Vecchia Zimarra*

I didn't have a favourite blanket when I was a kid but I certainly have the equivalent now.  It's a very light down sleeping bag and I've never had anything else that conforms so nicely to my body eliminating all cold spots. There's something really comforting about being warm and cozy when it's cold outside. We had a gorgeous fall but today it's -20C and when you've come from temperatures of +10 it feels very cold indeed. On days like this I wish I could just wear my favourite sleeping bag everywhere.

When the cold weather hits it sends me scurrying through my winter gear. I try each year to pare down the amount of stuff I have and that includes clothing. It's always a tough call. I might wear that. I really like that even thought I don't often wear it. Last year I gave away a heavy synthetic parka in favour of a two part system, a shell and a liner with synthetic fill. When the cold weather did come the new jacket system turned out to be a wee bit on the chilly side, to say the least.

The other night when we finished a choir gig at a seniors' residence one of our friends mentioned that his wife had make the parka he was wearing. It was two coats, a heavy inner one made of thick wool and a cotton outer one to cut the wind. As I admired it I remembered the two parkas that I bought many years ago at Yukon Native Products in Whitehorse, a teal one for me and a red one for Mum. I remembered looking at them and thinking I should give them away if I wasn't going to wear them.  I hoped I hadn't. When I got home I dug in the back of the closet and there were both of them.

I tried Mum's on first because hers was a size larger than mine. It fit well with room for a fleece or a sweater under it. I didn't think mine would fit because my weight has changed quite a bit since I bought it. I decided to try it on anyway hoping that someday I might be able to get back into it. I not only got into it, I was able to zip it up and it fit fairly comfortably with space for a light fleece underneath. The only issue seems to be my habit of leaving my car keys in my jeans pocket until I've zipped myself into both layers of the parka so I have to undo both or stubbornly struggle to extract the keys. Eventually I'll manage to take the keys out before doing up the zippers.

It's not only the lack of shivers chasing up and down the spine and round the shoulders that makes me like my warm clothes: it's the confidence that, by adding layers, I'll be able to stay warm in the cold weather. During university and then living in Banff I wore wool sweaters and duffle coats. The first year in Banff I had no car so I bundled up and walked everywhere.  I was always warm. I think  Colline, is onto something when he sings about his coat being a 'faithful friend.' I don't need two Yukon parkas but during the winter when the air is cold and the days are short I don't think that having two faithful friends is all that bad of an idea.

*Aria sung by Colline, bass, in Puccini's La Boheme.

Achievement to Appreciation

My creative journal

There are advantages and disadvantages to being an only child. I spent most of my childhood around people older than I was so I had a good chance to watch them. I remember often thinking, "Why do they do that?" and it's taken me over sixty years to figure some of it out.

Time is very different to me now than it was when I was a child or a younger adult.  As a child I remember it being a very very long time between Christmases.  Now, here it is late November, almost Christmas again and it seems that I have just become used to dating my cheques 2016. Once my mother asked my grandfather what he did that day and his answer was, "Well, I don't really know but I must have done something because the day is gone."

Perhaps time seems to go faster because, as we age, each year becomes a smaller piece of our life experience. Perhaps it's because our focus shifts. As children we think 'when I grow up....' As working folks we think 'when I go on holiday' or 'when the kids are older.' As adults past 50 it's 'when I retire.' So I'm retired. Now what?

When Joseph Campbell, American mythologist professor and lecturer, retired from teaching he commented that this was the point in time when he moved from focusing on achievement to focusing on appreciation and enjoyment.  I can see that change happening in myself.  I'm still very curious about the world around me and I can see many more possibilities than I will ever realize which is part of the fun. As I grow older and become accustomed to a focusing on my life's work rather than my working life, I find I'm learning to let go of the need to accomplish. Some of you will probably laugh at that statement. I still want to be good at things and I'm beginning to realize that it's okay to pick and choose where I want to spend my time and energy. I spend more time appreciating the here and now and a creative journal is one of the tools that has helped me accomplish this.

A collage over two pages

In 2005 I took part in a creative journalling project as a professional development activity. We were given a hard-cover artist's sketch book and we met three or four times to work on it. Since then I have kept mine up in a very irregular fashion and it has given me a record of some of the highs and lows,  the dreams and accomplishments. I'm now in the final pages of the book and I have already purchased its replacement. It's part scrapbook, part drawing practice, part written journal. I write in a journal every day but this is different. I work in it only occasionally and only when there is something important to put in it. I use it to work through problems, to try things out and to celebrate. It is a way to slow down time and to appreciate important moments. I has taken me almost 11 years to fill this journal and I hope that I will fill the next one more quickly. However fast or slow the process, I look forward to the possibilities for appreciation, enjoyment and gratitude contained in its pages. I'll keep you posted.

Another collage over two pages

Why can't I just do it right the first time?

As I've mentioned before in this blog, my mother sewed pretty well all my clothes until I was through school. She did very meticulous work and I can remember her saying with some exasperation, "Why is it that I always have to pick out seams?" I, and perhaps she, actually thought that there would be a project where she wouldn't have to pick out any seams.

