A Tale of Gigantic Proportions

There is lots of information about how the Giant’s Causeway on the Northern Irish coast was formed by volcanic eruptions more than 60 million years ago. As the surface of the lava flow cooled, it contracted and crystallized into hexagonal columns. As the rock settled and eroded over time, the columns broke off so they now look like steps of various heights.

Long shot

But the locals know that the Giant’s Causeway was really the home and playground of a giant Ulster warrior named Fionn mac Curnhaill (or in English, Finn MacCool…I kid you not). Finn built a series of stepping-stones all the way to Scotland so he could spy on his rival and fellow giant, Cullihin. When he realized that Cullihin was much larger than him, Finn came running back to his wife – with Cullihin in quick pursuit.

Finn’s wife Oona was the clever one in the relationship. She dressed Finn up as a baby and put him to bed, warning him not to say a word. When Cullihin showed up looking to fight Finn, Oona asked him in for tea. She explained that while Finn has stepped out for a while, perhaps Cullihin would like to see their baby.

Cullihin was amazed at the size of the infant, and decided if the babe was this large, then Finn must be huge. Cullihin made a quick retreat back to Scotland, smashing the stepping stone bridge as he went.

Looking around the causeway, there are all kinds of signs that Finn, Oona, and Finn’s grandmother really existed (and still exist).

Here’s Finn’s boot that fell off his foot in his haste to get away from Cullihin and into the safety of his own home.

And here’s Finn’s pipe organ. It is said that if you go to the causeway at 6 a.m. on Christmas morning, you can hear him playing.

These are Finn’s chimney stacks. It is said that if you see smoke rising from them, you know Finn is at home. Apparently he wasn’t around the day we visited.

If you look really carefully just right of centre in this photo, you can see Finn’s grandmother climbing up the mountain. She was apparently rather meddlesome, always being critical of Finn for not building the causeway the ‘proper’ way. Maybe he sent her up the mountain just to get a bit of peace and quiet!

Growing Vegetables on Inishmore

Stepping on to Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands and a 45 minute ferry ride from Galway, is like going back in time. This island of about 800 people (the population grows to more than 1,000 in the summer) is Gaeltachtai, which means Irish (Gaelic) is still the predominant language. The island didn’t get electricity until 1972. The one bank opens every Wednesday for four hours. Inishmore has one doctor, one police officer, and five bars. In the words of our local guide, “We have our priorities right!”

Island coastline with its sheer cliffs.

Closer look at the cliff drop.

Spotted this seal sunning itself in the bay.

This is a place of such desolate beauty that it makes your heart hurt. It’s a place where people have eked out a living on nothing but rock. The stunning 2,000 year old Dun Aengus fort was built of rock on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. The walls that crisscross every inch of the island were constructed of rock. And the most delicious food is grown here in soil built upon the rock over centuries. This was done by people collecting sand from the beaches, composting seaweed, and digging what little dirt they could find from between the cracks of rocks. There was a film made in the 1930s called “The Man of Aran” that shows life on the island. Definitely worth watching!

Stone walls section off various plots and pastures.

No mortar

Part of the old Dun Aengus fort

Our guide said because of the salt content in the seaweed, the vegetables take on a special taste; not salty but incredibly flavourful. I can vouch for that…I had a bowl of vegetable soup that was probably the culinary highlight of my trip. It was exquisite.

Wildflowers in the restaurant where I had my delicious bowl of vegetable soup.

As a place that has relied on the sea for sustenance, Inishmore is steeped in tragedy. Our guide Michael told us that every single person on the island has lost someone to the sea. I later asked him if people could still make a living fishing, and he sadly shook his head. He was a commercial fisherman for seven years and says he loved it. He had to give it up to pay the bills. That’s when he became a tour guide. The fellow driving the tour bus behind ours had the very same story to tell. “The Atlantic takes no prisoners,” our guide said.

Some old headstones from the 6th and 7th centuries.

