Canada Day, 2010

Canada Day, 2010 was quite a lovely day. Here are some of the nice things that happened on Canada Day this year:

Two of our old good friends, both Canadians, came out to our place for Canada Day brunch.

One, who was born in Canada and is a citizen, brought beautiful red local strawberries, which we slathered with white yoghurt in the spirit of the day.

The other, who used to be an immigrant like me but is now a citizen, kindly asked about my citizenship quest (no significant progress yet, I told him, though my two letters to Jason Kenney have elicited replies from someone called Yves who seems to work on Ministerial Enquiries; check here if you want to know more).

A couple of Canadians who phoned wished me a Happy Canada Day, a generously inclusive gesture, I thought.

I worked in the garden for a while, a very Canadian activity.

A. and E., both Canadians, got appropriate tattoos for Canada’s 143rd birthday.

Two other old good friends, one an immigrant who is now a citizen and the other who is a Canadian citizen by birth, invited us to barbecue burgers over on McNab’s, another very Canadian activity.

We couldn’t go to McNab’s, because we had already agreed to go to the wedding of two Canadians, one of whom is my brother.
There were many Canadian guests there, and it was a great solemnization and celebration, both serious and informal, punctuated with Canadian energy, humour, and enthusiasm.

We heard a most wonderful young Canadian violinist, the daughter of the groom, who played Saint-Saens exquisitely for her dad (and the rest of us who were privileged to witness the event).

We sang Feelin’ Groovy, a Canadian song, and a wonderful medley of Beatles songs, not Canadian in origin but rendered with Canadian sentiment and gusto.

We didn’t sing O Canada, but I think we were all proud to be Canadians (or almost Canadians) on Canada Day this year.

A cardinal

I came upstairs shortly after 9 to check things on the laptop, but first I had to close the window a little because the breeze was still blowing and it is a little cool. I noticed a movement and heard a flutter on the deck outside the window. I had the camera close by but don’t have an image because the light was already too low and I didn’t want to panic our visitor any more than she was already panicked.

I have worried that something happened to the male cardinal that was so present the winter and spring of 2009 because after last summer there was no more lyrical singing from the pine trees and no more flash of red as the cardinal we considered ours headed for the relatively secluded feeder that is under the canopy of the magnolia in front of the house. Of course he wasn’t ours, he was the neighbourhood’s cardinal, and I wondered what had happened. I talked to my older brother who is a much better birder than I am, and he reassured me that our cardinal might not in fact have been caught by a cat or other predator and might have just moved on. I was relieved to hear that, but it didn’t stop me from missing his bright presence over the past year.

JE in St. Catharine’s has had both a male and female cardinal come to his feeder, and he did point out that the female is even more wary than her wary mate. I had looked at images of the female and had watched the trees in our yard closely, especially when the male made his careful way to the feeder. However, I had never seen one, and once our male was gone for at least a year, I figured there was little chance of seeing a female around here.

Thus, I was both surprised and delighted to see a female cardinal on our top deck this evening. The only problem was that she was trapped there. I watched her fly over and over against the glass panels, fluttering her wings with her bill touching the glass and then landing again on the bottom rail. I wanted to go out and find some way to either help her or frighten her enough that she would fly up and out, but I resisted. I was worried I might make her hurt herself, like breaking a wing, so I stayed very still at the window and watched. Each time she would walk along towards the gap between the panels, a gap that was plenty big for her to get through, I would silently encourage her, but then each time I thought she would make it she would look at the sky and fly up against the glass again. And again.

So I saw my first female cardinal again and again, captive on our deck, and wondered what I could do to help her escape, until she finally found her way to the gap and flew off as I had hoped she would.

So if she is in the neighbourhood, maybe he is too. I filled the feeders today and will keep my eyes peeled and my ears tuned for any sign of her happy red partner.

Footnote: I do realize from checking about cardinals that this one might have been an immature, so it's possible I may still not have seen a female -- should have had the presence of mind to note what colour its bill was!

Paper and Markers

There’s a spot in the front corner of our living room near the windows and next to the big brown armchair. It’s an old wooden box with paper on it and a set of coloured markers, just the right height for the girls to kneel or sit and make pictures.

Today E. has been three for a week, and she made two pictures for me as I sat on the big cushions next to the windows. She showed me the first one, which was a shape in black lines with a concentration of black inside it. Like the Elementary teacher I used to be I said, What can you tell me about the picture? She didn’t tell me anything, just took it back, coloured in some blue and yellow, handed it back, and said, It’s a butterfly. I was impressed and told her I thought it was a great picture. She took it back, flipped it over, took a pink marker, and made a new picture. It’s a picture of you, Rogie, she told me. I was both honoured and impressed, even though the butterfly's body smudges through a little and the likeness is not yet as strong as I know it will be (e.g., no body yet, but she may have given me a hair on my big head). But she’s three this week, and her growth and development are really showing!

