Solstice Greetings

Check this out.  This is what it looked like on the solstice yesterday.  It's the kind of phenomenon similar to rainbows, sundogs and northern lights.  We see it often in winter, this blue line along the horizon but I don't know if it has a name.  It reminds me of Rob's favorite kids book "Harold and his purple crayon".  Since we are in a crag, a deep valley, it feels like an odd pocket of energy and chemistry, while the sun dances on the periphery in bold blue skies high above us.  We haven't seen the sun directly here in several days but no matter, this is a good time to snuggle up with a book on the couch or to get to those long forgotten creative projects.

Dear Linda

Dear Linda,

     Funny that I should think of you here, in this unusual space.  I’m in a musher’s cabin, waiting for Ana-Maria who has just gone for a short trip with Kelly, a young female musher.  What a luxury to be in the comfort of her rustic dwelling, for the equivalent of a 10-mile run.  The dogs left behind are howling mournfully like old-fashioned police sirens, some yelping and then all is quiet.

     No doubt I’m thinking of you here because of your lengthy search for home.  Living on a boat for a decade, no matter how romantic it may seem, must take a toll after a while.  So let me tell you about this different life.

     The view from this squat rugged cabin is spectacular.  A large picture window taking up most of the wall is symmetrically positioned to frame an iconic snow covered mountain.  In the foreground there are 20 square doghouses haphazardly strewn, with all of their chewed away door openings facing the cabin.  Several dogs are lounging on the flat tops, soaking up the sun while others are running around their individual posts, impatient and hopeful that they may be the next ones chosen to go out for a run.

     The cabin is tiny with its rough plank walls, even with a large extension.  The original part has a hint of a loft, a trailer sized sink, and a double bed with a shelf above it lined with recent DVD’s.  No TV visible anywhere.  As far as I can see, the only thing locked around here is a tall narrow metal cabinet – a rifle most likely.  Not even a lock on the main door, nothing to steal, I guess.  Her dogs would alert and protect her. 

     A green spiral notebook is open on the table and catches my attention.  It has a bold hand written message in blue marker;

To find happiness in life you must:

1)      find something to do

2)      find something to love

3)      find something to hope for.

I can’t resist adding a quote from Yoda: “Try not.  Do or do not.  There is no try.”  Very quickly, I realize that I love the calm quiet young woman who casually allowed me in her unpretentious home, with her green eyed cat for company, while she kindly took my friend out for a spin around her neighbourhood.  So open and comfortable, not out to impress anyone but herself.  There’s a sense of personal satisfaction with this hard simple life.

Her kitchen is bare-bone functional; she obviously hates to cook.  No cupboards but narrow shelves for tea and dried goods.  Olive oil, hot sauce, honey, vinegar…a half eaten stack of whole wheat pancakes, a fork stuck into a large triangular cut portion rests on a plastic cutting board.  Plywood shelves below store a supply of tins, a purple hand-sewn curtain with blue thread hangs loose on either side.  There is no water or electricity, instead a few gas lamps and a clump of scented candles occupy this table in front of me.

An old converted oil barrel flattened out by a hammer is the main source of wood heat, with 2 stainless steel pots on top for water.  This reminds me of the early days at Rob’s ‘batch pad’, where a doorknob was considered frivolous.  His cabin had a giant frost heave in the floor just under where the stove was.  In those early exuberant days of romance, I remember hanging some laundry too close to the stove.  The associated smell of a stove like that is of burning rubber from my bra and undies.

There’s a tub of raw meat on a chair nearby for the yummy pre-run soup.  A clothesline above it holds mitts, hats, socks and a string of Velcro dog bootees.  There is no semblance of anything being up to code, not anything being organized in any way other than to sustain herself and her beloved dogs in a joyous harmonious state. 

A tiny shelf above the vintage 80’s couch holds a German beer stein, a framed tropical post card, and a photo of herself in a wedding party wearing a black gown with spaghetti straps, carrying a bouquet of yellow flowers, embracing a plump smiling bride. 

Dusty wine glasses and cat haired cutlery are gathered in a forgotten corner, along with mugs with broken handles.  I see no modern hardware, only antler handles and wooden latches.  “People don’t like to rent to mushers,” Kelly said before leaving.  Life here in this community seems relaxed, focused and fortunate.  She has several neighbours, all mushers, like a tiny village far away from anything where no one minds the howling excited barking.

Here they come!  Ana-Maria has a broad smile plastered on her face, she waves two thumbs up.  She disembarks the sled, straightens her leopard print jacket and gushes about the amazing trail.  I remind her that the day before a stray dog bit her, but today she is firmly handling and harnessing these huskies.  When was the last time I saw her so euphoric?

