Wild Flowers of Eastern Canada is on the bookshelf after all

I am loathe to throw things away. Once you do that, it seems a use for the forsaken article eventually or, what's worse, immediately crops up.

And I am even worse with books. Periodically I cull the shelves and send two or three to a garage sale, then usually end up returning home with them.  Why wouldn't anyone want a 2004 Tourism Guide to Saskatchewan? It's a mystery.

As I related in my last post, I am making a path in our meadow and have had the opportunity to get up close and personal with a variety of anonymous wildflowers. Well, unnamed they are no longer.

Friend John suggested I should look up the names of the plants and lo and behold, almost hidden on the book shelf between Pierre Berton's Cats I Have Loved and Known and Loved and Anthony Trollope's Barchester Towers ( both fine cottage reading) was what I was looking for: Wild Flowers of Eastern Canada.

Yes, I did pack a field guide after all - and not just any field guide, but one made even more beautiful by the watercolours (executed by Katherine Mackenzie), which adorn its pages.

 

 

And only $2.95! 

 

 

 

 

Apparently it was published by Tundra Books in 1973 and purchased by my mother for us in 1977. As I recall, we were living on the military base at Downsview at the time, and there was a large field behind the house.

 

The standing orders seem to have allowed for a fair growth of "weeds," as a photo of our daughter as a toddler, sitting surrounded by dandelions, attests. And at that time, Gran and Granty gave us this little book "to enjoy the many wonderful things in the great outdoors."

  

 



It seems to have become son Tony's acquisition given his initial in masking tape on the front cover and his name in his four-year-old handwriting:

Today I leafed through it and found a whole page devoted to just what I saw yesterday: buttercups, red clover, clustered bellflower  and cow vetch (aka bugle weed?), which apparently tastes like honey (and bovines love it).

 

It is a small volume, I can easily tuck into my pocket long with my camera. But it is more than a handy reference for wild flowers. It recalls to mind a time 40 years ago when the children were still small and at home in what must have seemed like an enormous world bounded by trees, a field, and the houses of little friends now long forgotten.  What happened to the other Robbie, to Tony's friend Cass, to little Alison, the same age as Joanna.

 

And their grandparents, so much a part of our lives at that time:  my dad deceased for almost 25 year and my mum now almost 95 and settling in to life in a nursing home.

 

They're all called to mind while I am leafing through this book and its watercolour reproductions of 100 wild flowers in "90 full color plates."

 

I decide to make a path in our field

Having lived without a lawn for quite a while, during which various projects have been underway, we've become
accustomed to  the grasses and wild flowers in what we now call our meadow.

However, a path through the field could be like stretched-out labyrinth:

 

 

 

Here are Greg and John, intrepid trail blazers. John advised me that making a path would require only 15 minutes a day of conscientious trampling.

 

 So far so good. Some grasses flatten more easily than others:
 

 

Because the meadow used to be a ploughed hayfield, there are still the remains of furrows. It was good to slow down and walk deliberately. I enjoyed pausing to look at wildflowers:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 These grasses were incredibly soft to the touch:

 

 

 

At the bottom of the filed under the trees are ferns; this is a species  am not familiar with:

 

 

 

 

At the bottom is a woodsy part. We had some of the trees planted there years ago, but thought they had all died during a drought later that summer.  Several years further on, we discovered to our surprise that some had survived. The remnant of the original rows are visible. They are at the Christmas tree stage. 

 

 

 

Obviously this is the old crone of the woods!

 

 

The fir trees and sky reminded me of an Emily Carr painting:

 

 
It's a fair hike back up the hill:

 

 

But back to pathmaking ... The trail is leading to the barely visible bunkie. The house on the right belongs to our neighbours.

 

 

 

Closer to the top, I decided it would be fun to have two ways to get home, so I trampled  divergent paths and remembered Robert Frost's poem:

 

 

 

Back at last to the bush-hogged part of the yard:

 

Like the good Brownie I used to be,  I tied the grass in knots to mark the way in for the next time:

Just a few steps to the deck and cold lemonade or a G&T!

The grasses play in the wind and I play in them. One should never be too old for the sheer joy of doing somewhat silly things.  then I forget how old I am. It's nice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tiny railways on a tiny island amuse us on a summer afternoon

Our friend John has left Ty'n y maes and a great silence has descended upon the little house in the fields. This is what happens when an extrovert departs leaving two Internet-surfing introverts behind. 

 

Yesterday, we toured our part of the Island and dropped in to the PEI Miniature Railway in Elmira, PEI.

