Dancing Flames

everyone loves fire

like moths to a blazing sun

watch the dancing flames

ghosts

The ghosts come from my closet
the door swings open wide
voices fill the airwaves.
I must take it in stride

I didn't know the door was shut
I never knew it slammed
upon so many faces
til suddenly I'm deprogrammed

Now time's a funny object
It's given me some gifts
I must decide which are welcome
and which ones to set adrift

Do they all come wrapped in paper
present everlasting truth
or do some hide secret messages
to uncover like a sleuth?

As history slides still further
I feel it yet inside
it's left a permanent mark
the scars I can't abide

Doubt crosses many borders
I grapple one on one
with ghosts who stand in front of me
and wish this had never begun

Happy Memories

Homework assignment:

Try to recall the day last year when you were happiest. Why then? What were the circumstances? Did it happen because of something you did, or did it just happen? When I asked someone this question the other day they said, "I can't remember the day but I can remember the hour very well. Is that good or pathetic?"

   ~ Jonathan Carroll

Last year...

Is he referring to this past year, 2014, or rather the year before? I suppose I can take licence in answering that, so define it as 2013, as I think of 2014 as this year. Or is it the year past? Hmm... I fear I am dithering though and shall just get on with the task at hand.

I slipped into a new decade

So what did 2013 hold? This is an interesting challenge for my memory. The biggest, most obvious thing must have been my birthday in July. I turned 40, but the date held far less fireworks than I imagined. The number came at me like a bulldozer trying to run me down, but after a few weeks, didn't have the punch I had expected. There were celebrations with friends and family, cake, and a trip to Sunfest with my girls for a taste of international music and arts. But it didn't make my heart stop. And I don't know if it contained my happiest moments to be truthful.

What else happened in 2013? At the time, I was pretty happy to meet my boyfriend's children in August. We had dated for what seemed like plenty long enough, but there were always reasons why we couldn't be introduced. When the date finally came, it was sprung on me at the last minute. I still had time to get nervous as all get-out though. To my delight, they happily liked me. And when I finally got over the fear of being the dreaded "other woman" I had hope that we could be one big happy family. We spent many happy moments together later that summer and fall, catching fish, carving pumpkins, and creating snowforts. The kids all got along better than I could have dreamed. The future looked bright. But as circumstances have since changed, I no longer have much to crow about over those particular memories. They sadly get lost amongst questions and lies.

Well then, where else did joy lie that year? There were plenty of smiles and laughter anytime I got together with my sister and her kids. And if I think about it, I know that my happiest moment was not a when, but with a whom.

2013 Clovermead Bee Beard Competition

Together with my sister, we went to Clovermead to see their annual bee beard competition. We hit the Ontario Science Centre in the spring, and gathered maple syrup, easter eggs and Autumn leaves; all together as a family unit. In those moments I felt most myself and at ease. I didn't have to be anyone else to impress. I wasn't required to be on my best behaviour. I could smile and laugh without fear of reprisals or ill effects. A pure love existed which didn't judge me, nor my actions. It wasn't big and spectacular, but all those moments were filled with the best of me and the best of what I hope to share with the world.

So I cannot say what my happiest moment of 2013 was. In fact, in 2014 I would probably have the same response. The "when" lay in the people whom I had the privilege to be with. My control of it had more to do with the fact that I chose to be with them. My family. My sister. Our love. Unconditional and joyful. And in recognizing that, I give thanks that I am blessed not with one sole happiest moment, but rather a happiest feeling when I am privileged to spend time with those I love most.

What is your happiest moment of the past year?

Burn Once More

He said not to tell anyone. He was embarrassed. He knew his behaviours were not quite right. He didn't want people to judge him. It would make it awkward for him, and of course me. People would question and judge. I wouldn't want that now, would I?

"Don't tell anyone of the voices I hear. Don't mention the shadows I see flitting around and the questions of whether they are real, drug-induced, or come from potential mental instabilities. If only I loved him, they would all disappear. They would just melt into the dawn of our perfect tomorrows forever."