I leave you now Linda, and look forward to having a healthy discussion upon our next visit about our concepts of home.  Alternative is the key; I know you’ll agree,

Love, Suzanne

Water Returns!

Thank you Bonnie for inquiring about the current water situation.  It might be weird to say but after a while it was a regular part of our weekly routine to haul water - usually a dozen blue jugs at a time.  It was a whole new adventure for me but for Rob it was shades of his bachelor days when he lived with two blue jugs a week and he had to drive 10 miles to get it.  We had large plastic garbage cans filled in the bathtub and in the corner of the kitchen.  A large pot of water was always on the wood stove for dishes.  In fact, this was such a good idea that we continue to do this for moisture in the cabin and to reduce water heating costs.  Bathing was done in traditional style in the lakeside sauna.  There's nothing like standing naked on a moonlit night on a frozen lake, smelling of essential oils, to observe millions of stars and possible northern lights.  For guests this is the highlight of their stay here.

As soon as spring returned at the end of April, Rob (A.K.A. Hernia Man who was soon to have surgery) was busy digging up a long trench, a foot deep, from the cabin to the lake.  That's about 100 feet.  The last stretch was the worst with the ground still frozen.   The month prior to this, he's bought all the necessary supplies, PVC pipes, heat trace... There was a man who was anxious for the return of spring and for things to be 'normal', but I remind him that especially around here normal is a setting on your washing machine.

Update - Organic Moments

This long delayed post is dedicated to Rose, one of my persistent supporters.  I though of her and this blog while eating rose petal ice cream a few weeks ago when visiting my favorite Mexican city, La Paz.  In the shadow of a polka dotted tree near the Vermillion Bay of Illusions, several cones of this were consumed in hopes of re-creating it at Crag Lake during the summer wild rose season.  At first lick, rose petal ice cream tastes like grand mothers bubble bath, a bit shocking but quickly the creamy deliciousness makes a clear presence.  The best part is the subtle sensation of the frozen petals that come back to their velvety life over the tongue.  We sampled corn ice cream too, it has a true Mexican flare. 

Catching up on the last year; during the four months of my new full time career of carving a hole in the ice and hauling water uphill to the cabin, I became very in tuned with the natural environment and the authentic contents of my heart while looking for a new life direction.  As a self confessed pack rat, I decided that during this time of being unemployed in the conventional sense was a good opportunity to examine my piles of what I consider to be art supplies for future creative projects.  Rob calls it junk.  While I would agree that a partial canoe, stacks of driftwood, beaver chewed sticks and rusty bed frames may indeed be useless to some less imaginative types, to me they are true treasures.  I'd like to take full credit for the idea to hide these under the guest cabin behind the garden shed that Rob built with his usual standard of beauty, craftsmanship and function.

The collection in question at the time was my postage stamps, literally thousands of them ranging from the dull everyday ones to the antiques and globally gathered.  Much like my collection of clothing labels (see earlier posts of clothing label quilts I've made), I saw stamps as tiny unique art pieces that tantalize my sense of travel and adventure.  How could people overlook these and simply throw them in the garbage without a second thought?  So I started to cover furniture with them; first a chair, then a cabinet, a bread board, an old metal file box, a mirror...  Visually speaking they are much like the label quilts and they represent a similar disappearing era.  People rarely write letters anymore and labels are now being stamped directly on fabric.

Now combine these two elements of no water and delving into a new juicy project and what is the outcome?  Another Organic Moment!

Laundry had to be hauled to the Carcross gas station once a week, since of course we could not do it here without water.  Instead of looking at this situation as a hassle, I took this opportunity to hang out at the post office in between loads to check out any new stamps and to enjoy the general vibe there.  What I found every week was one stressed out post master, who I'd describe as running around like her hair was on fire.  Finally and reluctantly, I said "You look like you could use some help around here."  And presto (almost) I got the job as acting post master for the tiny town of Carcross, population 450.  Truth is I really love this job and as a bonus, imagine the stamps I get to admire and acquire thanks to some understanding and generous patrons.

Spring has Sprung

Whitepass on the way to Skagway

     For me, spring starts on St. Paddy's Day, which marks the day I arrived in the Yukon, 1980.  I remember it well because green beer was served at the bar.  The Whitehorse airport at the time was a large cavernous hanger, with the only place heated being a small office in a corner.  Pigeons lived in the rafters high above the wide open space.  The luggage was delivered by tractor to a sheltered frozen ramp outside.  Winters seemed a lot longer and colder back then, and this day was no exception.  The first true Yukon character I saw was a fully bearded man wearing a long fur coat with coyote tails dangling all around the hem.  From under his massive hairy hood, I heard a raspy voice tell me "You should've been here yesterday, it was even colder."  I was undeterred and welcomed the new adventure ahead.

