The Balancing Act

1 October 2021 – Balance. That’s our daily context, isn’t it? Leonard Cohen pointed this out back in 1966, when (in Beautiful Losers) he praised those who achieve “balance in the chaos of existence.” But never mind grand philosophical abstractions, just consider the balancing act involved in putting one foot in front of the other. Some 6-3 million years ago our ancestors decided to get up off all fours and walk upright. We’ve been dancing with gravity ever since. (And our backs, so beautifully shaped for horizontal life, have been complaining ever since.)

I must add that absolutely none of this is in my mind as we stand at Denman & Davie streets, just off English Bay. We are entirely focused on the building in front of us, with its display of Douglas Coupland’s latest contribution to his home town.

Berkley Tower is being comprehensively renovated, all 16 storeys of it, and author/artist Coupland was commissioned to create the murals now being applied to all four sides. They’re bright & sassy & up-energy and we decide we like them. They hold their own, we agree, in an area already rich with public art — new Mural Festival additions all around, and the A-maze-ing Laughter collection of Vancouver Biennale sculptures right across the street in Morton Park.

The Coupland work gave us a starting point for our walk; now we’ll wing it, as we head east along the False Creek north shore Seawall, from English Bay Beach on past Sunset Beach near the Burrard Bridge, and on down to Granville.

There’s been lots of rain lately; we’re both wearing Seriously Waterproof jackets. With hoods. Without umbrellas. (Vancouverites tend to divide on the subject of umbrellas, pro/con.) No rain at the moment, just mist dancing in the air, creating a depth of mystery and potential beyond anything blatant sunshine can offer.

On we walk, now just east of the giant Inukshuk monument whose setting curves into English Bay right at the end of Bidwell Street. “Here,” says my friend, sweeping an arm to pull my attention forward. “Look.”

I look, I blink. How have I never noticed all this before?

More inukshuks, all of them unofficial, uncommissioned, but look at them. One after another, more sizes & shapes (& quantity) than the eye can register.

Later, hunting around online, trying to find names to credit for all this beauty, I discover they are examples of a global phenomenon known variously as rock balancing or rock stacking. I’m happy to adopt this language: these creations certainly are feats of balance, and they are not truly inukshuks, which tend to have humanoid structure. (I never do find current names of local rock balancers, alas, so cannot give the credit so richly due.)

We keep hanging over the Seawall, admiring one subset of rock stacks after another.

Sometimes imposing towers …

sometimes just a few tiny pieces, in perfect relation to each other.

By the time we reach Sunset Beach, the great sweep of rock stacks has finally ended. But look… there is compensation.

One of my enduring favourites of all the Vancouver Biennale sculptures: 217.5 Arc X 13. Bernar Venet’s work is exactly what its title promises — 13 arcs of steel, each curved to 217.5°. (It’s not a balancing act in the sense of the stone stacks we have just been admiring, but it does still have to contend with the laws of gravity…)

Close to the Burrard St. Bridge, we cock our heads at the astoundingly large, perfectly vertical cones poised like chandeliers on the branches of this enormous evergreen.

And then later, under the Granville St. Bridge, we see an even more improbable chandelier.

“And… why???” you ask. I can tell you it’s 7.7 m X 4.2 m of stainless steel, bedecked with polyurethene “crystals” and weighing more than 3,000 kilos, and you’ll wave away all those factoids, won’t you. You’ll ask again: “Why???”

Here’s why. Vancouver bylaws require that the developers of any building over 100,000 sq. ft. must contribute some piece of public art to the City. The developers of Vancouver House were simply meeting a legal obligation.

But they did it with panache, didn’t they? So I’m willing to be grateful.

On the Other Hand…

28 September 2021 – On the other hand, we live in a both/and world.

Both the realities lamented by Yeats

and other realities as well.

Realities in the Camosun Bog, for example, where three perfect fungi climb the tree trunk immediately behind your boardwalk bench …

and the bog itself spreads wide before your eyes, a whole ecosystem, quietly breathing.