Ways it didn't work

Now that I've been at it long enough to call myself a woodworker I see the whole business of having to redo things a bit differently.  I'm currently at work on a box project for a friend.  The boxes themselves are not complicated yet, I'm on my ninth or tenth attempt to get it right. These boxes do have to be a certain size and shape to hold table napkins. The design is basic: four equal sides with a groove cut to house the bottom of the box. No lid, no hinges. It's amazing to me how many creative ways I can get it wrong. I must have made three or four attempts where the sides turned out to be too short because of one mistake or another.  Then there were the mitres that didn't quite come together. The version I worked on last night really looked like it might be successful until I cut the grooves for the bottom in the wrong location despite measuring twice and cutting once.

One I didn't intend to make

Because of all of this I am learning. I usually don't make the same mistake in exactly the same way: I find new and exciting ways to make it. I've also learned that I have a choice at each juncture: I can throw up my hands and quit, get annoyed and throw wood, get annoyed and quit for the day, or laugh and try it again remembering Thomas Edison and the light bulb. I suppose you might say I'm learning patience. I'm learning that nobody is going to fix it for me although I can ask for help to unravel a problem if I'm stuck.  Nobody is going to make me redo it. I can walk away any time I want or I can choose to, "Chalk it up to experience,"(one of my mother's favourite sayings) and try it again. Most of all, I've learned that I probably won't do it right the first time and that, in fact, most people don't do it right the first time.

I've been fortunate enough, through the the kindness of friends and internet, to hang out in various woodworkers' shops to watch them work. These folks are far beyond my skill level and they still make mistakes. Often their mistakes don't require them to start from the very beginning  but they do require a certain amount of head scratching to figure out what do do next. As skill increases the standard of what is acceptable increases. Maybe there are some people who can complete a project without having to redo anything but I don't think I'm going to aspire to that. If it happens I'll get out the fireworks and have a huge celebration and if it doesn't, I'll shake my head at my infinitely creative ability to get it wrong, give myself a break and then return to the shop to try again. Woodworking is what I love to do. It is fascinating enough to keep at it even as the burn bin fills up and the line of boxes I didn't intend to make lengthens. I'll head back into the shop later today and maybe this will be the day I finish the napkin box.

Unexpected Treasures

It's no secret that I have too many books. I don't know how that happens.  I make piles of books to give away to second-hand book sales and still my shelves are full.  I make it a rule not to buy a book unless I can't get it as an audiobook (first choice) or an e-book (second choice) but there are some books that aren't available in either format.  Then there are the magazines.  I read some of them and then give them away to unsuspecting teacher friends for art projects or I put them in the recycling. That doesn't apply to the woodworking mags though. I keep them and they are taking up more and more shelf space. I have gone to an online subscription for one of them and I find I don't look at it very often and I like being able to trot out to the shop with several magazines on a given topic under my arm.

I recently discovered that the public library will accept books, up to 20 at a time. Good chance, I thought, to go through my books, put some in a bag and drop them off at the library the next time I'm by.  I started on a box in the basement that I haven't opened for quite a while thinking that I could easily just put the contents in the bag. If I had dumped them into the bag without looking that would have worked; however I didn't.  I took each one out and looked at it. Some I put back in the box; some went into the bag, and others I brought upstairs to have a look at before I put them in the bag.

Six made the trip upstairs, books by Thornton W. Burgess that I remember loving as a kid.  One has my father's name in it and the inscription, "Christmas 1920."  My dad would have been 7 years old. I think Mum read all of the books to me and I probably had all of them at one time.  Somehow these six have survived the cut. I chose the one with Dad's name in it. The cover has come off and there are stains on some of the pages.  My ten or eleven-year-old hand added my name to the front of the book and recopied the title. As I read The Adventures of Prickly Porky I found myself smiling and then laughing out loud at the antics of the anthropomorphic animals. I was prepared to turn up my nose: talking animals sometimes have a bad rap in children's literature. I was delighted all over again.  Yes, the stories are a bit preachy in spots but the characters are engaging and, although they talk (sometimes in accents), they behave very much as animals do.  Even though the porcupine and the dog both have names and personalities, the porcupine curls up and whacks the dog across the snout with his tail when the dog comes close enough to sniff him. The dog runs off in pain and the porcupine uncurls himself and goes about his business. That's what dogs and porcupines do. None of the major characters is killed off by their natural enemies but I have no doubts in reading the stories that they could be. That's what predatory and prey species do.

I wanted to find out more about the guy who wrote these books so I went off on a google hunt and turned up some information. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thornton_Burgess He was prolific and there is a school and a couple of conservation organizations named after him. He wrote an autobiography which I'd like to read but it's not available as an e-book and the two copies I managed to track down are going for $85.00 US.  I don't want to read it that badly. There is one volume of his collected works available as an e-book but not in Canada. By that point I realized that I was kidding myself if I thought I was going to put those books in a bag for the library. I'm going to read the other five and then put them back into the box in the basement where I can discover them all over again in a few years. In the meantime I'll attack the bookshelves in my study to see if I can't get twenty books to put in the van for the next time I'm near a library.

Thoughts on eyebrow threading

Knot-hole box. Beetle-kill spruce, Manitoba maple and teak.