     On this 32nd anniversary Robertson and I drove over the White Pass to Skagway Alaska to visit some friends who are undertaking a massive house project.  I love the energy of dream houses under construction and to visualize with them.  We had the usual fish and chips at the Sweet Tooth Cafe, seated at the table by the window and watched almost no activity passing on the wooden sidewalks.  We picked seaweed on the beach to take back to the compost heap to give it some extra coastal vitamins.  Like tourists we stopped often to marvel and take photos.  It's still an amazing place to call home.
     Is it the human condition to reminisce of perfect days long after they have occurred?  I vow to be more attentive to the ingredients of idealic moments.  Take today for example, we snowshoed across the lake in the sunshine, and followed it up with a sauna.  I shoveled ice off the deck with only a towel loosely draped over me with steam wafting from my wet hair.  Scented a spoonful of water with drops of lemon grass and lavender oils before tossing it on the lava rocks to create steam.  The spoon is made of a burl from a diseased tree and the bottom is carved with "Maked it by hand" signed by "Skully".  Another true Yukon character who once had a spot on the Alaska Highway selling a variety of bowls and such.  I hold it up to Rob and tell him it's one of the few things I hung on to from my last marriage.
     The weekend ends with a chicken roasting in the oven, a glass of wine and a good book.

Water issues in February

     Apologies for my long absence.   We've been busy with water issues; rain and our water pipes exploding in early December.  This relatively modern cabin with expected amenities has reverted to being a rustic cabin again and we're ready for it.  The over sized pails in the kitchen and bathroom are hardly noticeable and we are ever more mindful of how much water we use.  Grateful too for the medieval themed outhouse.  It's rewarding for us to note that we currently live with 55 gallons of water a week.  That's with traditional bathing in the sauna and laundry in Carcross (which turns out to be an unexpected community bonus with random visits).  The fortunate thing for us is that we have a clean body of water right outside our front door.  It's just a matter of carving out a hole with my new auger through 3 feet of ice, filling the blue jugs and hauling them up the hill.  Imagine how buff we'll look by spring!  I am so grateful that one of us is home full time to handle the extra work.
     Plus there's been rain in February, in the Yukon.  I blame our busted pipes on this warm weather, so much extreme change is too harsh and erratic on this system.  Still, we rejoice in the spring-like weather and parade around the wood pile in light fleece jackets, even without toques sometimes.  Skiing on the lake, with the sun on our pale faces, has been fantastic.
     But then we encounter unusual icy patches on our paths and stairs and shovel heavy loads of slush.  The sidewalks in Whitehorse are mushy and brown.  Great for snowman building, not something we have a lot of training in usually.  It's the kind of winter misery I left behind in my Maritime youth.  Its a hard concept to explain, the difference between a wet and dry climate when it comes to the cold.  We are like Arizona with the smallest desert in the world in our neighbourhood.  What this means for us is crispy granulated fluffy snow, not the smiling rotund stacked type with carrot noses.
     Part of me wants this mild weather to continue until spring (May) when we can dig up a new trench for a slick new water system but I suffer some guilt too knowing there is a price to be paid.   It's just not normal, all over the world we can share stories of disturbing weather patterns.  Climate change is here.  We, the Skookum minority would relish a steady -15 to -20C weather to give us a sense of peace in the world.

Buddha's Hat & risotto recipe

View from the kitchen sink.