Or realities in Dude Chilling Park, where the natural ecosystem welcomes a continuing succession of social ecosystems, each one its own celebration of connection and community.

This drizzly evening, dozens of geocachers have gathered (fully compliant with BC virus regulations) to share stories, trinkets and know-how. I don’t know how and I’m not even trying to learn how, I’m just along for the ride, but all around me veterans and newbies are deep in conversation about their hobby, with its twin attractions of high tech and boots-on-ground.

Then the shout goes up: “Group photo, everybody!” People pile in under some sheltering tree branches, with one late arrival (over there on the right) doing a bum-plant in her haste.

Nobody has just one interest in life, and so this gathering is shot through with the textures of sub-gatherings, as people discover what else they have in common.

I am shown some painted rocks, newly tucked into the boundary of the adjacent community garden, and learn something of the back-story.

They have become a birthday symbol for the young boy who helped paint this latest crop, because one year ago, when COVID lock-down prevented any birthday party, his friends each painted a rock and placed it in front of his house, for him to admire from the required distance.

And I am introduced to Deirdre Pinnock, whose name means exactly nothing at all to me — but whose work I know and have on occasion shared with you. She’s our resident Yarn Artist! The person who adorns chain-link fences with crocheted hearts and other symbols of love, support and community.

I gaze at her in awe, and then tug her hand like an eager puppy dog. “Let me take your picture,” I beg. “Choose one of your works here in the park. Whichever.” She chooses the pole.

I walk back home significantly more cheerful than I was a couple of days ago. I am reminded that, Yeats to the contrary, society’s bad guys do not have a lock on passionate intensity. It exists among the good guys as well, in all kinds of wonderful, affirming ways and places.

Take heart. (Crocheted, or otherwise.)

Along the Spine

11 September 2021 – “Yes,” we decide, studying the print-out of a Mural Festival neighbourhood map, “Strathcona’s a good choice. Nice cluster of murals along that Cordova/East Hastings spine between Heatley and Campbell.”

We each have some familiarity with this east-of-East-Van neighbourhood, my friend much more than I, but it’s the first time we’ve come here focused on murals. Not that we care that much — it’s good walking territory, no matter what.

But, oh yes, there are murals!

We stand on Campbell, laughing with delight as we stare westward down the alley between East Hastings and Cordova.

Flowers to the left of us …

dancing aerosole cans to the right …[

after that a three-storey building painted top to bottom, side to side …

and just a little farther along, this bold triptych, its cheerful style in stark contrast to the fencing and razor wire that protect it.

Strathcona is a decidedly mixed neighbourhood, with problems as well as gaiety. All the more reason to admire and salute everything they do so well, while dealing with their other realities.

Same alley block, yet more charm. This time an ocean-to-mountains-to-ocean mural, starting at this end with a leaping whale and (off the lower-right corner of the window, by the downpipes) a yellow pop-up seal …

and ending, on the far side of the mountain range, with the world’s most adorable little otter, waving his paw.

We’re out of the alley now, on Cordoba itself & heading for Heatley, thinking everything else will surely be an anti-climax.

Wrong!

That VW bug need offer no apologies. Even if the pigeon is unimpressed. (He’s there. You’ll find him.)

Barely onto a city street proper and we’re off it again, pulled into yet another alley to investigate flashes of colour obscured by the street-front buildings.

This is what we wanted to see close up, my friend telling me the history of this old family company while I go goofy-happy about the colours, the typography, the peeling paint, the paint-brush image on that open door.

Another voice, unexpected and unexpectedly close, urges me to take a picture of that as well.

I look up. The workman, carefully balancing his take-out coffee in one hand, points across the alley with his chin. “That,” he repeats. “Look!”

Yes, wow, look.

I ask if he’s a fan of street art. He waves aside the abstraction, sticks to the reality of this alley. “I work here,” he says. “Watched them paint that. I like it.”