It's coming up on the end of June with all its regular year-end festivities and concerts and, in between times, I've had a marvellous time in the shop. I've made a cutting board, some boxes, and a small foldable table that sits between the seats in the camper to hold snacks for the driver.

Twelve years ago I began my journey as a woodworker and, while I still consider myself somewhat of a novice, I can do many more things than I could when I began. I now use my table saw confidently which makes the work very much easier.  I'm seeing more details than I once did and, on a good day, I can take steps to fix what will cause me grief later on in the process. People are beginning to come to me for help. I've agreed to plane down and refinish a counter top for the owner of a small flatbread company.  The top has some kind of urethane finish on it which is peeling off in great chunks. I think he's operating on a shoe-string and I have the skills and knowledge to do this for him. Then there are the oak chairs from the church. They are a nightmare to fix but I've done two and will pick up another one in the fall. I'm glad I'm not the only one working on that project.

Cutting board Manitoba maple, cherry and walnut

One of the biggest satisfactions in this work is to make something beautiful. I chatted with a friend the other day and she told me about having henna applied to her hands and having her eyebrows dyed and threaded to reshape them. We laughed together as we so often do when we marvel at our differences. I have never had a manicure or a pedicure. I never think about the colour of my eyebrows or my hair and the clothes I wear are meant for comfort, not for style. I have a tiny sense of what is appropriate dress in various situations and try to be clean and tidy. Other than that, I'm simply not interested and have trouble understanding why appearance is important to many people. I always thought that women used beauty products to impress others but as we talked and I examined a cutting board I had just finished I had another idea.

I'm guessing that most human beings require beauty in their lives and take steps to create it. I use wood; others take photos, or arrange their living spaces or take car engines apart and rebuild them so they purr. Maybe applying makeup and choosing stylish clothing helps people create beauty, first of all for themselves and then for others. Maybe the sense of satisfaction when standing back and looking at what they have created is akin to what I feel when I run my hand over a box or a spoon I have made.  I can hear some of you saying, "Duh!" but I've never entertained that possibility before. I'm not about to go out and buy makeup or colour my hair;  that's not me. But, rather than being absolutely baffled at the desire to appear beautiful, I think I may now understand it - just a little. In my books, any understanding that helps me walk in the footsteps of another is a good one.

Learning Sideways

Often it's not enough for me to learn a lesson once.  I learn it and slip into old habits. At some point the universe whacks me upside the head and I have another chance to 'get it.'  I had one of those experiences this morning.  I'm in Vancouver attending a writing workshop that has become an annual ritual in my life. When I first began to attend these I felt almost panicky when I sat down to write.  What if I couldn't think of anything?  What if all of it was drivel? "Keep writing,"  I told myself, "just keep pressing those keys.  Keep going even if you're tired of it.  Change direction and keep going."

Over the last few years I have been writing differently and, as I have noticed before in my life, what I have learned has come sideways. When I was teaching, something in science, music or art would often bring insights about how to teach. Today I approach writing differently because I'm a woodworker. When I'm doing a project in wood I often take time to just sit back and look at it.  I'm not even conscious of thinking about it sometimes. I just sit and take it in. Sometimes I talk to myself about it and sometimes I call it rather uncomplimentary names. Other times I get busy with a pencil and paper and draw out possibilities while I talk to myself.

In all of these activities there is a stepping back without stepping away. I'm still engrossed in the project but I can now allow time and space to just sit with it. I'm finding the same thing with my writing. I won't say that it makes the writing better but I think it makes the process better for me. When I come to a place where I want to stop and sit with it I do. I get up, make a cup of tea, look out the window and then go back to it. It is a less pressured, less rushed way of writing than I have practiced in the past and it feels more sure-footed. Knowing me,I will have to learn this lesson again, but for now, I feel more confident with the stops and starts and with the silences.

The adventure continues.

Tea with the Senegal

I haven't looked back to see the precise date of the entry but early on I wrote a blog post called "Breakfast with the Budgies." Much has changed since that post. Among other things, we are down to 1 bird from a maximum of 4 and I no longer eat breakfast.  Odie has been moulting lately and has been both cranky and weird.  He's been nippy which is understandable as the new sheathed-feathers poke through his skin and hurt if we catch them the wrong way. He bit Richard's arm a while ago. He has been quieter than usual and, if I were to anthropomorphize even further, I'd say he was sulking.

I'm not much good at selfies but you get the idea.

I was out at a friend's working on a wood project for two days over the long weekend.  Odie didn't have much to do with Richard but when I came home Odie called me  5 times asking for head scratches.  Now that's weird. In case you're wondering I've taught him a particular whistle when he wants my attention.  Some people think I'm nuts but I find it more pleasant than having him squawk.  When he whistles I go over to the cage and he puts his head against the bars so I can scratch.  Sometimes our scratching sessions last for several minutes while he cheeps quietly.

I've been saying for some time that if Odie and I could get to a place where I could move him around the house he could hang out with me in my study and he'd get a lot more attention.  I'm a bit of a slow learner.  Richard often sits in the dining room with his computer where Odie can see him.  Today I decided to take my computer into the dining room and sit beside Odie's cage while I watched one of my woodworking videos and had my tea. When Odie naps in the afternoon he sits in the middle of his cage on the large square perch and he was there when I sat down with my computer and my tea.  I pulled a chair up close to the cage and he came up to the front and fixed one eye on the screen.  We watched for half an hour like that.  Every once in a while I'd look over at him and he would blink.  He didn't ask for head scratches.