She and A. spend quite a bit of time making pictures on the old wooden box. On Father’s Day, A. made a great flower.
And then she made a picture with a story. This one has a cat in a tree, a fire truck, a girl in her firefighter’s red uniform, the upset owner of the cat, and a wonderful firedog. A. asked me if I saw the dog and seemed pretty proud of both its shape and its spots. I thought it was a great dog, and I also loved the black curl of hose and yellow ladder on the side of the truck, the spoked wheels, steering wheel in the cab and red light on its roof, and the detail of fingernails on the two expressive little figures (you can click on the picture to see it better, then use the back button to return). A. is five now, and she’s certainly ready for “the big school” in September!

I consider myself blessed to be able to follow the growth and development of these two bright little buttons so closely, looking at the pictures they make and playing with them the games they make up. Earlier this evening we were checking out the bed we made in the tent set up on the deck for tonight’s campout. E. said, I’m a cocoon, and snuggled down out of sight inside her sleeping bag. Then she popped out, stood up, flapped her arms, and said, I’m a butterfly.

You don’t need better treats than that!

Father's Day

Yesterday was Father’s Day. When I was growing up, our parents showed a certain disdain for the two “parent days” that were celebrated in the spring and early summer. I think they found it a little too commercial or North American for their taste. I on the other hand have not disdained Father’s Day over the years, but it has not always had a high profile, perhaps in part because of my father’s disinterest in the day, though I did always try to find appropriate ways to honour him on the right Sunday in June. And after I became a father myself, the day began to grow in importance, and I was always happy to be celebrated by our kids and by Lorraine.

One significant connection I maintain to Father’s Day is the Japanese split leaf maple down in the corner of the lower garden. It was a gift on this day from Lorraine and our children about ten years ago, and its happy presence, in spite of years of our absence and neglect, signifies something important about being a dad and what that might mean to our kids, now adults in their thirties.

I loved being a father from the moment of Toby’s birth. Here’s a small piece from the poem I wrote then, in my amazement:

this baby born the first
ever in the world
and I the first father

And there was no diminishment of my wonder when Jon Eben and then Ellen were born; it was (and is) a profound honour and privilege to be their dad, and I have to love the ways they celebrated that fact through their words and deeds yesterday. I felt that it was my day, as well as being the day of every other father.

One change I have loved to see over the years is the closer involvement of dads with their small children, carrying them in snugglies, pushing them in strollers, holding their hands as they walk and chat, nuzzling them, burping them, hoisting them onto their shoulders, or pulling them behind their bikes. It is an important change from when I was a kid, even though my father was affectionate and caring, and from when I was first a father myself.

I thought about it in the day or so before Father’s Day this year, and especially thought about three young fathers I know very well and how they are with their children (some of whom are my own grandchildren). I wanted to honour their fatherhood, their ways of being with their own small children, the gifts they give.

This is the e-mail I sent to them yesterday (Subject: Happy Father’s Day):

To you young fathers whom I know so well,
I have watched you with your small children,
seen the nurturing care you allow
yourself to give, seen the way you look
and the way you touch, heard the words
you say to them, who are your permission
for unmitigated and unequivocal expressions
of the love you have to give.

You are proud of your boys and your girls,
the light of joy shines in your eyes
without qualification or qualm,
they open you, allow you to open
yourself unreservedly, you are the fathers
they deserve, as you carry them
on your strong shoulders,
push the stroller, pull the wagon,
kick the ball, hug them and kiss,
console and hold them.

They cherish you (as I do)
for who you are and what you give,
that is, your love for them,
and for that alone you have from me
my own unabashed and abundant love.

A Couple of Trees

I have had in mind a blog post about trees, a couple of specific trees that caught my attention, but I just haven’t managed to write the text that fits with the images. So now is the time.

The first tree is an amazing one that Lorraine and I came across when we moved to Istanbul in 2003, though we didn’t truly encounter it until the spring of 2004. That is because this tree, the Judas tree, looks a little more ordinary through all the other seasons, though if we had been paying attention we would have noticed the long seed pods hanging down all the way along each branch in the winter. The Judas tree, called erguvan in Turkish, is a member of the pea family (you can tell by both its flowers and its seed pods), and it is remarkably beautiful, because its profusion of pink blossoms, which appear before the leaves, cover the whole length of each branch.

In the latter part of April, both sides of the Bosphorus are dotted with pink clumps of colour as the Judas trees bloom everywhere, and I remember driving south one April and being amazed at the forested hillsides just north of Bursa covered with scattered pink patches of erguvan. The image I provided above is from the Elementary School playground at Koç; you can see fuller and more detailed images here.

