Purple Martins at French Creek

 

This August, I went to French Creek to see what there was to see.  I often visit marinas for photo opportunities.  I have a deep affinity to these places and people.  There is something soothing and traditional about the fishing boats.  Perhaps I was a fisherman in a previous life and this is why I feel such an attraction for the sea and all things associated with it. 

On this particular evening my son and I were lucky; there was a setting sun for perfect lighting, and the water was calm, perfect to catch reflections.  But what we didn't know was there were even more surprises in store for us.

 

Great big crab traps on this boat, along with the floats to mark their location.

While we were walking and looking at the various boats and wondering where they had come from, what stories they would have to tell if they could talk, I could hear birds.  Then I could see the birds.  Something was disturbing them.  They were dive bombing an area and looked like they were after something.  We decided to take a better look.

 

 

What we found were some retired biologists tagging the newest members of the local Purple Martin population in the nesting boxes.

Here you can see them tagging the chicks with metal tags and checking their health and sexes. 

"By 1994, all known nesting pairs in the province were using artificial nest-boxes, mainly erected on pilings." Without human intervention, particularly the provision of nest-boxes, this species would have been lost some time ago.

Purple Martins were originally found in the lower Fraser River lowlands, downtown Vancouver, and the east side of Vancouver Island from Campbell River to Victoria.  The decline of the species have coincided with the establishment of the European Starling and with the removal of old pilings from harbours.  Here you can see him retrieving chicks from one of the boxes to tag below.  He is constantly being dive bombed by the parents of the chicks, and I am surprised that he has never fallen off of the ladder.  Sometimes he is in a boat balancing on the ladder!

The total number of known active martin nests in British Columbia in 1995 was 55.  All but two pairs nested on southern Vancouver Island.

 

 I must tell you again that these people are volunteers, they are not being paid for coming out here and keeping tabs on the population.  These two were retired biologists that believe in the cause and that someone must keep up the work.  There are others too that come out and help them and at the end of the essay I will give you some information if you want to get involved further.

A nest-box program started in Cowichan Bay at this time probably rescuing the species from extirpation in British Columbia.  There are now active Purple Martin sites on Vancouver Island at the Esquimalt Dockyards, Victoria Harbour, the Sooke Basin, the Cowichan estuary, Ladysmith Harbour and the Nanaimo estuary; at Newcastle Island Provincial Marine Park; and on the Lower Mainland at Maple Woodflats and Rocky Point.  The present population is still less then 75 pairs.  The Purple Martin is considered Endangered and is protected from killing or collecting by the Wildlife Act.

 

Purple Martins are the largest swallows in North America.  Adult males are an iridescent purple-black.  Females and immature birds are dark above and pale below.

 

 Long reputed to be an efficient predator of insect pests, this large, dark swallow has for centuries been encouraged to by native people in the American Southwest, and later by wise farmers east of the Rockies.  Highly tolerant of human presence they readily accept colonial nesting boxes.

My son is thrilled when he is encouraged to hold this older chick.

 

Adult males arrive back from migration first, often coming back to the previous years nesting site.  They sing a special early morning song which attracts young males to claim nearby sites.  This is beneficial to the older males in various ways; they are able to mate with the females that the young males are breeding with increasing the number of offspring, they don't have to help with rearing the young because the young males are mated with the females and this ensures that the colony is well-populated.  The young males benefit because the risk of predators is diminished with the older males around, and the older males take the best and safest sites.  Colonies can be one pair to many dozens of pairs.

 

The female alone incubates the eggs for 15 to 19 days.

 

Wintering birds can concentrate in large numbers, on wintering roost site consisting of 5000 birds in Brazil.

 

In British Columbia, Purple Martins almost always select sites near or over open water.  Individuals and groups interested in helping Purple Martins in British Columbia are encouraged to build and erect nest-boxes along the waterfront on southern and eastern Vancouver Island and in the lower mainland.  Boxes should be constructed of cedar, and maintained regularly.  Locations should be chosen that allow easy access for maintenance.

