX57HnbuWugi9Y1PTtRmvL124mFhx-4OHEibtrFb_BKMWtZ_Q/s320/IMG_6945.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our loyal red azalea, a fixture since we bought our house in the 1970s, is in full bloom outside the front door. Its partner on the other side of the walk gave up and died a couple of years ago; I'm grateful this one is hanging in.</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-27589126393451020032022-04-15T22:12:00.000-07:002022-04-15T22:12:13.035-07:00Easter colours<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91FCT66LNgJ4qwQoHEJ2QPFb-e9Ky1HrJkR7ZfPNOgSCoWXcOVWDoqHO3gOTaciZo5RkLIEyvTFx6tKeUSaggj0spGyGLWtWxVxseqsEcM9vwSP9s3dqOuVLa1OfDOJyiQDk-01GS-QUFQt1VrntlB2_EmvEB0AGjoaNxzsGf22F6FjEgj5Zk0aejTQ/s1000/2022-04-05_13-50-38.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91FCT66LNgJ4qwQoHEJ2QPFb-e9Ky1HrJkR7ZfPNOgSCoWXcOVWDoqHO3gOTaciZo5RkLIEyvTFx6tKeUSaggj0spGyGLWtWxVxseqsEcM9vwSP9s3dqOuVLa1OfDOJyiQDk-01GS-QUFQt1VrntlB2_EmvEB0AGjoaNxzsGf22F6FjEgj5Zk0aejTQ/w400-h280/2022-04-05_13-50-38.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Easter-stone chimney: Don't those rocks look like they belong in a basket of coloured eggs? They seem to be permanent rather than seasonal, as I've passed this Dunbar house all winter. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Every season has its colours, and when the tulip beds begin
to turn pink, purple and yellow, I think Easter.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Those were the colours in the egg-dyeing kits that
produced the most important aspect of my childhood Easters. For me and my siblings,
what was the holiday without: 1) hard-boiling as many white-shelled eggs as we could
beg from the hens and our mother? 2) dipping those eggs in glasses of dye until
they were just the right shade of pretty, or our patience ran out? 3) transferring
images from the kits onto the still-damp eggs (always messy, never successful)?
And 4) hiding and hunting those eggs around the house and yard for days, until
they cracked and began to smell?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I haven’t dyed Easter eggs for years, let alone hunted them. But Vancouver’s springtime hues still sing of Easter to me. Here are some recent photos showing why:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizukcwOOgGUW60ipAF_8odcUWF1VR-7fopqo9-t3pfig_eUFN8eLFP4DwdbG5ZLRZFdDz93rqkmIOqEA-2KxPXn_zyUIzbqSuSYMXKjdXgNOzyZk9WplzVXuPM1GzQjt0tgw3nWh0SWw5OpJYiESPaaNKKqYoHvFcoLs9uRWr_CmoYo35MUryPlaY_dQ/s2016/IMG_0826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizukcwOOgGUW60ipAF_8odcUWF1VR-7fopqo9-t3pfig_eUFN8eLFP4DwdbG5ZLRZFdDz93rqkmIOqEA-2KxPXn_zyUIzbqSuSYMXKjdXgNOzyZk9WplzVXuPM1GzQjt0tgw3nWh0SWw5OpJYiESPaaNKKqYoHvFcoLs9uRWr_CmoYo35MUryPlaY_dQ/s320/IMG_0826.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camellias with cherry blossoms behind -- oh for an egg these exact shades of pink!<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEholqiOz7M0rcMoSdNjCkMT9vgPA_xVft8J8C39gdvPyKp7Mx8v-A_Qk1ZT5qrR0kzljFQ4GZx7azJ2U-_5c0e0CZBUAdWgOfwlDRHVKBly7xU9QuWDVml_3lznGzytPMJBgFsXp8hAIKLfu5YNm6YAVCkhx08vuK_d1J5pqN_MQeESPfTkSqTtm4QmDg/s2016/IMG_0840.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEholqiOz7M0rcMoSdNjCkMT9vgPA_xVft8J8C39gdvPyKp7Mx8v-A_Qk1ZT5qrR0kzljFQ4GZx7azJ2U-_5c0e0CZBUAdWgOfwlDRHVKBly7xU9QuWDVml_3lznGzytPMJBgFsXp8hAIKLfu5YNm6YAVCkhx08vuK_d1J5pqN_MQeESPfTkSqTtm4QmDg/s320/IMG_0840.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bed of tulips that reminded me of the old egg-dyeing kits we used as kids.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjkK7s_R3r-wscqbVWUntoE4EeWQxd03Xt7XNnLPvCtJ77Gnpuj6K_zNamoYm0aEQeN5N0I1YjYAHTHRW2i2CTHKbf3a4pa4n5Rm6NOHekDtFf464DZUl8HHsCRBlsbQqw0kmHe7oAqFS1z6dE--ccoDJAM8LcZqOt441ScpCtYlnJiXkwzbFYjdJow/s1000/2022-04-08_14-39-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="1000" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjkK7s_R3r-wscqbVWUntoE4EeWQxd03Xt7XNnLPvCtJ77Gnpuj6K_zNamoYm0aEQeN5N0I1YjYAHTHRW2i2CTHKbf3a4pa4n5Rm6NOHekDtFf464DZUl8HHsCRBlsbQqw0kmHe7oAqFS1z6dE--ccoDJAM8LcZqOt441ScpCtYlnJiXkwzbFYjdJow/s320/2022-04-08_14-39-01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cherry blossoms on tree, street and car -- a delicate puff of pink. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5M-y0VucwRMKMjA6BYmSpSIc_aSToChbtuD5TRnPvg5zf8SIR23eekmMpi4ISilfMZ4hOHKT90TfsTzF16P9MOP05h1jEyhnVlNkX-OiKY-T5RHeURG3lxYtliH38CcMZq-OeUzckcmLcoOW4_IQw0jbXUt6Oq0AWuomworZ_0JN5aCWZkxxtyOjcQ/s1000/2022-04-08_14-07-57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5M-y0VucwRMKMjA6BYmSpSIc_aSToChbtuD5TRnPvg5zf8SIR23eekmMpi4ISilfMZ4hOHKT90TfsTzF16P9MOP05h1jEyhnVlNkX-OiKY-T5RHeURG3lxYtliH38CcMZq-OeUzckcmLcoOW4_IQw0jbXUt6Oq0AWuomworZ_0JN5aCWZkxxtyOjcQ/s320/2022-04-08_14-07-57.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hyacinths and tulips outside the Kerrisdale Community Centre. Close-up, the combination of pink, salmon and white was very Easter-ish. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7we_dBbRsMzSMCUSim1MdQRmuHxSIbh4KxEXIT2vnnt2zPEFdXkD4ilCMg9rkWiv5AoJ7r2CZ9SwWnAKLea17eb9oUo33cKwtdeJ_BV-s63DXwDmfeQKw1994KBUjos0r38G3n5bWpBTbdRPdVK3Nzhg3oH77o_SUvzQL74n3qUyIkTp2aEgcy0DIA/s1000/2022-04-08_14-54-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7we_dBbRsMzSMCUSim1MdQRmuHxSIbh4KxEXIT2vnnt2zPEFdXkD4ilCMg9rkWiv5AoJ7r2CZ9SwWnAKLea17eb9oUo33cKwtdeJ_BV-s63DXwDmfeQKw1994KBUjos0r38G3n5bWpBTbdRPdVK3Nzhg3oH77o_SUvzQL74n3qUyIkTp2aEgcy0DIA/s320/2022-04-08_14-54-40.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John's version of spring daffodils: a few lonely strands of yellow surrounding a tree stump and a city works cone. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p></div>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-81388822794687767502022-04-03T16:21:00.001-07:002022-04-03T16:21:20.746-07:00Doggie paradise<p> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIBYQnU6iv-W1BbsUODnfeqjaF41nDjjHX9PSvAcknE8uNPOmBYa7VwL-4bOL4_iNgXFT3Y929ZnkpUQWjtTdgAamo0-0k8ndHEso6Y_VKbEfF1bQWk2WFsbdB21rLd7eRvdwKuuIs5GOKlwVvBKBWmiUD-pP-9RqM5AOHsbC6lharPBaOzpw_O2rIA/s1200/2022-03-26_16-39-20-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIBYQnU6iv-W1BbsUODnfeqjaF41nDjjHX9PSvAcknE8uNPOmBYa7VwL-4bOL4_iNgXFT3Y929ZnkpUQWjtTdgAamo0-0k8ndHEso6Y_VKbEfF1bQWk2WFsbdB21rLd7eRvdwKuuIs5GOKlwVvBKBWmiUD-pP-9RqM5AOHsbC6lharPBaOzpw_O2rIA/s320/2022-03-26_16-39-20-7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Oh happiness! Off-leash freedom with friends in Saltspring's Duck Creek Park. Photos by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If you want a
glimpse of pure joy, head to Saltspring’s Duck Creek Park on any weekend
afternoon. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There will be
dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Romping, splashing, chasing, barking, tails
aloft. The creek is a fine place to watch them muddy their paws, splash each
other, then empty the water out of their fur on their owners. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But for the best
