Peggy writes John

 

Margaret Atwood's "Burning Questions" book prompted John to write her a letter recalling an early encounter. She answered!

I 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.

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.

“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.

“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.

“Kind regards,

“Margaret Atwood.”

Here’s what John wrote to prompt this response:

Dear Margaret,

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.

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.

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.

I had decided to take my chances with the wrath of the editor-in-chief rather than with you.

Regards,

John Denniston

 As this Sept. 27, 1969 Edmonton Journal photo and column indicate, Margaret Atwood had very definite positions from the start of her famous career.

Colours

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.

 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 – but they put me in mind of the bright colours I associate with that country.

Which made me think about the colours of Vancouver, and why Ros’s red made such an impression.  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.

We can’t do much about nature’s hues, but I wonder why, when we have a choice, we choose drab?

All winter, our sidewalks are parades of dark coats under black umbrellas. Our cars are grey or black or white – 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.

I confess I fit right in. My house is white. My winter coat is long and grey.

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.

I'm a duller photo subject altogether, although I've ditched my winter grey for slightly brighter purple. 

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.

The main part of my favourite garden in Vancouver, also in Kitsilano, hasn't burst into full spring colour yet.  

But outside the picket fence, passersby can glory in purple crocuses and white snowdrops.

It's a stunning show of colour the entire length of the fence. 

A Pink Dawn viburnum is blooming at the front of the house.

Under it, what a show of blossoms for colour-starved Vancouverites!

Evolution of a garden

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.

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.

In early 2023, John took a weed-whacker and mattock to the jungle, clearing the way for some new plants.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Which brings us to this year, when a friend offered us some plants from her Saltspring garden. “Do you have space?” she asked.

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.

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. 

Sadder but wiser, we have no more illusions that our garden will ever be a slice of English-country paradise.

The garden in 2004...

...in 2007...

...in 2009... (we'd obviously been away for awhile, but notice the regular lilac to the left in full bloom)

...in 2014...

...in 2017... (once again, the garden is overgrown, but this time the pink lavatera is thriving to the right front.)

Earlier this year, a good clear-out of the undergrowth exposed full-grown California lilacs. 

One was badly contorted by the tough life it's led in the undergrowth. 

Back to shovels and bags of fresh soil. Let's see how tough these new plants are!

Look down

 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.

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!

So I looked some more and discovered, just around a tree trunk, another kind of house:

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.

Further investigation revealed that the building was just part of a bigger scheme -- perhaps it's a building complex for fairies! 

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.

 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!

Along with the rustic-style buildings, there is clear evidence that kids are a big part of what's happening on this boulevard. 

Medieval knights stage a battle, maybe with each other, maybe with the green dragon off beyond the snowbank. 

Somebody had fun hiding pink, yellow and green ladybugs among the pebbles.

And the African animals had to have their patch of the boulevard, even if it's a bit snowy for the giraffes and tigers.

Just as I turned to go, this popped out at me, on another tree on the boulevard:

Yet another fairy door, this time for a high-flying fairy, with colourful pebbles beneath. 

A close-up of that highly decorated door, with its flowers, mushrooms and a lantern. 

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!

Back-yard surprise

 

We've never seen this guy before, but all the birds in the neighbourhood knew he was bad news. Photo by John Denniston.

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.

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.

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 as food. It was a raptor, which the neighbourhood birds knew before we did. And fled.

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.

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.

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.”  They squeeze their prey to death with powerful talons, or hold them underwater until they die. 

If you want to attract them to your yard, here’s what to do: Set up a bird feeder.

https://birdfeederhub.com/facts-about-coopers-hawks/

No!

 

A barrage of discouragement stands between dogs and their need to answer the call of nature in the great outdoors.

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:

“No Poop & Pee. Be respectful.”

“Please keep dogs out of garden.”

“Woof! Please clean up after your pet.”

Physical barriers are popular, too – 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.

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.

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.

The brown spots on my hedge were a puzzlement until I figured out that dogs were likely lifting their legs there. 

Here's a neighbour's answer to the dilemma: create a barrier out of old sticks.

Somebody else chose a more elegant solution, with a low wire fence just far enough away from the boxwood hedge.

Eye-catching and specific -- no euphemisms here!

And plentiful. There were at least six signs along the front of this property.

A little more polite, appealing to the best sides of both dog and owner.

Even institutions get into the act. Brock House in Point Grey would hate to see its neatly planted garden bed despoiled.  

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.

,

This well-worn sign makes an attempt at humour....

Under the drawing of the dog with a cocktail glass are the words, "Please do not be...." What? A party pooper, perhaps?

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.

The Travelling Burn Pile

 

When you can haul your garden debris uphill or downhill for burning, which would you choose? All photos by John Denniston. 

It's a big dilemma with a property as steep as ours. Here's a view from the very top corner.

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.

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.

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.

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.

These decisions meant that instead of hauling litter down the hill, we would always, always, be hauling it up. Gravity would no longer be my friend.

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.

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.

 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.

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.

So then we panicked. Frantic raking and smothering and shouting ensued, and we finally got the fire out.

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.

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.

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….

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!

Here's the opposite -- the location of the old garage nearly at the top of the property. The debris piles have begun!

So neat and tidy, unlike my toss-'em-and-leave-'em handiwork. In the background, there I am, on a downward trek.

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.

Me again. Up the hill!

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.

The debris pile back in the old burning location.

John keeps a close watch, hose in hand. Hopefully, there is some water pressure if needed.

Here I am, piling on more debris for the next big burn pile. There's always more to come.