About half a dozen women on the island knit these sweaters that incorporate various patterns unique to the island. Beautiful work!

Unfinished Business, I Fear

There was a huge cultural festival taking place on the week-end that we were in Derry in Northern Ireland. Folks were celebrating St. Colmcille, who was the founder of the city. In the wake of a great battle about 1,500 years ago, St. Colmcille had apparently left Ireland for the remote island of Iona, Scotland. This festival marked his imagined return to the city.

Hundreds of people gathered in a central square in the city to take in various performances during the celebration. The crowds were too much for us, and we spent most of our time walking the walls of the city and visiting ‘Bogside’ to view the People’s Gallery.

In spite of all the merriment, I have to admit to feeling a bit on edge the entire time I was in Derry. While there is no longer any outright fighting between the Loyalists and Nationalists, I got the sense that strong feelings were bubbling away barely below the surface.

Two stories: Joe and I were in a restaurant eating lunch. A man came in who appeared to be under the influence. The staff wouldn’t serve him. Angry, he grabbed a balloon attached to a baby carriage in the restaurant and stamped on it, causing a huge loud bang that made us all jump. The noise was so loud; it sounded like a gun going off.

Later, Joe and I were walking in the area of Derry known as ‘Bogside’, where much of the unrest took place in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s. I was looking at the large murals painted to mark some of the big events during the Troubles. All of a sudden a water balloon exploded on the ground just inches from my feet. I looked around and couldn’t figure out who had thrown it or where it had come from. Joe said it was probably just some kid playing a joke. Maybe, but regardless, I felt uneasy.

This mural depicts the 1969 “Battle of the Bogside”. It was a stand-off between local youth and the Royal Ulster Constabulary and prompted the UK government to send British troops into the area. The residents of Bogside barricated the streets. “Free Derry” was a no-go area for the security forces, the area patrolled by IRA volunteers.

The British army breaks down a door as it works to retake IRA-controlled areas.

A group of men carry the body of Jackie Duddy, the first fatality on Bloody Sunday.

This mural is called “The Death of Innocence” and shows 14-year old Annette McGavigan, killed in crossfire in 1971. She was the 100th victim of the Troubles. She stands in front of a bombed-out building. The broken rifle stands for the failure of violence to achieve anything. The butterfly symbolises hope in the peace process.

The 1981 hunger strike. The strike was only called off after 10 people, including Bobby Sands shown in the forefront here, starved themselves to death. 100,000 people attended Sands’ funeral. It appears folks with green and white paint guns didn’t approve of this mural and the message it sends.

And look what was on a building on a side street…Picasso’s “La Guernica”.

The final mural in the series is an image of a dove rising out of the sadness and horror of the past.

In another section of the city there are a series of Loyalist images, such as this one. And we noticed the English flag (as opposed to the Irish one with its green representing the Nationalists, the orange the Loyalists, and the white the peace and common ground between the two) flying in a predominent spot for all in Bogside to see.

Another Loyalist mural.

Derry’s Peace Bridge. I hope with all my heart there is lasting peace for this beautiful part of the world, but I worry there is still too much unfinished business.

The Many Stories of Kilmainham Gaol

Back home after two wonderful weeks in Ireland. There is so much to write about, but I think the logical place for me to start is Kilmainham Gaol (Jail) in Dublin. It, more than any other place I saw there, sums up the story of Ireland’s social and political history from the late 1700s onward.

The oldest part of the jail (known as the West Wing) opened in 1796 and was considered state of the art at the time. Hard to believe, viewed with modern eyes. There was no glass in the barred windows, and prisoners were given one candle every two weeks for warmth. If their candle burned out before the two weeks was up, they were out of luck.

A section of the East Wing

Many of the people housed at the prison in the early to mid-1800s were debtors. With the coming of the Great Potato Famine, children as young as six or seven were arrested for stealing a loaf of bread or some such. Sadly, these children had a better chance of surviving in jail, since at least they had a roof over their heads and some meagre food rations. Outside of jail, they likely would have starved. At the peak of the Famine, jail cells were crowded with five or six people when they were designed for one. The overflow slept in the dark, dank hallways.