The second is a plane tree that we had a memorable dinner under during our short stay in Gölyazı this spring. It is called the Weeping Plane, perhaps because of the mournful aspect of its long branches; it could certainly be a prototype for Tolkien’s Ents with their rooted wisdom from watching over more mobile creatures for centuries. This plane tree has been designated a historic monument because it is reputed to be 750 years old; certainly its aspect, like that of the opening image of this post, suggests a long and thoughtful presence.

One of the wonderful things about old plane trees is their hugeness – this one is big enough that you can climb inside it – and the way that their branches spread out so far and often require supports to keep them from collapsing onto the ground. And another is the shade they provide for tables and tea in the heat of the day.

Each of these trees has its own distinct presence, one perhaps the sprightly pink Elf and the other a thoughtful, patient Ent, and although they do grow in other countries, each speaks to me of Türkiye. It is the place we first met these trees, and they remind me of their presence and persistence in that landscape, the things we did and do there, and those people we know and love there.

The Time of the Magic Light

I’ve been walking past the wheelbarrow for the last two days and thought every time about the loveliness of the tiny white moth that landed in the rain water collected there on Sunday, but I’ve always been too busy or too focused on other things to actually photograph it. Until tonight, that is. As I moved the camera in to eliminate the borders and show the moth closer, I realized how lovely the reflected sky was. So there we were – a little before sunset, some standard Nova Scotian clouds in the sky, and the time of the magic light – once again!

When I went upstairs I noticed the late sun illuminating a part of one of the maples below the house, but by the time I got the camera the light had shifted. So I closed in on Mauger’s Beach and caught the lighthouse glowing. Then I looked in the harbour at the container pier on one side and the refinery at Imperoyal on the other. One thing we have always loved is the shimmering brightness of Imperoyal on a clear night, something beautiful about it even if it is an oil refinery. So I turned the camera onto the oil tanks over there, lit by the low setting sun. It’s the light, a light I remember from so many places, the light that makes your skin glow and makes the world, for a short time, a little more glorious.

Launch on Heckman's Island

On Monday John invited me, if I was interested, to go with him the next morning for the launch of Ed’s boat down in Lunenburg County. I wasn’t sure about it, since I knew that John and Ed had sailed together many times and didn’t want to be just a tag-along. John reassured me that it was a social event and told me he’d be leaving around 8 if I was interested. I realized that I was.

The next morning we drove down to Ed’s place, which is at one end of Heckman’s Island, on a lovely little piece of Lunenburg County drumlin and shoreline. The day started with some discussion and consultation at the beach with Ed and his neighbour Lorne (it was reported that Dave, who had not yet arrived, wanted to jack the aft end of the cradle and get some oil or grease under to help get the boat moving) and checking out gear before we went up to the house for tea and more discussion.
When we went back down to the beach a few people had started to arrive. It was, as John had suggested, a social event, and some of the others had t-shirts that read Heckman’s Island Boat Hauling Crew, which suggested that they were not first-timers like me. Most of the others were guys and seemed from a quick look to be part of the same demographic as John and me; that is, there was a predominance of geezers.
We started assembling a skid way of six by six timbers that were still greasy from the haul of the Concertina last fall. Pulp hooks were the tool of choice since these slippery babies were not be picked up by hand. Someone used a pry bar while someone else knocked in the iron dogs that held the timbers together. Soon enough the skid way was built, with extra timbers set off to the side to extend it later, and some jacking and oiling was done. The boat on its cradle was also well secured with block and tackle and a bight around a tree in case she started to take off on her own.
The tide was dead low. Everything was ready. We all stood around the beach waiting. I understood that a guy named Philip was coming with a tow truck but that he was a little later than planned. When he did arrive the action started.
It was clear that Philip had done this before as he drove his truck down to the water’s edge, hooked the cable onto the aft end of the cradle, and began to pull. Guys with long pry bars stood by on either side to try to muscle the cradle back into line if it started to stray, but she moved down nicely, needing only a couple of nudges along the way. Once she was out of the shed, the first sections of the skid way were taken apart and moved down to the water next to the tow truck.
When Philip had pulled her down as far as he could, he drove the truck up into the shed and connected with the pushing device built out of a couple of tree trunks and heavy iron pins. We got the skid extensions put together and he proceeded to push the boat and cradle down into the water.
The last part was loading the lead weights onto the cradle so that it would stay on the bottom and allow Concertina to float off when the tide came up around 7 that evening.
I would like to have stayed to see that because she is a pretty boat (look here). However, others of the geezer crew were planning to come back later to make sure she did float off and help get her out to the mooring, so John and I headed back to the city. I may not have been able to help a whole lot, but I was a little more than just a tag-along, and now I have my own Heckman’s Island Boat Hauling Crew t-shirt.