Dear Kindred Spirits,
     I'm not sure if you have a Buddha living at your house, but if he lives outside like ours, it might be time to get him geared up for winter.  First, find an acorn squash at the grocery store, or if you're really lucky, at the farmers market.  Look for one with a funky stem.  Cut the top of the squash so that the circumference is about 3 inches across.  It'll look like a flower looking down at it.  Now find a sunny windowsill and let this part dry for a few weeks.  You'll see over time, how it'll curl in on itself and form a bit of a 'hat'.  When it's almost dry, put it on Buddha's head for a form fit.  The final results will be very satisfying and make you laugh every time you look at it.  Maybe the local squirrels will discover it too, it won't interrupt the joy factor in the long run.
     Risotto Recipe; all measurements are approximate.  Peel the above mentioned acorn squash, take out seeds and boil or bake until done but firm.  You'll know it's ready when you mash it and it'll break down but still have lumps in it.  Lumps are yummy.  Add vegetable or chicken broth so that you have about 5 cups of liquid in all, simmering.  In a large cast iron cooking pot, fry an onion and 5-6 cloves of garlic.  When well cooked pour in about 1/2 cup of white wine.  Now pour in about 1.5 or 2 cups of Arborio rice (also known as sushi rice), these are fatter and rounder grains.  Stir the rice into the wine, onion and garlic mixture until the rice is translucent, about 2-3 minutes.  Then add about a 1/2 cup of your squash liquid, keep stirring, as it thickens, add more liquid when it gets goopy.  This is the basic combination; keep adding liquid until it's all gone and the rice is tender in a kind of sauce - a long process without a glass of wine.  It's good to have and use lots of liquid to make your risotto nice and gooey.  As the rice reaches it's right texture, add grated cheese.  We like to use Cheddar, blue cheese or Swiss or a combination. This usually makes a large pot so the second night you can make risotto cakes by making patties, dipping them in bread crumbs and frying.  Top with pesto/sour cream sauce.  Asparagus is a nice side dish.

Amsterdam Sandwich Shop

Formal entrance way

 

     Funny where ideas and inspirations come from and how long they steep and peculate before erupting into a new form.  In the spring of 2001, I visited friends in Holland who are close to my heart and sensibilities.  Karin and Anne-Marie guided me with great care and humour and would routinely say to shop keepers and relatives alike that I lived in a cabin in the Yukon bush, in a community of 24 people.  I was grateful for this ready explanation because I often felt out of sorts and discombobulated with the hectic rhythm of the place.  Especially in Amsterdam where I could only handle so much before heading south on a train back to Anne-Marie's sanctuary.
     On one visit to the capital city, they took me to a tiny sandwich shop near the red light district bordering Chinatown in Karin's neighbourhood.  This place was completely unnoticeable to me, only blending into the many doorways conveniently coexisting in an orderly barrage of chaos.  We ordered a type of grilled thing with coffee and we were each served on a different style of plate and cup.  This is what caught my attention and I learned that just about every item in this place was for sale; the dishes, the tables and chairs... The owners were collectors of interesting bits and kept an assortment of second hand treasures in a narrow mezzanine overhead, open to the curious and the interested.  I came home with a simple plate and idea.
     So in the spirit of that tiny hole-in-the-wall in that place far away whose name I never knew, I wanted to present the same concept here at the lake, with the Curiosity Shop.  It's full of things we collect in our travels in exotic locations like Guatemala, Africa, even Holland.  When we travel we also collect beads, paper and fabrics to then turn into other things here during the long winter months.  Plus the shop has stuff that I've unearthed, collected and loved that other people would call antiques and vintage, that are ready to move on to other homes to be loved and re-purposed.

Searching for our mentor Jim Geenan

Jim at his 50th birthday party, Las Playas, Ecuador, 1996.

Dear Jim,

It`s really too bad we`ve lost track of each other.  There`s so much to tell you, especially in the way you`ve inspired us.  I last heard you moved back to the states after all those years away – it must be strange to return.  I`d love to know of your adjustment process.

I think of you most often when we prepare for guests at our lakeside home, arranging flower pots, choosing the right linen table cloth, and accentuating our local quirkiness with beaver chewed sticks.  I think of your excitement and unregistered enthusiasm when we visited all those villages in the Philippines, how many was it…20 or 30…You were fresh from the conference where you met Robertson in Montreal called `International Institute Promoting Peace Through Tourism`.  You couldn`t wait to share the bounty of new knowledge.

You`d have us get up at 3am sometimes, at our little pensione in Manila, to take flights to mountain villages, or beach side ones and everything in between.  I remember a moonlit bushwhack without supplies other than clove cigarettes.  We got lost, no one around, no food, no water, no clear destination but I felt I could follow you and Robertson anywhere, unafraid.  In the end you did not disappoint us, we were proud to be part of your team.

You were a one man show and we were your entourage taking photos and writing inspirational stories focusing on the villages, projects and people along the way.  You were desperate to find creative ways to keep people in their homes and not migrate away like the millions before.  The first time I ever heard words like bio-diversity, eco-tourism and perma-culture was from you, cutting edge concepts in the late `90`s.  You explained it all with giddy patience, waving your arms around adding to the drama to your extra tall stature, as if to draw out the obvious magic of the place.  Saying things like `Will you look at this cashew tree and this pomegranate together, alongside this bamboo hut on stilts!  Wouldn`t a tourist love to come here and pick these with you, see how you prepare them and hear some stories of your life here…`

Jim, you were untiring with your wisdom and your love of people so different than us.  I just want you to know that though often times, you felt that your voice was not heard, that your ideas were maybe considered too radical, someone was paying attention and taking really good notes. 