 

For more information:

Please contact: www.georgiabasin.ca and www.saveourmartins.org

 

 

With the setting sun it was time to leave our adventure and head back to the car for the long drive home.  My son was full of questions and excitement about what he had seen and the new knowledge he had acquired.  I was grateful for the moments in life where the beauty of all that surrounds us is revealed, most of all happy to have my son there to experience it.  I know today was one of those days that will stick in his mind and he will tell his kids about in years to come.

The Laced Up Confessionals Part Eleven

I looked out the window today at the trees and could see from my vantage point that the boughs of some were swaying, and they almost seemed to be tickling the dark grey clouds.  I knew that with conditions like this, it was going to be a lively run.  Smiling I began to get my gear together and lace up.  By the time I was finished and looked out the window again, I was confronted with a downpour that had drops bouncing back up off of the road, and rivulets flowing down the hill. 

Perfect!  The last time I had run in the rain was way back in the end of May when I was in a running clinic and we were running along one of the main arteries in the city.  It was a hot day so it hadn’t mattered that I was getting drenched.  We had lots of fun as we slogged along, shoes squishing out their protest.  Today was going to be another of those days, one where people look at those of us on the streets and think that we are mad running in such weather.  But perhaps that is only because they have forgotten what it felt like when they were children dressed in their raincoats and boots, jumping in puddles and listening to the music the drops made on their hoods or umbrellas.  They have forgotten that juicy joy which comes from taking part in the simple things life gives to all of us.

I set out and I wonder if the glee of such a delicious moment is apparent on my face?  The cold drops have soaked me only slightly slower than a regular bathing shower.  Immediately the brim of my running hat is dripping and I am glad that it will be keeping the huge kisses of the clouds at bay, lest my contact lenses be sailing down the road a top the small rivers that steal pine needles and small stones with their current.

I am up the hill before I know it.  I wonder at how I got up it so fast, is it because I was focused on the drops and the wind littering golden leaves upon me, or perhaps because I am concentrating on being seen by the drivers more than ever today?  No longer focused on the heat and the little pains that sometimes plague me I am full of present and now.  I appreciate that which is before me and I am grateful for my health that allows me to get out and see and experience this. 

I pass the skate park where usually there are teens performing feats with both skateboards and bikes, that make the laws of gravity look like a child’s toy, and one that these wheeled wonders seem to have left in the confines of the crib’s they had grown out of long ago.  It is empty, slick and grey.  It looks lonesome and somehow lovesick for those young mavericks, who usually caress with sweat, skin and soles. 

Carrying on down to the half way point, I enjoy how alone I am on this trip.  It’s only myself and the steel shells of people coming from work who brave the streets, and every so often I am rewarded with a fresh splash of a puddle as one zips by.  Somehow it makes the whole experience all the more magical and meditative.  I have left my MP3 player at home, and I am totally immersed in experiencing the all of these moments. 

I focus on the hiss of the wet tires as they pass, I watch and run through rain chains dripping from the telephone wires above.  I listen and feel the slap flapping of my black running pants on my calves, the squelching of my shoes as every step is taken and spent, and the feel of my socks as the water makes them suction onto my toes.  (Which by the way is what I imagine vacuum packed sausages would be apt to feel, if they were capable.)  I know my cheeks are rosy, and probably match my raspberry colored top, which is a great color against the green and yellow of the background landscape.  I will, and have been seen.  I will need brighter colors come winter.

I finish up at the bottom of the hill and I am again grateful that the grip of my shoes didn’t let loose on the slick gravel and toss me on my behind.  No doubt an accident like that would leave me picking gravel out of road rash for weeks afterwards.  I had a coach once who did that very thing, although she was trail running at the time.  Came down a hill and tripped hit her cheek on a rock and the rest of the side of her face took gravel in depth.  A frightening bruise showed in the weeks afterwards, and since seeing and hearing her story, I am always reserved when it comes to steep hills.