As long as I didn't tell anyone.

The creak of a floorboard wasn't the house settling. It was mysterious men waiting until he was unawares to sweep me away.

The whispers on the wind were lovers rapt in illicit acts not meant to be, but meant to be specifically heard to drive demons into unfettered thoughts.

The wrinkles in clothes were evidence of a tussle, a coerced tryst, a living lie to provoke anxiety and mistrust. Not anything to do with sitting at a desk for hours, or caused by the casual push of a shopping cart in the grocery store.

These are boxes peeked into. These are memories shoved into dark corners, so as not to inspect them, so as not to puzzle them together and see the whole picture. Those boxes have been opened though. They have been pushed together to make a mountain out of the molehills I refused to do anything but stumble around.

But as I stare at them aghast, they crumble in the light of a new day. Their power is lost in history even as the scars simmer on my soul. I talk them out. I write them away. I steal back the power they had to create fantastical phantasmic faerytales that were too full of bogeymen and ghouls for anyone to survive. Because I wouldn't have, had we continued.

Yet the light begins to burn once more...

Winter in Canada

This was the results of a 3-day blizzard from a few years ago.
Buffalo has taken the hit for us this winter :)

Apparently winter has decided to strike early this year. MAN, it is cold out there! A mere week ago it was 14C, but this week the temperature dipped to -18C (with the wind chill, but still). What is up with that?! Time to put another log on the fire apparently.

As any good Canadian is wont to do, we face the ravages of Mother Nature in stride though. Today I face it with humour, with the help of an email from a friend. If we can't get warm, we just put on an extra pair of socks and laugh about it...

Here is what Jeff Foxworthy has to say about Canadians, during a recent appearance at Caesars in Windsor: 

• If someone in a Home Depot store offers you assistance and they don't work there, You may live in Canada ... (had that happen to me)
• If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time, You may live in Canada ... (never, I hate seeing people in shorts or sandals when they should be wearing parkas!) 
• If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a wrong number, You may live in Canada ... (Yup)
• If 'Vacation' means going anywhere south of Detroit for the weekend, You may live in Canada ... (Yup)
• If you measure distance in hours, You may live in Canada ... (Yup again)
• If you know several people who have hit a deer more than once, You may live in Canada ...
• If you have switched from 'heat' to 'A/C' in the same day and back again, You may live in Canada ... (I might have - once...)
• If you can drive 90 km/hr through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching, You may live in Canada ... (definitely)
• If you install security lights on your house and garage, but leave both unlocked, You may live in Canada .
• If you carry jumper cables in your car and your wife knows how to use them, You may live in Canada ... (I proudly boosted a stranded nurse last winter across the street from my house with my MALE neighbour watching on)
• If you design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit, You may live in Canada ... (Yup)
• If the speed limit on the highway is 80 km -- you're going 95 and everybody is passing you, You may live in Canada ... (lol, doesn't everyone do that?)
• If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow, You may live in Canada ... (sad, but true)
• If you know all 4 seasons: Almost winter, winter, still winter, and road construction, You may live in Canada ... (DEFINITELY sad, but true)
• If you have more miles on your snow blower than your car, You may live in Canada ... (my neighbour that blows out the entire neighbourhood does)
• If you find -2 degrees 'a little chilly', You may live in Canada ... (it's not really that cold)

If you actually understand these jokes and forward them to all your friends,
you definitely are Canadian and proud to be.

Lest We Forget

Their uniforms crisp
Roles serious and dedicated
Their missive- our Freedom 

Marching, they came towards us
Strict row upon row to Serve
Silent we stood waiting

   Ready for them

On this day to honour
All the sacrifices made
And all those whom have never come back

Tears glistened in eyes
Hands trembled on canes
The bugle sounded our cries

   The Last Post...

We always rise again
Hands to heart
Eyes to sky

We stand on guard
Two minutes offered
Silent in humble thought

   Our gift of Remembrance

To men and women
Brave, noble and bold
Will our thanks ever be enough?

