Peony Leaves

It's curious how often a visible sign reminds of an invisible presence! Now that fall is here, the peony leaves are turning to a russety, red and beige, that melds with the still vivid dahlias! They remind me of Laura, now departed, who first suggested to me the combination of these materials, to produce the spectacular flower arrangements she routinely produced for the Altar Guild. The peony leaves are of such a color in the fall that the entire spectrum of dahlia colors read with them, and of course, the seasons bring them both hand in hand to the flower lover. They belong together and are only accompanied from time to time with Michaelmas daisies. Laura was our neighbor, and the pianist acted as her church ward since Laura became significantly confused over the latter few years before her death. She never lost her discerning eye however, for an incompetent flower arrangement. Moreover she was always able, to the last, to read music and sing the complicated choir arrangements with considerable skill, as long as the songs were prepared for her in sequence , the pages turned for her,and an adjacent finger identified the line from time to time as she got lost. What an interesting software we have for a brain that allows a savant area, retaining our favorite and valued aspects, despite the failure of the rest. I never walk by the turning peony leaves without a moment of thought for Laura. They will come again!

Kee Heep

My dad was a farm boy and the phrase "kee heep" was used to call the cows! It was a peculiar throat sound! The shrieking and shrill "e" sound of kee heep carries a distance and was invariably pleasing to the recipients since it meant food and drink. If one of us boys was at a distance and he wanted to get our attention he also hollered "kee heep." Often it was also for food and drink. My dad was not a soft spoken man. I don't think either the farm or the railroad environment lent itself to being easily heard, given the distances, or the noise levels. If dad made himself available, he always said "Holler if you need me." He was not hard of hearing. Holler was a figure of speech, but for him it was literal as well. It was particularly useful in hockey and ball games, then generally fashioned with some colorful phrasing. My dad always whistled while he worked as a young man and particularly when he rode his bicycle to and from work. As he became older he stopped whistling as he worked, but could still whistle a little if he sat and caught his breath. He stopped hollering and stopped calling "kee heep". You need breath to holler kee heep and to whistle. The cigarettes had finally caught up with him and he became progressively disabled with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, COPD in the lingo! He was still cheerful, but quieter! He latterly was largely confined to his chair and the oxygen tank. The day before he fell and cracked his hip, and two days before he died, the oxygen man who visited him to replace his tank observed," Mr.W is cheerful and doing well,in his slippers, washing the breakfast dishes." Wellness is relative! He has been dead some 20 years, but I still think back to the hollering "kee heep" and whistling merrily the same monotonous tune . You could always tell he was coming on his bicycle from a long way off.

The Watchbird

When I was a little boy in the forties, the cartoon, The Watchbird, appeared in The Ladies Home Journal,a magazine to which my mother subscribed! The cartoon always featured a bad boy being observed by the Watchbird. The cartoonist would draw and describe the naughty,or whiney,or stingy bad boy being surveilled by the Watchbird, drawn in profile, the boy caught in the sinful act, and then the clincher would come! "This is the Watchbird watching a Sneaky". Named and shamed by his sin! A second bird would be drawn, facing the young reader. The heading read, "This is the Watchbird watching YOU"! Pediatric ethics 101 at the foot of The Ladies Home Journal! What was always most interesting was the naughty activity, which provided the young reader a certain vicarious pleasure. The Watchbird was a simple line drawn, fat little cartoon bird,peering at the offender and then at me. The assumption that we all bore close scrutiny at six or eight for our dirty little secrets was never really challenged in those days. My mother told me she occasionally spanked me with the hairbrush for no definable reason other than the gut feeling that I deserved it. She was probably right. She was a stay at home mum and probably knew far more than the Watchbird. I don't think the cartoon had any lasting ethical benefit because even in those days, naughty was more interesting to watch than goody-two shoes.I guess it wasn't the enlightened child raising that we see today, but there was never a feeling that I was short changed in the love game. We are still under scrutiny today by Watchbirds of a different name!