 

 

Riding on it was a throwback to our childhood when we rode a similar one in Springbank Park, London, Ont. No, we are not in this picture:

 

Off we go into the woods:



 

During our ride we saw murals depicting scenes from the local village. Here is one of them:

 

 

We also toured the PEI Railway museum. The exterior must have been very like the station platform on which Anne Shirley waited all by herself for Matthew Cuthbert:

 



 

 

A huge railway layout and collection - one of the largest in Canada was housed in another building. Built by a professional engineer, a Mr. Beecham if my memory serves, it is in the shape of PEI, hence the rather jagged layout:

 

Lovely wild roses enhance the grounds:

 

Because we had brought chocolate  cookies and grapes with us for a snack, we declined the offer of ice cream advertised on that billboard and left to go on further sight seeing.



Stay tuned for more reports.

Wallowing in a world of waste

 

Coming to Prince Edward island as summer residents, not tourists, has involved a learning curve as moving to any new place always does.  Understanding the waste management system here on the island has been and still is a special challenge. Islanders have had years to accustom themselves to the rules and bins and are proud that they recycle so much waste.

Of course we want to fit in and do the right thing. We phoned Island Waste Management Corporation and for $95 they delivered all we needed to start our own domestic waste program.

Our kit included  the waste calendar:

We also received the Waste Watch Sorting Guide:

We have two huge bins on wheels. The green one is for recycling compostables, and the black one is for true waste:

The third container is small and is for collecting compost. It sits under our sink in the kitchen:



 

The contents of the small green pail are removed periodically by Greg (he is the designated household waste manager) and thrown into the large green compost container outdoors. Beside the green compost pail is the kitchen garbage container - rarely used!

 

Meanwhile, other recycling finds its way, thanks to Greg,  into one of two blue bags. This one is for paper and coffee carriers and egg cartons:





 



 

 

The other blue bag (#2)  is for glass, plastics and metals. It looks much the same, so I don't have a picture of it. Plastic bags go in that recycling bag, as you must not wrap waste in anything; waste goes into the black bin naked as it were. Bag #2 also contains milk cartons, cans, glass jars and surprisingly broken Christmas tree lights and things like toasters - and our coffeemaker, which itself is toast.

 

Waste includes potato chip and other snack bags, broken mirrors, frozen juice cans, old clothes, and other odds and ends that are neither recyclable nor ... Household Hazardous Waste. HHW is taken by the homeowners to special depots dotting the Island.

 

Meanwhile, into the compost container go what you might expect: vegetable material and coffee grounds, the odd lobster shell or fish remnant but also cereal boxes, tissues and twigs.

 

You are advised to rinse out the green bin with water and vinegar occasionally, the wisdom for which becomes obvious very quickly in hot weather.

 

Cardboard must be broken down and wrapped with string into manageable bundles. This pile awaits Greg's ministrations:

 

 

 

It is an on-going challenge to determine what goes where. Various kinds of extraneous products challenge my sorting abilities:

 

 



 

Here we see a glass jar, a metal lid, the handle of a broken plastic beach shovel, broken apart clothespins, a cardboard box and the inside of  a rice cracker box:



 
Some items are obvious - other less so. In fact I was so mystified by the clothespins, that I put them back together again and re-used them.

Finally garbage day arrived.

Actually, as you can see by the style of truck, it was recycling day at least for the two kinds of blue plastic bags and the cardboard. The compost goes out another day and the waste some other time. I  must go and check the calendar on the refrigerator or ask Greg for the umpteenth time, something I am reluctant to do, as I really need to learn this for myself.

The term "rehab" sometimes conjures up a dreary setting or at least a Days of Wine and Roses scenario. But of course, not all rehab is like that. My mother just spent the better part of two months at Bridgepoint Hospital in Toronto. She began her stay at the old Bridgepoint after she was deemed ready for rehabilitation from a broken leg. A bout of C. difficile caused her to have to bounce (as it were) back to an acute care hospital, so she missed the long awaited move from the old Bridgepoint to the new facility on April 14.

What a change awaited her. Once the weather and her health improved, we went exploring.This is the entrance to the roof garden on the 10th floor. It was in the process of being completed when I was up there with her last week:

 

 

The roof garden, a xeriscape, has been planted with various kinds of sedum, over which bees were buzzing: 

 

 

 

There is a spectacular view of downtown Toronto through the plate glass:

 



 

 

Tables of some sort - maybe destined to be raised planters - had just been painted:

 

 

 

The door we came out of is at the foot of this amazing mirrored wall:

 

 

The old Don Jail - at least part of it- has been restored and refurbished to be the administrative wing of the new Bridgepoint:

 

 

Quite a difference from the parkette just around the corner:

 

 



How much does the environment affect the outcome for those using it - patients on the one hand and prisoners on the other? 