Where did "Dunroamin'" come from?

     Behind the legislature buildings in Victoria, there is a old humble historical house wedged in tall overgrown trees with a tiny sign above the door "Dunroamin'".  This was spotted years ago when I lived there while aimlessly wandering around; I doubt I'd be able to find it now.  It doesn't matter, what's important is the feeling it immediately captured for me.  The sign read like an exclamation point, as if to say, this is it!  It took a lot of searching and adventures to finally decide where I need to be.  It's compact stature declared that the residents didn't need much and had their memories to keep them entertained.  At least, that's what it told me as I stood there to admire the little house.
     A few years later I met Rob and together we set off of a wild adventure lasting several years; starting in South East Asia and ending in South America.  Near the end, feeling tired of living out of a backpack and ready to plant some roots, we were living in an Andean mountain town near the border of Peru.  I loved Cuenca, it's cobbled stone streets, the cafes and ice cream parlours, Spanish architecture, the Saturday market when Indegenous people came down from their villages to sell their flowers behind the blue domed cathedral, the quirky characters, even it's dogs that lingered in doorways.  I cried when we left there.
     Cuenca was known as a center for ceramics for Ecuador.  Longing for a place we knew we had yet to discover inspired me to custom order this plaque.  Having it displayed in our adobe house was a mark of serious intention. I knew that someday the right place would come along that would fulfill the same sentiments of that little house in Victoria. 
     Back in the Yukon, as we prepared to leave for Columbia, our last posting, Rob found a photo of this house at a real estate office.  We were living in his bachelor pad, a wee cabin without a door knob and a giant frost heave directly under the oil barrel wood stove.  Ever so casually, he placed the photos on the table and said "I'm buying this".  It was 2 weeks before Christmas, during an economic downturn and people were leave the Yukon in droves.  The house hadn't been lived in for a few years.  The realtor was not eager to drive all the way out here to show it to us, maybe it had to do with the time of year - apparently no one buys houses in December - or it could have been Rob's jacket with duct tape on the elbows.  We trudged through thigh deep snow banks and instantly recognized that this was it.  Without looking at any other houses, we declared confidently, yes, thank you, we'll take it. 

Leaving the Day Job

 

Photo: Returning from raiding Jeanine's rhubarb patch.  Nice view of the new English garden, eh?

"Retirement" some people are calling it, but to me leaving my day job is more of a re-evaluation, a re-structuring of my time at the lake and to ponder "what's next", while focusing intently on being fully present.  Here.  Why be anywhere else when it's so amazingly beautiful here?   

These are times to visit neighbours (and put their forgotten crops to good use, such as rhubarb compote) and feed on their passions for a while.  Time to plant that grapefruit seed I found that was already sprouting or to haul rocks from the local rock slide for a special flower bed or to experiment in the garden or to make a giant batch of pesto from the jungle of basil in the greenhouse.  Time to visit with guests who wander by and to tell them stories of why we choose to live in such a remote place so far away.

Personally, as much as I've tried to do the sensible career thing, it never seems to be sustainable, for one reason or another.  Maybe it's my attachment to this place, an hour away from the city.  Or maybe it's my lack of understanding of retirement, seeing as I've spent much of my life semi-retired anyway.  I've learned to live with less, be mindful of money being a tool and not an identifier of who I am.  Don't we all need something to do that's uniquely ours?  A purpose, some expression of joy?  Something to keep our energy juicy?  I figure if we've prepared ourselves properly, there won't be the dreaded ailments of aging, such as boredom and loneliness.  For me, being creative has been my main salvation and salve that gives me meaning and to be able to share this with other questioning and wandering souls is a blessed opportunity.

