#How I spent my summer vacation

It’s been a busy time for me! But it isn’t over, even being well into August with summer winding down and Autumn fast approaching, still I’m not even home yet. And the best is soon to come, which will be evident at the end of this post.

The road trip began July 20th when Bob and I went to Vancouver to spend a weekend with our son, his wife and our fourteen month old granddaughter that included a day and evening at the Vancouver Folk Fest. Then, leaving Vancouver, we stopped in for an over night at our daughter, her husband and our 22 month old granddaughter’s house in Salmon Arm BC. before heading off to cross four provinces, part of Ontario, over the Superior Lake Head and down to Parry Sound where we had a rented cottage on Georgian Bay waiting for us. Ok, not so much a cottage, more an 1890’s farm house that may have some skeletons in all the closets. But I believe they were friendly.

We did the drive in four days, taking shifts, 10 to 12 hours a day and had no problems finding hotel or motel accommodations along the way, nothing fancy, just a clean place to sleep. Once in Parry Sound family and friends showed up and we spent a week swimming, reconnecting, kayaking, fishing, lots of eating, and playing a lot of scrabble. I won one game. I have sworn myself to hone up to dethrone Crystal and Mel the next time I see them. In about three years. I should be ready by then.

Below follows more of a photo narration because I don’t have a lot of free time at the moment to weave wondrous tales to describe each photo. Why? Well, like I mentioned earlier there is still stuff going on here. So with that said, here is what I have so far ~

Vancouver Music Fest 2019 

 

The Three Sisters, Canora, Alberta. Winding through the rockies, heading east. 2019

 

Then it gets really horizontal from here on out. Boring to most but a joy to me. #prairielove

 

Gassing up in Saskatchewan. Remember when someone used to come out to fill your tank? I barely can.  Not one but two guys cleaning the windshield while a third pumped the gas. I nearly squealed for joy. Because I dislike pumping my own gas, especially in winter, with freezing wind whipping at me. Or any other time.

 

My attempt at upholding a particular Canadian tradition while in transit. Meh.

 

The Assiniboine River runs through Portage La Prairie, Manitoba.

 

A Superior dip. Lake Superior, Ontario. The lake head part of the drive is a long bit, but a beauty. Water was perfect for swimming.

 

Lake Superior, Ontario. Old Woman Bay.

 

We have a stupid, no, totally perverted memory of Wawa, Ontario. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that. But this place has great fudge 🙂

 

We stopped in Webbwood, Ontario for snacks at ‘ol Tom Stewart’s- and Wife. Must be a marriage made in heaven.

 

Our destination. The big old house in Parry Sound Ontario has 5 bedrooms, creaky floors, tons of homey funkiness, a secret stairway off of the kitchen to one of the upstairs bedrooms, an interior that’s a tad spooky and looks as though the family just left the key and took off. It had plenty of room for everyone. Right on Georgian Bay, minutes from downtown. Perfect.

 

Ideal. Our own dock and swim platform along with a canoe and aluminium skiff to use too.

 

We were treated to a harbour cruise too! The black triangle in the centre of the map shows where our boat is on GPS

 

Bob and his daughter crystal.

 

Bob’s family roots go way back in Parry Sound. Parents born and raised there. Grandparents raised their children there, and this is his grandfathers bakery. Even Bobby Ore’s dad was Bob’s Pee Wee hockey coach.

 

Georgian Bay, Muskoka, known for the iconic wind bent pine trees, Tom Thompson, and the Adirondack chair at the lake cottage.

Tom Thompson painted from this exact spot, and you can too. There is even a little easle-table handily installed if you’re suddenly struck with inspiration.

 

The main motivating factor behind the road trip- to see the newest member. Great granddaughter Arabella cuddling here with her momma Shannon and grandmother Crystal relaxing in cottage’s enclosed porch.