Poppies pinned to chests
Salutes raised to the dead
We will Never forget

Nail in the Wall

Unpacking pictures 

old photos of days gone by

memories long spent

moments no longer relived

not worth the nail in the wall

What's Not Okay

Oh Canada; proud, strong and free

It has been a tough couple of weeks to be a Canadian. Last week, in two separate incidents, Canadian military members were killed; both random acts of violence, but both meant to be strikes against our country. The deaths rocked us as a nation. And with good reason. Despite the violence, we banded together and swore to remain united in our peace, honesty and trustful natures.

And then on Sunday, a well-loved and respected radio host from our public broadcaster was fired from a post that he helped to create. The media was set ablaze by a Facebook post he published outlining some of the details. He warned that more details would come from people intent on smearing him and his career. Well, those details have come forth and they are worse than ugly. As far as his career is concerned, it may or may not be salvageable. Certainly, his private life has been made public in such a way that the world seems to have been given a seat in his bedroom. Without benefit of trial, he has been condemned to the full extent that the media can punish him. And I struggle to look away.

I love Canada. It is my home and native land. I am proud to recognize myself as a native and yet ashamed that as a nation we apparently have been duped by a charming individual intent on his own self-fulfillment and satisfaction. I have read the stories and am aghast at every new piece of the plot. Women have come forth, both anonymously and now using their own faces and names, to share their stories. Have we harboured a criminal amongst us? Have we given a wolf sheep's clothing and begged him to lead us? It is not for me to decide and for that I am thankful. But the number of women who have shared stories too similar and too awful is enough to cause doubt in the most ardent supporters and fans. Those fans have dropped rapidly over the last week.

So why do I let the story of a celebrity who has fallen from grace affect me so? As Canadians, we are supposed to be good, honest people. We are supposed to put forth the best qualities that we can and emulate the unwavering faith in our country and humanity, like Corporal Cirillo and Warrant Officer Vincent did. Sure they weren't perfect, but they died in the line of duty, their lives taken as they represented all that is good, nay Great on Canadian soil. And now we are sullied by an individual that appears to have taken his self-serving needs much too far in their satisfaction. I don't need to name this individual for my fellow Canadians. His face has been splashed across the media this week, even while the CBC has ripped it off of any piece of their property. And if the reports are true, then so they should.

For the story is ultimately about women. The story is about respect or a lack thereof. The tales that are spewing forth tell of violence masked in consensual BDSM. The problem lies in the lack of consent, hence we speak of abuse. They say he hit them. Nine women claim this now. Who knows if more will come forth, others will keep their secrets to themselves, or some will recant these vicious images that us dismayed Canadians are being forced to witness. Regardless of how this story plays out, I suspect that the conversation about abuse will be a little louder now.

You see abuse doesn't always happen to the other woman. It doesn't always end up being meted out to the sluts or girls that 'wanted' it to happen. The women that are sharing these stories come from a wide variety of backgrounds and education levels. None of them seemed to ask to be hit. None of them seemed to enjoy being called names or being made to feel like it was a normal part of life. They all pushed the abuse into "the past" to try to move beyond it and try to forget how it made them feel. But today, they realized that for the actions they allowed to be Okay, by not standing up against the abuse, those actions continued and touched too many other people. And it was NOT ok.

It is NOT okay for someone to make you feel stupid, worthy of abuse, or like you asked for it. It is NOT okay for someone to hit you, choke you, or rape you. It is also not okay for someone to isolate you from friends, family or society, question your integrity, nor turn the blame back on yourself for actions they have taken. Too many women face some form of abuse in their lifetimes, whether it be physical and/or emotional, by the hands of strangers, casual acquaintances or those that we are supposed to love and trust. Because once that trust is damaged, the world becomes a more difficult place to negotiate.