Dear Louise,

     You'd be surprised at how often I think of you.  So I thought I'd sit down and tell you of a good memory I have of you.  I remember when I first saw you in grade 6, at Notre Dame.  You were the new kid in school and you had a certain confidence that comes from moving around a lot.  Your French was very mature and different from our dialect.  I wasn't sure what to make of you and so I kept my distance.  Then one day in class you mentioned to everyone that your brother actually had a stick that a beaver had chewed on!  I was completely enraptured by this idea of possessing such a marvel from nature.  So much so, that I decided to do a big project on beavers and on my cover page, I glued a nickel.  I was impressed by my cleaver ingenuity.  Sadly, the nickel did not return with the paper.  A nickel back in 1972 meant a chocolate fudge sickle!  I blamed Raymond somebody, not sure why.
       All these years later, I find myself thinking of this while canoeing on our lake, doing what I love best - collecting beaver chewed sticks.  The plan is to make an awning off the sauna, completely with this harvest.  Can you imagine something as beautiful as that?  Lately, fat ones have been availing themselves.  So there's a fence waiting to be created somewhere.  Last fall during a gray, cloudy, misty day, a red canoe pulled up with a girl in a yellow rain coat.  She had a gift of many smaller freshly polished beaver chewed sticks for me and she piled them on our dock.  I've made a rustic lattice out of it for the new bed of daisies by the shed.
     This year's big project is an English garden, Yukon style.  For me it's not so much about what we'll plant there, it's the doodads I'm going to have fun with.  A sun dial (ours reads: "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be"), a memorial bench for my friend and neighbour Gail, a bird bath (made by Gail who was a potter), a funky locally made statue of some kind and an archway made of beaver chewed driftwood.  I've been saving some extra precious ones for the rustic elegance effect, reflecting far away lands, yet terraced in front of the guest cabin.  This is where I'll pass to deliver freshly made sourdough muffins, neatly tucked into a willow basket, to hang on an old paddle wheeler's pulley, dangling off their deck.  Nothing says "Good morning and welcome to Crag Lake!" better than that.  "We're glad you're here to catch a glimpse of this wild setting and to be part of what we are literally carving out of it."
     I'm not sure where these massive ideas come from but Rob, this talented marvel of a man continues to manifest them for me and with me.  I am truly blessed in so many ways.
     Do you ever wonder about things like that?  How we recognize parts of our future selves at a young age and then finding ourselves exactly there?  There's a deja vu effect, or a comforting confirmation about choices made and certain directions taken.  That's the beauty of this decade of being 50.

The Label Quest

My grand vision of having a tiny retreat in our back yard was to not only share this amazing and inspirational natural space but to also bring me varied stories in the form of wonderful visitors from many different corners of the world.  I figured in my future years, I'd slow down on my personal adventures yet still want to travel vicariously with our guests.  So far we have not been disappointed by the many unique, charming and charmed characters who have managed to find us.

Our latest guest is Dirk Rohrbach, www.weltgeschichten.com a German adventurer here to write a book on his latest tour paddling to the Bearing Sea in a birch bark canoe he made himself last summer.  Dirk is a good sport who had no trouble humouring me with sending out an alert to his many followers that I was in need of clothing labels to finish my next label quilt.  Many people responded and yesterday I received my first significant contribution in the mail from L.A.  The challenge is to receive 500 labels during his stay here, until April 3.  The official count so far is 79, mostly thanks to Britta.  Many of them I've never seen before.

So Dirk and I are hoping to drum up more to reach our goal.  Later today, I'll be visiting him with my seem ripper in hand.  His generosity has no limits, he's letting me take all his labels!

Much gratitude to Dirk and his many friends!  I'll keep you posted.

The English Garden

 

"Bloom where you are planted" 

Few subjects subdued and quieted her;

big ones like the state of the world, loss of humanity

where we've all turned cold, afraid,

heavily guarded, overly stimulated,

presenting well.

Other thoughts were hedonistic, open, accessible, 

approachable, coital;

embracing of all encompassing juices of existence.

Photo: Royal Roads, Victoria, B.C. from our courting days. This was the garden shed door 

and is now the main inspiration for our future English Garden.

Scattered

 

"The true traveler is she who goes on foot and even then,

 she sits down a lot of the time."

- Colette

 

She seemed scattered at first,

that's 'cos she was, in almost every way.

Still, she liked to think she had it where it counted.

She came from Africa, Acadia, South America;

from the divorce-land of domesticity,

colour schemes and coordinates.

Living in a back pack suitcase

carrying water with him,

 even after the traumas.

She grasped what it was to be displaced,

uprooted;
expulsed from home.

Muse written when we first found a place to be for a while, after being on the road a long time.

My Mexican Parka

Photos: with Ros Oberlyn on the Malecon, La Paz, Mexico & Crag Lake parka

 
During my brief stint as an inn keeper in Baja, three winters ago, I had one of those amazing Yukon coincidences.  One of my neighbours said there was a woman who liked to winter in La Paz who also had a Yukon connection.   So when she walked past the inn a few weeks later, I had a vague recollection of her smiling face.  For anyone living in the Yukon in the late 1980's, Ros Oberlyn would be a familiar sight since she was a CBC TV reporter.  Turned out she had an apartment on the next block from me.  Most memorable all those years ago was Ros' outside winter stories because she wore a stunning purple and red beaded parka.  This may have been one of the first things I asked her once I found out that soon she would take up permanent residence in Mexico "What will become of your parka?"  We negotiated the repatriation of the parka back to the north under a polka-doted palm tree while eating rose pedal and corn ice cream.  Quite a surreal and lovely memory.