I wrap it up at the crosswalk that marks the finish and think to myself that I am happy that I didn’t listen to the lazy girl that arises in me sometimes when facing the elements.  Even though I feel lazy at the start sometimes, I know that if I kick myself outside to just do it, I am always returning with a grin.

I survived the first of the rains that are part of living in rainforest area.  I know that this season will have much more in store as time moves on.  I am excited to see what emotions Fall will reveal.

 

Meditations with Tom Thumbs

For those of you who are not privy to who Tom Thumbs is, let me explain.  Tom is a caramel colored tabby who came into my life last winter as a stray.  Tom is the larger of the two cats who have decided, through the gentle coaxing with cat food no doubt, that life on the “streets” is harder than life within the compounds of our residence. 

Shy Tale, the small, dainty, grey tabby prefers the comforts of the insides of our dwelling while Tom is the defiant patio rebel.  Taking it upon himself to guard the flowerbeds and gardens from scaly and whiskered foe that dare to show themselves.  He lies out lion like, rolled over onto one shoulder and hip while surveying his domain, basking in the afternoon sun or in lazy crawling shadows of weeds that insist on emerging between the cobble stones. 

I look deep within his eyes which are flecked with a brilliant lime green and I wonder if he is somehow sending me Morse code messages through his slow winks and almost imperceptible nose twitches.  Perhaps this is some kind of feline alphabet that he shares with me through a silent knowing?  For it seems that through his lazy gaze he is also intent and focused on the slightest change I make with my own face turned upon him. I take it upon myself to try out this hypothesis on our seeming mediation and wait until I have his full attention.  When I do close one eye a little more than the other and then slowly and deliberately close both of them together, and repeat this again when I see that he is raptly focused upon my face and particularly my eyes.  I hope that if I am saying anything to him at all that it was not aggressive, the last thing I wanted was Tom’s claws in my calves.

I was somewhat surprised when Tom rose and came over to where I sat, he mewed once—almost as though he was letting me know he understood, but understood what if anything was yet to be determined—then he lay down over my feet and began a loud rumbling purr. 

I smiled to myself wondering what exactly I had said.  Did I give the signal that my toes were in need of toasting?  Or that I was feeling sleepy and wanted to cuddle?  Or was Tom secretly chuckling to himself at my frail attempt to bridge the language barrier?  Either way I enjoy my meditation time with Tom Thumbs and I am grateful for such a brave backyard warrior.

The Laced Up Confessionals Part Ten

Here we are in mid September and the first rains are beginning to fall, marking the end of our wonderful Indian summer and cooling the temperatures.  As a runner I am happy for the change.  It is amazing what a difference a couple of degrees can make in performance and how comfortable you are on a run. 

I live on the west coast of Vancouver Island, and most times on my run I am apt to see different kinds of wildlife on my way about my route.  The most common being deer, rabbits, eagle and vultures, I have even seen a bobcat one time. (What a rare treat!)  So when I think about my last run it shouldn’t be any kind of a surprise I suppose.

I was on the start of my run up the hill.  It is a long one, about half a kilometer at a forty-five degree angle, and I was about three fourths of the way up it when to my right I noticed a commotion going on up by the freeway.  An elderly woman was at the side of the road doubled over beside her car and there were people surrounding her.  I was trying to figure out what was going on and at the same time not run out into traffic, when I saw what had been the cause of the strife.  A young female deer was lying in the grass not far from the woman and her car.  Unfortunately it was a common sight along the city roads.  I was glad it was lying still and no longer breathing, because there are times when reality is not so kind, leaving the animal and the driver to suffer.  I hate seeing such things, clashes between nature and our encroachment upon it, but these days I am also surprised that there is not more of it.  I saw that the others had the situation under control and ran on, thinking about mortality, our fragility, and the meaning of such things.