As I'm writing this I'm back in my study where I can concentrate better and all is quiet in the bird cage. I don't know if having tea with Odie regularly will make any difference to the way we get along but it's not a hard thing for me to do and it certainly can't hurt.  I'll keep you posted.

Thoughts on the Fort McMurray fire

As I write this the city of Fort McMurray in northern Alberta is in flames.  I've always been afraid of fire and to know the forest, that seems to be a place of solace and peace, is burning taking a city with it brings nightmare images. I look around my study at all the stuff and, while it is only stuff, it comforts me. Photos of my mother, my husband, my cousins and my friends hang on the walls. There is a painting of a polar bear labelled "Iceland 1945," that belonged to my father.  A friend of a friend escaped Fort Mac with only her purse and her vehicle.

This disaster is not about me.  I am safe hundreds of kilometres to the south and the pavement outside the house is still wet from a morning rain. Yet one of the things we humans share is our ability to imagine and as I look around me and hear Odie whistle his morning greeting from the other room, I do not stop my imagination from going to the heat, smoke, and terror of the fire.  What would I take? What would I most miss?  I hope I never have to find out.  I'm sure the people of Fort Mac hoped they would never have to answer those questions either. Now their homes are gone.

I wonder if the United Church my father helped raise money to build in the 1970's has been engulfed in flames. I see again the mirror my dad had beside his desk with a Fort McMurray sticker on it. These are small connections but they are connections none-the-less. What will we do now, the people of Alberta, the people of Canada to help those who have lost so much?  In Canada, a first-world country we don't expect that disaster can strike. We have so much, so much freedom, so much wealth, so much technology and yet, one spark can take all those things away. It leaves me humbled, horrified and hopeful.

When I first heard about the fire, lines from a poem by Christopher Wiseman came back to me. I've been thinking about giving away my poetry collection, haven't looked at it for years, and yet I was very glad to be able to walk into the basement, open up a box of books and find it.

This poem was written in the late 1980's, still its lines came back to me and speak to how humans in need and those who can help, treat each other. I hope Chris will forgive me for quoting the poem here. In addition to helping with practicalities in times of disaster, we can fiercely insist on making art for art nourishes what is best in us. My thoughts are with the people of Fort McMurray and all those who feel the impact of the fire.

The Fall and After

The longest day of 1987. A Sunday.

The beach warm and crowded. The tide out.
And there's a man, I'd guess over eighty,
In a suit, a tie, and polished shoes,
Walking, with a stick, slowly towards the sea.
He comes to eight stone steps leading down,
Begins, trips, pitches right onto the road

Below, landing face first, lying still.
No glasses, thank God, my first thought,
Right above him, seeing it all happen
From a third floor window, no phone there.
People come quickly, touch, then turn him,
Blood pouring from his head, his face
Scuffed and filthy, his suit knee torn out.

His eyes don't focus, seem sightless,
But he moves a little, as if in quiet protest
At being there in the road like that.
Someone runs for a phone, another finds Kleenex
And holds it to his head. They gather round
And for a moment it looks like a big family,
He an elder, hurt and needing help,

Trying to sit up, to not be a nuisance.
Now a woman, about thirty, is sitting holding him,
Bare arms cradling his head to her white blouse,
Lips moving as she talks quietly to him,
And I am suddenly crying, surprised
By the thick heavy sobs shaking me.
At last they come and take him away.

A few stitches and a new suit. But is that all?
I think perhaps he'll never try again
To walk towards the sea on a Sunday afternoon.
And the next day his blood is still there,
Though you couldn't tell it from the oilstains,
And people go down the steps and tread on it,
Walking across the road to the beach.

What will I take from this? Just how he
Plunged forward, as if diving into water,
Just knowing how old we get, how bodies fail us,
How people will run to help, and do their best,
That we are, deep down, still gentle,
And, in the end, all we can do is watch,
Say what words we can, and wait until they come.


Christopher Wiseman
Saint Andrews, Scotland
published in Missing Persons
copyright 1989
Sono Nis Press
Victoria, British Columbia

In Praise of Grey Days

I hate to admit it but over the last six months or so I've come to appreciate cloudy days.  When the sun shines I feel I SHOULD be out walking or riding my bike and in order to do either of those things I SHOULD put on sunscreen and I dislike the greasy feel of it on my face.  Ya, I know, it's a first world problem; suck it up and get out there. I often dither about, end up staying in and then I feel guilty. I'd probably enjoy myself once I got out the door but there's something harsh about the sunlight that makes me feel just a little like hiding. I don't think I'd make it at the coast where the grey days are very frequent and perhaps part of my appreciation for the dull days is that it is sunny here for many of the days in the year regardless of the temperature.