Looking through the “peep hole” into one of the cells in the old section of the jail.

In 1864, a new section of the jail known as ”the East Wing” opened. While conditions were more humane, the old wing continued to be used and held prisoners that were to be executed.

The new wing.

This included the 15 or so men who led the Easter Uprising in 1916 and who were executed by firing squad. Essentially this group took a stand at the city’s main post office, declaring Ireland to be a republic separate from England. British troops moved in and quashed the uprising within six days, and the leaders were carted off to the jail and very soon after were killed.

There are some heartbreaking stories related to this period. While visiting a tiny museum in Sligo, I came across a letter that one of the leaders – Patrick Pearce - had written to his mother just hours before he was shot. Apparently the authorities refused to allow this letter to be delivered to her, but it later came to light. Patrick writes, in part:

I have just received Holy Communion. I am happy except for the great grief of parting with you. This is the death I should have asked for if God had given me the choice of all deaths to die…a soldier’s death for Ireland and Freedom.

We have done right. People will say hard things of us now, but later on they will praise us. Do not grieve for all this but think of it as a sacrifice which God asked of me and of you.

Good bye again Dear Mother. May God bless you for your great love for me and your great faith, and may He remember all that you have so bravely suffered. I hope soon to see Papa, and in a little while we shall be all together again. I have no words to tell you of my love of you and how my heart yearns to you all. I will call to you in my heart at the last moment.

Your Son, Pat

Another of the leaders, Joseph Plunkett married his sweetheart Grace Gilfford just hours before he was executed. They were married in the chapel and he was then led away. They had about 10 minutes together, but the story goes that the guard kept interrupting them, so really they had no time alone at all. Grace would later become a prisoner at the jail during the Civil War.

Then there’s the story of James Connolly, another of the Easter Uprising leaders. He was badly injured during the fighting and the doctor said he only had a day or two to live, but the authorities insisted on executing him anyway. He was unable to stand in front of the firing squad, so they hauled him into the exercise yard on a stretcher, tied him upright to a chair, and shot him. His body was thrown in a mass grave with no coffin along with the other leaders.

The exercise yard where most of the leaders of the Easter Uprising were shot.

It was in part because of how James Connolly and others were treated that public sentiment turned against the English. Until then there hadn’t been much support for the uprising, but after the executions that all changed, and soon after Ireland gained its independence.

Of course the fighting didn’t end there, and there were more executions in this jail at the hands of the Irish than there ever were when it was under British control. More on that chapter of Ireland’s history coming soon.

To the Emerald Isle

My feet are already tapping! Slán go fóill.

My Reunion With Madeleine Gould

My first conversation with Madeleine Gould took place in the late 1980s, in my role as a reporter with CBC Radio in Whitehorse. The strong-minded Madeleine had applied to join the Yukon Order of Pioneers, a male-only, 100 year old club whose job it was to preserve Yukon and YOOP history.

She was refused membership, took it to court, and the case dragged on for more than nine years and went all the way to the Supreme Court of Canada. In the end she lost, but she certainly didn’t go down without a fight. I remember seeing a photo of her and some other Dawson City women, carrying placards in a local parade that said, “No Yoopie, No Woopie”.

Madeleine passed away a few years ago at the age of 88. So imagine my surprise when I stepped into the Dawson City Museum the other day and saw her and her long-time husband John standing behind a bar.

We had a bit of a chat, her reminiscing about her time at her husband’s mining claim back in the 1940s and 50s. It wasn’t the first time I heard her say that their cabin had running water, but only when she ran up the hill with the buckets.

Good to see you again Mrs. Gould!

Me in my thrifted walking suit and my Fluevog button boots, having a chat with Madeleine. I must say she wasn’t nearly as talkative as I remember her!