On the way back I passed an area where there are many rabbits inhabiting an area off to the side of the road.  There must be forty to fifty rabbits amongst the briar and little forested area.  People come and drop off apples, grass clippings and other yard waste for them to eat.  Some people bring their children to feed them carrots.  This is probably why the population has rocketed out of control.  Or perhaps it is just because being rabbits, fertile is what they do best.  Some of these rabbits are huge, the size of small dogs really, and I love seeing them on my run.  A large grey one caught my eye on runs, it had white feet a white tail and I enjoy seeing its nose wriggle while it sat ridged trying to judge whether I was a threat. 

I saw the rabbits on the side of the road first.  There were about twelve of them all huddled close, looking at something on or across the road.  I was too far away to see.  As I got closer I saw what they were looking at.  My grey bunny lay in the middle of the right lane of the road.  Its front and back paws were straight across the road and made it look like it was in mid leap across the road when it had been struck.  There was no blood, and if you were to glance at the animal and overlook the horrid stillness, you would have thought it was just down for a nap. 

My eyes began to water.  I couldn’t tell what had upset me more, the sight of my favorite rabbit lying still, or the sight of the other rabbits looking over at it.  I wondered at their extent of comprehension of such things.  Elephants understood death, even came back after years and mourned those that had passed before them.  Could these bunnies, some so small and recent, understand even a sliver of what had happened?  It must have had some sort of impact on them or why would they be huddled together looking at the dead rabbit and not moving?  Even when I came up on the scene they didn’t scatter.  I thought of the book I had read in my youth The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams, and a shiver went down my spine. 

I continued my run, pondering the death along it.  Was it the change in weather that helped end these two lives today?  I know that all things must have an end at one time or another and it would happen when we least expect it just like the rabbit and deer had experienced.  But even though it is a shared experience, a penance for life, it didn’t seem to make things easier.  A thought provoking run for sure.

Eagle's Song

After a long stressful day when I have almost come to the limit of what I can endure, there is nothing like spending time with a mistress of mine, the ocean.  Whether I walk her skirts where the frothy frills kiss the sandy slopes or I converse with her over rocky cliffs with fishing rod in hand, she seems to quench my thirst for calm.  Rippled waves hypnotizing me with their rhythm as they lick the surf.

She sends her children to distract me from my woes and delight me with their simple way of being, no apologies made or conscious effort given trying to be anything other than what they are.  Eagles visiting with their stuttering wise whistle songs seem to tutor me in natures’ way.

Brine scented breezes tease my tendrils and caress my bare sun burnt shoulders while white triangles wink from the horizon’s edge and with this illusion I can understand why those of long ago feared toppling off the salted table’s edge. 

Puckered cumulus blush the sunset’s brink and I am further rewarded with slick black and whiskered faces gazing at me from the waves.  Perhaps they hope that if I catch anything that isn’t big enough for my table, I will throw it to their watery plates instead.

I play witness to fathers teaching young daughters the art of skipping rocks, and mothers sharing sea pool secrets with sons.  I am taken back to my early childhood memories when as a girl I had learned the same thing on these shores, my smile is born and lingers. 

I revel in watching the Blue Heron in his silent hunting meditation and I am struck by his patience and dedication, he reminds me of a grey feathered monk. 

As the sun dips into the sea to continue her pursuit of the moon, I too must make my way.  No longer am I bloated with the strife of life, but rather revitalized in its celebration.

A Square Peg in a Round Hole

Who said being a teen would be easy?  Not the books I read that’s for sure, and popular cinema was no better!  I was told or shown, various taunts and tricks that seniors would pose on juniors if one was unwary.  If someone were not to conform to the regular river of fashions and implied rules, one could get locked in a locker or worse.