look, head through the fields and up a hill, to a spreading tree at the park’s
highest point. It’s the party place for dogs and people alike. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the humans catch up on the week’s
gossip, their charges swoop in circles, chasing and being chased, pummeling and
being pummeled, jumping up on visitors, jumping down, then off again for
another swoop.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The dogs know this
is their place and time. There’s a water bowl, often a water jug left for
refills, and a bench with a plaque memorializing the companions who have played
here in the past. For humans – owners and visitors alike – it’s a reminder that
the height of happiness can be just a romp in nature with friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwhh-ERj5gotQLGpgsDl7jJT9mXUdhMYuu12_94jA0RQHL2FFpdhIumsQgUJWsXj82MpFYrSaHtNKaiYET2ly0RrithRcwORpvV_umP473MRFS0tjNuC0gAuuyS104PRAFOd_M2eSpBbpOrcZpHiG-CVMe61oGHDQLKGrzpXf-rh97urbwlji0wzZOg/s1200/2022-03-26_16-39-07-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwhh-ERj5gotQLGpgsDl7jJT9mXUdhMYuu12_94jA0RQHL2FFpdhIumsQgUJWsXj82MpFYrSaHtNKaiYET2ly0RrithRcwORpvV_umP473MRFS0tjNuC0gAuuyS104PRAFOd_M2eSpBbpOrcZpHiG-CVMe61oGHDQLKGrzpXf-rh97urbwlji0wzZOg/s320/2022-03-26_16-39-07-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Me and my new friends: Show up to the party uninvited, and the dogs will welcome you anyway. </td></tr></tbody></table></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRObxIuU2vO9T3yc6u4UpU4Vi19pqK5Acrg5tSFAADGtc6eHDSLyIt49cnOR1pi5ZzfzIleJQys26nWKdblS6OleSZTFfmFoTRMGqTZ3f0YDdF-yfpAAo2BlxLC22p_y3NVgbe40-M7KMvRuWHere7LiavecokSEqpZ_w1RzTAVaalfrCTNEJ4SNLk7w/s1000/2021-08-04_09-49-43-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRObxIuU2vO9T3yc6u4UpU4Vi19pqK5Acrg5tSFAADGtc6eHDSLyIt49cnOR1pi5ZzfzIleJQys26nWKdblS6OleSZTFfmFoTRMGqTZ3f0YDdF-yfpAAo2BlxLC22p_y3NVgbe40-M7KMvRuWHere7LiavecokSEqpZ_w1RzTAVaalfrCTNEJ4SNLk7w/s320/2021-08-04_09-49-43-6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Another season, another dog. John took this photograph of a dog welcoming us to the same spot one dried-out day last summer. </td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-49644515515705141232022-03-12T21:38:00.000-08:002022-03-12T21:38:12.543-08:00Skating<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhi8WbdTtYShvIMjGyxiO_dQiTMqyO4ARYEtzg4zfG_agxagJWJYxJccpnC67H6EMUZUK22LCs-j_I4slKl6CBrmnEVym0IsRZRF9PXvBmOYu1cESVWU1ug193z10REYilaEMXb6tRiuew6M_Mo2j21q0kvr2d1ifW7biKfXCASPqLL3jz7H1yUZ1DuzA=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1000" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhi8WbdTtYShvIMjGyxiO_dQiTMqyO4ARYEtzg4zfG_agxagJWJYxJccpnC67H6EMUZUK22LCs-j_I4slKl6CBrmnEVym0IsRZRF9PXvBmOYu1cESVWU1ug193z10REYilaEMXb6tRiuew6M_Mo2j21q0kvr2d1ifW7biKfXCASPqLL3jz7H1yUZ1DuzA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">My first -- and only -- pair of figure skates were the stuff of fantasy when I got them as a teenager. They're battered now and too small for my ancient feet, but they link me to a lot of memories. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Once, at a
skating party at a schoolmate’s place, I ended up at the end of a “Crack the
Whip” line – a long string of kids whipped around by a central figure, with the speed and force growing the farther out you got. The predictable happened, and
I still can feel the scar from where my skull hit the ice, still remember the
doctor not being impressed at kids who play Crack the Whip.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Then there
were the figure skates, the fantasy of little girls who must make do with hand-me-down
brown boys’ skates when that’s all that’s available. When I finally achieved
the white version with the to-die-for little black heels, I lay them on the bed
in the box and tissue paper they came in, and checked on them all evening. They
looked magical in the moonlight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Every day
through the long, long prairie winter, the blare of the noon buzzer at Lougheed
Elementary School unleashed a flood of kids to the outdoor skating rink kitty-corner
across the street. A brief lace-up in the bare-bones warming hut, with its
inadequate central stove and perimeter benches, and it was out on the ice for
an hour, round and round, to and fro, backwards and forwards, avoiding the boys’
roughest games, and <i>not</i> playing Crack the Whip.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In
Vancouver, where skating is mostly expensive and inaccessible, I haven’t skated
for years. When I last tried, the ice was so very <i>slippy,</i> the danger so
very high, my muscles so very unaccustomed, that I concluded it was something
old people shouldn’t dabble with.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Which is
why it was so surprising a couple of months ago to see my sister Betty –
granted, a few years younger, but still a senior and with arthritis, for heaven’s
sake – skating away like a teenager. Apparently the exercises she’s doing for
her arthritis have strengthened just the right muscles, and her physio says
skating is the best thing she can do. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Here is the
video she sent me, taken on a lake near her Quebec home. The very obedient dog
is Molly. I am jealous.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw1iHUgHEpKtfFeMktEnYh5UV0BXx1W2t9UOumf3udReQFavZrzxrx28MyIX-pfyIdPCh1SkIflD5akdzBSEg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p><br /><p></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-91979653646058240942022-01-01T21:46:00.001-08:002022-01-05T18:07:22.676-08:00Low-lights of 2021<p> It was a horrid year, best forgotten. But the evidence remains, which is what happens when you live with a photographer. Here are reminders of some low-lights from 2021:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjt-3v0Pri3i3kO7-QkSuZXFyZVPYH0BJueCUhukS8CPH8yqHwQAUUKnIoYxSQGSONvZf3bV6QzA-oM4aLCaGt18HQn1WCiPd7_LtkbgsX1js9u8wzxn699WeM3Q2ojRIhhFovXwiZyVH876G0WdGG3BVVxiAOXJZH092pUHt6XdMqW96JCoZhWhwSRig=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjt-3v0Pri3i3kO7-QkSuZXFyZVPYH0BJueCUhukS8CPH8yqHwQAUUKnIoYxSQGSONvZf3bV6QzA-oM4aLCaGt18HQn1WCiPd7_LtkbgsX1js9u8wzxn699WeM3Q2ojRIhhFovXwiZyVH876G0WdGG3BVVxiAOXJZH092pUHt6XdMqW96JCoZhWhwSRig=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">The heat wave. Here I am, on Saltspring, trying to write with a bag of peas on my head. I don't know what was so urgent that I wasn't down at the beach instead, but it amused John. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx4cmLDvWM9JIM-FAa5794SAJyB5wby1GVgrB0n-kQb8uaSLqlaiAlf4ez13XU6IUHSin4GQNVQxXaRWZwMYS89TNHui2lXyI23EvqIJUDjMtbYqpRFHbcXWWyxWsBWxKOr156jI3kcaq0u89aKUMDwwdFau-ysK7gwyn4JbNrTEzAty-4-Sb3jFRuWQ=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx4cmLDvWM9JIM-FAa5794SAJyB5wby1GVgrB0n-kQb8uaSLqlaiAlf4ez13XU6IUHSin4GQNVQxXaRWZwMYS89TNHui2lXyI23EvqIJUDjMtbYqpRFHbcXWWyxWsBWxKOr156jI3kcaq0u89aKUMDwwdFau-ysK7gwyn4JbNrTEzAty-4-Sb3jFRuWQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">The plague look: The photo was to show off two books we'd just bought at Saltspring's Black Sheep Books, but it also illustrates typical shopping apparel in the times of Covid. Reminds me of illustrations from a story that horrified me as a kid -- the Invisible Man dressed like this to make himself visible. Photo by John Denniston. <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBaYs_LKzTQQXR2Rcan5P5lLLzUn4veWIp-KtKhpbwip7HxTukvT2EbdeT0dh4Ye6Jjkon0fnCrLToT8E90DKHYEiG8lZCpKhBfdlWT6NwimP-nPvAxkM1RxOUTbSem6wXx4kkkjIW5q43YvLoW4-AmdqM3_jdx52e2l2odnU4Zyc8st2GPHB4TPgKPQ=s1200" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBaYs_LKzTQQXR2Rcan5P5lLLzUn4veWIp-KtKhpbwip7HxTukvT2EbdeT0dh4Ye6Jjkon0fnCrLToT8E90DKHYEiG8lZCpKhBfdlWT6NwimP-nPvAxkM1RxOUTbSem6wXx4kkkjIW5q43YvLoW4-AmdqM3_jdx52e2l2odnU4Zyc8st2GPHB4TPgKPQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Covid ferries are tricky. You have to avoid people, but sometimes that means you can't get facing seats for the essential feet-up-and-read posture. This is how I compromised. Photo by John Denniston.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGGKB0z8FlHVDS_zg1JjNfjZ75fPZOZmGaaKBmFVIEzsXrNVerIkYSeyUEo39yaYvZL_3MdP0gd_BYyY1T-dYnkJmRaiplib703StzcmGPF-WE8OKaOyCvx0Qrux8bE0mA877Xcx9FlSYmZTXrxG108lwQNgf4x2BfBzRy0OY9yytAXZffWKxRkIztGQ=s1200" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGGKB0z8FlHVDS_zg1JjNfjZ75fPZOZmGaaKBmFVIEzsXrNVerIkYSeyUEo39yaYvZL_3MdP0gd_BYyY1T-dYnkJmRaiplib703StzcmGPF-WE8OKaOyCvx0Qrux8bE0mA877Xcx9FlSYmZTXrxG108lwQNgf4x2BfBzRy0OY9yytAXZffWKxRkIztGQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Another Covid ferry trip, but by this time, rules had been relaxed so the inside areas were jammed. We were nervous enough about catching something that we went outside despite the cold. Under ferry rules, we weren't allowed to stay in the car. Can you tell from my posture that I am fuming? Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYSdJvtcJGLJ1UgJiQJQcY9FZqXWBKcbwMGkKpbM24RLs_MqXGTbdgMWDxIuwLtGhr2zmLEOmLGYcJuqxBvwR7Asl_cuPok6nyQWp128csngqf0KXPa7G12aW0r3qcVFrkmzh03cMd1TjnENFd9irIlB8Dr4ix59Toh8R3_9BinnyjrEPSm8WAU5AjZg=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYSdJvtcJGLJ1UgJiQJQcY9FZqXWBKcbwMGkKpbM24RLs_MqXGTbdgMWDxIuwLtGhr2zmLEOmLGYcJuqxBvwR7Asl_cuPok6nyQWp128csngqf0KXPa7G12aW0r3qcVFrkmzh03cMd1TjnENFd9irIlB8Dr4ix59Toh8R3_9BinnyjrEPSm8WAU5AjZg=s320" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">I don't have a photo of me in a flood or fire, which would cover the other miseries of 2021, but here I am, doused in snow from the post-Christmas snow dump. More is apparently on the way. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-62039141491126209112021-12-30T22:16:00.000-08:002021-12-30T22:16:07.517-08:00A Christmassy end to a bad year<p> </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpz4ZQMNz2cq4YUmdU9QUwnqDVmW1cTtMv-aI9V07Okz1wrei54QXLcqaw7WbNjEP2gIduVOjqcqEBRErANQ18mbrGunbWuprFzwE6kTnWuAmHJlWLFv6aYpVoJnXbYb3QO4aKWqIegHvhKWUkCwiL98-fPM2eAm6z0Kdmq9ijf9yQM-nddXpXXyrShw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpz4ZQMNz2cq4YUmdU9QUwnqDVmW1cTtMv-aI9V07Okz1wrei54QXLcqaw7WbNjEP2gIduVOjqcqEBRErANQ18mbrGunbWuprFzwE6kTnWuAmHJlWLFv6aYpVoJnXbYb3QO4aKWqIegHvhKWUkCwiL98-fPM2eAm6z0Kdmq9ijf9yQM-nddXpXXyrShw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">How could anything bad have happened in a world this beautiful? Our terrible 2021 is coming to a close in a blaze of glory. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJQAJ7NfRo3epq6cuudZKxtV3TIS9w2kG_7MmojSx25P3vvrUiNkHTIl8iASxDQqPc6JrbQqEGpCARnjLGY3fht1AIAOvNzlT2AH9jQ51RhGnlGqa1ElQW5Fp6cx2CkjL0Ow_xkT4K2F84kKh0JbOEGeuOG99Ajr7W6fBPDKYjxmfAVxiYY-slw59Cxg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJQAJ7NfRo3epq6cuudZKxtV3TIS9w2kG_7MmojSx25P3vvrUiNkHTIl8iASxDQqPc6JrbQqEGpCARnjLGY3fht1AIAOvNzlT2AH9jQ51RhGnlGqa1ElQW5Fp6cx2CkjL0Ow_xkT4K2F84kKh0JbOEGeuOG99Ajr7W6fBPDKYjxmfAVxiYY-slw59Cxg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Last night's snowfall transformed our front garden into a portrait of green and white. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In this hellish year of floods, fire, heat
and plague, we weren’t sure what might be in store for the last week of 2021. It
was unusually cold for Vancouver, for sure, with stories of hummingbirds
falling frozen from their perches, and Omicron numbers so high that authorities
gave up counting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But it was also a white Christmas and a
truly Christmassy week. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We added to that
by treating ourselves to new books and a chocolate run to Beta5 bakery, but the
big gift came today. We woke to a cloud of fluffy snow that turned our garden
into a white forest. The sun shone, the temperature rose, and my back-porch hummingbird
stopped hunching and started soaring. A hint of a better year to come?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Some photos from our unexpectedly pleasant
end to a terrible year:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1ZiGWQSzcZCoUKlIFROr5sLhJS727tqtlSUSprYmFueFs2QcyJHQEP9N02o9ln4RG3nZz5HlzVI75cRuUd0G_-89gbormOeoCY0c7WbGnuf1YmMFFnWZ_twlze-WtWGlazGAq9CtMkuOe0IZ89uQkOSIV0crXNxvr3BnHqvHrZ5Vkg1d33VgbtEuxFw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1ZiGWQSzcZCoUKlIFROr5sLhJS727tqtlSUSprYmFueFs2QcyJHQEP9N02o9ln4RG3nZz5HlzVI75cRuUd0G_-89gbormOeoCY0c7WbGnuf1YmMFFnWZ_twlze-WtWGlazGAq9CtMkuOe0IZ89uQkOSIV0crXNxvr3BnHqvHrZ5Vkg1d33VgbtEuxFw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">On Wednesday, we extended our Christmas gluttony by a day and picked up some more treats at Beta5 Bakery. Because gluttony should be shared, we dropped some off for Linda. Here's she reacting to a boxed chocolate called, "Lump of Coal." Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJAJpo8iPfFyaLDsPebhwYe5CPe1xdjV9Ipw98H227T-Ilo02Jj7ZMVi38703fZeOhaQhhiEH_9PgdhcKzJx6aY5ZS3JyU3tYuuODtmlHQRe0E_a7fQQg1jGNiBvgljPJYfhVSLrrUWw-kWs5PfLOnyyosn4r6KEbKtAz0gfd9VLKLFM5Kn742iZ5n0g=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJAJpo8iPfFyaLDsPebhwYe5CPe1xdjV9Ipw98H227T-Ilo02Jj7ZMVi38703fZeOhaQhhiEH_9PgdhcKzJx6aY5ZS3JyU3tYuuODtmlHQRe0E_a7fQQg1jGNiBvgljPJYfhVSLrrUWw-kWs5PfLOnyyosn4r6KEbKtAz0gfd9VLKLFM5Kn742iZ5n0g=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Oh, and a cream puff. She chose the Chai version, shown at the left in the photo below. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWoAc6YqlfK3M3Hi9CuUYYJat6ptAd7WSaPi180dWCnjcv3XrXbT-iI8o5A4EK-_-sIG8-zcy6ufbStE7BUuvhZoBIqmoJjSvLPgvsLTBCWEW-x1q69jcSNYAyvan4N71sgK9YNGz5rQqixqReJfhwyc8sVHKEuyeie_klWi8EXRTCLYQO8GfqwyqyvQ=s3264" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWoAc6YqlfK3M3Hi9CuUYYJat6ptAd7WSaPi180dWCnjcv3XrXbT-iI8o5A4EK-_-sIG8-zcy6ufbStE7BUuvhZoBIqmoJjSvLPgvsLTBCWEW-x1q69jcSNYAyvan4N71sgK9YNGz5rQqixqReJfhwyc8sVHKEuyeie_klWi8EXRTCLYQO8GfqwyqyvQ=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linda's elaborate cream puff with what looks like a copper hat, and her lump of coal, split.