I know this has become another rant and for that I am sorry. I struggle to come to grips with this breach of trust, this shattered faith in humanity that I hold so dear. I do believe that people are inherently good, but am sad to acknowledge that I feel akin to these women right now. I have never met any CBC personalities, but I knew someone who made me feel like it was my fault that he felt compelled to search my body, clothes and home for evidence of my misdeeds. Like I deserved to be cast as a disreputable woman because his insecurities and jealousy made him look for my guilt. He never found it, but left behind my shattered innocence in the wake of his accusations. He will never admit to his lies or improprieties, so I must move forward and attempt to find faith in humanity knowing that not everyone that smiles is a friend, and not everything that seems a gift is always so.

But this lesson is valuable nonetheless. And I refuse to let the small minority of people that do not understand how their actions affect others rule my world. For I am Canadian, proud, strong and free. I live in a place where men and women give their lives to protect mine. I prefer to see people who take up the cause to make the world a better place and refuse to be bullied by power-hungry individuals who can't see beyond their own noses and backyards. And I rally around women strong enough to stand up and say what is acceptable and what is Not. May you find peace in your release of those ugly memories that should no longer own you.

I am working on mine.

*If you are interested in more of the story that inspired this post, you can read more here...

Door Knockers & Palm Crossers

local politics

edge of your seat evening

election results

in four years to cut mustard

or shatter beliefs once more

Bye, bye incumbents

hello to new councillors

fresh blood, young faces

may you be the infusion

that London needs to shine bright

~

London's newest mayor on election night - Matt Brown

The Reading

I sat in the aisle seat
(the better to escape if need be)
Another woman munched a salad
  crunch, crunch, 
    chew
at the far end of my aisle.
I was late for the workshop;
the workshop ran late for me.
The poets would be along momentarily.

Frozen in the room lights
I glanced at vibrant scarves
draped limply along drab walls.
They could have been hung
  dramatically
with flair to fill this room
and the voices that would ring
with words
  dramatically...

Instead I hid behind
my unbelonging, my newness
that clung to me like
the pinched pins
that suffered the colours
meant to infuse the space,
this gathering of bards

I punched at my phone,
glanced at the empty lectern
and side-eyed my solitary seatmate

til the lights dimmed

And then the words rang out
staccato song
followed by aggrandized soliloquies
pretentious prose that elicited
  ...titters
  silence...
and awesome thought.

I related,
Belonged
and clapped along with poetasters alike.

But the house lights cast me aside anew
and I fled.

There was no belonging to the chummy chattering that erupted around me.
No faces to smile into nor laugh with.
No comment on the prose
we were so blessed to consider that night.
Just a cold car,
my single key
and a lonesome home
once more

Will I dare return again?

Rant

Rant.

Go...

My neighbour died last week. Another neighbour came over to break the news to me. She knew that I would want to hear, as I had always had a soft spot for him. It had been quick. He had gone to hospital Wednesday in distress and died before the day was out. The only thing left to do was schedule the funeral. 

Larry was a sweet old man. He was 90, still lived in his own home, drove his own car, and took care of himself. Another neighbour cut his grass and took care of his pool. Many neighbours brought him over meals, pies, and treats of one sort or another. We always gave him some of whatever we baked. He loved his sweets and appreciated everything that people did for him. From what I could tell everyone liked him. I was sad to hear of his passing.

Today was the funeral. As Larry had been kind to me in days when my grief was most poignant, I felt I needed to go and pay my respects. I had never noticed his family visit much, but the gesture of saying goodbye is an important one to me, so I wanted to go. A visitation was held, followed immediately by the funeral. He was to be interned afterwards. I knew that the internment would be out of the question, as I had to pick the girls up from school, but I planned to attend the other events. 

I drove to the church and said my hellos to the granddaughter that greeted me at the door. Larry was laid out in the next room with a few pictures nestled into the coffin with him. Death is never pretty, as the lifeblood that makes one real flesh and blood leaves the deceased withered and waxy. But I left a tear in his presence nonetheless. I took a seat in a pew off to one side and waited for the funeral to begin. A woman noticed me wipe my eyes though and approached to say hello. She was Larry's niece and looked like she needed a friend to talk to. We shared stories and I was convinced to sit in her aisle with her. Once the pianist played a few songs, the doors of the chapel were closed and the service began.