 

 

 

A dispatch lost and forgotten - until just now

Spring comes to the wilds of North Middlesex (being a dispatch languishing in the dusty files of this writer's computer):

Recently, I am happy to say, we welcomed spring to the wilds of North Middlesex; however, as with so many positive things in life, there are dark sides:

People are tearing up their lawns. Three in our neighbourhood alone have been denuded. This vicious treatment left me puzzled until I realized it has to do with weed control.

Ever since chemical herbicides were banned (except for agricultural use, of course), our lawns have been going to wrack and ruin.  And the ones that aren’t weed-choked are viewed with great suspicion. We suspect under-cover chemical weed control, but it is hard to prove. Even with the best in root extraction tools, no one could possibly keep up with the proliferation of unwanted invasive greenery, especially dandelions.

Certainly no one could accuse Greg and me of the illicit use of Round-up. One of my neighbours, whose outspokenness I usually admire, said our lawn looked better before we built the house when the lot was vacant.  Viewing from the perspective of her kitchen table I had to agree. It is a wasteland of weeds: creeping Charlie, plantain, and worst of all, dandelions.

What to do … what to do! Home-made dandelion jam made its first appearance at the recent Hort  Soc plant sale and silent auction, but realistically there is only a limited demand for floral jams.

Drastic problems call for drastic solutions, hence the lawn scalping. I first became aware of this phenomenon when I saw the neighbour down the street using what appeared to be a coal shovel to scoop up pieces of his lawn and heave them in to the back of a pick-up truck.

Having removed sod to enlarge or create gardens, I was initially awe-struck by his astounding strength. But apparently, there is a tool you can use to slice up your lawn horizontally. Then you can remove the bits. After it is bald, presumably you re-sod or re-seed. Only time (and any pessimistic gardener) can tell for how long this method will be effective.

It will be like the mosquitoes. Again this year, the larva were sprayed with the latest in larvicide just before three days of torrential downpours washed it all away. Mosquitoes now abound like dandelions.

I was a little surprised to learn that this spraying is done from a helicopter. But then, there is a lot around here which surprises me. Anyhow the helicopter was parked in the cornfield field behind Tim Horton’s, presumably so its operators could get a coffee.  Helicopters look like dragonflies, so from a weird shamanistic point of view, perhaps their use is appropriate, if not especially effective. Real dragonflies might be a better idea.

On the political scene, the plans for the new town hall and public library have been greeted with almost universal disapprobation. A new one-story city hall will be built behind the old three-story city hall, which incidentally used to be the post office. The century-old building needs major structural work. Also it needs an elevator, which could cost roughly $150,000.

Our esteemed city fathers and mothers concluded building a new city hall on one floor would save the cost of an elevator. Detractors say the proposed design looks like a strip mall and local roofing experts, of whom there seem to be a surprising number for a town of 1,600, say a flat roof is a recipe for disaster.

Plans were afoot to demolish the old city hall, but that will cost at least $100,000, so the hope now is that some enterprising soul, from London of course, will buy it, convert it to apartments, and add an elevator.

On a happier note, a couple placed an ad in the Parkhill Gazette a couple of weeks ago thanking the local fire department for their help in putting out a truck fire in their driveway. I can vouch for the effectiveness of their prompt arrival. During warm-ups at exercise class, I spotted the burnt remains of only the vehicle beside a house across from the Leisure Club. The initial skepticism of some as to whether those were “really ashes” was countered by another, possibly less short-sighted, participant, a church warden who had followed the sirens down the street thinking the Anglican church might be on fire.

Finally this-just-in: I can end these dispatches on a really high note. In front-page news, the Gazette reported one of our local doctors helped save the life of a Toronto police constable who collapsed while running in the Toronto marathon. Our doctor was on the sidelines watching for participating family members when the medical excitement began. With no photos of the actual event available, our local hero and an elderly patient, who joined his practice 20 years ago as a youngster of 80, were pictured on the inside pages of the Gazette, thereby implicitly attesting to his medical efficacy over the long term as well.

Life is what happens to you …

Here are some reflections from earlier this month.

Do you remember It’s a Wonderful Life? George Bailey sees one thing after another in his life turn out differently from what he hoped and expected. I expect the reason this old movie still resonates with so many people is that what poor George experiences is not at all exceptional.

There are always the big picture things which don’t work out as planned: marriages don’t last; people we love die too soon; being physically spry ends; families don’t turn out quite the way we expect; retirement plans go awry.

Somehow we adjust, and life goes on. Oddly, or maybe not so oddly, it’s the little things that are the hardest to be sanguine about missing when life throws a curve ball our way.

... when you're busy doing other things

Earlier this year, my 94-year-old mother fell and broke her leg. She suffered through a four-day wait for surgery because of a high white blood cell count, which was later diagnosed as C. difficile, had atelectasis for days after the surgery, had an infection in the incision the antibiotics for which pitched her back into C. difficile, endured swelling in her legs and feet and received a new diagnosis of dysphagia, which means she can no longer eat regular food but must have only pureed food and thickened liquids.