 

Hippy Love

Over the week-end I was on the warpath against Mother Nature. Today I’m all zen and love, with my purple/patchwork crushed velvet hippy skirt and my vintage Fluevogs.  Peace out man; I’m hitching a ride to Woodstock.

Note the hippy granola in the little bowl on my desk.

 

My velvet 90s vogs that I found at a thrift store in Vancouver. Outtasight!

Freakish Yellow Skirt 1, Mother Nature 0

Generally I have a great deal of respect for Mother Nature. Normally I don’t mess with her. But there comes a time when enough is enough. There comes a times when you have to fight back. There comes a time to bring out….the BIG-FLOWY-SUNSHINEY-BRIMING-WITH-POSITIVITY-FREAKISH-YELLOW-SKIRT!

You see, in spite of the snow storms raging just hours north of me this May long week-end, and in spite of snowflakes flying in my own neck of the woods this morning as I sat in the truck waiting for the garden centre to open, none of that mattered. Because I was wearing THE SKIRT. And as soon as I stepped outside the vehicle, I could almost hear Mother Nature gasp. This was not a line of defense that she was expecting, nor obviously were her minions the snowflakes; they immediately scattered and retreated.

Take that, Mother Nature!  Bam!  Into my greenhouse go the tomato, zuccini, oregano, thyme and basil plants.

Pow! Into my outside garden beds go the lettuce, radish, pea, kale, spinach, and swiss chard seeds. The root crops will be next.

Sock! Zow! With my yellow skirt, me and my garden are invincible. Hell, together we could grow orchids in January!

This skirt has a bit of a story (no surprise given its magical powers).

It all goes back to last December. I was not only dealing with the deep dark Yukon winter, but my health was suffering…some stupid rash that decided to have a field day with 90 percent of my body. On the day I was feeling most sorry for myself, I stumbled across the most wonderful blog; in particular this post.

In my current state of mind, that skirt seemed to me to be my salvation. I desperately wanted, no NEEDED it to travel to the Yukon. But of course there were many, many ahead of me waiting to receive its positivity and healing touch. I eventually resigned myself to the fact that the skirt and I were not fated to meet.

Weeks later, I came across a bright yellow sundress in a local thrift store. As a dress it was about five sizes too big. But I saw the potential. I knew it was another FREAKISH POSITIVITY SKIRT in the rough. So I lopped off the bodice and turned it into a jupe extraordinare.

My first thought was that it could be travelling around the world at the same time as Melanie’s skirt, in parallel universes. I had visions of them meeting up at the end of their ventures and swapping intergalactic travel stories, reminiscent of the conversations Marc Garneau and Chris Hatfield might be having right about now.  But Melanie very gently explained that for this time out, the original FREAKISH SKIRT is destined to be on a lone mission. So LITTLE SISTER FREAK must bide her time in the Yukon. I still hold out hope of a meeting of FREAKS at some point in the future.

Thanks Melanie for your continued inspiration by way of your art, your clothing, and your blog posts. They always put a smile on my face!

Channeling My Inner Spanish

Who says you can’t dance at work? I’m wearing my flamenco dance shoes. They haven’t been getting any wear lately (no flamenco teacher in town these days) so I figured I’d give them an outing.

The skirt is a Salvation Army find. It’s swishy and great fun.

Pals

A boy…

…and his dog. The white mark around Jamie’s ear? A smudge on the patio glass door. Time for me to do some spring cleaning!