 

Bob’s Aunt Lillian’s Flea Market. A cornucopia of cottagey things. She’s closing down in September for good. 90 years old, she could use a rest. She also was born and raised in Parry Sound, and is the last of the elders in Bob’s family.

 

We attended the Wasauksing First Nations Pow Wow. I was really moved by the ceremony and traditional dancing. Goosebumps happened.

 

Bands from far as Oklahoma and Kansas gathered.

 

 

Bob revisited the swimming spot of his youth at Depot Harbour on Parry Island.

 

Yep- won ONE game. “RUBE” that was my word. Pretty fitting considering I was learning the game.

 

What it took to feed the masses. I know, it looks a mess, and as a chef, for me- nearly cringe worthy, but it was daily managed because we ate and ate, and ate.

 

Sunset on the Bay.

 

Heading home west. The Saskatchewan Prairie really speaks to me. I find this land an inspiration on a profound level.

 

Val Marie, Saskatchewan. Main street. Val Marie is situated right up next to the Grasslands National Park Preserve. Stunning area, in my eyes.

 

Val Marie Saskatchewan. The distant glowing bluff in the horizon is part of the Grasslands Preserve.

 

Old Wheat Pool at evening time, Val Marie Sask.

 

Morning rise. Val Marie Sask.

 

Where we stayed the night in Val Marie, Sask. The Convent Inn. A great story lies within these walls of what was a catholic school for the resident youth of Val Marie. I will likely write a post just on this place in the next months.  A great place to spend a night or three, and explore the grasslands.

 

The school chalkboard at The Convent Inn , guests leave words of wisdom and inspiration.

 

Val Marie, Sask.

 

Val Marie, Sask. I found beauty everywhere my eyes fell.

Arriving at Salmon Arm B.C. once again Bob, after a few days visit, leaves me at our daughter’s and heads back to Vancouver Island. I’m staying here to help out while she gets ready to have their second baby- any day now, and help look after their toddler. I’ll stay on after the birth for a short while before finally getting back to my island home on the West coast!

So now we are all on stand by for the reveal. In the meantime, how could I have forgotten how much energy it takes to live with a toddler!  Sparky little dynamos-  I’m pooped out by night fall. But I think I’m catching my second wind after two weeks here, should be toned up and primed by the time this second one arrives. I hope. For now, I’m in bed at 8:30.

 

 

 

Coffee Snob

Hi. That would be me. And I remember the bean that made me thus. It was the Kicking Horse Coffee “Kick Ass” and “Grizzly Claw” dark roast, spoiling me to never let another dusty dry, pale bean pass my lips aaaaagain.

It cost’s more, yes, but it was manageable, and it’s organic and Fair Trade!  It’s also a company that started and has stayed in Invermere, British Columbia ,so, you know, buy local!  I’d buckle down and fork out the extra Loonies (Dollars), and when it goes on sale I buy a few. As time passed the cost eventually crept up to $16.99 a pound. There are limits. I have some self control. Now I only buy it when it’s on sale. But luckily I have a back up brew, Tribal Java’s Ancient Ritual, also organic and fair trade, also out of Invermere and almost on par with Kicking Horse in flavour, and body – almost- and a few Loonies less.

I was at Costco and had a look at their big bags of coffee, thinking maybe, maybe one of these brands would be as good as Kicking Horse and for a lot less money. I picked up a 2 pound Italian bag of beans. Italians know their coffee right? Next morning I pour my Italian morning cup, take a sip…. ok. it’s uh… yeah, it’s all right. I guess. My husband sips his. Hmm, he says, only he’s wincing while doing it. Another few sips and we shake off the charade. This is the worst coffee we have EVER had. Instant coffee would have been better!

But we endured through a half a pound. Because you know, bought it, must finish it.

But we couldn’t finish it. Instead we cut our loses and relegated the rest of the bag to the freezer as Desperation Coffee. For emergencies, when out of coffee and unable to get to town for days due to hurricane, gale, or twenty foot seas. (see my About page) I picked up my Tribal back-up brand, and the next morning there was bliss back in my cup.