Garden Party

My oldest and dearest friends came over to Lotus Island from Lotus City to put my garden to bed,one weekend in October of 2001. That year I had broken my tibia in July and it had not healed by September. The plates and screws had broken and the screws extruded. The fracture was freely mobile and progressively angulating. It was re-operated on in September and bone grafted ,re-plated and re-screwed.I was six months non-weight bearing, in a three wheeled electric scooter, from July until Christmas. I was able to do some gardening from the scooter but it was pretty limited. My friend Janet planned and organized a work party of a dozen old friends with whom we had had many adventures. They were a group that we had hitherto often celebrated Halloween weekend at Janet's country home. The party came with tools and zest and worked like Trojans! Cutting down the perennial beds, cutting down the Gunnera, raking , blowing and hauling an enormous leaf fall from the big leaf maples. They buried a deer discovered under the leaf fall during the rake up period. Work included covering the Gunnera with 3 feet of leaves for the winter, and filling the compost. It was like the old time barn raising. I was on the scooter and raced from post to post giving free advice and exhilarated by the help. I needed to do something without getting in the way of good work. The pianist capped things off with a big turkey dinner and liberal libation. I can't remember a time when I was more touched than by this good natured and spontaneous act of generosity from my friends. It may seem strange that in the midst of my limb disaster I would be so happy, but I was. At the end of it all, I graduated to crutches, partial weight bearing in December, and became "right as rain" by the spring. That was the best garden party I have ever been to!

Sensory Adaptation

My parents, my brothers and I lived in the railway station for years. It was our home. We lived on the mainline of the Canadian National Railway.There was, in the fifties, a train every hour or so on the main line, day and night. In our little town the trains went through at close to full speed and they whistled twice at the level crossings, 400 yards and 200 yards from the railway station. The track was about 25 feet from the station and our bedrooms shook when it whistled through. Many were very long freight trains. The station shook because the platform attached to the station was like the leg bone connected to the hip bone. Though most of the train traffic were long freights,two transcontinental passenger trains at night came thundering through as well. We never woke up at night with the trains running, the shaking and the noise. My mother, who was a light sleeper under certain circumstances never woke up! Fred Schmidt came in the station at 4 am and lit the fire in the pot belled stove in the waiting room right beneath us, and met the way-freight that stopped and unloaded mail and manhandled jangling cream cans, and we never woke up ! Sensory adaptation! However,when the running employees went on strike and the trains stopped for a few days,the silence was eerie! We all woke up repeatedly during the night ,alert because of the silence. We adapt to the familiar, however unusual, but change, however seemingly innocuous, brings sensory adaptation to a halt. Unconsciously alert to danger!

Relish and onions

As I witness the engagement of those I love in the throes of planning a life's work, I think of the aspect of jobs that one relishes and the portion of the same job that is onions. No job always provides the piquancy of relish, or is free from the shedding of tears from the onions! We are privileged to soar on the high moments, and given, to drudge through the low moments. I am a man under orders! They may be my own orders due to an Oath, formal in my case; but frequently an informal oath for those who pursue their own muse! The jobs may be under orders from others, where both relish, and duty bound onions, are also the expected case. Give me the person each time, who works through the duty bound process, rather than depends on the piquant flavor provided by the high spots. We all want to be useful and to be thought of as useful! There are few jobs in life that are not useful in the hands of motivated people. Usefulness does not have a pecking order! Usefulness is created within the job. The changing nature of jobs or the seeking of new horizons will not avoid relish and onions! There is no escape! Thank goodness for that! Walking uphill is healthier for you than going downhill! Retirement may mean continuing to try to walk a gentle uphill slope. The hallmark of the successful is the staying power that knows a job includes embracing the role of slicing the onions! The beginning of exposing yourself to all the elements starts with rolling up your sleeves!

Succession

The lichen grows on bare rock,

no earth, little sustenance,

a tenuous foothold to life.

It asks for sun and time,

and grows,defeated, grows again.

It rains, it grows, the summer drought comes,

it dies, to grow again with rain,

and when it dies, it leaves a ghost behind.

Soil? Or is it the merest memory of lichen

becoming soil?

So,mosses grow, a different plant,

thicker, greener, richer,

withstanding drought a little more,

because of it's poor precursor

which took a foothold where no other could.