The Age of Miracles

The glorious sun has found us…something that for much of the time over the past several weeks I did not believe was going to happen. This makes me feel giddy and hopeful and excited. And it makes me think of this song by Mary Chapin Carpenter:

The past comes upon you like smoke on the air
You can smell it and find yourself gone
To a place that you lived without worry or care
Isn’t that where we all once came from

Green leaves and tall trees and stars overhead
And the sound of the world through the screen
But now you sleep with the covers pulled over your head
And you never remember to dream

You think you’re just standing still
One day you’ll get up that hill
In the age of miracles
Is one on the way

Greenland is melting, the west is on fire
But don’t ever stop praying for rain
It’s a curious place between hope and desire
Different gods, but the prayer is the same

And thousand-year storms seem to form on a breeze
Drowning all living things in their paths
And when a small southern town finds a rope in a tree
We’re all once again trapped in the past

It seems we’re just standing still
One day we’ll get up that hill
In the age of miracles
Is one on the way

We can fly through space with the greatest of ease
We can land in the dust of the moon
We can transform our lives with the tap of the keys
Still we can’t shake this feeling of doom
But I woke to find monks pouring into the streets
Marching thousands strong into the rain
Now if courage comes dressed in red robes and bare feet
I will never be fearful again

If I’m just standing still
One day I’ll get up that hill
In the age of miracles
Is one on the way

Seems we’re just standing still
One day we’ll ride up that hill
In the age of miracles
There’s one on the way
There’s one on the way
There’s one on the way
There’s one on the way
There’s one on the way
There’s one on the way

Greenhouse Goofiness

Happy World Naked Gardening Day everyone!!

An Odds and Sods Update

I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t seem to find time for this blog lately!

Here’s what’s up:

1. Iris and I are going to see Chicago tonight! Most excited!!

2. Joe is away for a few days in Vancouver. Chanel has decided that while he’s away it’s her duty to keep his side of the bed warm. I think he’d best come back soon before he loses his spot permanently to our canine child.

3. Winter refuses to leave. When Alan was a young child we had his birthday party in the backyard, and there was rarely any snow. This year? Take a look at the photo below – a good two feet of snow still on our picnic table. Grrrrr.

4. Speaking of Alan’s birthday, he turns 26 on Monday. Yowza!!

5. One month till Ireland!

My groceries terrify me.

Reblogged from rants, raves, and rambles:

I live in the far north of Canada... the real, snowy, wintry  northern lights north. We have a few hardy farmers here who fight for every carrot, potato and head of cabbage they pull from the earth. Permafrost, harsh winters and shallow soil are only softened by summer days when the sun shines almost around the clock.

These farmers know what works here.

Read more… 872 more words

Will I need to put a bubble around my backyard organic garden to keep out GM seeds from blowing my way?

A Gypsy At Heart

I ordered this coat, made out of old sweaters, months ago. It just so happened that it arrived on my birthday. It makes me feel like a wandering gypsy. I love the hood!

Shake your Maracas!

Today is my birthday. Fifty-four!

A friend of mine sent me this “card” and it made me howl with laughter. I just had to share.

My birthday boots. I love the fact that they arrived right on my birthday with a card inside that said, “John Fluevog wants to wish you a happy birthday.” I am wearing them with a lacy black dress and a blue jeans jacket…just bad-ass enough for how I’m feeling today!

A Quick Catch-up

I can’t believe it’s been a few weeks since I last posted here. Alot of my time has been taken up with working on the Potluck Food Co-op.

And then there’s just life in general. For instance, yesterday there were about four things I would have liked to have gone to. I managed two…Iris and I went to the play The Number 14 in the afternoon. I know it’s gotten rave reviews but neither one of us really enjoyed it. Some of the jokes/scenes just seemed a bit…juvenile. Am I going to get persecuted for saying that?

In the evening, Joe and I, along with our neighbours, went off to the fundraiser for Yukon Special Olympics. I’ve gone for the last few years and it’s always inspiring. Catriona Lemay Doan was the special guest speaker, and she brought her three Olympic medals. We had a chance to hold them…they are very heavy, especially the one seen in this photo!

Today it’s back to more mundane matters like cleaning up dog poop from the back yard

San Francisco Sampler

I’ve finally had a chance to post a sampling of photos from our San Francisco trip on my Facebook page. Take a look if you’re interested (I’ve made them open to the public). Too lazy to repost them here on this site!