Life is waaaay too short for horrid coffee. I learned my lesson.

Then just the other day when grocery shopping I turned down the coffee isle and walked right into a small crowd. As I waded into the fray I saw that Kicking Horse was on for $9.99 ! So, seems I am not alone in my brand obsession. A man who looked like a runner; slight build, spandex, you know the look, was literally embracing -as in using both arms- bags of coffee and scooping ALL remaining eight pounds of Kicking Horse Grizzly Claw off the shelf and into his shopping cart. The other folks had theirs in cart and were dispersing. One pound of Kick Ass left, the rest was light roast. Which won’t do.

When he realized I was wanting some too he offered to give me a couple of his. “No,” I said, “that’s fine. I’ll take the Kick Ass.” This guy was evidently excited about his bounty, and on some sub level I could kind of understand his glee; like a mother watching her child pick out a puppy from the litter to take home, like a kid given 20 dollars to spend on road trip snacks. And he got there before me.

I was happy enough to have even one at that price. I put it in my cart and made my way to get in line at the check out. A moment later the runner-coffee-hoarder guy whizzed over to me, his face all lit up with  joy mixed with relief, to say there was another Kicking Horse display over by the entrance with lots of Grizzly Claw!

Yeah, I left the check out line and grabbed three pounds.

 

#Island Life

So it seems I was attempting to fix the handle of my oven door which involved taking out a couple of screws on the  inside of the door and getting behind the glass front- and I was doing great, keeping it all still attached at the bottom as I tilted the top half out to reach the interior screw, then kablooey, it all unhinged in my hands.

The whole glass front dropped off, the little plastic edging pieces sprung out and fell to the floor, and I was now left with mere components of an oven door. I could NOT, even with the help of husband, get that dern thing together again. Call the repair man.

This would be a call to ask if I can bring the door in- because I already knew the appliance repair guys don’t come to my island. (see my “about” page) So, that arranged I packed up the bits and pieces of my oven door for delivery.

The trusty wheelbarrow. Seen better days, but it it does the job. So off to the boat, then across the bay, then carry it up the dock and ramp, then bring down the car from the parkade across the street then load it into the back and drive to the repair shop.

Complicated not complicated.

Does Cleaning Kill Creativity?

Cleaning is a distraction. It is a necessary duty, true, but to clean house is a big time suck. And it is a repeated action that does not cumulate in an end product. As if painting a wall or putting up a gate, well that’s done once and for all- moving on. You are never done with house work, oh no, that activity will be revisited time after time- no, moment after moment. Okay, for a short –short- time perhaps the act of cleaning can have a reward of everything polished and tidy, even smelling good. Hands can be wiped and all in the domain once again resembles an ordered universe. As long as no one moves. As soon as a chair is pulled out, a drawer opened, a glass of milk filled, a meal made, the build up begins all over again.

And it’s only the two of us in the house.

I have this thing where I can’t begin a creative project unless my surroundings are tidy. Even if my creative project will take place in another area – down in my studio for instance, which can be in some comfortable level of disorder. My home on the other hand; the kitchen, bathroom, living room, etc must be in good shape. My bed is made before I leave the room. Before coffee for Petes sake.

If I am going to work outside in the garden in the morning, before I do, first my house has to be in order- I move from inside to outside. So that when I’m done outside I come inside into a tidy home. I am relaxed. Not confronted with a house to now clean. I exhaust myself.

No leaving dirty dishes. Anywhere. No leaving dinner dishes till the morning. Sacrilege. Such a heart sinking way to begin your day welcomed by a pile of last nights dishes! The kitchen must be clean at all times. I think this might be that when entering my home you come directly through the middle of my kitchen. I mean through, as in walking between the stove on one side, sink on the other side. Yeah, I can’t sequester a messy kitchen out of site of anyone. So I’ve become a little OCD about it.