Atom and Leave

Some might say," From atom you became and to atom you shall return!" Certainly, some have said , from compost to atom in an expanding universe until you disappear down , or up, the black hole. These are systems of belief. It's a mechanistic view of the world, fit for today's need for certainty.It smacks of a Tinker Toy world. Some say, "Though from dust you came and to dust you shall return, there is more!" Elysian fields, Happy hunting grounds, a mansion over the hillside with streets of purest gold? It smacks of a Fuzzy Wuzzy world! What is it about people who really know? Not even St. Paul,with all his bombast, had the temerity to really know. He said so! He saw through a glass darkly. For the Elderly Eclectic Gentleman the glass is darkly. It is enough for me to believe that I will eventually find out, and it's intriguing! In the meantime live your life with uncertainty. It's a lot more interesting and authentic than fanciful theories! What I can't control, I had best let go! I do suppose that I can prepare a Whereafter Kit! Certainly Tutankhamun took heavy baggage on his trip in case! Things he prized! Useful accessories! My Whereafter Kit might include a small vial of tears that the pianist and I have shed over the years, a can of laughter and endearments that we listened to with one another, and a photo of our dear ones. I'm going to travel light! I won't need shoes, but I don't think I'm going to be an atom and leave! If you wait and listen closely, you will know that there is something going on! It's soft and nuanced, but when you think back, it's always been there. That too, is a system of belief! It's harmless! I might get to see my dear ones! I can hardly wait!

Harrow your Roadway

If you have a small gravel driveway on your bucolic property it will become compacted over time, and become pack-ugly! The fine material comes to the top and the stones descend to the nether! The fluffiness is lost, as well as that wonderful crepitus we hear as the wheels move over the loosened gravel, greeting our return. The characteristics of the gravel driveway lends itself to better traction, and less runoff, and less slipperiness than a smooth driveway surface of any material. The structure of the pack-ugly roadway however, is lost in a picture of homogenized banality, and adopts the physical characteristics of the smooth surfaced applications. My neighbor Dennis has a garden tractor and recently, a coilspring-loaded harrow he purchased from the catalogue. He harrowed my driveway and parking area with considerable assiduity to a Zen-like creation! The theory is the 3/4 inch stones will, with repeated harrowing, rise to the surface with the loosening of the packed powder and small stones. The first rains that arrive will drive the powder below the larger particulate matter and give rise to a renewed, bold, formed structure of gravel. Physics 101! Dennis is a master of tractor control and wove his way like an artist as I watched with admiration. His price to do this work was some earthworms for trout fishing from my rhubarb patch.I was anxious to retain the center grass down the driveway that adds to the gum boot essence of our hidden treasure, which he skillfully preserved. I look forward to seeing the end result, following the monsoons to come on the wet coast. A petroleum free, Zen, roadway!

a parentis loci

In the movie Scent of a Woman, when Al Pacino became 'a parentis loci' to the student, Chris O'Donell, he simply returned the parental love he had been given the previous few days. Parenting may be a role but 'a parentis loci' is a choice and therefore, often a gift of Grace! When you give that gift to your old parent, your failing friend, the stranger on the corner, you have returned favor you have been given. We all have been given a spoon to take from the bowl what we need. To use your spoon to feed another, when you have been fed, is to take the step of faith that the bowl will be filled again! It's always a risk! The cynic in Al Pacino's role, smacked of, "Life is a series of missed opportunities, and then you die"! He was fed from the bowl and then found his spoon! He fed someone else. Then he could feed himself!

Socks

The top drawer of my dresser is the sock drawer. Socks are one of the more interesting and under rated items of apparel. They, in most cases, are only glimpsed after application to the foot and ankle, so you may get away with one or more of them inside out. or slightly mismatched, particularly common if you put them on quickly in the semi-dark. No one else, who has anything important to do, will probably notice. The club I belong to, forbids the wearing of ankle socks with plus fours. Gauche I guess! Here, socks are part of your statement. When floors are too precious for shoes, when one remembers, they can be accommodated with slippers,a ego saver in case of a previously unnoticed hole in the toe of one's sock. I have a number of singletons, the match having disappeared in some black hole of an unknown nature. Currently, store bought socks are cheap and expendable. They are never darned in this day and age as I observe, though my mother used to darn socks in the olden days. When I was a student I tried to darn, but I ended up simply sewing the edges of the hole together and the sock became progressively smaller. The alternative I learned was to cut your toenails. It's a curious business that the sock manufacturers always provide a slight change in the shade in the dyeing process so that in good light you can rarely combine singletons if you care. In the process of examining feet, I found people are often reluctant to remove their socks. In fact if they have come with a single foot problem I always removed the other sock and compared and contrasted, to the discomforture of the occasional patient who took the precaution to wash only the problematic foot. My father had a fetish about socks that drooped around the ankle and throughout his life always wore calf garters. My mother said to me years ago that " It's getting harder and harder to find garters for dad. I went to Eaton's the other day and they only had two left in the warehouse. I bought them both!" The pianist provides frequent useful commentary on my customary state of dishabille, but rarely, if ever, about my socks.