That is when I should have left.

I have been to many funerals. As much as they are sad affairs, they are held so that people can pay their respects to the deceased. They are an opportunity to start the closure of loss. This funeral was far from respectful though. And it certainly did nothing to honour the memory of the neighbour that I saw as a kindly elderly gentleman who was social, active and friendly with all he met. 

The preacher took to the pulpit and began by reading a letter from the daughter-in-law, who was seated in the front pew. It was awful. Not only did it highlight the ugliness of Larry's final hours, but it cast Larry in a light I never would have imagined. We were told of his mother's young death, then the destitution that followed. His father put him in an orphanage, only to bring him home to a house of alcoholism and poverty. So the story went, it made Larry bitter. And it went on to say that he remained that way for the rest of his life. 

As my fingers dug holes into my palms, I listened to Larry disparaged due to his lack of faith. His son and wife supposedly prayed for him to take Jesus into his heart, to no avail. It was his downfall and left him desperate to fill that whole with material possessions. 

Now it wasn't a secret that Larry had a problem. He was a hoarder. Two years ago he had damage in his home because of flooding. Due to the sheer mountain of stuff in his home the cleanup took the better part of six months. He spent that time living in his trailer out of town. I never heard tell that his son ever offered to put him up during that time. Oh, but they prayed that he would release the devil in his soul! 

Last I heard, hoarding was a mental illness though. Not a reason to castigate someone. Especially not at their funeral. 

There was no mention of what Larry did for a living. No recount of how many years he was married to his wife. Nothing said about his love of dancing. I wanted to pipe up that he was blessed with another romance late in life that was sadly cut short by his fiance's death on the day Larry asked her to marry him. And gee, he was 90 years old, living on his own, still able to walk and drive (not well, but its hard to let go of that independence) and visit with his neighbours when the mood struck him. 

No, we were told that despite Larry having made his family's life miserable for so many years by refusing to take up their faith, they finally won. As Larry lay dying, wracked by painful seizures that apparently terrified him, he finally saw the light. After yet another seizure, he "saw the light" that was Jesus. And then his fear left him. And he died. 

The cynic in me thinks that the tidy summation of Larry's awful existence was probably not exactly accurate. I offer no disrespect to those who have experienced this first-hand, but after listening to all the awful things said, I couldn't stomach the moral of the story - that we all must accept Jesus into our heart or be left to live eternity in hell. No heaven for any disbelievers or sinners. What about Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and others? No Jesus - no heaven.
.
I wanted to leave. It galled me to sit and listen to them bash this dear man that had helped rake my lawn at the age of 83 years old because he saw me crying in fresh grief with rake in hand over a leaf pile. Local bank tellers had spoken of him in glowing terms for goodness sake. And all they could see was a bitter old man that I am sure they are glad to be rid of.

Well, I made it through the service, despite my seething brain. And tonight I toasted Larry with fellow neighbours that had attended the funeral and were equally shocked by the things said and manner that Larry's death had been handled. We all deserve better than that. As my neighbour said, "they could have just stated facts if they didn't have anything nice to say." But I guess their god lets them feel justified in their ugly actions. I for one want nothing to do with their religion, if it is that judgemental and cold.

... end rant

Life After Life

 Life After Life, by Kate Atkinson, © 2013, Bond Street Books

What if you had life to live all over again? And you were able to learn from the mistakes you made in the first go round? Would you do it all again? Would you try to make a difference for
yourself and the world around you?

Ursula Todd was born on February 11th, 1910. In the middle of a snowstorm, no one comes to the aid of her mother and she dies with the cord wrapped around her neck.

On February 11th, 1910, Ursula Todd is born in the middle of a snowstorm. After a quick scare, she cries to life.

As Kate Atkinson weaves the tale of Ursula's life, we travel through England during a dark time. The world is on the brink of war. Ursula lives only to die at the hands of fate. Repeatedly. After every death, she is born again to do it all over anew, but with subtle twists to extend the story.