I catch up with my friend, who is talking with some Harm Reduction workers down at the Hawks end of the block. I contemplate this … what? tea ceremony? … mural.

We emerge onto Hawks, look back down the alley, bright murals of assorted eras to both sides and there, on the left, the alley end of the East Van Community Centre garden that stretches up to and along East Hastings.

As we skirt the garden, we exchange nods with a middle-aged man at one of the picnic tables by the sidewalk, and then fall into conversation with him. He looks like he has known a tough life, but there is peace and dignity in his posture and he describes current produce in relaxed, clear, well-chosen language. He knows a lot about gardening, we later agree.

“Go look at the pumpkins,” he urges us, and crinkles his eyes in farewell as we nod agreement and head off down Hastings, to look for the pumpkins.

A while later we’re at Campbell and East Hastings, waiting for the light to change so we can claim the car and go have lunch at Finch’s up on East Georgia.

I stare kitty-corner across the intersection at the housing development on the other side. It’s Moshe Safdie’s Habitat 67 reborn right here in Strathcona, we agree — but a lot more colourful. (And more affordable.)

We fall into city-as-art-installation mode. Look: the colours of the building reflect the colours of the banner and the traffic signals.

Enough art appreciation. We’re off to Finch’s.

Into the Stream

1 September 2021Getting close! I think, spotting this traffic circle with its mosaic accents.

I’m looking for Mosaic Creek Park, something I mentioned in my Long Slide to Dusk post, after my online search for mosaic-art info coughed up a reference to this wonderfully named parkette. So here I almost am, on Charles Street in Britannia neighbourhood, but not quite sure whether to turn right or left on Charles at this intersection.

I opt for right, for no particular reason. This takes me east to Grandview Park, perfectly fine & good, but not what I’m after. So I spin around, and, as I head back west, have two encounters in close succession.

Sunflower, and plums.

Sunflower is metal, on a hydro pole, no longer framing whatever it once contained, but perky good fun all the same.

Soon after come the plums, not that I immediately know that’s what’s on offer.

I’ve exchanged a few complimentary words about his garden with a gentleman just stepping back onto his porch; we do the chit-chat and then he asks, “Got a bag?” I tilt my shoulder, revealing my knapsack. He beams, holds up a handful of plums — “Just picked them!” — and slides them into my knapsack for me.

So I am in even better humour than ever as I walk the last block on west to Mosaic Creek Park. Talk about “random acts of kindness”!

And there’s the little park, with one outlying chunk of mosaic to welcome me in.

Just a tiny corner of land, but with a big, wonderful story behind it.

The Britannia Neighbours Community Group wanted to do something with this vacant lot; project coordinator Sarah White pulled in artists Glen Anderson and Kristine Germann, who ran mosiac workshops for interested community members; more than 300 people took part, and added their handiwork to the stream of mosaics that make up the “creek” giving the park its name.

And added their names as well.

Individuals, school and other groups, and even neighbourhood animals — all part of the stream. “Topsy,” I’m guessing, is a dog, and Maggie & Pat’s cats are as involved as their humans.

I wander along the stream. Look! there’s a cat …

and here, just to the right of a sweetly cuddled mother and child …

… are those dogs?

No need to puzzle this next one. A heart, universal and eternal symbol, placed here pre-pandemic but even more meaningful now.

I’ve walked the stream, I’m at Charles & McLean, and look back at it, admiring the curve.

I also admire Stonehenge-on-Charles at the far corner (oh all right, a basalt-pillar playground) …

and then settle on a bench for a while. And eat one of those plums.

That’s the end of the Mosaic Creek discovery, but not the end of discoveries — all because, as I walk back home, I notice this musical notation over somebody’s front door.

On a whim I photograph it, and on a further whim, send it to my friend Jeff, a writer/musician/translator with a quick & curious mind. Does it say something? I ask, or is it just pretty?

“Well, there’s music here,” he replies, “but also a technical error.