When it's cloudy and a bit chilly I feel somehow justified in staying in. It's as if the weather gives me permission to sit wearing my fuzzy clothes and drink tea. I do those things anyway but when it's dull out I'm more able to put the 'shoulds' to the side and enjoy myself.  Today the sky is overcast and the light tube above my desk casts a soft light. I'm in my warm clothes and I've just finished a cup of tea.  As I head into the shop to sweep up shavings and rearrange things again, I'll continue to ponder what it is that's so appealing about staying in these days and I'll continue to poke at the feeling that it's more acceptable to want to stay in when it's cloudy outside.

These are a few of my favourite things

I have a fondness for certain old objects. Take my tea mug for example.  I remember buying it at a store called Cargo Canada when I was about to move into my first suite.  It isn't especially attractive and I have no particular affinity for fish or fishing, nevertheless it has remained with me for over 40 years and when I reach into the cupboard it's the one I pull out most often.  It's a sort of old friend.


Some of my clothes are old friends too. I have a couple of pairs of bluejeans that are soon going to fall apart and I will continue to wear them until they do. They have long passed the point of being publicly respectable but they are soft and comfortable and I wear them around the house and in the shop.

Similarly ancient is my favourite pair of  shoes.  I don't even remember when I bought them. I wore them hiking for years and now they have been retired from the trails to the shop.  They are real leather and are heavier than similar shoes made today. That comes in useful when I drop things on my feet. There are tears in the lining that make them hard on socks but I like their sturdy support
when I stand most of the day.

I have a fondness for tried-and-true hand tools as well. I have a square with a wooden stock and a steel blade that belonged to my father-in-law. I have other, newer squares but this one is lighter and I prefer the feel of the wooden stock to the steel ones on the engineer's squares I have.

I recently purchased some spoke shaves.  I have written before about the wooden one that belonged to may grandfather.  It's a beautiful little tool and I still use it even though the wooden body has worn down so much that I can no longer set it for a tight shaving.  The ones I bought are a combination of metal and wood which will make them wear better. Still, they are relatively simple tools. Much of woodworking is very simple: a sharp blade and a piece of wood. Whether or not the blade goes spinning around on an arbour at breakneck speed or is a simple piece of steel held in the hands, the principle is the same.

card scraper

Since I began carving spoons I've come to appreciate more than ever how a blade works when it contacts wood and the amazing variety of cuts that can be made with simple tools. Another of my favourite tools is a card scraper, a piece of steel with a hook turned on it. It removes dried glue and plane tracks from surfaces. It is fairly easy to take care of and it takes up a minimum of space.

slotted-head screw

In all this praising of old stuff there are some  things I'm glad I don't encounter very often. Among these is the flat-head, slotted screw. I know they were the only ones available for many years and I thoroughly admire the craftsmen who used them. I seem particularly adept at stripping the slot so that I can neither drive the screw in nor get it out. I'm in the middle of repairing some oak chairs for the church. The two I have looked at so far have dates of 1950 and 1952 on the bottom of the seats, so of course, where there are screws they are slotted. There are 12 screws put in at an angle to hold the seat in place. On the first chair I managed to get the screws out and then put them back in once I had taken the chair apart and reglued it. The process was not without a certain amount of gnashing of teeth and when I added corner blocks to the bottom I used my favourite Robertson screws and a power driver.

Whether it's old or new there are two pertinent questions: does it work and does it suit me? When the answer to both questions is yes, the item and I are in for a long relationship.

The Boy (Girl) Who Cried Wolf

Probably you have heard the cautionary tale.  A boy rushes into his village crying, "Wolf, wolf, the wolf is coming!"  Everyone runs for cover only to discover there is no wolf. He does this so often that when he actually sees a wolf approaching the village his cries go unheeded.

Sometimes I feel a little like the boy who cried wolf. I get excited by possibilities and decide then and there that I'm going to write a book on teaching techniques, or become an expert on picture framing, or learn marquetry, or become a life coach, or publish a children's book. The problem is I don't end up doing most of these things. That doesn't stop me from talking enthusiastically about what I intend to do and, when I'm talking about it, it's all consuming. Somehow the brilliant plan gets set aside. Something more interesting comes along.  I get bogged down in the  complexity of the task and stop because I don't know what to do next or it takes too much energy to persevere through the icky bits.

I have been trying to cut tight dovetails for twelve years now. I seem to either cut plumb or cut at right angles to the face of the board. I don't seem to be able to do both at the same time and both are required for a tight joint. I've been learning to play piano for seven years and the progress is similarly slow. I can play the notes correctly or I can play in tempo. Doing both at the same time is
fundamental to making music.

Although I'm similarly stuck in both pursuits I feel very differently about them. With the dovetails I can shrug, put them away and try again tomorrow or throw them across the shop and not return to them for months. I enjoy the process of sawing or planing for its own sake. Of course I want to end up with beautiful results but if I don't, I mostly have fun anyway. Since I can remember I have always wanted to work with wood.

Piano is different. I've never particularly wanted to play the piano but a great opportunity to learn came along and I took it. The contentment in the practice in the shop is not there with piano. I want the hands to get out of the way and just do what needs to be done to make music. I have little patience when they play wrong notes or stop when the music should continue. I know I could improve with time and practice but I lack the will to push through. It's time to let go.