Ursula is not untouched by this cyclical life. By the time she reaches puberty, déjà vu plagues her at every turn. Death seems to stalk her, but she learns to outsmart his hand repeatedly. Sometimes whether she wants to or not. Her family notes her odd ways, but it is only Ursula and the reader who see the purpose of it all. And as time marches on that purpose becomes a spectre that many historians would like to see smoted as well.

While I read Ursula's tale, I could not help but think on parts of my own life that could have been changed. Have I lived more than once? Have I danced with death, but picked a safer path this time? If I changed something, would my world look completely different or just slightly askew?

I cannot help but think that there are many lessons to be learned on the path we walk at present. As tempting as it is to go back in time and set things to rights, is that really the right answer? It is an interesting question and one that got Kate Atkinson a Costa Book Award for Novel (2013), plus several literary nominations for awards. I guess that means that a few other people have asked that same question themselves then, doesn't it?

This one is well worth the read in my books!

To See Further

as the wind blows
as my story goes
people come
and others flow

through my pictures
in my dreams
just fleeting memories
so it seems

one yesterday
and another now
my losses strained
against furrowed brow

they keep adding up
to make me fall
they keep challenging life
leaving behind a dark pall

standing there
you were so strong
you'd gone before me
knew the sad song

grief enough 
to fill my head
you brushed me off
and smiled instead

with old gnarled hand
you reached to me
took up my burden
laid it aside gently

not near so bad
as it did feel
this too shall pass
with more feelings real

for many years 
you strode the path
looked death in the eye
feared not its wrath

but today you lost
your life so sweet
no goodbyes said
from across the street

how do we know 
when our time has come
can you make peace
before the reaper's last drum

Dear Larry is gone
but not forgot
his gift to me
to see further than one aught

The Art of Racing in the Rain

The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein, © 2008, Harper Collins

I am sure plenty of you have already picked this book up. I had seen it promoted on Goodreads, Indigo/Chapters and elsewhere. While that does help to catch my eye, it doesn't always equate to me reading a book. And as I am not much into racing and I don't have a dog, I might not have picked up this book at all. But my book club strikes again and it is on our list for this fall, so off to the library I went.

And I am glad.

We are introduced to Enzo in the opening pages. He is an old dog that is failing. His hips no longer work and his bladder isn't what it used to be, but he is still dedicated to his owner, Denny. As the story unfolds, we get to recollect Enzo's life from the time he is picked out of the puppy patch at the farm. And in a unique twist, the tale is told exclusively from Enzo's perspective.

Enzo is a dog that is closing in on his perfection of doghood. He is convinced that in his next life he will come back as a human. As such, he strives to do his best to be kind and considerate to Denny and as it comes in turns, his wife Eve and their daughter Zoe. Just because Enzo feels he is close to being human doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy a good game of tug of war with Eve or a walk in the park with Denny when he is home from the race track though. But when Eve is struck by a deadly diagnosis of brain cancer, the whole family has to adjust, Enzo included.

Even if you are not a dog lover, you cannot help but be charmed by plucky Enzo. He understands the nuances of life and refuses to let go of his faith that good will prevail. Through the family's trials, he tries to find understanding and offer support to his humans, in a way that can't help but make us wonder at our own failings. If you can keep dry-eyed in this quick 321-page read, you are a stronger person than I. But I am sure you will enjoy it nonetheless even if you do.

the key

the key to my heart

returned too soon with remorse

a cold reminder

some things aren't as we dream them

metallic hope thrown away

About Time

Happy New Year!

Words spoken by those in...  September?!

What?

But it makes sense. And it has been similar to the meaning behind the lyrics of Auld Lang Syne . I have been experiencing 'old home' month, if you will. Faces I haven't seen in years have filed by with smiles and hugs like nary a day has past. I've seen former work associates, co-workers, spoken to high school chums, and visited friends who moved away years before. Their link is in their happiness to see me.