  1. A piece with one flat (the bulbous little guy after the treble clef) is in the key of F, which takes B flat. The flat here is E flat. So the key as notated, at least by western standards, does not exist! (B flat and E flat together would give you the key of B flat, however.)
  2. There is a cute little tune here, but not exactly that of any doorbell I’ve heard. I attach a recording.”

Jeff also notes (unintended pun, sorry), Jeff also comments that the actual key seems to be A Minor, which has no sharps or flats.

So it’s all a bit of a mishmash, but pretty to look at, and offered to the world (by homeowner, Jeff and me) with cheerful good intentions.

sʔi:ɬqəy̓ qeqən

31 July 2021 – I’m on the UBC campus for one tribute, and end up walking another one while there.

First tribute: the Chaconne concert at the Chan Centre, the second performance in this year’s EMV Bach Festival and dedicated to Jeanne Lamon — the renowned violinist, concert master, early music pioneer and mentor, shockingly dead barely one month ago. During my Toronto years I benefited from her role with Tafelmusik, and here in Vancouver benefitted again, when she retired to Vancouver Island and immersed herself in the musical community out here.

So I sink into this concert for more than its music alone, and then walk across campus in a contemplative mood.

My path takes me to the intersection of University Blvd with East Mall, at the foot of a cascading water feature. It is also home to this 34-foot Musqueam house post of the double-headed serpent.

I’ve seen it before, had forgotten where it was, am delighted to discover it again. It is the work of Brent Sparrow Jr. (son of another fine Coast Salish artist, Susan Point), his gift to UBC, and a tribute to his people and their culture.

Yes! The double-headed serpent, sʔi:ɬqəy̓, whose home was, is, the Camosun Bog.

After living here a few years, I have the beginnings of some personal cross-connections. I’ve visited the Bog a number of times, and I’ve taken you there with me more than once. In July 2020, my post included this larky on-site map …

and on Christmas Day I looked out over bog and pond sparkling with misty rain.

No rain today, alas (more than 40 dry days, and counting), and a lot more heat. But it’s walkable heat, and I decide to visit the serpent.

I walk up one side of the incline, passing these women striding down …

pivot at the viewing hut at the top …

enter the hut for the long view back downhill with the water course …

and then walk my way on down to the bottom.

Once home, feet up, I revisit another favourite tribute to the serpent. It’s an animation I first viewed at Museum of Vancouver, but can now enjoy any old time on vimeo.

And so can you.

Unhappy Canada Day

1 July 2021 – This is surely the unhappiest Canada Day in our history. Yet if we seize the opportunity, it may also be the most important, and make the greatest contribution to the future of everyone who lives here.

Although we begin to emerge from COVID, with most jurisdictions in their final re-opening stages, we are not celebrating.

Across the country, events have been muted, changed, postponed or cancelled. The country’s flag continues to fly at half-mast — everywhere, at every level and in every circumstance, from the Peace Tower on Parliament Hill to this local flagpole outside a False Creek condominium.

The national mood ranges from shock to rage to bewilderment to shame to — oh yes, this as well — scape-goating.  But with enough reflection and recognition in the mixture, we may yet be grateful for this sombre day.

The Immediate Shock: +1,100 bodies in unmarked graves

Within the last month, most recently yesterday, three different First Nations have announced that the use of ground-penetrating radar has detected the presence of children’s bodies in unmarked, unacknowledged graves at the sites of three now-closed Indian Residential Schools. The numbers now total more than 1,100.

I have to repeat this slowly to myself, to take it in. More than 1,100 indigenous children, removed by force from their families, dead while in the hands of the religious authorities charged with their care, and then simply … disposed of. Not even honoured with hallowed, marked graves, let alone returned to their families with a full accounting.

The Barest-Bones Background

Right from first contact, religious and political authorities assumed their right — their duty — to convert the indigenous peoples. The first residential facilities were established in Nouvelle France, but the term Residential School generally applies to the system established after 1880. Some 150,000 indigenous children were forcibly taken to 139 Indian Residential Schools across the country; most schools were closed by the mid-1970s, but the last did not close until 1990. It was thought that an estimated 6,000 children died while at school — a number we shall clearly need to revise.