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijmAm3dVPWGQEfQ-7J-jSakud7IxA7GtPtzjMbrwuYdi8gEQjaqQtCljq_perwhPW9KYjjxIZdAv6SgW4Kzox0SrCoXoNNQAHJCrroCTvcOnAXR4_CN8CBwlOvuuDhc-v8KnjROBnXcQa5dUopJK2xDwWkh6nYLH4eJ3tTy2D7rtJR4GNR5f_Yacsk1g=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijmAm3dVPWGQEfQ-7J-jSakud7IxA7GtPtzjMbrwuYdi8gEQjaqQtCljq_perwhPW9KYjjxIZdAv6SgW4Kzox0SrCoXoNNQAHJCrroCTvcOnAXR4_CN8CBwlOvuuDhc-v8KnjROBnXcQa5dUopJK2xDwWkh6nYLH4eJ3tTy2D7rtJR4GNR5f_Yacsk1g=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Our cream puffs were coffee and vanilla. Each have their own distinctive little hats. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhe8fBJl2odCO_meE7EDm5zf4cAtUJnk0QQkq1aEJkI8pmH2Vvu_zuEfrTSRFS-IARbEDtoC2f7Q5xqZLriR0CjW8avIRmyHqx2_ETx6BtJGYyg386slEYXcI1JhO_RjQwosBSKy1xttrU2G5ygtpLgEpMR0kf6MSC7FZ-sR6t-BzGrp5QMNLNEEy4Xzg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="1000" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhe8fBJl2odCO_meE7EDm5zf4cAtUJnk0QQkq1aEJkI8pmH2Vvu_zuEfrTSRFS-IARbEDtoC2f7Q5xqZLriR0CjW8avIRmyHqx2_ETx6BtJGYyg386slEYXcI1JhO_RjQwosBSKy1xttrU2G5ygtpLgEpMR0kf6MSC7FZ-sR6t-BzGrp5QMNLNEEy4Xzg=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Here are their innards. I got a good look at them for the first time; usually we don't stop to look, we just inhale. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhe8fBJl2odCO_meE7EDm5zf4cAtUJnk0QQkq1aEJkI8pmH2Vvu_zuEfrTSRFS-IARbEDtoC2f7Q5xqZLriR0CjW8avIRmyHqx2_ETx6BtJGYyg386slEYXcI1JhO_RjQwosBSKy1xttrU2G5ygtpLgEpMR0kf6MSC7FZ-sR6t-BzGrp5QMNLNEEy4Xzg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSfO-TReP_r3qeukb0n7dCwbLCQs5SsYVb46G3Lzq56-quIiH-hiZ5axgjrZCyzRDXdt7wDe_UQRkCclalhRVq4y7AD11nKdVidAZ0Ii-d0fajLeMQiKWkH2thhG1gRkSk3B2LYVLiy6CvhcbdrcIWJpEOt4_5R207BPuHVGxpRvePMLk5KaB6bp1LDw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSfO-TReP_r3qeukb0n7dCwbLCQs5SsYVb46G3Lzq56-quIiH-hiZ5axgjrZCyzRDXdt7wDe_UQRkCclalhRVq4y7AD11nKdVidAZ0Ii-d0fajLeMQiKWkH2thhG1gRkSk3B2LYVLiy6CvhcbdrcIWJpEOt4_5R207BPuHVGxpRvePMLk5KaB6bp1LDw=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lump of coal, close up. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSfO-TReP_r3qeukb0n7dCwbLCQs5SsYVb46G3Lzq56-quIiH-hiZ5axgjrZCyzRDXdt7wDe_UQRkCclalhRVq4y7AD11nKdVidAZ0Ii-d0fajLeMQiKWkH2thhG1gRkSk3B2LYVLiy6CvhcbdrcIWJpEOt4_5R207BPuHVGxpRvePMLk5KaB6bp1LDw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrTWLviekJPPD7lzyisvGZogiiiW96cvzk_C-ENpHuuGh2so6WOt8_yRtJPUq7ynGLJ6GFD92WBjQSlAghoGiD3sIxM3yk73nJFh1BpQm88emSLKiEGqmr3B2dGhvdUrk5-b_01HdrTOlzMQkdJ2YovuVLKvEcACZKJmrUybksRM-CRpKWbUHWvujxyw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrTWLviekJPPD7lzyisvGZogiiiW96cvzk_C-ENpHuuGh2so6WOt8_yRtJPUq7ynGLJ6GFD92WBjQSlAghoGiD3sIxM3yk73nJFh1BpQm88emSLKiEGqmr3B2dGhvdUrk5-b_01HdrTOlzMQkdJ2YovuVLKvEcACZKJmrUybksRM-CRpKWbUHWvujxyw=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">The lump of coal, dissected. Once again, it was fun to see how those things are actually built. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrTWLviekJPPD7lzyisvGZogiiiW96cvzk_C-ENpHuuGh2so6WOt8_yRtJPUq7ynGLJ6GFD92WBjQSlAghoGiD3sIxM3yk73nJFh1BpQm88emSLKiEGqmr3B2dGhvdUrk5-b_01HdrTOlzMQkdJ2YovuVLKvEcACZKJmrUybksRM-CRpKWbUHWvujxyw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFbHkZHECQrjqSkrt0JxwRP-HcXeM4Qq6v6AjA5VT2rsuE9F1QDHxl2vIACu3J3tAZe2wGFr51voSwX_52JV_5RLPMq8OOcUqeHito60PYE45FGzYxykzUO40t45FRy_vZBCllIqmARTMOtjj6-S9DaZh4SbOItGUtrW6BygMOSEEjInTgdvBs3nNMcA=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFbHkZHECQrjqSkrt0JxwRP-HcXeM4Qq6v6AjA5VT2rsuE9F1QDHxl2vIACu3J3tAZe2wGFr51voSwX_52JV_5RLPMq8OOcUqeHito60PYE45FGzYxykzUO40t45FRy_vZBCllIqmARTMOtjj6-S9DaZh4SbOItGUtrW6BygMOSEEjInTgdvBs3nNMcA=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to the snowfall, this was what we saw when we opened the front door this morning. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFbHkZHECQrjqSkrt0JxwRP-HcXeM4Qq6v6AjA5VT2rsuE9F1QDHxl2vIACu3J3tAZe2wGFr51voSwX_52JV_5RLPMq8OOcUqeHito60PYE45FGzYxykzUO40t45FRy_vZBCllIqmARTMOtjj6-S9DaZh4SbOItGUtrW6BygMOSEEjInTgdvBs3nNMcA=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3IIJqmzBmEF0sh9A2B8Badqf2mFAs4nM7ogYYYzyX_vVvSacf2gBy3-dLInna-A4RyIMZIvMb-iJ4klsipPIcQ6itoZe7olBPIZ6VYaT6m4EKWn8m7WXFCjD_CTLs3UuvR5glizRY_Wid1yC-XVM1jTPcHwDEoKvW1iKXq_DIwiNuRT_rziUnGWSMFQ=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3IIJqmzBmEF0sh9A2B8Badqf2mFAs4nM7ogYYYzyX_vVvSacf2gBy3-dLInna-A4RyIMZIvMb-iJ4klsipPIcQ6itoZe7olBPIZ6VYaT6m4EKWn8m7WXFCjD_CTLs3UuvR5glizRY_Wid1yC-XVM1jTPcHwDEoKvW1iKXq_DIwiNuRT_rziUnGWSMFQ=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The back yard, before shovelling. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3IIJqmzBmEF0sh9A2B8Badqf2mFAs4nM7ogYYYzyX_vVvSacf2gBy3-dLInna-A4RyIMZIvMb-iJ4klsipPIcQ6itoZe7olBPIZ6VYaT6m4EKWn8m7WXFCjD_CTLs3UuvR5glizRY_Wid1yC-XVM1jTPcHwDEoKvW1iKXq_DIwiNuRT_rziUnGWSMFQ=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOIKhhLk6WZNgew5CA9sg8UE-q4XW4k0FNVr2Hwh7HKXAZAmnxlUOagYuEcaBQhxRq3iVnsSUjo2E7KNDQB5WWtcmwowUGS3JI_OJflIYcGKk0H5-ZG1nzRqv4vwlgiWQwgUCm8ujy3iX4S_8_YdppoPrQtL8UEOogDE8bRoB3NukD0ZgIfbXPyBNdbg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOIKhhLk6WZNgew5CA9sg8UE-q4XW4k0FNVr2Hwh7HKXAZAmnxlUOagYuEcaBQhxRq3iVnsSUjo2E7KNDQB5WWtcmwowUGS3JI_OJflIYcGKk0H5-ZG1nzRqv4vwlgiWQwgUCm8ujy3iX4S_8_YdppoPrQtL8UEOogDE8bRoB3NukD0ZgIfbXPyBNdbg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Carol in a cloud of snow. I brush snow off the hedges and trees to prevent it getting too heavy as it melts and refreezes. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9xIQafyBJwg4nwmgqM4hfrwbiCiHAiCcLqf4AP_wC_8V0c8J1F3ryMzaYp8mPJrtySIJld5vLj1_8B25xIAGl0cJjO_pWxoLkiXsN0PFaLAZqf0URCVaZ0VVrc7-5Vgd_EdFYpVgn2RS30P8JIcVABBrCRMgnUI5F-QBQSNC3j6JXxj2w-Uoc5f0dYA=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9xIQafyBJwg4nwmgqM4hfrwbiCiHAiCcLqf4AP_wC_8V0c8J1F3ryMzaYp8mPJrtySIJld5vLj1_8B25xIAGl0cJjO_pWxoLkiXsN0PFaLAZqf0URCVaZ0VVrc7-5Vgd_EdFYpVgn2RS30P8JIcVABBrCRMgnUI5F-QBQSNC3j6JXxj2w-Uoc5f0dYA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">The front-steps clean-off. They don't look as beautiful as with snow, but they're better to walk on. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioFYfpkfgVVRYvWsRiM7KDyQjc5_x5sTHoxO-qlpg4J66jf1ya-go1jaYcYc0TTxZZlwyJgm_0TQGvFPIVceR51YB1nadLhfIscPhcs2OG8yTpmbfd5GxhLTo0KFbw8rc7UqBne2yzwEX4VKr3g1Zt7TgWp-kmQ5nmAX_BrnQa7NSOp3OGqS1VPAUawQ=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioFYfpkfgVVRYvWsRiM7KDyQjc5_x5sTHoxO-qlpg4J66jf1ya-go1jaYcYc0TTxZZlwyJgm_0TQGvFPIVceR51YB1nadLhfIscPhcs2OG8yTpmbfd5GxhLTo0KFbw8rc7UqBne2yzwEX4VKr3g1Zt7TgWp-kmQ5nmAX_BrnQa7NSOp3OGqS1VPAUawQ=s320" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">By the time I'd finished shaking the snow off the back-yard trees and hedges, I was a little snowy myself. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVBne7HJO6ZGxndIAGd1x39zfWm_i_CbXEPks5LLKWSR9Ap5cIi3qKQopy482g2zfiM40MHM-2_7dpWSOlbUlBUWFl3ZxPpslMXx4FkY9XOwaa1nHfQspph2kXsRJqyZGPl9s37yHDdZ3culyMAWIfno0C_neWdNCHaVcDE1fh9wLMFrlbZsCILktdHg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVBne7HJO6ZGxndIAGd1x39zfWm_i_CbXEPks5LLKWSR9Ap5cIi3qKQopy482g2zfiM40MHM-2_7dpWSOlbUlBUWFl3ZxPpslMXx4FkY9XOwaa1nHfQspph2kXsRJqyZGPl9s37yHDdZ3culyMAWIfno0C_neWdNCHaVcDE1fh9wLMFrlbZsCILktdHg=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bird bath wore a fluffy cap of white. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVBne7HJO6ZGxndIAGd1x39zfWm_i_CbXEPks5LLKWSR9Ap5cIi3qKQopy482g2zfiM40MHM-2_7dpWSOlbUlBUWFl3ZxPpslMXx4FkY9XOwaa1nHfQspph2kXsRJqyZGPl9s37yHDdZ3culyMAWIfno0C_neWdNCHaVcDE1fh9wLMFrlbZsCILktdHg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2SSc0Y_usjc1cekjaA6Q1wx6GDjSDKtgQargxrOTjvMbUuNgUrsXd1AWbJUYfa0P773tYs6JBBG6t7PuL6xneJNGVmxDtupnLiDQWMwxL0pQV3LvWXaXwlL0EUI0Ac-U72h64C2-5MUj93buF5C6pug0edFMBYxJrEyFKXQve4E0gK9-JkNx2gf0Y_g=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2SSc0Y_usjc1cekjaA6Q1wx6GDjSDKtgQargxrOTjvMbUuNgUrsXd1AWbJUYfa0P773tYs6JBBG6t7PuL6xneJNGVmxDtupnLiDQWMwxL0pQV3LvWXaXwlL0EUI0Ac-U72h64C2-5MUj93buF5C6pug0edFMBYxJrEyFKXQve4E0gK9-JkNx2gf0Y_g=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bird-seed holder had one too. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzpAfQ-gKv7TbCk0nJk5p7jcN_C3xeA1C4EUPwYHJZ2ZpghJ3KeHOOwvsVRuTuyX4qUuSgpd9-nKoCvz1_p1idrxiC5b-OCdqzLjykEgyYDrxdDbjzymSLxmSF96h_vsn_BZkv4jYdPfIfZy29qC5u2RgEKPJv9MQH2SYARN9Ok6fLF0dC0As3r7V8nw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzpAfQ-gKv7TbCk0nJk5p7jcN_C3xeA1C4EUPwYHJZ2ZpghJ3KeHOOwvsVRuTuyX4qUuSgpd9-nKoCvz1_p1idrxiC5b-OCdqzLjykEgyYDrxdDbjzymSLxmSF96h_vsn_BZkv4jYdPfIfZy29qC5u2RgEKPJv9MQH2SYARN9Ok6fLF0dC0As3r7V8nw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">This strange object is my effort to supply birds with unfrozen water. The black thing is a dish of water. It's sitting in a plastic basin filled with an unloved, discarded pair of pajamas for insulation. The basin is sitting on an old sweater draped over the little bird bath. As far as I know, no bird went near this all day. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-76848898678613515592021-12-28T22:35:00.000-08:002021-12-28T22:35:46.075-08:00My deal with a hummer<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjS9r2wnanwCIwRuio-jQ528YCSplNKWmgk6tr3dbPdTYK2UNvVupPbEg1pNbEmEhIeF61_noeW3tmk-v5KeiwG3dTeUaW05pmHsRcRjUNj8JyLjT41C1dMm1WDToZUZMpauL29fXbWC_kjUYEXa3YPVHhyMF9PjEGlHtzZ6F2nPmCI21yJnjZvK80lXA=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjS9r2wnanwCIwRuio-jQ528YCSplNKWmgk6tr3dbPdTYK2UNvVupPbEg1pNbEmEhIeF61_noeW3tmk-v5KeiwG3dTeUaW05pmHsRcRjUNj8JyLjT41C1dMm1WDToZUZMpauL29fXbWC_kjUYEXa3YPVHhyMF9PjEGlHtzZ6F2nPmCI21yJnjZvK80lXA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">This little ball of fluff has been sitting in a bush by my back steps for two days. Photo by John Denniston</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve heard about people developing
relationships with wild critters before – crows that welcome them home,
squirrels that eat out of their hands, blue jays that arrive promptly at 9 a.m.
for peanuts. Now, thanks to the cold weather, I seem to have acquired my own
connection to the wild.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">John first spotted my new friend yesterday:
“What’s that kind of turquoisey bird out there?” he asked, pointing to a bump
on the lilac bush by the back porch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was a hummingbird, hunched into a fluffy ball, head withdrawn, barely moving. I
thought it was sick, maybe dying, as it sat there through the cold afternoon.
But every so often, it flew to the hummingbird feeder a couple of yards away, drank
heartily, then returned to its perch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It vanished that night, but this morning
it was back in the same spot. By then, I had two feeders going to ensure there
was always a thawed one to replace a frozen one. I did some research and discovered
that in very cold weather, hummingbirds go into a state of torpor – much like
they do at night – where their metabolism slows to preserve their energy. They
fluff their feathers, withdraw their heads and don’t move much.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So my bird sat on, livening up for a few
flights when the temperature rose, and making periodic trips to the always-ready
feeder. Just like the people who have developed an understanding with their
crows, squirrels or blue jays, I now have a deal with my hummingbird. I feed
him and he doesn’t die.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQBHWYNhk9sU_kNEtkFXIK3-Y66Xk39kwQsEWYG6_lJMYzbuwxflBAbN6I7eH8TGDgGKg5UECYAGoNUNQXQyFF3IAcXEJ6QPyC89bNfIrXNenILcPNH6UHRQqPYxLQM-knEcYl0hDUmItXtkMyFieK6F0dcKlEQytHlLtoNlNlGqtPcYELd1SpaewEVw=s3264" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQBHWYNhk9sU_kNEtkFXIK3-Y66Xk39kwQsEWYG6_lJMYzbuwxflBAbN6I7eH8TGDgGKg5UECYAGoNUNQXQyFF3IAcXEJ6QPyC89bNfIrXNenILcPNH6UHRQqPYxLQM-knEcYl0hDUmItXtkMyFieK6F0dcKlEQytHlLtoNlNlGqtPcYELd1SpaewEVw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">A few yards away from the bird's perch is a feeder of nectar, changed out when it freezes. Besides eating there, he seems to keep an eye on it, occasionally fighting off sparrows that land to drink water out of the central moat. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8O0-yIob8HEnw_KLQLkKijXMyYzVWRWy0_VET96XnjkPvUbin7Qd7EXpbjyXvLO2uYKWwXS5zas1dsCmdlocCDfzUaZNq5kJtRUJlIxsDyMvaov_a9JR5FSz9c23MWnCr_SeqpjI7smVYHjLPedKqwenJh760SRcDiDP3lTWSuCvhZjKxVvlViCQGcw=s3264" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8O0-yIob8HEnw_KLQLkKijXMyYzVWRWy0_VET96XnjkPvUbin7Qd7EXpbjyXvLO2uYKWwXS5zas1dsCmdlocCDfzUaZNq5kJtRUJlIxsDyMvaov_a9JR5FSz9c23MWnCr_SeqpjI7smVYHjLPedKqwenJh760SRcDiDP3lTWSuCvhZjKxVvlViCQGcw=w320-h240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Beside the back porch railing is the lilac bush where the hummingbird seems to have made a temporary home.</td></tr></tbody></table>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-22436181920955958722021-12-27T22:38:00.001-08:002021-12-27T22:38:27.273-08:00Cold<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiybszYsOQrihoDze87wzVJD6z6eDvUpFHTSzaP3hodp4Ul4HXXDuQ7pyJE4a83mHgI8Fe_FJuoj9ui1V9dQ4tc_Cu4gGxIrAaeE3IPbaWjsqPMN1yy90eY1AoMdoWOhuiP8G7wtDDfnyQiU98JFNoVgWfPmBYXL-MWGSbXLWpcMnJFexqtz1Qytz1LHQ=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiybszYsOQrihoDze87wzVJD6z6eDvUpFHTSzaP3hodp4Ul4HXXDuQ7pyJE4a83mHgI8Fe_FJuoj9ui1V9dQ4tc_Cu4gGxIrAaeE3IPbaWjsqPMN1yy90eY1AoMdoWOhuiP8G7wtDDfnyQiU98JFNoVgWfPmBYXL-MWGSbXLWpcMnJFexqtz1Qytz1LHQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">This is me on Monday, discovering that -11 degrees means wearing a scarf over your face if you have spent the last five decades in Vancouver's temperate winters. Unaccustomed to the bite, my cheeks and nose went into shock. Photo by John Denniston.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">How
cold was it on Monday? So cold that the hummingbird feeder froze in half an hour.