Bee Cradle

Some of the honey bees,"overnight", on selected flowers. Some flower's anatomy provide a quality cradle along with a nearby pantry. The bees are choosy where they sleep! Jomanda is a ball dahlia that has smallish upturned edges to the petals that is form -fitting for a demanding bee and suitable for an overnight retreat. They are worker bees so they don't have to go home at night to the wife. If they don't bother going home they can start working in the early morning, which is admirable in the eyes of the workaholic, though I have found them a bit sluggish at 6.30 this morning. I roused them but they only showed modest enthusiasm. They left a few minutes ago and the cradles are empty now except for a messy dropping or two. We've always had hives until recently and I think these are escape variants that Mother Nature now harbours. Whatever! They are welcome here and perhaps have escaped the possible mite vectored disease, Colony Collapse Disorder, that has assailed so many of their colleagues! Fresh air, sunshine, and freedom from crowding is the answer for them and for all of us!

The Handkerchief

In the olden days most civilized men pulled out a large linen handkerchief for nose blowing, and women a smaller and more elegant hanky, for sniffles. I can't, in this day and age, think of a more unsightly and unsanitary act than expelling a big honk into a handkerchief taken from your trouser pocket and then stuffing it back to use again. On the other hand, when the pianist and I were in Prince George years ago she was intrigued by the consummate skill of a man who displayed finger nose dexterity with a big honk deposited directly on the sidewalk without a trace left on the face. I remember my grandfather and great granddad with monster wrinkled handkerchiefs blowing, wiping and stuffing without a qualm. The linen hanky was a favorite in days of yore as a Christmas present from the thrifty. It may have been embossed, if given to a women, or had a flower stitched on. If it was initialed at least it stayed in the same hands. No one traded their hankies! Thank goodness for Kleenex now. My great grandfather also kept on his person, in readiness, a gold tooth pick that had an ear spoon on the other end. We children waited in breathless anticipation to see the ear spoon used. We used to laugh that the "snot rag was common but the ear spoon was a sight to behold!" No kid used a hanky! He either sniffed all the time, "Go blow your nose!" , or hawked, or had a runny nose or a dangle-booger. The tailor always put a little breast pocket on the suit for the dress up handkerchief, but latterly it became no longer de rigueur so the pocket remained empty. Occasionally, when stepping out, a tiny fabric peak on a chunk of cardboard was inserted in the breast pocket to give the gentleman "style". Even though it was a fake, it was not a sorry, soggy , snot-ridden, specimen!

The Thicket

The Thicket, even better, the Briar Patch,is sanctuary for small feathered and furry friends, the denser the thicket, the better! If in the well ordered and cultivated garden there are periodic small thickets, especially near your windows, you will enjoy an abundance of creatures and provide a measure of safety for them! Your abundance will increase since these thickets will be home and partial larder, for the broody! It's unfortunate that the urban dweller may have more difficulty establishing the thicket since they are necessarily untidy, and the briar patch even more so, and often an affront to the scrupulous neighbors. Here,in the rural garden on Lotus Island, Mother Nature's display of thicket, can go hand in hand with that controlled effort of the Elderly Eclectic Gentleman. Mother Nature gardens in her own inestimable way and I in my trial and error fashion. The bird feeder and the bird house, while of some value, do not supplant the thicket or briar patch in meeting the needs of the creatures. In fact they may foster a culture of dependancy that is counter productive to the well being of the vulnerable. Well meaning activity on the part of animal lovers toward the wild, may expose them to more predation and disease and interfere with the survival skills in an uncertain world. This applies to us and our children as well as the fellow creatures. We hominems also need a thicket sanctuary where we can return, after we venture out. We all live in an uncertain world and need survival skills if we are innately capable, rather than handouts. Blessed assurance however, is that our thicket may still be there. Kindness is:come as close to Mother Nature as you dare!

"What ,Me Worry?"

In 1943 and 1944 my mother would take my brother Ken and me on the Goose Line from Kindersley to Saskatoon and then put us on the Transcontinental to Uno, Manitoba,about 400 miles away. My uncle would drive up from Isabella, about 20 miles north, in the model A and pick us up at about 1 am. I was 9 years old and Ken was 5. I was always worried, since I was in charge, that I would sleep through Uno and Ken and I would get lost. We never did. I don't think Ken ever worried. The Transcontinental stopped for us at Uno, the conductor always was prompt to appear in the day coach at the time; I never lost our tickets, and my uncle never failed to arrive. Ken and I spent two happy summers on the farm but when I look back on it now it seems it was a real imposition on my uncle's family and moreover, we never brought our ration tickets. My little brother David visited us in Plymouth England in 1963 with my mum and dad. They went off on the Continent for a week and left David to take another train to Waterloo Station to be met by Great Aunt Dora, who he did not know nor she him. The pianist and I put him on the train. He was 11 years old. I was more worried than he was I guess, but he looked pensive through the train window as they left. Great Aunt Dora located him we learned later. It reminds me of Julia Child in the movie waiting with her friend Simone in the Paris train station for Ernestine , with whom she has corresponded, but never met. Ernestine was to be indentified by a coat color. When I was 3 years old I got on a street car ahead of my mother who was temporarily diverted and I travelled the crowded street car a few blocks alone.I was worried. I had never been in Winnipeg. I remember it as if it were yesterday, seeing her racing along but unable to catch the street car. It reminds me of the scene where Dr. Zhivago sees Lara on the sidewalk and races off the street car but cannot find her. My mother couldn't find me and I cried on the street until a policeman came by and took me to the station. He bought me an ice cream cone. He chided me because I didn't, at that age, know how to tell the police where I was staying. Eventually I was collected by my mother. I was worried and bawled again. I am still afflicted with travel anxiety. Silly me!

A Change of Culture

The General Hospital in "Olympic City" was a teaching hospital. I A, was a medical ward where I was one of the two Junior Interns responsible for the day to day medical care of assigned patients. We were on the floor for the entire month of May, 1958, and became close to the nursing and other ward staff. The Senior Resident Staff and the Consultants came and went as necessary! The Professor of Medicine made rounds twice a week on preselected patients. He came with a retinue of Chief Resident and various medical students on what was a teaching round. Professor K was a kind and quiet man who accepted the due deference he was given with a certain ease.He never played the martinet that was affected by some of his surgical colleagues. My junior colleague and I were sitting on the ward, doing charts early, the morning the Professor was due to appear! The air with the nurses was electric! There was a buzz! Something was up! Hitherto, they had all stood up when the Professor appeared, and remained standing while he had his charts gathered by the Chief Resident, and when he made preliminary observations. When Professor K came to the ward station that morning my colleague and I stood up but the nurses all remained seated and appeared busy, except the head nurse who remained seated , smiled at Professor K and said, " Good morning Dr. K! Your charts are ready for you in the alcove and the patients are prepared, so I hope you find everything in order". She then ignored him and proceeded to do her job. I felt sorry for Professor K. He was totally nonplussed. The rug was pulled out from under him. He had received the first gust of a new wind that would eventually deconstruct the hierarchical structure. All change occurs gradually, in little increments, in peaceable kingdoms like ours, hopefully. It may be true that this episode will no longer be understood fully, other than by Old Nurses!