Three and a Half Hours with Thomas Keller

I have, for a very long time, wanted to eat in a Michelin star restaurant. I hadn’t planned on doing it on our trip to San Francisco, but when our friends scored lunch reservations at the world famous French Laundry, I couldn’t say no.

Here is a brief account of our meal:

We arrived about 20 minutes early, giving us a chance to go across the road and have a brief tour of their kitchen garden where most of their veggies are grown for their menus. They had honey bees, chickens (for the eggs I assume) and a huge greenhouse with just about anything you can imagine growing inside.

Once inside the restaurant we were promptly seated and offered an extensive wine list, which came on an iPad. I appreciated the fact that none of the waiters (there were several for each table) were stuffy or snooty at all, but very welcoming and friendly. They didn’t try to sell us the most expensive bottles on the menu, but instead helped us pick out a modestly priced (for French Laundry standards anyway) half bottle of Pinot Noir and a glass of white for Raji who can’t drink reds.

This was a lovely wine that went well with everything we ate.

First up: their famous salmon cornets, inspired by an ice-cream cone. The “cone” was so delicate, and the cream cheese and salmon like nothing else I’ve tasted before.

Next, some cheese puffs.Wow!! A mouthful of heaven.

Next, their signature “oysters and pearls” dish, with a sabayon of pearl tapioca, Island Creek oysters and caviar. I could have eaten about ten of these!

I didn’t take photos of the bread, but there were about four different bread courses. One of the favourite parts of the entire meal was the homemade butter they served with the bread…one salty, and the other sweet. I had forgotten how amazing freshly made butter tastes and I now plan to make my own for times when we are having guests over for dinner.
The course shown in the photo is Salad of Hawaiian hearts of peach palm. It came with a soy milk mousse, asian pears, pea shoots and a white seame puree. The textures and flavours reminded me of when I was a kid and I ate those candies that exploded in your mouth (I think they were called pop rocks) only a thousand times better.

This was another of my favourite dishes. It was John Dory fish with a little pastry stuffed with stinging nettles, some sunchokes, black truffle on top of the fish, and a red butter and wine sauce.

Then it was off to Maine for the butter-poached lobster “fricassee”, with fennel, hazelnuts and a sauce called “Maltese Mouseline”. At this point the four of us were saying very little to one another…we were all totally immersed in what was going on in our mouths!

The next course was rabbit sirloin, with bacon, savoy cabbage, Fuji apples and mustard. The most remarkable thing about this dish for me was the cabbage. It looked like one brussel sprout but was indeed a cabbage leaf stuffed with ground rabbit liver. Another of my very favourite elements of this entire meal.

Next up: the veal tenderloin with black trumpet mushrooms, pureed spinach, carrots and a port wine-shallot jus. The veal was my least favourite, not because it wasn’t delicious but because I don’t care to eat veal generally. My favourite part of this dish was the spinach, which was incredibly smooth and creamy.

The cheese dish: a goat’s cheese called “contralto”, apricot marmalade, golden beets and black pistachios from Sicily.

The palate cleanser: jasmine tea ice cream, white grapes they dried themselves, and a honey crisp on top.

The first dessert (there were a few!) was called passion fruit “swiss roll”. It included a chocolate truffle (best truffle I’ve had in my life), a caramel mousse and banana ice cream.

Next they came around with a wooden box filled with home made chocolates (they have two people on staff whose one job is to make these). There were seven different kinds and they told us we could take as many as we wanted. Of course I wanted to try all seven but I thought that would be rude so I settled for two: coconut and salty caramel.

This isn’t a photo I took, but one I found on the internet so you can see the various types of chocolates they make.

“Coffee” and doughnuts. The coffee is actually a coffee-flavoured mousse. I have no idea how they are able to get their doughnuts so light and fluffy.

Sorry this is out of focus. This is the ‘take home’ – a tin box of short bread cookies. I am eating the last one as I write this.