Music will always be a part of my life and even as I let piano go another idea takes shape.  I want to return to making door harps but I want to make the bodies differently. Making them from large thick pieces of wood means there is a lot of waste. What if I could make the bodies of door harps more like guitar bodies?  I have started to learn about building guitars. Of course I'll break a lot of wood and the burn pile will grow in leaps and bounds but what if I could develop some of the skills of a luthier and what if I could, then, make a concert ukulele for myself? The dream takes hold and I wonder if I could become skilled enough to make ukuleles for others to enjoy. What if this is a way to combine my love of music with my love of woodworking?

So stay tuned. Down the road we both may be able to laugh at another of Marian's crazy schemes but maybe, just maybe I will one day produce an instrument I'm proud of and, maybe just maybe, I'll be able to build more than one. In the meantime I hear the siren song of possibility and door harps are waiting to be built.

A Story of Two Friends

I have two friends, well I have more than two, but this story involves two of them and me.

Both are woodworkers and both are my teachers. What they have taught me has kept me at this work I love even though it has been frustrating beyond measure at times.  I have learned by watching them that everyone, no matter how skilled, makes mistakes. I have watched how they look carefully at what has gone wrong and how they proceed to move the project on from there. I think of both each time I'm in the shop.

These two have known each other longer than I have known either of them.  I met both in 2004 when I took my first hand tool course. One was the instructor and one dropped by for a visit having taken the course before. When I took the course again the next year  Teacher 2 was Teacher 1's assistant in the class. Both were kind, patient, helpful and skilled. Teacher 1 lives on the other side of the country and Teacher 2 lives a 45 minute drive away from me.

They make a good team and, at times, puns and practical jokes fill the shop with laughter and groans. Teacher 2 has been known to let fly with colourful expletives under some conditions and Teacher 1 has a strict rule about the language that is acceptable in his shop. Out of respect for Teacher 1, I've never known Teacher 2 to let fly in his presence.

That is not the only way in which they differ.  Teacher 1 is a committed Christian and strict follower of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints.  He has 10 children and his motto is "Family First."  I remember at one point he told me when he and his wife were starting out he was advised to never let his current circumstances dictate the size of their family. To follow that advice takes courage. At the time he was a university student.  He has always provided for his family while his wife home-schooled their children. He has a wonderful way of trusting that he will be able to feed his family and create the kind of life that is so important to them. And he has managed through many changes. I've seen him struggle with giving up one source of income when the situation became untenable even though he didn't really know how he was going to replace it.

About the time I got to know him, he began making woodworking DVD's and after a few successful years, his son-in-law showed him he was losing money because people were pirating his work. He changed course and began offering online subscription classes.  He moved from selling other brands of tools to creating a brand of his own. And he consulted on plane design for a large US retailer that has since provided him with many teaching opportunities throughout the US.  When a policy change at the Calgary facility from which he rented space for week-long summer classes made it no longer viable, he took some time off from teaching the longer courses and then found a place in Ontario where he could resume the in-depth teaching. He continues to provide hundreds of woodworkers world wide with information and encouragement.

Teacher 2 has also been woodworking for many years. His story is similar in that he too has made many changes to the way in which he puts food on his table. He has sold cars, worked in the home building industry, sold a health-food product and obtained his license to drive big rigs.  He is tremendously talented musically and plays flute and trumpet. He has competed in figure-skating and sky-diving events.  When I first met him he had recently suffered an accident on a jointer in which he lost part of a finger on his right hand. I know of few people who are as careful as he is. Before that accident he also played guitar. After the accident he continued to work with wood and began to teach courses out of his shop. He once told me about his lost finger, "It's a drag but what are you going to do after you get through crying in your beer?"

Despite his care and attention to safety Teacher 2 had a nearly fatal paragliding accident a year ago, one from which only 5% of folks with as serious a concussion recover their intellectual capacity.  He has beaten the odds and the puns are as bad as they ever were. The struggle both physical and emotional isn't over yet and some days it's hard just to get out of bed.

Not too long after we met Teacher 2 shared with me her transgender status. I've taken a number of courses from her and have come to know some of the people who share this the knowledge of her gender identity. Living as a man has been difficult for her and she has gradually moved to living as a woman in the outside world. The relief of no longer hiding must be huge. As part of this acknowledgement she posted a new Facebook profile photo of herself in a gown.  It's a lovely picture and she looks content.  I responded to the post with, "Looking good."

Shortly after my post I received a phone call from Teacher 1, with whom Teacher 2 had not directly shared this information, asking what on earth was going on with Teacher 2. I tried to explain as best I could.  There was humour in the call and Teacher 1 said that he almost broke his jaw when it hit the floor. He asked why he hadn't known about this earlier.   I can imagine a sense of surprise and confusion thinking you know someone very well and then finding out that there is a hugely important part of them you haven't known.  I responded that Teacher 2 was afraid that she wouldn't be accepted by Teacher 1 if he knew. I assured Teacher 1 that Teacher 2's decision to live as female was a long time in coming and was not taken lightly. Teacher 1 and I talked about the costs of such a decision.  He was concerned about what that would mean in a hobby where many of the participants are male and  have a strong belief in the separateness of the two genders within individuals. He acknowledged that if facing this new knowledge was difficult for him it must be much, much more difficult for Teacher 2.