She has an amazingly strong heart in both senses of the word and made it to the Rehab hospital only to have a recurrence of the C. difficile, which detoured her from rehab for 10 days. 

I am Mum's primary care-giver and organizer 

I hold Mum's Power of Attorney, so I am responsible for her health and financial care. This is different from simply caring for her her or about her more informally. One night not so long ago, wondering why I felt so  stressed (or more accurately why I wanted to smash everythng is sight with a hammer), I spent a few minutes doing a sort of care giver's job description. Here it is:

Attend to Mum’s  bedside care while she is too weak to do ANYTHING for herself (adjust her pillows, the blankets, the curtains, the bed, help her eat, push the button for the nurse, give her foot rubs, comb her hair, moisten the inside of her mouth when it is dry , help her brush her teeth etc. );

Provide emotional care and encouragement as well as explanations for the various procedures, with frequent repetition of the same story, as Mum is now forgetful;

Reaffirm with Mum her wishes re resuscitation;

Try to figure out what  constitutes a “heroic measure”  beyond the obvious things like ventilators and feeding  tubes;

Provide greetings to her from family and frineds, thank them for their cards and letters, and put them up on the wall, so Mum can see them in the various rooms she’s in;

Answer friends’ and family members’ requests for information in a timely way by e-mail, phone or Facebook;

Put out brushfires amongst family members as needed;

Advocate for Mum with the healthcare professionals (emergency room people, her surgeon, social workers, internal medicine team, speech therapists, physiotherapists, nurses, healthcare aids, porters, x-ray techs) in three different hospitals over two months;

Make sure no one (including healthcare workers who should be able to read a chart) feeds mum outside food or water through a straw or anything non-pureed or not thickened;

Explain to numerous people how to feed Mum;

Explain over and over again to everyone who treats her how best to talk to a person who can’t hear well but is still capable of understanding;

Make sure her hearing aids/glasses and other possessions do not get lost during the many moves from hospital to hospital and in and out of isolation rooms;

Manage her finances and pay her bills;

Keep the personnel at her retirement home up-to-date re developments;

Chat optimistically with her fellow retirement home residents about her state of health;

Water the plants, sort the mail and do her laundry at her apartment;

Find and tour nursing homes in case there is no bed available in long-term care in her retirement home;

Sort her belongings and clear out her apartment making sure she will have things that are homey for her in long-term care;

Collect and box up other things to give to family members according to her clearly listed wishes;

Persuade other family members to come and get the things she wants them to have;

There’s likely more, but it escapes me for the moment.

 What are those little things I miss?

These tasks have been my rule of life since Feb. 18. I am happy to help my mother; she was so good to me when I needed her help over the years. Also, she is a remarkably cheerful and stoic patient with a great sense of humour. In noting ruefully early on how much she depended on us, she said, “You’re just at my beck and call.” Then turning to me, she said, “You’re Beck” and to Greg, “You’re Call.”

However, even though I have no negative feelings about caring for Mum, I do miss the little things I do for myself, and that is what makes me a bit desperate. I remember relaxing and

Doing the Saturday Globe and Mail crossword puzzle,

Spending time with Ancestry.com,

Raking the yard,

Writing in my journal,

Cooking in my own kitchen,

Showering in my own bathroom,

Getting my hair cut,

Getting healthcare for myself,

Seeing friends,

Going to church,

Singing in the community choir,

Going to exercise class,

Walking to the post office,

Reading for my course in Spiritual Direction,

Writing stories for the grandkids  … and so on and on

The worst is just when you think things have returned to normal or are at least predictable …  bam … you’re on the train or in the car going back to Toronto leaving behind messages re unexpected absences and appointments to be re-booked.

Greg comes too, and my daughter has filled in so many gaps by visiting very regularly.  Other family members visit when they can.

The early elderly and the very old walk together

But the main burden is on my shoulders. And I cannot but wonder will Mum get better (using that term realistically), where will she go after rehab, when will she go, and what if there is no room in a decent nursing home? I rehearse facing her death everytime the phone from the hospital rings.

And I am not the only one going through this care routine. Everywhere in the hospitals and clinics we see the early elderly, who 40 years ago, I would have thought were over the hill, caring for the very elderly.

Various people tell me to take care of myself, and I am following their advice although I feel guilty about not being at Mum’s bedside every day. A professional who should have known better but meant well, asked what I was doing for fun. Well, fun isn’t top on the agenda just now.  But getting used to taking one day at a time definitely is. And I have not actually reached for the hammer yet.