So cold that the hummingbirds zoomed at the thawed-out feeder the moment it
came out the door. So cold that I bought
a second feeder so I can quickly switch liquid for solid, without worrying that
a tiny hunched turquoise bit of feathers might die if it doesn’t get dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxDJy25dCwEZv-xqAcf_irHeigdq-t4m4prv8FIFc5XmyikN6ZKMctBLtHBbYiQz8y_oa16CEQhoMiIjsr7pFj0LPq2Ut-MQLKUunMKZ3pi4dZspLdQL59FZBtnZd7bSzGsmR_Dhs9TnTOWTapLJz3q2uNo4Q0vlAUNEyp5kfaPER3kCfAmSykQJXUyw=s3264" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxDJy25dCwEZv-xqAcf_irHeigdq-t4m4prv8FIFc5XmyikN6ZKMctBLtHBbYiQz8y_oa16CEQhoMiIjsr7pFj0LPq2Ut-MQLKUunMKZ3pi4dZspLdQL59FZBtnZd7bSzGsmR_Dhs9TnTOWTapLJz3q2uNo4Q0vlAUNEyp5kfaPER3kCfAmSykQJXUyw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Wild Birds Unlimited, where I buy my bird-feeding supplies, said warmers for hummingbird feeders wouldn't be available for a few days, so I bought a second feeder to spell off the first when it freezes.</td></tr></tbody></table>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-61011538021119171082021-12-26T22:33:00.024-08:002021-12-28T19:24:35.379-08:00Foodie Christmas <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Christmas 2021 seemed to be mostly about
food – a good place to turn when socializing had to be kept to the minimum. It
started last fall, when Lee Valley’s Christmas Gift Catalogue featured an
elaborately decorated “house,” surrounded by similarly decorated mini-houses, courtesy
of two incredibly detailed cake pans.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXiS1h9Bb6qSQQtK73HYHHRJCHooEE4C4uklMc_AG3eaR_6QHSdFtQYTH4XjqqbSNipzrwRWPeygv1poze3PgVvgCE4UndugysEFrt57lb_KGmkSa8XqD4pdir7SYfVtnacXcmnY_OJqZnNlOSaT7EI9vRGb69o2OPt9PUFX8Nt-I1OAv97OrsBXg_sg=s3264" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXiS1h9Bb6qSQQtK73HYHHRJCHooEE4C4uklMc_AG3eaR_6QHSdFtQYTH4XjqqbSNipzrwRWPeygv1poze3PgVvgCE4UndugysEFrt57lb_KGmkSa8XqD4pdir7SYfVtnacXcmnY_OJqZnNlOSaT7EI9vRGb69o2OPt9PUFX8Nt-I1OAv97OrsBXg_sg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cover of the Lee Valley catalogue made me just want to bake these cakes myself. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A whole village of little cake houses to bake
and decorate! If I was six, a dream come true. Luckily, I have a six-year-old
in my life with a creative bent, and I could indulge us both. On Christmas Day,
my grandniece Emi, plus her mom Aya, dad Etienne and little sister Mia became
the proud owners of two elaborate Christmas bundt pans plus a bag of decorating
accoutrements. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEskkTQUUaA9FE-WNAFEAth1kxqgVOvR7HndlwCNemsztfEmn3gJtlMJAPY8eR0uA3D57LtCizYikITdfwFohyOTU_GxBYwchUU229k8Mc89tQsUYpKG9bDDv7EvLuyxdIYQCjamVz25vJf68QxzBEwXlEIgx2sDJH5-Pg7Zeghxo_eDQBCQIb6z9clw=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="1000" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEskkTQUUaA9FE-WNAFEAth1kxqgVOvR7HndlwCNemsztfEmn3gJtlMJAPY8eR0uA3D57LtCizYikITdfwFohyOTU_GxBYwchUU229k8Mc89tQsUYpKG9bDDv7EvLuyxdIYQCjamVz25vJf68QxzBEwXlEIgx2sDJH5-Pg7Zeghxo_eDQBCQIb6z9clw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">The pans make a nice little village themselves. Decorated with some greenery and lights, they'd make a good table centrepiece. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_z3m3E4GZ7gLhuBXl0b28ZGquFNhcf8zOoVGUuZwA-sIzPLA1DbqLH1xztNQTZNClH-WMo2vLy2IqFORZU_8kNtVfzrwILgG4LHZjEkXHOZ-l1nnrveQF8yFBiv8CNBWAYydXbGegZ7LEV4GCAbFoofYEYw5SutkvbbOQk3vxOuAm5kRT4ZsC-FUQ_A=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_z3m3E4GZ7gLhuBXl0b28ZGquFNhcf8zOoVGUuZwA-sIzPLA1DbqLH1xztNQTZNClH-WMo2vLy2IqFORZU_8kNtVfzrwILgG4LHZjEkXHOZ-l1nnrveQF8yFBiv8CNBWAYydXbGegZ7LEV4GCAbFoofYEYw5SutkvbbOQk3vxOuAm5kRT4ZsC-FUQ_A=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">I had to try out one of the pans myself to see how it worked. After a few scary moments, the cake popped out virtually intact, with only a crack in the chimney. I'm sure Aya will do better. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvvTRoHiNdgCWey16Je98MF-LBHUTYKpEMFZJ4gCu25uhJiDspftyXyWIgPLjFI8daZDqFBb-9cPQ6fCw6Hm3AUBypw-YhPkmHCYcdkHXssQokZIsH4qIra4I2ayI8Dn_VIShgq84T_e49N0q7fewZxs9TP8QBbwBvIBFmj7uCQOVGhTwtEVXqndkJ6w=s2016" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvvTRoHiNdgCWey16Je98MF-LBHUTYKpEMFZJ4gCu25uhJiDspftyXyWIgPLjFI8daZDqFBb-9cPQ6fCw6Hm3AUBypw-YhPkmHCYcdkHXssQokZIsH4qIra4I2ayI8Dn_VIShgq84T_e49N0q7fewZxs9TP8QBbwBvIBFmj7uCQOVGhTwtEVXqndkJ6w=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The end result: Emi and the decorated cake house with a very jolly jellybean roof!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3wefutZDoRG2RoNNwiQqinrAHCS5SRYONkA_xAJG5yesckskUr9ZdpFEB2YNHV8iVm7zFvu5KtABuCTXmH09UJjDrRS8Hfe3MjfEj7IzKMcyvzA1JozXMtRdNFV1hK4riCor9xrXLJN05MK0sWm5LdU-ZKsdW8EcBI9GFykmIdRFwuRRxLBTKUHXBDw=s2016" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3wefutZDoRG2RoNNwiQqinrAHCS5SRYONkA_xAJG5yesckskUr9ZdpFEB2YNHV8iVm7zFvu5KtABuCTXmH09UJjDrRS8Hfe3MjfEj7IzKMcyvzA1JozXMtRdNFV1hK4riCor9xrXLJN05MK0sWm5LdU-ZKsdW8EcBI9GFykmIdRFwuRRxLBTKUHXBDw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emi and Mia and the finished cake. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Whether they’ll be as intrigued by cakes
in the shape of cute little houses as I am, I don’t know, but food was certainly
on all our minds this year. Etienne and Aya sent us home with a bag full of their delicious home cooking, as well as a
cornucopia of chocolates and desserts from the unmatchable Beta 5 bakery. We’ll