I don't know how this story will progress.   They are both kind, compassionate and courageous. I'm grateful that they are both my friends and, although I never imagined I might be in a position to mediate between their two worlds, I hope I have been able to, at best, do some good and, at least, do no harm. Only time will tell.

From a curmudgeon on Valentine's Day

Yesterday was Valentine's Day and I found myself being just a little grumpy about the whole thing. There's nothing wrong with celebrating love; I'm all for it.  What bothers me is the frantic rush to display that love in ever more extravagant ways. If you love her buy her flowers, chocolate, take her on a cruise. All the hype seems to be targeted more to men than women.  I saw one sign that read, "Gentlemen, Valentine's Day is coming up.  You're welcome!" The implication seems to be that if you don't remember Valentine's Day and do something extravagant you  fail to really love your partner and that, in my mind, is nonsense. Flowers and chocolate are available 365 days a year and it's the day-to-day appreciation of another person that matters.

And, what about people who are single and are encouraged by all the publicity to feel that they have failed in some way because they do not have a partner?  I married later in life and was aware that I might live my life single. I thought then and I think now that life as a single person is much preferable to life in a toxic relationship.

Having said that, I've been married for nearly 30 years and I like it. Many times a day I'm grateful for my husband.  He's easy to live with. He loves to laugh. We don't have to be doing the same thing to feel connected.  He knows more than I do about computers and patiently answers my questions even though I have asked the same one before and, having failed to write down a procedure, have forgotten how to do it. I don't know about all male and female brains but I do know that ours work differently. Richard is much better than I am at seeing the principles behind how things work so I often come to him after struggling with something in the shop and say, "I need your boy brain."  He comes out, looks at whatever it is, considers it and, more often than not, is able to help me figure out how to make it work. Sometimes I find this frustrating because I would like to be more independent but the fact that he is available and always willing to help means more to me than any bouquet of flowers.

In the last six months Richard and I have taken up ukuleles. In my case I played as a teenager. In his case the uke is completely new.  We enjoy playing together and laughing at some of the ungodly sounds that issue from the poor little instruments. Sometimes we finish a song, look at each other and acknowledge that it didn't sound too bad after all. Richard is studying harmony and he has been writing down and arranging some of the songs we play by ear.  He enjoys the challenge and I enjoy having the music to go from. Yesterday he finished an arrangement of "The Lark in the Clear Air" and gave it to me to play. He didn't do it because it was Valentine's Day and if he had finished it a day or a week earlier or later it would have made no difference. He did it because he wanted to and knew I would enjoy it. That kind of love and appreciation can happen any day of the year.

If Valentine's Day is a day you both look forward to as a chance to celebrate your relationship by doing something special then, by all means, celebrate. If however, it is a day that makes you feel you must come up to external expectations of what love is and how it's expressed then, please, let yourself off the hook. Flowers die and chocolate gets eaten. Respect and appreciation for another person is what endures and, in my books, what matters.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

YouTube YouTube, YouTube - at least that's how we got there.  At Easter 2015 the choirs of Knox and Scarboro United Churches presented Dan Forrest's "Requiem for the Living," and someone posted a clip on YouTube.  We received an invitation to take part in a concert at Carnegie Hall celebrating the music of Dan Forrest. We accepted the invitation, rehearsed, organized and raised funds. No, it wasn't that we were so brilliant that they offered to pay us to sing but, in my mind that's okay.  I looked at it as a unique holiday and a chance to go to New York City and it's always enlightening to work with other conductors, in this case Jo-Michael Schiebe who chairs the Thronton School of Music's Department of Choral and Sacred Music at the University of Southern California. It's also interesting to be part of a 200+ voice chorus. There are lots of people in your section so you don't feel so exposed as in a small chorus.  On the other hand, if you happen to sing through a rest a lot more people will notice, especially if you do it with gusto. No, I didn't make that mistake.

We had a great hotel in Manhattan a block away from Carnegie Hall and within walking distance of Central Park, The Apple Store, Uniqlo (a Chinese clothing chain) and Century 21 (Winners on steroids.)  Richard even went shopping the first day we were there and we both picked up some good deals on clothing.

In addition to rehearsals, we saw two shows, Something Rotten and Kinky Boots. The size of the theatres surprised me.  I thought they would be much bigger and I was taken aback by the lack of space in the lobbies. People lined up down the block and went directly through the lobby to their seats, no time and no space to wander before the performance.  We loved Something Rotten.  The script was solid and witty with numerous allusions to Shakespeare's plays and to many of the classic musicals I grew up with. Some of it, such as Shakespeare's rival composing a musical called Omelette, was just silly. I laughed nonetheless. I enjoyed Kinky Boots as well but had more difficulty making out the song lyrics and it lacked the wit that I so enjoyed in Something Rotten.  The theatres were within walking distance of the hotel and, having been there once, I'd certainly consider going back just to see a bunch of shows.

The temperatures the first couple of days were warm and I was happy with a light fleece sweater covered by a wind-proof fleece vest.  The temperature then dropped and the wind came up. The day we walked in Central Park there was a wind warning for around 70 kmh.  Although it was only a couple of degrees below freezing the wind chill made it feel like -15C.  We enjoyed our walk anyway.  There weren't a  lot of people out and we could hear bluejays squawking from the trees. I never actually spotted one but I did see grackles and the ubiquitous sparrows and Canada geese.