Soiled Glass

The sun has returned to us.  Living in this deep valley has it's dark sides literally and for a few weeks in winter we don't see the sun directly.  But lately it's been blasting in, showing us all the accumulated dust on the logs and surfaces.  Who has time to address that, I figure, especially since our vacuum is indisposed for the moment.  I'd much rather admire the light shinning thru what my friend Wendy calls, my 'soiled glass' window.  It's an inspiration of hers that I adopted last summer and now I reap the rewards.  She says she can't afford a real stained glass window, so instead she has a collection of coloured antiques and thrift store finds at her window.  She uses these items regularly and rotates the colours to change the mood and the style of her entire kitchen.  I really like that idea of function, creativity and environment combined.  For up to 2 hours a day now, the southern exposure of the sun shines directly and I'm not wasting such a warm bath on dust but capturing it ever so briefly in old soiled glass.

Each piece hold a souvenir too; the old Sprite bottle discovered in my brother Pierre's yard while digging for the new landscape on Vancouver island.  The small red pitcher from Rob on my 50th birthday, a fancy hand blown antique; the broken red measuring cup that Wendy couldn't part with after the tragedy; the odd purple bottle from a huge antique shop in a barn in Ontario near the farmhouse Rob grew up in; the glass chicken from my Memere's kitchen in Cocagne, N.B.; the amber '70's vintage candy bowl from a garage/estate sale, another reminder of adventures with Wendy.

Flaming Vacuum Cleaner

Photo: Label quilt #1, produced as a form of meditation while in college, 2004 - 2006

On New Years Eve, Rob was eager to welcome the warmer weather so he could clean out the wood stove.  It needed a thorough scrubbing from the roof as well as below.  In his estimation, this requires a vacuum cleaner but in winter it's a bit more challenging with the odd errant ember.  Soon the cabin was filled with thick smoke, cussing, and the scent of burning dust and plastic.  The funny thing about this flaming vacuum cleaner, after the initial rush to get the thing outside and the place aired out (again thanks to above zero temperatures) is remembering that we originally rescued it from the dump 11 years ago, when we first moved here.

And now, back to -30 C, we watch the ice form again on the inside window sills and the hinges on the door.  Billows of frosty air wafts in every time the door opens.  Everything outside has an extra crispness to it and the cabin makes loud creaking thud sounds.  Once in a while, the lake too will give us satisfactory groans, pings and moans, while it adjusts to it's new colder environment.  It's hard to explain why we love this life really.  It's not an intellectual thing but a serious matter of the heart.

Like most cabin dwellers in winter, we read adventure, gardening and cook books, and experiment with new exotic recipes.  We keep fit by shoveling, skiing, and snowshoeing.  Rob likes to feed sunflower seeds to his critters at the feeders by the windows.  In their excitement, the grouse beaks and chickadees throw the seeds on the ground, feeding a lively colony of squirrels that have dug tunnels under the snow.  We could watch this action for a long time.

For me winters is a creative time when I take on wild projects like hand sewing a full size quilt made entirely of clothing labels.  I also made one out of doilies but it wasn't as satisfying.  I'm now finishing up a second label quilt and I'm seriously scrounging for more labels.  Any assistance in this matter would be hugely welcomed.  Labels are fading out, especially the embroidered ones I cherish, which I'm told are mostly silk.  Imagine that, I'm able to say I have a silk quilt that cost me nothing, just thousands of hours of labour!

Add garlic, chocolate, our own blend of Crag Lake coffee and global music blaring (the latest favorite is "Pacifika", a juicy Latino/Canadian blend). Well, there you have it, our formula for a sweet life on a frozen Yukon lake.

My friends Scheherazade and Ana-Maria

 

Photo: Ana-Maria and I at the cabin, June 2006, my grad

There are some people you meet in life you just know will be remarkable from the start.  To be part of their lives, though on the periphery, has been a powerful joy and delight for me.   Soon I'll be seeing them again. Would you like to meet them too?  See below...

Ana-Maria was a Dutch volunteer working with the same organization in Ecuador when we met her in the mid '90's.  She was coming down a set of office stairs when I first spotted her and she greeted me with open arms, like she knew we'd be friends for decades.  I was instantly drawn to her take-charge style and boisterous humour.  When Rob and I were struggling in Guayaquil (once referred to as the ugliest and most dangerous city in South America) and about to pack the whole adventure in, she found us an adobe house over a river in what was to become the most beautiful city in the world for me - Cuenca, where she was living.  This move extended our stay for a few more years, and they were by far, the richest.  I cried when we left there.

When we moved back to the Yukon, Ana-Maria came for an extended visit to sort out what was next for her.  She'd been unable to fit in again to her regular life back in Holland.  Like us, it felt like everything had been changed forever.  After two months, she made a declaration from our hammock in the living room (which was our only piece of furniture in Cuenca), "I had to come to the Yukon to find out that my life will be in Guatemala."  And off she went, to quite her job, to sell her house and all her assets, to fund this primal urge.  It must have been the ultimate test to be stranded for a stint at the Amsterdam airport, leaving everything she knew for certain behind, about to launch into a fresh new adventure, on September 11, 2001.  "Didn't you feel like it was a sign to go back? Weren't you afraid to go on?  You were in limbo, there was so much uncertainly!" I asked.  "No, to me it was confirmation that I was doing exactly the right thing."  This sums up Ana-Maria quite well.

I first met Scheherazade/Arlaine in Antigua, on a cobbled stone street.  She was limping mildly and her head was bent in serious concentration.  When she spotted Ana-Maria and I approaching her, her face burst open with stories of her recent fall and her determined ideas about life.  I took notice of her unusual spirit right away.  Arlaine once described herself as a starlet when she was young but the course of her life was altered by the reform school she was sent to.  I'm not exactly sure what a starlet is but I know it involves poise and presence, which is still vibrantly visible.  As was true of Scheherazade, Alaine's stories shaped who she is today.  During my month in Guatemala I watched these two amazing women formulating and creating their new existence there, each with their individual projects in mind, going forward.

Several years later, while recuperating from surgery (on a futon Rob had cobbled together for me out of logs punched out of the guest cabin windows), I got a call from Ana-Maria and Arlaine.  They were on a white beach in Mexico thinking and scheming with me in mind.  Would I be interested in spending a winter in La Paz, running Arlaine's small inn while she concentrated on the building of her project in Guatemala? Well, let me think about that...  A few months later Arlaine picked me up in L.A. and like it was perfectly normal, we drove down the Baja road, fueled on tuna salad and many more stories.

Arlaine's latest update:  http://cpss.wistia.com/m/sn10bX  
Arlaine's website:  www.ninosdellago.org

Ana-Maria:  www.losninos.info

Philanthropy 101

True confession: I've always wanted to be a philanthropist when I grow up.  It's a laughable idea considering the state of my finances but is it strictly related to money?  "Love of mankind," reads my mini dictionary.  In this way I'd agree that my curiosity of people in general has been approached with love, openness and wonder.  It's an intrigue to be part of peoples lives for a while to discover their secrets to unbridled joy in the midst of so little.  While we seem to suffer under a pile of stuff that remains to be edited, continuing to accumulate mindlessly, so caught up in the constant distractions of our culture.

Recent thoughts on philanthropy brought me to the back of my closet to unearth a custom made sweater from a woman's co-op in Ecuador, that I never wore.  This was the stage in my life, my mid 30's, when Rob and I first got together as a writer/photographer team in South America.  Part of our job for this child sponsorship organization was to visit projects that had been supported by doners in 14 countries from Australia, North America, Japan and Europe.  We were their eyes and hearts for a while, which gave us the honour to be the guests of many villages and to be welcomed to their inner circles.  This particular woman's group was typical in that they gathered regularly to create and keep the operation going while their leader, always a man, was away to work in the states.  In the vast remote mountain area of Bolivar, this group sat perched on a precipice, chatting, laughing at us, and with us, wearing their specific hats identifying their indigenous group and their status within it.  It had seemed to us that the women were responsible for keeping the culture alive with their traditional dress, while the men had to leave in flocks for economic reasons.  These women made the best of it.

As specified, the sweater has trees all over it, purple ones with grey fruit and red falling snow.  I've decided to give it away as part of my personal wealth; it's time to let go and be selective of the stuff I choose to hang on to.  I want to act locally as well as globally.  Though few people in my life would appreciate such a quirky and precious item, so loaded with history, who would also be the right size.  For a week now, I've been packing the bag around waiting to encounter one of my favorite young women at our local cafe.  Here's a funny thing, the recipient of my philanthropy seems to be missing in action.