So anyway, it’s annoying. Not sure if this is more prevalent in women than men- but I’d wager it probably is. And sometimes by the time I’m done cleaning, the creative juice is drained. I know, I know, I have to turn it around. Turn a blind eye to the dust on the glass coffee table, the floor my feet are sticking to, the faint ring around the toilet bowl and make creative work the priority. Do that work first, then tackle the mundane.

I remain ever diligent on the road to recovery ~Although this morning  before finishing this post I had to vacuum. And clean my kitchen. I’ll get there.

 

 

 

Yogi Berra

I suppose it is inevitable. Reflecting on the ‘where I’m at’ in my life, assessing. Is it a late mid life crisis? Could be. But it could also be having gone through the loss of my second brother two years ago and the recent loss of my mom four months ago. Causes one to pause. Maybe take stock of the length of runway that’s left me before hitting the gate. I’m coming to terms with a few things. Adjust the reading glasses, pencil poised, hovering over a yellow(ed) scribbler. Tick, tick, and…tick, no erase that.

Speed of life races by at the rate of ones age, the saying goes. Is my life going at 61 miles per hour, or 61 kilometres an hour? I live in Canada where metric is standard, so, lucky me. 61 kilometres per hour is  37.9 mph. Which is better than 61 mph which would convert to 98 km.

ok, nice try.

I think about my fast expiring aspirations and diminishing dreams, and, like shaking off a stupor, make a mad grab at them before they vaporize into the ether. I think about all those rosy, soft edged hours that basked in the languid stretch of my youth, time enough for becoming or accomplishing, for figuring out who I am and what I wanted to do with my life.

Glaring back at me, the not a few great opportunities I let pass by over these sixty years. That I have made some face-palming-stupid decisions or wrong turns is a mad under statement.

And why is it the regretted ones that slipped the net then come back at you, get all in your face like a bully, block out the good stuff?  Anyway I did some good stuff. But damn it’s true – it’s always the one (s) that got away that gets the sighing “if only.”

On the upside, I’ve come to terms with my limits. So that’s a time saver. I know I won’t run off on some tangent of an idea, like ‘I’m gonna open a bakery- slash-cookbook store-slash art gallery in Todos Santos!”  I can rein that in.

I’ve also attained some insight into how I’ve limited myself over the years. That one stings a bit. A lot.

I’ve come to terms that I don’t like vigorous exercise. Like running.

Age has never been an issue for me, and it isn’t now- necessarily. In fact today I am the youngest I will ever be! But it doesn’t sooth the fact that those dreams and aspirations of mine now have a shorter runway for getting airborne. They have a greater risk of calcifying right where they lay. Some would staunchly defend the case that after 60 (50,40) ones “bloom” has quite long ago balled up into a dust bunny now sequestered under the couch.

I beg to differ. Can’t I? I think I’m in fair company, taking as my mentors women who are striding forward, eyes forward, enthusiastic, engaged, age defying in the purest sense; their soul youthful. There are a lot more of these women to hook my wagon to than in my moms generation.

I am aging (stupid statement- me and every living thing on the planet), but we all know its better than the alternative. And I swear I still feel like 40. Ok 45. (refer to above re:  age/kilometre, see? It’s accurate.) But, I must come to terms with the fact that really, if I’m lucky, I may have 15-25 GOOD years left IF my health holds up.

I think I’m pretty healthy.

It’s sobering. I’ve come to terms that this, right now, may be as good as it gets, which is pretty damn good, and to keep embracing with full gratitude what I have in my life and who I’m spending that life with. I know now too that everything comes down to choices. Having had so much experience in making some clunkers has honed my skills. I know better. (Jeez, finally.)

My choice is to continue to get on with those dreams and aspirations no matter how long or short the runway, water my flowers and nurture the blooms, all the while shouting out the incidental wise words of Yogi Berra : “It ain’t over till it’s over!”