“Residential schools,” says The Canadian Encyclopedia in an entry last edited June 2021, “were government-sponsored religious schools that were established to assimilate indigenous children into Euro-Canadian culture.” In developing the system, our Prime Minister John A. Macdonald commissioned journalist/politician Nicholas Flood Davin to study the American model. Davin recommended that Canada follow the U.S. example of “aggressive civilization” of the children.

And that’s what we did. The founder of the Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania said, “Kill the Indian and save the man”; our Prime Minister said, “Take the Indian out of the child.”

Today we officially — as recommended by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada — describe this as “cultural genocide.”

We don’t yet know whether any other definition of genocide also applies.

Reaction / Response

There are the easy reactions, all the way from smooth words to angry gestures (e.g. toppled statues). But none of that changes reality. What happened, happened. We cannot change past events. We can only change how we view those events, and what we now do about them.

Indigenous and other leaders have made statements, this Canada Day. For example:

  • Perry Bellegarde, Chief, Assembly of First Nations – “…I urge everyone to reflect on the darkness of the past and commit to doing better as a country. Every single Canadian and government has a role to play and we must all work together…  We cannot lose the momentum. We must continue to see action for transformational change…”
  • Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada – “… We as Canadians must be honest with ourselves about our history… The truth is, we’ve got a long way to go to make things right with Indigenous peoples, but if we all pledged ourselves to doing the work, we can achieve reconciliation…”
  • Canadian Heritage Minister Steven Guilbeault – “Our history has been stained with painful atrocities and too many people continue to face racism, violence and hatred every day. Working towards building a Canada in which everyone has every opportunity to flourish requires active listening, acknowledgment and collective action…”
  • Cindy Blackstock, Executive Director of the First Nations Child and Family Caring Society – “…We do need to learn from the history, but we need to understand that the injustice is not over… And therein lies the opportunity for every Canadian to demand from the government, to demand from the churches, and to demand from ourselves the full implementation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission calls to action…”
  • Roseanne Casimir, Chief, Tk’emlups te Secwepemc First Nation Kukpi7 – “…Our hearts go out to the communities who have recently confirmed unmarked grave sites and missing children on the grounds of other residential sites. We stand with you in this harsh truth which is part of the history we need all Canadians to acknowledge… The best way to honour our country, and the diversity of its citizens, and, in particular this year our future generations, is to understand our real collective history… And it is not just First Nations that face the ugly face of racism… Canada is about diversity. We should be standing together in solidarity, regardless of our background…”
  • Marco Mendicino, Minister, Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship – “…It’s often said that Canada is an unfinished project that every generation of Canadians shapes anew…”

And Now?

The Government of Canada will fund up to $27 m. to support Indigenous partners and communities in a range of activities, including school-specific research into the children who died at residential schools and their burial sites.

The Roman Catholic Church in Canada (responsible for most but not all of the residential schools, and responsible for all three schools where unmarked grave sites have so far been identified) has pledged neither funds nor action. The Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops — while pointing out that each Roman Catholic diocese and community is corporately and legally responsible for its own actions — has expressed “deepest sorrow for the heart-rending loss of children.” Pope Francis has agreed to meet with a delegation of First Nations, Métis and Inuit, though not until mid-December.

Ultimately, I believe, it is up to every resident of this country to take responsibility for the future of this country: not to cancel anything, but to recognize everything, including the realities we each find most unpalatable — and then to act, and to demand action, to build on that recognition.

My final quotation is not fresh from today’s news. It is 106 years old, the words of Lt-Col John McCrae, the Canadian doctor who served as Medical Officer with the 1st Brigade, Canadian Field Artillery, in World War I. 