Now, is it that I am so great a person? Well, not necessarily or else I would probably still see or talk to them all on a regular basis. Not that I am knocking me. Life gets busy. Sometimes Big 'L' Life gets in the way of living. We get so busy running that we forget to stop and smell the roses and enjoy the people along the way that have sniffed those roses with you.

It fills my heart to see their smiles. It does my soul good to hear them say they have been thinking about me. Where have I been? What have I been doing? How have I been keeping?

I ask myself, why haven't I been around then?

Well, J lives in BC and L moved to NY 14 years ago. JA is a 2 1/2 hr drive away, as is C in a slightly different direction. A, B and D work 10 minutes from my house, but the phone has been silent between us. And my excuse for S is what? I am too busy for a coffee break? What's wrong with me? Why can't I drive 45 minutes to see D and J or 1 hour to visit with J and L? I would love to see all of them. I know there is tonnes to catch up on and we could all use the tonic of the visit.

It is that dreaded Time. Or lack thereof. But it seems that time is pointing out there is plenty of reason to stay in touch. Relationships are worth it. And regardless of the quiet days that I spend typing on my computer, I do have a few relationships in my life. My friends are there regardless of time's passage.

And right now, I should make the effort to reach back out and step into people's lives. It is worth it. Time has bestowed the gift of remembrance on me. Perhaps it is time that I cash in on that offering.

Anyone care to sniff the roses with me this week?

Waiting in my Web

Isn't that interesting? The black and yellow garden spider is also known as the writing spider. Argiope aurantia is harmless to humans, but collects plenty with her sticky web.

Wish I could catch a few more clients with a web of my own...

Folk-tastic!

I have a little secret. I've got a little bit of twang to me. I really don't know where it came from. My mother listened to the likes of Nana Mouskouri and Boney M. We had 8-tracks and records, which were played from a large stereo cabinet that looked something like this...

Not mine, but not far off of our super 70's stereo

Now that was a fine piece of electronica, let me tell you. It had an am/fm stereo, record player and an 8-track slot on it, plus the obligatory red velvet curtains on the side panels. Bring on the 'Night Flight to Venus'! Hooey, we knew how to throw one down.

Yes, well...

Jump forward a few years and my musical tastes expanded some. I was introduced to punk, alternative, pop, rock, and funny enough, a whole lot of folk music via some musician friends. I had a real eclectic taste, that was for sure. I was just as happy to listen to Depeche Mode or Skinny Puppy, as I was to groove to Gordon Lightfoot or Stompin Tom. I know. I know. Neophyte.

Nathan Rogers at this year's Home County

But out of all those musical stylings, the folky blues stuck. I still flip on the radio to whatever pleases the kids or myself in that moment (plenty of CBC 2 in the afternoons and evenings), but a good old dose of folk music makes me smile. In fact, I don't think I've missed the Home County Folk Festival in years. And I am pretty sure I have made folk fans of my kids too, as they always insist on going and staying as long as possible (dragged them away from Whitehorse at 10:30 pm this year).

I believe it was at a past year's Home County that I ended up on Rock Ridge Music's mailing list. They had me in a good mood and I would have signed up for anything on that day. In retrospect, it was a good thing though, as now they send me artist spotlights all the time. I have discovered 'Dwight & Nicole' and Levi Weaver, both of which are fabulous bands/musicians.

This week they sent me a teaser for someone new though. And I need to hear more.

Christian Lopez Band

On first listen Blaster Records snapped up this talented musician. It was a no-brainer and they have formed a great union since their initial meeting. That despite the fact that the front man for the band is a mere 19-years-old. Don't let his age fool you though. Christian Lopez is an old hand as far as making music goes. He began playing piano at age 5, and guitar by the time he was 9. Writing songs was a natural extension that came along in his teens.

Now the West Virginia native's dreams are coming true in the form of his first EP Pilot set to be released in October 2014. Not too shabby for someone who has played pre-shows for the likes of Zac Brown and The Dave Matthews Band. Intrigued yet? If it seems like a long time to wait for the EP, there is always live music to fill the gap. The band is touring the US this fall.