Plato and Aristotle

Plato was a deductive thinker! He learned and absorbed the thinking of Socrates. Aristotle was an inductive thinker! He learned from, and then rejected, the deductive processes of Plato. Plato deduced solutions by applying logic to situations and interior argument leading to reasoning. He said to his students " Go figure! " and they did. Aristotle, on the other hand, broke with his teacher,Plato, and set up his own school and said to his students "Go observe!" and they did. Inductive thinking is reasoning, first based on experimental observation. Solutions follow, or fail to follow as the case may be, but thereby, they are evidence based! Both processes still go on today. Both camps are useful. Aristotle was a physician amongst other things, so I guess he was one of the first researchers. It's probably why I like him better. So Plato was a top down thinker and Aristotle was a bottom up thinker. As an aside, we used to say that the top third of the medical school class made the best researchers. The middle third made the best doctors. The lower third made the most money! A little sarcasm when you find at the end of your career you have less than you wished! I suppose if you owned an Academy or Lyceum, as a thinker, you could earn a fair bundle, teaching on the side.

Heather and Heath

Walking on the Pentland Hills this spring with my son, a midlife eclectic gentleman, we observed the hillsides of Scottish Heather, burned in planned and programmed manner for renewal! Traveling a few years earlier , in the fall, with the pianist to Wick, through Sutherland and Caithness, the hills were alive with the purple heather and the yellowing fern. The heather belongs! It seems indestructible. The Heather is blooming today in my patch on Lotus Island. It is unruly, grey green with dusty purple bloom and greatly favored by all manner of visiting little flying travelers, most of which I cannot identify. I don't prune my heather and I can't burn my patch to renew it. It's cousin, the white heather, is also unruly and somewhat larger. It is so nice to have the muted colors of the fall bloom. Mixed in with the heathers are the heath. They of course are spring blooming mostly, so are presently at rest. They, in most of the Wet Coast Gardens are pruned rather tightly so the bloom is abundant and very showy. I don't think mine has ever had a haircut. Some of the heath in the patch is fuzzy, tall, shrub heath with small white bells in the spring. My patch all told, looks about like a population of adolescents. They seed themselves so some new plants come along, and new plants also take root from low branches, so they are a crowd, ranging in size and age and flowering! "Bless'em all, bless'em all, the young and the short and the tall!" Aside from water they need aught else! They are user friendly!

Eating Crow

If you rise to the first level of your incompetence you will learn to eat crow or not survive! The Peter Principal is easily the most obvious phenomenon in the career of the rising star! When training in medicine in the olden days, humility was learned early and often. As one gained experience and knowledge in what was really a rigorous apprenticeship there was a further step upward in the programme to new levels of skill and knowledge. Having skill and knowledge was never enough! The phrase used was not having, but " bringing skill and knowledge to the practice of medicine". Each step up was accompanied by more meals of crow. With time, crow becomes more palatable and more easily digested. You don't have to lie, or protect your ego, or remember what you said earlier to protect your tangled web! You just put on your bib and settle down to a new meal of crow. People knew that you would tell the truth because you had a cast iron stomach and could survive the vicissitudes of your marginally incompetent role. Over the crow eating meals, new skills are imparted by your nutritionist boss. You will become more competent as a result of crow flesh. You can enter the practice of medicine with the proper humility and knowledge that you are and will be an imperfect creature and that's OK! Enjoy your meal!

Rototill Your Compost Pile

After a hot, dry midsummer, the rain came for a few days and I rototilled my compost pit! It's a great way to mix the working material, but a cautionary tale is, avoid the front tined tiller.The rear tine tiller gives much more control in mixing, and you are less likely to fall off the compost heap. The compost I have consists of shredded hedge cuttings with lots of leaf, and old straw bales used earlier for dahlia bulb storage. These take time to digest! I throw some balanced fertilizer on it to speed up the working, and some of my nephew's Happy Farmer Bokashi (tm), with SCD Efficient Microbes! These latter two things are less important than the adequate mixing of the materials,and even more crucial still, the tiller brings up from below, the thin residual layer of compost we always leave behind when we spread it on the garden in the previous fall. Last year's compost is like the sour dough starter yeast that the bread makers prized and perpetuated for years. How could a Old Sourdough manage to live and prospect without his cache of yeast to sustain him? Last year's retained compost layer is like the residual tea leaves in the cha-damari of Japanese tea ceremony raku bowl. A ceremonial tea statement that we never take all from the world! We return the compost to the land from whence it came, but leave a little behind as a starter for the next year's compost. This is practical. We also leave a little compost remaining behind because we do not take all from the earth. Like the raku which also comes from the earth, we leave a few tea leaves in the raku bowl, and compost in the pit, as a spiritual reminder that we always owe a debt to life!