After our meal, the head waiter took us back into the kitchen. They were prepping for the evening service and were very focussed on what they were doing, but Thomas Keller was kind enough to stop his work to say hello and sign our menu, which we brought home with us as a souvenir.

So was it all worth it? Well, the price tag took my breath away, but I was prepared for that. For anyone who has any ounce of reverence for food, it’s a once in a life time experience that I’m sure you would never forget. I know I won’t.

A fitting souvenir given the fact that the restaurant did start out as an actual laundry.

Ten Pounds Heavier

Spent most of Sunday wandering around Chinatown. Stopped into a recommended place for dim sum and ate way too much, but it was all so good! Went to a tea shop and sampled a variety of teas before choosing a couple to bring home with me.

Poked my nose in some pretty funky shops, drove down the famous Lombard Street with its crazy hairpin turns, and ended up in a Brazilian restaurant for dinner.

Yesterday was spent doing wine tours in the Napa Valley. Once again I over indulged. It’s hard not to when everything is so delicious!

San Fran

San Francisco…what a beautiful city! Day One was spent wandering among ancient redwood trees at Muir Woods, eating a delicious seafood lunch overlooking San Francisco Bay, walking the Golden Gate bridge (well, most of it…had to turn back for lack of time) and breaking all the rules by making dinner a chocolate and peanut butter sundae at the famous Ghirardelli chocolate factory! Photos coming soon.

Rendezvous 2013

It’s Rendezvous (Winter Festival) time here in Whitehorse, and I just had to show off the walking suit that I scored at the local Salvation Army for $12!!  It’s a tad big, but when I get a moment I’ll take in the top (already took in the waistband of the skirt).

This was a great opportunity to wear my button boots.

Valentines and Shoes – A Perfect Pairing

This photo was inspired by a recent picture I received from my red shoe partner in crime, Lucca. Not sure what’s up with my camera — these shoes are all shades of red and burgundy and not the pink they appear to be here.

And if red shoes aren’t your thing, what about chocolate shoes? Mmmm! Thank you Joe!

 

 

Always a Cheer Leader

I guess you never stop rooting for your kids. With Iris, it used to be her dancing. Now I cheer her on as a teacher and choreographer. Here’s a dance she created for one of her young classes. I think it’s beautiful.

Entering the Labour Market

I’m putting Chanel to work. Well, at least I hope I am. She has a job interview coming up in a couple of weeks.

The position? Companion at an old folks’ home once a month. She would visit with the residents, allow them to pet her and perhaps feed her treats. Sounds rough, doesn’t it?

She got through the pre-screening no problem. Let’s hope she does well in the next phase. She’s such a gentle soul I think she would be perfect for the job. It would allow me to visit with the residents too, which I think I would enjoy.

 

Be Wise

One of the best commencement speeches I’ve heard. Love the line, “Be wise. And if you cannot be wise, pretend to be someone who is wise and just behave like they would.

Invasion of the Seagulls

Pulling out my sewing machine to stitch up those booties for Chanel was a good thing. Now that it’s set up I’m being spurred on to tackle other jobs that have been on my ‘to do’ list for far too long.

Today’s project was to cover a very ugly, stained Ikea chair that we’ve had since before the kids were born. It’s been sitting in our family room, taking lots of abuse from the brood. At one point it was covered with an Aztec-looking fabric, but when that wore through I removed it and just never got around to making a new cover.

The original fabric is a dirty white (even when it was clean it was a dirty white…now it’s an even dirtier white). Pretty uninspiring. I had already covered the seat before I thought to take a photo, so what you are seeing here is the back cushion.

The new fabric I found for pennies at the Salvation Army.

The chair is still rather ugly. But at least it’s a clean, fresh ugly. I just hope those seagulls don’t poop all over it!

Do I Have to Hit You Over the Head With It??