McCrae is better known as the author of In Flanders Fields, which he wrote during the sustained carnage of the 2nd Battle of Ypres (22 April – 25 May, 1915). The poem is all about the dead, honouring the dead. “If ye break faith with us who die,” he wrote, “we shall not sleep…”

Let us keep faith with our dead, and — through the actions we take and the changes we make — honour them, and the country, and the future of everyone in it. 

We all deserve to sleep acknowledged, respected, and safe.

My Sources and Some Other Links

History of Residential Schools

The Unmarked Graves

Canada Day Statements

The Roman Catholic Church

and finally..

Guideposts to the Future?

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission / National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation

To China & Back

5 June 2021 – In a manner of speaking. More precisely, to China Creek North Park & back — only a few kilometres from home, so a post-breakfast loop I can walk & still be back in time for a 10 a.m. Zoom with friends in the East.

Approach from East 7th Avenue, and it looks like Park-in-a-Bowl: steep slope with some 3 hectares of parkland below.

Not even all that interesting, right? A baseball diamond and a whole lotta grass. Yawn. Except that grass covers a lot of history, including the now-invisible China Creek.

In 1888 settler Charles Cleaver Maddams bought 5 acres of land on what was then still the south shore of False Creek, which was then still being fed by a lesser, but powerful creek that drained a whole watershed of tributaries through the ravine into the Flats and ultimately False Creek itself. Maddams called this waterway “China Creek,” because of a nearby Chinese hog farm. (There are other stories; this seems to be the one most widely accepted.)

In the 1920s, Maddams sold the land to the City, which didn’t develop it until the 1950s. Meanwhile, this final bit of False Creek was being filled in, China Creek was buried, and the ravine was being used as a garbage dump. Oh yes, it became one of those stories.

But then, it all got turned around. Today China Creek North Park sparkles in the immediate after-effects of its latest (2019) refurbishment. The slopes have been / are being naturalized, and the kiddy playground has bright colours and fun equipment atop the gentle surface of munched-up used tires.

So let’s look again. There are people in every direction, of all ages, doing all kinds of things, very happily. Five of those people appear in that first photo above, on this near edge of all that boring grass.

Guy on left chinning himself on the exercise equipment; another guy watching; guy on right coaching two young female boxers.

And if you turn your head to the right & look south, it’s even more interesting.

Down there bottom of the slope, turquoise stripes mark the playground; between up here and down there, the fast-naturalizing slope, shaggy with flowers & grasses & surely full of unseen little critters as well; and, visible here and there amidst all that exploding nature, a spiral pathway up/down the slope.

When they used to cut the grass, it was just a boring path; now that it plays peek-a-boo with nature, it is irresistible.

Of course I’m going to walk it, down & up again. I head that way at a clip, but stop long enough for a brief conversation with the gentleman on that bench at the right edge of the photo. It’s just one of those magic moments: we’re both delighted with the day, with the park, and want to share it with somebody. So we do. We also share some how-to-be-a-senior-citizen thoughts, largely about gratitude, qi gong and tai chi; then we nod pleasantly at each other and I’m off to walk the path.

Poppies, clover and cornflowers!

Grasses!

Beserk buttercups!

Perfect spheres of dandelion fluff!

And lupins! (“Your life or your lupins,” I growl, channeling Monty Python, and then soften into memories of wild lupins filling ditches and hedgerows in the Maritimes.)

As I spiral gently to the bottom of the slope, I see one of the female boxers doing it the hard way — full-tilt, straight line.

Meanwhile, her partner is sparring with their coach (while Onlooker Guy from my very first photo is here again, doing a few stretches).

As I head back up the path, I stop to watch a father tuck his son between his legs and set off from the top of the slide to the soft-landing playground below. Father & son laugh as they go, in baritone-soprano duet. I listen, and admire the red poppy here by my foot.

Then I check my watch, and see it is seriously time to make tracks for home!

Hoof-hoof-hoof.

(I make it in time.)

Soft Side

31 October 2020 – I know she’s a ghoul …

but she has her soft side.

She loves her teddy bear.

Even though he only has one arm. (And, perhaps, only one eye.)