all be plumper in the New Year.</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ96d-M6XmJvSQjzG8C8OB3J9MWBl2wL3Hbp7Yvu4Tw4GFKQzEgz6rQcVd-zjiuIGUROBuGUw6p_MWPMNBlo32Kla2F35V7j7mQ2EWfb793HSMYZPDyM1xu6eA60Y6qmrfKQQHX8HlW6fr9sz8cCyfOPK59MRZ3brjNVKYO_XeliUYTyWewD9Q8LbzZg=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ96d-M6XmJvSQjzG8C8OB3J9MWBl2wL3Hbp7Yvu4Tw4GFKQzEgz6rQcVd-zjiuIGUROBuGUw6p_MWPMNBlo32Kla2F35V7j7mQ2EWfb793HSMYZPDyM1xu6eA60Y6qmrfKQQHX8HlW6fr9sz8cCyfOPK59MRZ3brjNVKYO_XeliUYTyWewD9Q8LbzZg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These Beta 5 chocolates look -- and taste -- like jewels. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJcOBRH2YVKztSVma_Z-0CDINE0W6DQc2FUFlpvVl1VpODB-VQQwbe7Lca4qmPEKh4CNOHuZ5rkIpODZA1exblDA7HEvR2jeTMjhlWF_ONJWieOsXpVNqMVvbn3GAbjUgamVj2Yw0PU4glFkUnREAJrjDu2c7ZvxuqNRmEplAnw0JQaGx9195QdLSfNw=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJcOBRH2YVKztSVma_Z-0CDINE0W6DQc2FUFlpvVl1VpODB-VQQwbe7Lca4qmPEKh4CNOHuZ5rkIpODZA1exblDA7HEvR2jeTMjhlWF_ONJWieOsXpVNqMVvbn3GAbjUgamVj2Yw0PU4glFkUnREAJrjDu2c7ZvxuqNRmEplAnw0JQaGx9195QdLSfNw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More of our chocolate gifts; we haven't launched into this yet. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjy16monnAV3dTokPw8Jq_XeMoo6qG1VhDYl8uBJD1pNeVJu02O85mss_JffHY9OIU0KoCrdg2s03G9LDA9-chEOFuXp0ooM00wun5u_PtizHZff3dPa2Vc208j-KELMVfq33mJ9fh91apOF4anfZZiIFR28WJpkghvhiwfK7QSNHMrCGJh1By_VFmmig=s1000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjy16monnAV3dTokPw8Jq_XeMoo6qG1VhDYl8uBJD1pNeVJu02O85mss_JffHY9OIU0KoCrdg2s03G9LDA9-chEOFuXp0ooM00wun5u_PtizHZff3dPa2Vc208j-KELMVfq33mJ9fh91apOF4anfZZiIFR28WJpkghvhiwfK7QSNHMrCGJh1By_VFmmig=s320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Ah yes, our "lump of coal," which appears to be a very large, very dark ball of excellent chocolate. To be savoured in the next while. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjy16monnAV3dTokPw8Jq_XeMoo6qG1VhDYl8uBJD1pNeVJu02O85mss_JffHY9OIU0KoCrdg2s03G9LDA9-chEOFuXp0ooM00wun5u_PtizHZff3dPa2Vc208j-KELMVfq33mJ9fh91apOF4anfZZiIFR28WJpkghvhiwfK7QSNHMrCGJh1By_VFmmig=s1000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhohDB1L6ST67U7pEIaKRXNvX0DYIh7g6VpRLTHuRGHAB8cv7gNDqaWiLx1ykyJzllDNiNFzNLonjBDGJGNtO6YZ6BYhW01r7oVHmygayZb9gW_Lbj7qpRiXfDaeXyWy3HP--KlOnQA6qQxCB16U4quuDnwUExP1g1HoMKzU4RAlKm2_dUsNPb79be_Sg=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhohDB1L6ST67U7pEIaKRXNvX0DYIh7g6VpRLTHuRGHAB8cv7gNDqaWiLx1ykyJzllDNiNFzNLonjBDGJGNtO6YZ6BYhW01r7oVHmygayZb9gW_Lbj7qpRiXfDaeXyWy3HP--KlOnQA6qQxCB16U4quuDnwUExP1g1HoMKzU4RAlKm2_dUsNPb79be_Sg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's where we really had fun. "Shall we split one before dinner?" we asked when we got home from Etienne and Aya's on Christmas Day. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAEX0h0Ov8GpWEwYzh4duX9eb_KCH9lFcrsIsI4LqPJREzFVgPCFJCQD0a6FqaP8eWOVF9F6toD81Gcs7Y64TGkkB3bIMyo7VzY-WFHAkqjIgDi1jS1p5-e1C1q67AVFfgmQqVS7xPMbAhFmQb6hd09rUeVevrSBGp7E5ZFepvsFDO6tu9vi2MKxFDjQ=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAEX0h0Ov8GpWEwYzh4duX9eb_KCH9lFcrsIsI4LqPJREzFVgPCFJCQD0a6FqaP8eWOVF9F6toD81Gcs7Y64TGkkB3bIMyo7VzY-WFHAkqjIgDi1jS1p5-e1C1q67AVFfgmQqVS7xPMbAhFmQb6hd09rUeVevrSBGp7E5ZFepvsFDO6tu9vi2MKxFDjQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"That was excellent. How about the white one? Shall we indulge?" Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjELx4U_dbPQJICGQOv9X81r4U0_AHVvHAtca6fQubjAhghoOYu_7goYi87zd1ftrYoESThfvzuLqYJ00zPucDTqitopkS-1FmXvMquV6oe-Sp8hmgTmPM-c3CciVPqySwqzG_mjGq3bBlFc2kPYCwL7Pl1p-XPwbFS5ZzNBZDK6OU66rnUbYyxhZq5ew=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjELx4U_dbPQJICGQOv9X81r4U0_AHVvHAtca6fQubjAhghoOYu_7goYi87zd1ftrYoESThfvzuLqYJ00zPucDTqitopkS-1FmXvMquV6oe-Sp8hmgTmPM-c3CciVPqySwqzG_mjGq3bBlFc2kPYCwL7Pl1p-XPwbFS5ZzNBZDK6OU66rnUbYyxhZq5ew=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Well, this looks kind of lonely. We've gone this far. Might as well polish it off." Photo by John Denniston.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVqCX-RdEaHW2X3KIWd3EIERRtllLwNiKDfk5nGucZMVZlpedCQunVO0FIbwXnP0QAGXnZCZMRyFaSNdHJNOYYKJgKEPeTg5W7QCih4JC6aCWpP8wlAK-j_ihyzrFq46BFFvQvHD7IgyOtzH-ii-pStN7SoSsD0FcEB7tp9vahYuzfCmD-NFORryH21Q=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVqCX-RdEaHW2X3KIWd3EIERRtllLwNiKDfk5nGucZMVZlpedCQunVO0FIbwXnP0QAGXnZCZMRyFaSNdHJNOYYKJgKEPeTg5W7QCih4JC6aCWpP8wlAK-j_ihyzrFq46BFFvQvHD7IgyOtzH-ii-pStN7SoSsD0FcEB7tp9vahYuzfCmD-NFORryH21Q=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I don't think we're going to need dinner now!" Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208793704610624137.post-5665036829679161792021-12-24T22:19:00.000-08:002021-12-24T22:19:39.476-08:00Another Merry Covid Christmas<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Are we downhearted? Discouraged? Depressed? After two years of mask-wearing, sidewalk-swerving, people-distancing and event-avoiding thanks to Covid, we had our hopes up that this Christmas would be different. Then came Omicron, and yes, we are mightily teed-off.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">No family Christmas, no trip to Saltspring. But railing at Omicron has a limited shelf-life, so we’re making as merry as we can. Here are some photos of our amusements:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHtRrFXlLO6PbWegabdOi8BjQf_trgjPLczCZkb6gB5dAwQ8A76mW2Ix0S6le68HF_LKHHQuWxH_q4eyInMWLJkDSHrC8QFRCwoQsMchoW_--uprWVY_YCGUd5aYAAywlI5-B30RjwcKrYIdCJC0s_rat-dy-zT2y_5NnssdNBEOFsC17rd0VYvNyCNA=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="733" data-original-width="1000" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHtRrFXlLO6PbWegabdOi8BjQf_trgjPLczCZkb6gB5dAwQ8A76mW2Ix0S6le68HF_LKHHQuWxH_q4eyInMWLJkDSHrC8QFRCwoQsMchoW_--uprWVY_YCGUd5aYAAywlI5-B30RjwcKrYIdCJC0s_rat-dy-zT2y_5NnssdNBEOFsC17rd0VYvNyCNA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Sometimes, we are the only Grinch house on the block -- no decorations! -- but in the last couple of years, John has decided we should at least put lights around the door. In this photo, he's using a remote to control the camera at the foot of the stairs. We're laughing because it was much more fun in the old days when he set a timer, then raced to get into the photo -- the best ones caught him in mid-stride halfway to his destination. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9Pgxk8cuArJtowxjje8yNQF-WTQIC2zNsI5_8vkABTP0WTse--pqid5YAbnTinqurUg3KdFGRc3rDo6nm5FxfOatlpUwz-sPeS04_pZFXEXUR49uwQln7plmlC4YCYydhXagVqD2BVUgcKFv-EKvcA0rV3E5tL9UTSezvZE1BhdfTWfmSzCeX-isjbQ=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9Pgxk8cuArJtowxjje8yNQF-WTQIC2zNsI5_8vkABTP0WTse--pqid5YAbnTinqurUg3KdFGRc3rDo6nm5FxfOatlpUwz-sPeS04_pZFXEXUR49uwQln7plmlC4YCYydhXagVqD2BVUgcKFv-EKvcA0rV3E5tL9UTSezvZE1BhdfTWfmSzCeX-isjbQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Many people use deer as outdoor decorations at this time of year, but we'd never seen one that looked like this. Instead of the usual rattan structure, it was made of wire with triangles of foil that reflected the light. The beautiful blue, pink and gold colours reflect the sunset that was happening when the photo was taken. Photo by John Denniston. </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_xkSk-0VJ0DCQa56FsENXQiW729GTchF5UFFzeUEB2DcCPm-7b3k55o98C0r88GKfyWr3fgv_qGbAETwY5EAMYh-AIH8RwSEVOXQ2vTzEvuegqHUlyCS3DTw2A-NM9jSADEBjOvE5SizJWMKs-iTT0pjlPJaK4_f6EK7sAOdf_WeQmtT8vxuB40_dFg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_xkSk-0VJ0DCQa56FsENXQiW729GTchF5UFFzeUEB2DcCPm-7b3k55o98C0r88GKfyWr3fgv_qGbAETwY5EAMYh-AIH8RwSEVOXQ2vTzEvuegqHUlyCS3DTw2A-NM9jSADEBjOvE5SizJWMKs-iTT0pjlPJaK4_f6EK7sAOdf_WeQmtT8vxuB40_dFg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Someone in our area is an artist with found wood. Every time we pass, something different has happened on the boulevard -- at Easter there was a huge nest woven from branches, with three egg-shaped rocks tucked within. The latest structure is this turtle. It was plain at first, but in honour of the season, now stands on a bed of evergreens with a few sprigs of holly on one side. Last time I passed, its back was mounded with holly. This artist keeps you wondering what is next. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhC6N2bCUPjnAoAlj-mZGI3NCGGxoPAde02CUfnELM4kNgM31Tdhqycfw6jKdV-CzEv0WPMfj3RJD0d2vBpC3nNnlc9d7e6Iq455T6Ey5V4sdY_lCkWsjYR9DzcjdWborcetsIljIn6KTblPMwGCarjx_FHLctpZomlSA9dqzXd2YD_R2_d5yfV_CCRyA=s2016" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhC6N2bCUPjnAoAlj-mZGI3NCGGxoPAde02CUfnELM4kNgM31Tdhqycfw6jKdV-CzEv0WPMfj3RJD0d2vBpC3nNnlc9d7e6Iq455T6Ey5V4sdY_lCkWsjYR9DzcjdWborcetsIljIn6KTblPMwGCarjx_FHLctpZomlSA9dqzXd2YD_R2_d5yfV_CCRyA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Much less elaborate and nothing to do with Christmas is another wooden critter made of found wood, on a boulevard elsewhere in the city. I guess people don't like to just toss interesting sticks.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLVRqNklQtc9EjkFLHdele1dmJaxWYIqiDAJN0OGw_6LGm_cE5cjkmvqH81I0Dk7lyUY8fiOJLRUhBrLG6aF_SFSQRftMAxJRZGMtOVENif7eSvg-3v2bdcPXYZh8WhLyxZaFBLgrn2jNXTZl_papjAphCMiZbfz5FMdW2HDvDL6FiZ2V0217ZHdXW_g=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="1000" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLVRqNklQtc9EjkFLHdele1dmJaxWYIqiDAJN0OGw_6LGm_cE5cjkmvqH81I0Dk7lyUY8fiOJLRUhBrLG6aF_SFSQRftMAxJRZGMtOVENif7eSvg-3v2bdcPXYZh8WhLyxZaFBLgrn2jNXTZl_papjAphCMiZbfz5FMdW2HDvDL6FiZ2V0217ZHdXW_g=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">We had a trip to West Vancouver -- a huge event when you mostly go nowhere! At the end of the seawall, West Van had its usual display of Christmas trees, decorated by various organizations, businesses and individuals. We were amused by the middle one, with its minimalist decorations reflecting the sign. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjj-wboktLi65QfLcQVmgHrHU1BRTLmUGZb3EBBw1AvFFJ32FmkWF2jWN1O-uVyMN-OKXc0hUFILvodpqqoUgwOfXt5SUoS_fkQlUVh67PE1cSryrheOOwOPeqFEg89LI1YThKYpwrBFfwlVq26mLOfrkheZWuYuyDxDa4Pf6IXOj19CoCqQong3xZlmg=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="1000" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjj-wboktLi65QfLcQVmgHrHU1BRTLmUGZb3EBBw1AvFFJ32FmkWF2jWN1O-uVyMN-OKXc0hUFILvodpqqoUgwOfXt5SUoS_fkQlUVh67PE1cSryrheOOwOPeqFEg89LI1YThKYpwrBFfwlVq26mLOfrkheZWuYuyDxDa4Pf6IXOj19CoCqQong3xZlmg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Christmas tree, built out of loose wood and decorated appropriately. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0IHBbsriZ5YBWPa3PnvCkJ1X0e3sY6pemG2aGN3GDHb4OShKSvLnArHuG8jLbkQDuzwvCmtX3q0-4Ax6x0uPyK8L3Fs3D27qw7S6PJCd9OpDDXoZ92Sa7D8rKjulSFfJdmUefb88iQ-2Xd6-6tL6JW_327sVx-xsznuxjHKNh6wL5F8vmyRpXInNIpw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="1000" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0IHBbsriZ5YBWPa3PnvCkJ1X0e3sY6pemG2aGN3GDHb4OShKSvLnArHuG8jLbkQDuzwvCmtX3q0-4Ax6x0uPyK8L3Fs3D27qw7S6PJCd9OpDDXoZ92Sa7D8rKjulSFfJdmUefb88iQ-2Xd6-6tL6JW_327sVx-xsznuxjHKNh6wL5F8vmyRpXInNIpw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Some Christmas displays you just can't ignore, even if you're not particularly in love with inflatable decorations. This one had just about everything, including a Santa popping in and out of a toilet. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKBoL-x60us1fQwZDdwZRNhMUXnI0SnfLqtqEMCI_rxQ6Wtzc0CSuHM3MvKW1WEkqarVL4ruyESp-DQFbDLpYmemlX2PlMG1kH2Qk7CWiuxz_DiZSWgVh7Ap575-4k7V0YnbgdCNTdSanqWgGigKGbKH0Ty2hhCNLaXLB2myxRTCaB8GJ-_OcP6WLNEw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKBoL-x60us1fQwZDdwZRNhMUXnI0SnfLqtqEMCI_rxQ6Wtzc0CSuHM3MvKW1WEkqarVL4ruyESp-DQFbDLpYmemlX2PlMG1kH2Qk7CWiuxz_DiZSWgVh7Ap575-4k7V0YnbgdCNTdSanqWgGigKGbKH0Ty2hhCNLaXLB2myxRTCaB8GJ-_OcP6WLNEw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another of those displays you just can't not photograph. To the left, you can see the Santa in the outhouse. Photo by John Denniston.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilsEtOu6a-qjJSU3xad6acxPnREby9ZO_xzQp3vqscVJCn5rmxMLTZCHt2XceEPKgez_E4H4HoaxS-p-HlxlujGRBD71j0OL45kyYP73749TJFZAE45K1kEZ_FtcLZjliAzs8LaOY40AE4QEAmnK6vcJlUH5x9Z5oVjuslUVuM9d7hHylE_pAIe3-xsQ=s2016" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilsEtOu6a-qjJSU3xad6acxPnREby9ZO_xzQp3vqscVJCn5rmxMLTZCHt2XceEPKgez_E4H4HoaxS-p-HlxlujGRBD71j0OL45kyYP73749TJFZAE45K1kEZ_FtcLZjliAzs8LaOY40AE4QEAmnK6vcJlUH5x9Z5oVjuslUVuM9d7hHylE_pAIe3-xsQ=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">And here's the boulevard bathtub lady, who always gets redecorated to reflect the season. Last year she had ice skates; this year evergreen boughs and poinsettia blossoms. It's interesting to watch, now that we have so much time for observation, how people entertain themselves -- and us -- with these public displays. </td></tr></tbody></table>Carol Volkarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04521488915030152289noreply@blogger.com0