CHRISTIAN LOPEZ BAND TOUR SCHEDULE

8/20 – Cumberland, MD / Downtown Cumberland Concert Series

8/21 – Floyd, VA / Dogtown Roadhouse

8/23 – Nashville, TN / Antique Archaeology

8/23 – Franklin, TN / Grey’s On Main (evening show)

8/29 – Charlotte, NC / PNC Music Pavilion

9/3 – New York, NY / Rockwood Music Hall Stage 3

9/12 – New Hope, PA / Triumph Brewery

9/13 – Winchester, VA / Bright Box Theater

9/18 – 9/20 – Dewey Beach, DE / Dewey Beach Music Festival

9/27 – Blacksburg, VA / Sycamore Deli (w/Deer Run Drifters)

10/4 – Thomas, WV / The Purple Fiddle

10/10 – Clear Springs, MD / Knob Hall Winery

10/11 – Bethesda, MD / Taste of Bethesda Festival

10/17 – Bedford, VA / Bedford Library Concert Series

10/18 – Shepherdstown, WV / Shepherdstown Opera House

10/25 – Centreville, VA / Cox Farms Fall Fest

It's one thing to rave over the music and pump up a band, but I know you just want to hear it for yourself, right. We have to wait I'm afraid, as the full EP will only be released later this week for streaming or download. The teaser I got was just a single song, which was enough to let me know that I definitely wanted to hear more.

 

Organizing with Mason Jars

Look what I found on Pinterest; a neat organization item made from mason jars...

Cool right? It looked simple enough, so I thought "What the hey?!"

And decided to try it myself. Any good crafty house has got a bit of glitter paint, mason jars and bits for knobs, right?

This one does!

I've already started my canning this year (made sweet pickles yesterday and have relish in the making as we speak), but wide-mouth jars aren't used very often, making them scarce. Two were all I needed for this craft though and polished tiger's eye stones were my accompaniment for knobs.

One for q-tips and bandaids in the other. What do you think? Pass or Fail?

     Take that Pinterest!

too hot

flames lick 

hot thoughts prick

mud sticks

tonight

fire scores

no rest no more

smiles a chore

by its light

purge me

erase misery

a peace plea

burn bright

~

Medicine Walk

Medicine Walk, by Richard Wagamese, © 2014, McClelland & Stewart

Should I start by saying this book wrecked me? That I bawled through the last twenty pages, apparently having stopped at exactly the right spot last night. Normally I can't put a book down with that few pages to go, but something told me that I couldn't continue last night. So at lunch today fat tears dropped into my soup and scattered across the pages, as a mound of kleenexes piled up.

Not that this book was... what? Chick-lit? Thriller? Romance? It was none of those things. It was literature, and good quality prose at that.

All the way along I felt like this was a book that a man's man would appreciate. The main character is 16-year-old Frank, raised by "the old man". He taught him to fish, hunt, recognize tracks, survive in the bush, and most importantly, the value of hard work. His father on the other hand slips in and out of Frank's life on rare occasion, and those moments are always punctuated by drink. He is a virtual stranger and a miserable, non-communicative one even when he does make rare appearance. The old man serves as the only kin that young Frank has, but that doesn't prevent his thoughts from straying to blood ties.

When the book opens, Frank has been summoned by his father to town. Eldon is sick and dying, his abused liver finally at the point of shutting down. He has a last request for his estranged son - to take him into the woods to bury him in the warrior way. This despite the fact that Eldon has never taken much stock in his native roots. Frank struggles with the request, but ultimately agrees to the task, if only to see if some of the questions that have dogged him his whole life might be answered. What they discover along the way is a broken life lived.

This quiet book looks at life, hope, fear, love and the struggles that are encountered along the way. Wagamese's prose is fuelled by the knowledge that as much as we need to listen to hear life's stories, sometimes those stories need to be told too. Whether we think we have the strength to tell them or not.