Happy Hallowe’en.

Following Fall

2 October 2020 – Fall leads the way, and I follow.

Past a spray of gleaming leaves (magnolia is my guess) that guide me onto a path leading to the VanDusen Botanical Garden …

under the gleaming overhead ribs that guide me into the Visitor Centre …

and, tickets displayed to the masked attendant behind plexiglass, on through the Centre and out into the Garden with my friend.

We pause long enough to enjoy the mum dancing with her toddler by Livingstone Lake …

and then head into some woodland pathways, where we giggle at the white Doll’s Eyes (Baneberry, Actaea pachypoda) …

who are suitably shocked at the sight of all these Naked Ladies (Amaryllis belladona) stretched out in dishevelled languor.

“Red Maple” says the handy label on a tree next to Cypress Pond, and a tiny little red leaf obligingly displays itself on a mossy branch.

Decades of flaming fall colour in Ontario & Quebec leave me only mildly impressed by the foliage here — but I am wowed every time by the moss!

Also by the footbridge across Cypress Pond …

and, this time around, by the seasonal contrast of yellowing lily pads among the green.

A Bald Cypress at the far end of the bridge flaunts both its needles and its knees, the former due to fall off any day now but the latter there in delightful permanence.

I dance around for a bit over by Heron Lake, lining up a glimpse of fountain spray through the autumnal foliage …

but soon move on, to stand enchanted by the sight of yet more tree branches draped in moss.

We are both enchanted by what we see next: a profusion of this startling yellow flower (no identifying label, sorry), with numerous multi-hued, iridescent buds about to take their own turn centre-stage.

The Garden is also host to the annual Artists for Conservation Festival at the moment, so we pass some tents with relevant displays, like this one explaining a breeding program for the highly endangered Northern Spotted Owl. Squint hard enough & you’ll make out the owl on that female volunteer’s left wrist.

“Look like giant rose hips,” says my friend, eyeing this shrub as we head back along Livingstone Lake, and they do, don’t they?

Turns out to be Medlar (Mespilus germanica), not rose — a fall fruit that is ripe “when it turns to mush,” says the delightfully named Gardenista website. Also known, adds the website, as “cul-de-chien,” and if that doesn’t set you sniggering, it’s time to wish you spoke French.

Eastern Redbud leaves do their stained-glass-window impersonation when viewed against the sun …

and a helpful sign near the artists’ display tent teaches us yet another way to measure two metres of social distance.

Goodness, the things you learn. Two metres = 20 Ulysses butterflies = 1 Bald Eagle’s wingspan = 1 cougar, nose to tail tip. Also = six feet, but how boring is that?

One latte & much conversation later, I’m primed for a meandering walk home. It leads me through the neighbourhood where I saw all those swings a while back, but this time around, it yields a teddy bear.

Made of stone, but wearing his heart on his sleeve.

About Those Otters…

16 August 2020 — I am delighted to say: I was wrong.

And you are going to enjoy this correction as much as I enjoy posting it.

Last image of my Hallelujah! post, I showed you charming otters painted on a utility box — but expressed serious doubts that they hold hands in the water, as claimed in the accompanying text.

Well.

I have been very gently, but very promptly, set right by both a dear relation over in England and a dear friend right here, the one who was my companion on that walk. She included with her email a YouTube link, with proof.

While I’m making amends, let me give belated credit to the creators of that utility-box magic, both images and text.

For all that’s dark and threatening, these pandemic days, there is also this: otters hold hands as they rock gently in the waves.

 

 

 

  • WALKING… & SEEING

    "Traveller, there is no path. Paths are made by walking" -- Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

    "The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes" -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

    "A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities" -- Rebecca Solnit, "Wanderlust: A History of Walking"

  • Recent Posts

  • Walk, Talk, Rock… B.C.-style

  • Post Categories

  • Archives

  • Blog Stats

    • 107,971 hits
  • Since 14 August 2014

    Flag Counter
  • Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 1,918 other followers

%d bloggers like this: