Saucer Magnolia Tree

Six years ago Gary’s mother died.  In memory of his mother, his co-workers at NavCanada gave him a generous gift certificate from a local nursery. 

They knew that we had just moved into a home that was in desperate need of landscaping, and knew that Gary would appreciate planting a tree in memory of his mother.

We bought a healthy, seven-foot  Saucer Magnolia Tree.  This was an appropriate choice because Gary’s mother loved pink flowers; the magnolia tree promised to bloom in lush, showy pink blossoms, every spring, just in time for the anniversary of her death.

We planted the young tree in a sheltered area, where we could enjoy it from our kitchen window.  The first winter was hard on the new magnolia.  That first spring when the snow left, the tender tree had been split down the middle to the ground, cracked right through.  We were upset but did homework on what might save this precious tree.

Our garden centre advisor told us to trim the broken branches and duct tape the base together, leave it, cutting the tape as the tree grew and needed to expand, reapplying until the tree mended itself.

We’ve nursed our tree along, taping, cutting, trimming and wrapping as needed for four more springs.  This year, the magnolia has started to bloom again, vibrant rosy blooms, not many, but a start. 

The leaves are budded and the tree looks like it will recover.  We’re pleased that the magnolia tree is growing stronger and starting to flower anew, particularly because of what the tree represents to us—a beloved mother tenderly remembered.

All four images are mine.

Packing Boxes

Mum has been packing slowly for a couple of weeks.  It takes time to go through all of her belongings; what to move, what to keep, what to donate, what to throw away.   As she fills boxes, we stack them in piles in her apartment.   What goes by car and what goes with the furniture movers.  There is stuff to be thrown away and stuff to be given away.

We’ve collected boxes and boxes and boxes from the liquor stores, small sturdy ones for heavy items such as books and delicate items like crystal.   The moving company sells used and flattened cardboard cartons, so we have some of those in 2 cubic foot and 4 cubic foot sizes.  Mum fills and tapes and labels them.  Every couple of days, I go over to put together some of these flattened boxes, so she can fill more.

We have to cross out the instructions on these used boxes and write Mum’s directions on them instead.

Today as we reconstructed and taped these used, flattened cartons, we read the notes on the used boxes:  Sam’s stuffed toys, goes to Sam’s room; Hal’s bathroom stuff, unpack first, goes to bathroom; canned food, goes to kitchen; Vicki’s summer shorts, goes to bedroom; Hal’s videos, handle carefully, goes to living room; Sam’s blankets, goes to storage; Vicki’s headboard stuff, goes to bedroom; Vicki’s sex toys, goes to bedroom. 

Whaaaaaat!

Mum and I looked at each other and burst into hysterics…laughter!

We have no issues with sex toys.  Who doesn’t love having fun?

It seemed bizarre that “Vicki” would write it on the carton knowing that movers would see it and that the carton would be recycled.

Too funny!  A great relaxing break in an otherwise muggy day of packing!  

Thanks Vicki!

Make Music with Your Life

Make Music With Your Life

~Bob O'Meally

Make music with your life
a
     jagged
silver tune
cuts every deepday madness
Into jewels     that you wear

Carry 16 bars of old blues
wit/you
everywhere you go
walk thru azure sadness
howlin’
Like a guitar player

Source: Teaching With Fire

This quote from Bob O’Meally is the quote for today published online by inward/outward, an ongoing, online conversation sponsored by The Church of the Saviour in Washington, DC.

ROBERT O'MEALLY teaches at Columbia University.  He is the Zora Neale Hurston Professor of English and Comparative Literature, and founder and former director of the Centre for Jazz Studies.

He specializes in 19th- and 20th-century American literature as well as African American literature and jazz culture—including music, literature, painting, film, photography, theater, and dance.

O'Meally's new book is Romare Bearden: Black Odyssey--A Search for Home. 

To read Robert O’Meally’s full BIO, click this link.

To hear Robert O’Meally speak about Romare Beardon, click this link.

Thoughts on Writing

It’s after midnight and I can’t sleep.  My head is busy and won’t rest.

I am making lists in my brain of “To Do’s” so thought to rise, and put the list on paper to cease the jangle of racing ideas.

I want to start writing in a more purposeful and intense way.  If I get up earlier in the mornings, I can spend several hours writing before my other tasks call me away.  If I use that self-discipline, I will be more grounded. 

If I don’t write enough each day, I feel agitated and slightly “off”, with a sort of un-wellness and frustration.  If I don’t write enough, the words roll around inside my head creating uneasiness.  If I don’t write enough, then when I do settle to write, the words come tumbling, dashing, jumbling out so quickly that I cannot contain all of them and some are lost. That feels bad too.

I enjoy blogging and photography and the short windows into my day that these provide.  But blogging doesn’t allow enough scope; I need and want more.  A challenge.

I need to find a way through to the more and a way to capture time away from distractions, to write for several hours in a row, each day.  I’ll begin tomorrow or really, later today at the other end of this morning.

I also need to be clearer about what I want to say.  It isn’t enough just to write, there must be something to say that’s worth saying.

I am tired now and starting to sense that I am talking about my own belly-button lint, the way folks ramble on about the mundane, on blogs…

Before I become really obnoxious, I’m off to bed.

Too late, you say?

Return of the Sun

The sun returned today at suppertime.  I was amazed at how quickly the sunshine lifted my mood, after endless sodden and depressing days.  The slanting gold rays created an enchantment. 

Windows opened.  Lawn chairs came out.  The air filled with bright sound, birds trilling and singing, bursting joy, lawn mowers buzzing and whining in a steady wave and trough of cutting through thick and thin patches of grass.

Suddenly neighbours were out walking their yipping dogs, calling, “Hello, great to see the sun!” from grinning faces, their conversations loud with laughter.

The warmth carried a scent of new-mown grass and of fragrant barbecues, grilling delicate chops and succulent chicken, juicy hamburgers and savoury onions.  

Someone could hear his motorcycle calling, “Come out for a ride, and forget the chores!”   He left, loudly, exultantly roaring out the driveway and down to the street, joining others who had already responded to the call of the road.

I walked around the yard surveying all that had grown during these long wet days, and was greeted by enthusiastic swathes of dandelions.  I thought, “If, I didn’t know they were weeds, wouldn’t I be glad to see these cheerful yellow faces?”  

I said, “Yes”… and so I was.

Morning Routines

I started to download a blog entry early this morning and couldn’t.  A note came up on the computer screen saying, “Blogger is not available”.  Further explanation—temporarily shut down for maintenance.  Frustration!  Not that I mind the concept of maintenance, it’s always a good idea.  It’s merely that I like to start the day with a blog post.  It’s my routine.

Oh well!  I go downstairs to get the newspaper and anticipate reading it, fragrant dark coffee in hand.  I brave the early morning wet and wind to search the mailbox.  The paper isn’t here.  It’s late…again.  Hmmm, I wonder if the newspaper printing plant is down for maintenance, too.  It is so often.

The sky is odd looking, a rippled low ceiling of clouds, whites and greys; like a freshly-ploughed field, all furrows and ridges, and a weak whisper of pale blue sky.  The wind is gusty, carrying the scent of rain and a deep chill.

A steady drone of car traffic on the street below is punctuated by the throaty rumble and vibrating down-shifting of motorcycles at the traffic lights.  Everyone is hurrying to work or appointments or coffee shops.  The early morning freight planes are low down today, reverberating thunder over the roof top as they leave airport runway number twenty-four, roaring out, on their way to everywhere.

Nicholas vocalizes kitty-chirps and tiny mews as he keeps me company and watches for this morning’s birds to arrive at the feeders.  We each have our waking rituals.  He sits hypnotized, meditative and waiting.  The other two cats are staked out on the floor, near the kitchen sink in hope of the clatter of their food dishes.

The house is quiet.  The clock ticks.  The world starts to wake, birds are trilling, calling to each other.  Nicholas is attentive.

The tall lanky paper boy comes trudging up the steep front driveway, bent over slightly from the weight of the Thursday paper with its heavy ads.  His blue hood nearly covers his face, sheltering him against the unpleasantly cold dampness; all that shows is a piece of his thick black hair.  The metal lid clanks as he wrestles and squeezes the thick paper into the mailbox.  He turns and plods out the even steeper upper driveway and over to the neighbour’s house.

Ah, morning routines!

Closet Cleaning

I cleaned my bedroom closet today.  It took just over three hours.

It seemed like a great rainy day activity and I needed to make space for my summer clothes, coming out of storage.  I live in hope that warm weather will eventually come.

Normally, I am orderly about the house and meticulous with my clothes. I have one bad habit. It is possible that I have more than one, but this is the only one I’m willing to own up to today.

Once in awhile when I am rushed at straightening up messes and there is a time pressure, I will chuck things on to the floor of the bedroom closet to hide them. I always mean to get at cleaning, sorting out and putting away directly after someone leaves, or after the perceived deadline is passed. 

However…once I start doing this, I can get worse and worse with it, until the closet is decidedly in a muddle when I open the door. And thank goodness there is a door on my closet; otherwise contents would spill out everywhere, in disarray.  

The mess grows exponentially and quickly becomes a helter-skelter pile of shopping bags and small, lovely boxes, colourful ribbons and sparkly wrapping, bright sandals, plain and dressy shoes, shoe polishes, picture hanging hooks and wires,  a couple of pictures waiting to be hung, white string and silver safety pins, a warm wool blanket, empty gift bags for all occasions, my own small hammer, delicate pliers and numerous measuring tapes, beige files of information on my three cats, old worn suede-covered journals… partially full,  out-of-season purses,  cards I have received and loved, and a bit of grey fuzzy dust, since vacuuming has become impossible in there.

Today is the day to tidy it all up again.  It always feels like a gigantic task, consequently I avoid it, coming up with ever more creative excuses about why I can’t face it.  But…today is the day!

I was going to post “before and after photos” on my blog, but the reality was just too awful…so I haven’t done that.  Instead I searched online for images of “cleaning closets”.  After looking at hundreds of photos of messy closets, I feel much better about mine, even a little superior!

It took me only three hours once I got organized:  

• a blue garbage bag for “throw-aways”,
• a cardboard carton in which to pack winter clothes to go to storage,
• another bag to hold clothes that I will give to someone else,
• a small box for items, with which I can’t bear to part and yet, don’t know what to do with…so back into the closet they go, albeit in a tiny, tidy neatly-labelled carton.

I’m pleased with myself and admire the way my immaculate closet feels and looks.  Until the next time, when I’m in hurry and needing to store something out of sight, it will stay in pristine condition, all items freshly folded, neatly hung, color co-ordinated.