I thought I was right to worry, for I was no regular girl.  I was not one for make-up or nervous fits of giggles when boys went by, I didn’t look forward to the latest fashion magazines and shopping escapades.  In fact the mall made me nauseous.  Even when I was a young girl I traded playing with Barbies to getting muddy with Tonka trucks and Hot Wheel cars.  I was all for hanging out with the guys, in jeans, climbing trees, cliffs and making tree houses, I was a girl who liked snakes, tadpoles and fishing down by the sea shore.  Much to my mother’s dismay; she wanted to dress me in dresses and lacey things, which she succeeded in until I was about six or so when she gave up because I repeatedly came home with mud in the ruffles, and grass stains on my knees. 

It was not that I didn’t like guys, it was that I didn’t feel like I had to spruce myself up into something I wasn’t in order to get unwanted attention.  I thought the whole thing was rather silly really.  Why would someone like me just because I looked a certain way or did certain things?  Why would I be more valuable because I fit into a certain group and how that group’s status was looked upon?  Who was making up these silly rules anyhow? 

When I finally did get to junior high I quickly saw how things were divided down into subgroups, there were the Popular kids, Goths, Punks, Jocks, Metal heads, Skaters, and the Geeks.  I had not come up with these names of course, it seems they were a sort of inferred social hierarchy handed down over the years by those who had come before us, those who had survived our plight of the lowly junior and lived on to the grand heights of becoming a senior. 

Personally I didn’t think I fit into any of the said groups, and I was glad of the fact.  I wanted to be different, a square peg in a round hole.  I wanted to be hard to define, to stand out from the rest and to be trekking down an untrodden path.  I decided to join groups that interested me rather then ones I was “supposed” to be interested in: The swim club, drama club, school newspaper, and the photography club.

Then I found my niche, which was when I became a peer helper in school and on the crisis line in my city.  I had a knack for listening and being there for those who needed to unload their stories, those who needed a shoulder for a while.  There were those who wanted guidance and those who didn’t.  I was there for them regardless.   I was listening to them no matter their social standing, skin color, or creed, but because of their simple need.  I learnt a lot from the experience.  I found out that no matter who we are, or where we come from, or what we think we know, we are all the same.  We want to be loved and accepted for who we are, challenged at what we are good at, and cherished as individuals.  So reach out for what you want, don’t be afraid of breaking through barriers just because someone has pegged you this way or that.  You might just find another dimension to the person you are.

Playing Chicken

When I was in grade school I had one really great friend.  We lived on the same street, liked to do the same things: bike ride, roller skate and build forts in the empty treed lots around our house.

Monica was a tall girl who had moved from the United States up to our little patch of Vancouver Island, Canada.  This made her a star in my eyes.  Minnesota sounded so foreign and aloof, a place where magical things happened.

We became fast friends and were inseparable most of the time, almost as though we were joined at the hip.  When we weren’t actually together we would be on the phone talking about someone or making plans for this or that.  One day in grade four, the strength of our friendship was tested.

As luck had it that year we were put into two separate classes, something that neither of us was pleased about.  We even tried pleading with our parents about the situation but it turned out that our parents were for the separation, saying that it would make us focus on school work more.

I was stuck in a classroom with some of the more “popular girls”, those of a more privileged means.  They had the best and latest clothes, toys and went on big vacations.  I can remember being so jealous of them sometimes, and it would only make me more lonesome for Monica.  I tried to be nice to them, thinking perhaps that once I got to know them they would not be as bad as I imagined, but they just looked down their noses at me.  I knew most of them were brought up in the same neighborhood and that would have been another reason why their bond was so strong, but it didn’t take the sting out of the rejection.

Which is why what happened on the school yard took me so off guard. 

Monica and I were down on the bottom playground where a balancing beam stood two and a half feet from the ground.  The idea was each person gets on either side of the beam, then by balancing along the thin piece of wood, they would come to the middle of it to spar with their arms to try to knock the opponent off of the beam.  The first person knocked off the beam is the “Chicken”. 

We were having a great time trying to knock each other off when all of a sudden we heard “Well if it isn’t Laurel and Hardy.”  Jennifer, the most popular girl in the school always referred to us like this.  I had to ask my Dad who they were and he told me about the classical comedians of the black and white era of American television.  I looked them up.  They were two men who dressed up in suits and did slapstick comedy.  One was tall and lean—that was in reference to Monica, and the other was short and stout—in reference to me.  The names at first didn’t bother me at all because I didn’t understand the insult, but once I knew who they were and watched some of their acts I got what Jennifer was laughing about. 

Monica and I stopped our mock “Chicken Fight” and hopped down.  “What do you want Jennifer?” I asked, knowing full well she hated being called by her full name.  She came over to me and smiled, her friends circled and crowded around.

“We’ve noticed you.” She said pointing at me.  “We want you to join our group.  There is a sleep over this weekend at Stacey’s house and you are invited, but only if you give up your friendship with Laverne here.”  She finished pointing at Monica. 

I started to get really angry by this point; she had just insulted us again about our height differences and insinuated that Monica was somehow flawed.   Why would she think I would give up my best friend for her and her band of rich—I’m too good for you—girls that clung to her every word?  I wanted a friend of equal footing, not some girl who wanted to reign queen over her subjects. 

I looked at Monica and tears were welling up in her eyes, she had this look on her face that said I should do it and she would not be mad.  Like she would understand if I went with the others, and then she turned to leave.  I looked at Jennifer who, by now, had a huge grin of victory on her face.

“Wait!” I called out to Monica, “Where are you going?”

“What do you mean?  You can’t be friends with me if you want to be friends with them.” She stated.

“Who says I want to be friends with them?” I smiled at her.  It grew larger as I saw the shocked expressions on Monica’s face and on the faces of the other girls. 

“I would not take a thousand of them over our friendship, they have no idea what true friendship is, if they did they would never have asked the question.”  I told Monica.  The smile was restored on her face.

I went over to where Jennifer was standing.  “I thought at one point that it would be cool to be part of the in crowd, but today you have made me realize something.  You aren’t happy.  You might look happy on the outside when others are watching you, but that is only so they won’t know how lonesome you truly are.  There is nothing like a good friend to turn to when things get tough, or when you have something great to celebrate.  Hopefully sometime soon you will find this out.”

Then Monica and I left them standing in silent streaming sunshine, and headed back to class.

Gardening Love

Over the ages food has always been a way to express love, or to get your loved ones to come together so love can be expressed. 

In my house growing up it was no different.  Both my parents were firm believers that the key to a successful family was to gather around the table over food.  These would be the times where over mushroom pork chops, mashed potatoes, and peas we would get to know each other as people.

Our lives were often busy.  For my parents life was full of work and life’s responsibilities, and for my brother and I it was school, friends and the responsibilities of being kids.  Soccer practice, swim club or other activities sometimes swayed the timing of our daily gatherings, but my parents always seemed to pull off delicious wholesome meals, while finding out about what was going on in our lives. 

My parents also thought that gardens were a great idea.  They taught us that vegetables didn’t actually magically appear in the supermarket and that a lot of time and work goes into cultivating a garden, again this was family time well spent while learning responsibility and developing life skills.

One day when we were quite young, I can remember my brother working in the garden.   I was laying out on the grass sun tanning with a friend so I wasn’t paying him much attention.  I couldn’t really see what he was doing, just that he was picking out some little bits here and there and throwing them to the back part of the garden.  I figured he was weeding so I went back to my Archie comic. 

After half an hour of this, I noticed that he began to pick things out of the garden, take them to the house and then go back to the garden and repeat the trip several times.  Over and over again he did this, and my friend and I were trying to guess what he was doing. 

“I wonder if he is getting worms to scare your mum with.”  My friend said.

“That would be funny, but look he is carrying plants from the garden, he is probably just gathering the things that needed to be picked.”  I said trying to convince myself more than my friend. 