Guess I’ll have to come back in the fall to actually earn the shirt!

Gölyazı – an album

Shortly after we arrived in Istanbul, we travelled with Gül to her little house at Gölyazı (you can read an article from Zaman that tells some of Gölyazı ‘s geography and history here). This is the place where Gül hosted summer residencies for artists from Türkiye and many other countries a few years ago and where those artists made site specific art installations, many of which can still be seen today.
It is a place to talk about art.
A place with art on the walls.
A place where most people still live by fishing.
A place where gardens are in tins.
And a place where we had some great Turkish food.
If you are anywhere near Bursa, go west until you can see Lake Uluabat on your left, then watch for the sign. Gölyazı is always worth a visit.

More on Learning

My intention has been to write a few posts exploring some of the more notable events and images from our recent trip, but that will have to wait for the moment because something else has intervened that has pre-empted the news from Türkiye and Syria.

It started when I picked up T. from work on Thursday to bring him to our house for dinner. He told me on the way that A. had received a letter from “the big school”, which is the Elementary school a couple of blocks away where she will start Primary in September, and that she was very excited, running around the house with the letter in her hand and chanting, I’m going to the big school. She turned five in February and there is no question that she is ready.

He told me that she had made her first word, “click”. He said he wasn’t sure how she spelled it, and we figured it might have been “klk”. She has been able to print her name and her sister’s, and to copy other names, but to make a word on her own was pretty significant, I thought, and click was an interesting choice. We found out later from S. that the word was actually “lik”, pronounced lick, which is certainly apt because of the habits of her real dog, Dewi, and of her stuffie, Woofer, who both show their affection by licking. It also could have been her attempt to print "like", always a favourite of beginning writers like A.

Yesterday afternoon A. invited me to make pictures with her using the dry erase boards the girls had got at Christmas. I decided to make a picture that would include a sentence for her to read, so I drew a small boat with a figure in it waving and then printed the sentence: “A. IS IN THE BOAT”. We read it together. At the same time A. was printing her alphabet and numbers up to ten, telling me that she was getting ready for going to school. She has also been drawing hopscotches in the driveway to get her numbers right. Then, while I was helping with supper, she drew a long cloud with a small figure standing on it in the space above my boat and told me it was her sister E. It was a wonderful completion to the picture, and I printed another sentence: E. IS ON THE CLOUD”, which she was also able to read.

It is no surprise that A. should be putting together the pieces that will allow her to start reading, since she has always been read to (right now she is in the middle of Charlotte’s Web) and is a thoughtful and inquisitive individual, but that doesn’t take anything away from the joy of watching her begin to decode the printed language around her as she constructs her own understanding of text. As T. pointed out, she is a bit of a night owl, and we both imagined her in the not too distant future with a flashlight under the covers exploring the worlds of reading. We are privileged to be able to watch it happen.

Back (Home)

Yesterday morning we woke up very early in our own bed, back (home) after four weeks away. The dawn was grey with fog and ships sliding quietly into the still harbour, and it turned into a day of re-entry and reorientation, a day of laundry and vacuuming and digging a hole and pulling weeds and resting and drinking rum punch and eating sweet corn, and a day of sunshine and blue skies. It finished with A. and E. out on the deck taking turns chasing bubbles from the automatic bubble blower I bought from a guy selling them near the top of Istiklal a few nights ago and nodding off later in front of the laptop.

This morning we are in our house and in our home, and it’s good to be here, good to be back. The ground ivy at the edge of our “lawn” is in full and happy bloom, along with the forget-me-nots, buttercups, and bleeding hearts, and there are chickadees and goldfinches in the treetops outside my window. It’s a bright morning here in Ferguson’s Cove.

One of the wonders of this trip, besides our many adventures in Istanbul, Ciralı, and the Syrian Desert, has been the realization that we have more than one place in the world that feels like home, more than one place where we feel welcomed and loved by the people who live there. It is both a privilege and a blessing, and it is always difficult when it comes time to leave – as Rashid loudly insisted, “No good-byes!” -- and to start those long leaps over mountains and oceans and cultures we need to make to get back here, back to this home.

My last post was completed in Ortaköy almost a month ago, a few days after we landed and before we headed for Syria. There haven’t been any more in the interim because we were too busy in Türkiye and because access to blogspot was denied in Syria, so my task now is to sift through the images and memories to construct a few posts to give some idea of what the whole thing was all about.

I will do that, but I’ll have to fit it in with finishing digging that hole and pulling weeds and mowing and planting the garden and getting to all the other tasks attached to this home. I will keep you posted.