Well I have to say I was rather disappointed in the small reaction I got to me dropping the “B” word in the middle of yesterday’s post. I mean really people! It seems I’m going to have to take more direct action. So here I am…..in my GRANNY dress and GRANNY boots…

…because I’m going to be a granny this summer!

I think I’m going to have to take up knitting and start wearing my glasses pushed down on my nose.

Conversation With A Very Opinionated Cortona

My Fluevog Cortonas

Fluevog Contona: Ahem. Hellooooooo!

Me: Huh?

FC: Yes my dear. It’s you I wish to converse with.

Me: Wow! Not only are you gorgeous but you can talk too!! Kind of hoity-toity talk, but talk nonetheless.

FC: Yes, well, it’s important for one to be conversent in a number of languages besides one’s native tongue (in my case Venetian). And no matter the language, elocution is necessitous. A tragedy that it is such a lost art! In any event my dear, I have a bit of an issue to discuss with you.

Me: OK. What’s up?

FC: It’s your spending habits my dear. They appear to be rather out of control these days. First it was that green lacy garment. Way too short in my opinion, with lace of dubious quality. What ever happened to bespoke attire anyway? Then…

Me: Now wait a minute. I almost never buy new clothes. And that green dress was so unique. And beautiful. It spoke to the 50s girl bubbling just below the surface inside me. I have no regrets about buying that dress. Anyway, I think once you meet her you two will get along just fine.

FC: Yes my dear, but it wasn’t just this one abito. What about that black wool cape you bought on eBay the other day? Your northern climes are hardly suitable for such attire.

Me: Oh, but that cape is one of a kind. It is hand-made and the embroidery on it is so intricate and beautiful. It made me think of a First Nation’s button blanket. It’s my nod to Chief Theresa Spence.

FC: Well, that may be all well and good my love, but the fact remains that there’s a way bill sitting on your coffee table for the new windows you just had installed in the children’s bedrooms. And need I remind you that you’ll soon have a new baby in your life to…

Me: SHHHHH! We’re not telling people about that yet.

FC: Well in any event, my point is dear that I think you must strive to become a bit more disciplined about your finances. Accountancy is most important.

Me: But then you would never have come into my life!

FC: Ahem, well yes dearie. I quite understand why I would be rather irresistible to someone of your disposition. True beauty is difficult to turn oneself away from.

Me:  As soon as I laid my eyes on you, you had me. That Louis the 14th hexagonal heel! Your beautifully stamped suede! Your baroque vibe whisked me back to 17th century Venice. I could just imagine myself dancing the bouree amidst a kaleidoscope of beautifully dressed and masked courtesans.

FC: Ah yes. Those were the days. I miss them dreadfully.

Me: Come come my little Cortonas. Let’s stop this bickering about money. I’ll put on some of your favourite Monteverdi music. We’ll dance. Money is just money. But you, my favourite shoes, you are pure magic.

FC: (blush) (sigh)

*Note that this post was inspired by one from this blogger.

A Good Idea in Theory But…

Problem: Chanel, being the hot climate gal that she is, has very little fur around the pads of her feet. That means once the temperatures drop to much past minus 10, she needs booties when going for a walk. The challenge is that she’s constantly losing them (her booties; not her feet!), and at $20 a set, it gets pricey very quickly.

Solution: I would make her a designer set, with enough extra material for spares. I’d choose dayglo orange. That way, they’d be easier to find in the snow if she did lose one. I’d also put slipguard material on them – the kind found on the feet of toddlers’ sleepers – to keep her from slipping on the ice (a problem she has with normal fleece booties). And – and here’s where I thought I’d had a stroke of brilliance – I’d put ‘idiot strings’ on them using elastic, so that there’d be no chance of her losing them.

The first part of my plan seemed to go OK.

But the idiot strings….not so much!

The elastic kept sliding off her bum. I suppose I could try pinning it to her fleece coat, but even if that worked, she just looked downright uncomfortable trying to walk with this contraption.

Poor Chanel. Guess it’s back to the drawing board. If anyone reading this has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them.