I put my head down and thought no more of it.

The next thing I knew I heard my mum yelling from the top deck.  My friend and I raced over to see what was wrong. 

When we got to the deck we were shocked by what we saw.  Little carrots were stacked neatly to one side, then the romaine lettuce next to that, the peas, beans and tomatoes piled up with care, and my brother stood beside them with a big smile on his face. 

“Look mum, I saved them all!” He said with pride.

“What have you done?” My mum asked with exasperation.  “Why did you pull all of these out of the garden?”

“The garden was shrinking so I pulled them out to save them for you.” He explained, the smile replaced by confusion.

“Shrinking?”

“Yes there were so many carrots yesterday, and now there are many missing.  I had to pull them out before they all went underground again!”  He pointed to the garden to make his point.

My mum put a hand to her temple and looked at her son.  “The garden is not shrinking, your dad pulled out some of the carrots to make more space for the little ones to grow.  It is called thinning out the garden honey, the vegetables weren’t disappearing. “

My brother looked down at his toes.  “I’m sorry mum.  I’ll go put them back.”

“That is a nice thought, but I don’t think that is going to work.  It’s ok you were only trying to save the vegetables, I didn’t know you liked them so much.” She smiled and tousled his hair.  “I know you were just trying to help out, come and help me carry all of this into the kitchen and I will figure out something to do with all of it.”

We all grabbed handfuls of the vegetables and carried them inside, then helped mum wash, peel and slice them up for vegetable soup, which we enjoyed in the weeks to come.

Jets, Fairies and Egg-salad Sandwiches

They were special times when we would pack up the yellow station wagon and go for the hour and a half trip up Island to my Grandma’s.  My brother and I would watch the landscape rush by with egg salad sandwiches in our thoughts.  Grandma made the best egg salad, served in huge Buns Master Kaisers, with pickles and Old Dutch potato chips on the side.  A glass of cold grape Kool-Aid in Tupperware cups to wash it all down. 

We would watch her prepare these as the adults caught up on the latest family news, our mouths salivating.   She had a glass cutting board with game birds on it, built into the countertop.  I can still remember the sound of the serrated knife she always used as she cut through the buns and hit the beveled top of the glass.  It was music to our ears.  Just like the constant sound of the jets taking off at the air base down the road.

I was always drawn to her living room, which was done in a Spanish motif.  Everything was in red and black, the woodstove in the corner, the furniture, the carpet; she even had a beautiful Spanish doll with black hair and vibrant blue eyes. 

After lunch we were allowed to play outside or find something else to do while the adults continued to visit.  I would watch the constant march of the big black Carpenter ants while my brother went out onto the long asphalt driveway beside the barn shaped house and raced his Hot Wheels.  I remember him crying when one of his favorite cars had veered off to the side, and did a huge jump into the bushes.  Our searches turned up nothing; it was lost to the Salal.   I wondered if the forest fairies would come and find it and play with it when we were gone.  Grandma’s house just seemed magical, the way it was back from the road, and surrounded by forest, it was a likely place for fairy to play. 

I remember constant smiles, and my grandparents ready mirth shining in their brilliant blue eyes, and Grandma taking her false teeth out in the downstairs bathroom and then making us laugh with her toothless funny faces. 

Grandma always had the best and most interesting things in her house, like the “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” sign in the downstairs bathroom.  In the upstairs bathroom there was lilac colored shag carpet, the only place I ever remember with carpet in the bathroom.  The books of shelves in the family room had a whole range of topics, ghosts, UFO’s and other strange things, and her six children would tease her about her constant purchases of the tabloids.  They also had cast heads of men on the walls, in all different kinds of professions, a sailor, a captain, a baker, just to name a few.  I was enthralled with these and could look at them for hours.  They seemed so life-like and full of detail.  Upstairs in the bedrooms there were slats of pine on the walls and the sloping ceilings, and when we stayed over, like the time the road washed out from a mudslide, and I couldn’t sleep, I would count the dark brown knots in the wood. 

I remember watching Grandma knitting when commercials came on TV, her old dog Brandy, and snowball her white cat with green eyes. 

I remember at night when it was time to leave, my dad, brother and I had to wait in the car for Mum and her long good-byes.  We would sit and listen to the singing bats and the peals of her laughter.  Then my brother and I, on the long drive home, would fall asleep in the back seat, dreaming of egg salad sandwiches, jets, and fairy.

Hallelujah Hot Water!

It started when my hot water tank went.  I guess I shouldn’t call it mine though because I rent an old character house built in 1932 that has a wonderful big yard and a glorious view of the Pacific Ocean.  So when I began noticing that my showers were becoming shorter and shorter, I knew that this was just a little glitch that the universe had sent me to teach me patience and to appreciate being born in an era that spoiled me. 

So I called the agency that is the go between for myself and the owners and talked to “My Guy”.  My guy is a young lad who is part of the family that owns the property management business that looks after this house, and somehow he always seems to remind me of a blonde Don Johnson from that old TV show Miami Vice.   My guy shows up at my door well dressed and professional for inspections and when things go wrong or need to be seen to. 

I love this whole set up.  I love the fact that there is this middle man between the owners and me.  I never have to track anyone down, or wait for things to get done like I have experienced with other landlords in the past.  In the past four years the dryer, fridge and now the hot water tank have had to be replaced, and no matter what needed to be done my guy always had it fixed for me within hours or a day when parts needed to be ordered.

The hot water tank was no exception.  I called in and within hours he had a plumber here with a brand new tank.  I was ecstatic both with my new tank that was only supposed to take another three hours to heat, and with my guy for getting another job done so fast.

But lo and behold, when I got back from that nights run and hop into the shower I get three minutes of hot water before it goes flesh numbingly cold and I am screaming, doing the blind wet squirrel dance because I have soap in my eyes and I can’t find the taps.

To top it off, I can also now hear running water, even though I have turned off the taps and there is no other water running in the bathroom.  Once I take care of the remaining shampoo situation, I make another call to my guy.  However it is now the weekend and my guy is not in the office until Monday.  Ok, no problem, I am a big girl, I can manage.  This is just a little bump in the road when we look at the big picture.

The good news is that I can still wash clothes with cold water, I do that anyway, and one of the heating elements works so at least I am getting some hot water.  I just have to use my hot water wisely and time things, a little differently.  I began to wash dishes after filling the tub so that when I was boiling water for the tub I could use the time wisely and not drive myself crazy watching the water come to a boil.  I found that four big pasta pots was about right to get things done, but I was beginning to feel like a pasta noodle myself or like a boiled egg, I hoped that getting the tank fixed wouldn’t take much longer. 

Then all of a sudden, surprise, the phone rings and it is my guy.  Even though it is the weekend he is calling me to make sure that everything is on the up and up.  I tell him all about what has transpired and he gets on the phone to find out what can be done.  About thirty minutes later I get a call back, it is a different plumber asking for a time to come by to look at the tank.  He is one of the stores maintenance warranty guys.

When he shows up, I am looking up, I mean way up.  This guy has to be about six four and I was thinking to myself how does this guy get into nooks and crannies if need be?  He stayed for about ten minutes, and then told me that one of the heating elements had to be ordered and changed.  So we made arrangements for Monday.

Monday is now here and the plumber has come and gone again.  Lucky me, he showed up twenty minutes early, and only took about 45 minutes to do the job; my son, in his glory as he watched the young man work.  Suddenly all his home schooling work was out the window, I didn’t mind too much as long as he stayed out of the man’s way.

Good news, the running water noise in the bathroom has mysteriously vamoosed; I guess it must have been air in the pipes.  After my run tonight, I hope that there will not be a second squirrel incident and I will just have a deeper appreciation for being spoiled by appliances that work.