At our first rehearsal Dr. Scheibe told us to take out our pencils and write everything down because he didn't want to have to make the same correction twice. Gulp. As someone who might get it right on the 25th try I was a little intimidated.  He also said things like, "I hear one soprano..." and, "one baritone is..." I determined not to be that one soprano and I confess to hedging my bets by coming in just a little late and cutting off just a little early when I wasn't absolutely sure.  No accidental solos for this camper!

There were a couple of funny moments involving tempo.  "Doc" as Scheibe invited us to call him, got going at quite a clip in one section and then asked an assistant how fast he was going.  The tempo marking was in the 60's and the assistant responded, "88."  "Really?" asked Doc, "Really?" "Yes," replied the assistant.  "Okay," responded Doc, "we'll slow it down."  We took another run at it and again Doc asked for the tempo. It was 80.  We tried a third time and managed to slow it down a bit. In performance when everyone was excited, I'm almost certain the original tempo crept back in.

There were pretty strict dress regulations and, after some consideration, Richard decided to rent a tux in New York.  It was expensive and he does own one, but we decided it would be way less hassle than trying to pack the tux and then having to iron out the wrinkles when we got there. As it was he went for a fitting the second day we were there; they delivered the tux to the hotel on the day of the dress rehearsal and they picked it up from the hotel so we didn't have to worry about getting it back. Money well spent for the lack of fuss. I was very glad I had purchased a variety of concert attire a couple of years ago because I was able to put together an outfit that enabled me to wear long johns and a t-shirt underneath.  Sorry I do not willingly freeze for my art.

Distinguished Concerts International New York had us very well organized by row and position in the row.  We sat that way in rehearsal and lined up that way for the performance. Although I avoided an accidental solo I was that one person who blithely got into the wrong dressing room and didn't realize it until they called the row numbers. Luckily I did realize in time, and scuttled up another flight of stairs to the fifth floor and sneaked into the correct line. There was an elevator but the organizers encouraged all those who could, to walk up the stairs.  I was grateful that I regularly walk up five flights to my chiropractor's office and that, although I don't consider myself in great shape, none of the walking we did caused any twinges or tiredness.

When we filled in the initial information forms we had to give our height so they could arrange us by voice part and height.  I don't know what happened to the system but there was a young woman right in front of me who was at least a head taller than anyone else in her row. I was able to dodge her in rehearsals and before our rehearsal in Carnegie I tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she was going to wear heels in the performance.  She said they weren't very high.  I guess height is a subjective thing because when we lined up to go onstage she was a good two inches taller than in rehearsal.  By moving to the very edge of the riser with the toes of my right foot hanging over I was able to see around her and, luckily, the person next to me was still able to see around me.

The performance came off fairly well.  There were moments when derailment threatened but we managed to stay on the tracks. For the second half of the performance we sat in the audience and listened to Dan Forrest's "Requiem for the Living."  I always enjoy hearing that music. Forrest was at our dress rehearsal and took a bow on stage at the end of the performance.

Following the concert there was a very pleasant reception with a buffet and booze included.  I know we paid for that in our fees but it was fun to share stories with our cronies and socialize a bit with members of the other choirs. We were the 'international' component, all the rest of the choirs being from the US.  We left New York the next evening just in time to beat the storm Jonas which, two days later halted all air, car and subway traffic in the city.

Perhaps it was watching too many crime shows when I was a kid but I was a bit apprehensive about going to The Big Apple.  I found the people to be friendly and I felt safe walking after dark. People seemed to be there for a good time and were polite and relaxed.  We ate way too much cheese cake and visited the diner which is referred to in South Pacific as 'Mindy's.' It's real name is Lindy's and the food was excellent.

As with our road trip to Newfoundland two summers ago, we crossed one thing off our bucket list only to add a dozen more.  I'd like to go back to New York to see the museums, the 911 memorial, Staten Island, some more shows and a performance at the Metropolitan Opera.  That, however, will have to wait until the Canadian dollar becomes a little healthier with respect to the American green back.

Lessons from a biting parrot

Odie on the microwave cart

Odie has now been with us for 7 years, 3 years longer than he was with his original family. As most of you know Odie is pair-bonded to Richard and Odie and I have had a rocky relationship right from the get-go. In the past year we have worked with a wonderful parrot / human trainer named Robin.  With her help I've been able to feel comfortable getting Odie to come out of his cage and onto his gym so I can clean his cage and give him clean water and new food. Things seemed to be going swimmingly and I had just finished an email to Robin delighting in the slow, but steady, progress Odie and I have made. I thought our next step together was to train Odie to go into his travelling crate so that, if needed, I could take him to the vet without Richard's help.  I could always throw a towel over Odie and bundle him into the crate and, if it were an emergency, that's what I'd do but I'd rather not.  It's an unpleasant experience for both of us.

Odie, it seems, had other ideas. Last Tuesday he climbed out of his cage and after following the target stick* ended up on the old microwave cart where we store his toys. In order to get there he needs to traverse a rope ladder and then a dowel ladder to the top of the cart.  He was a little wary about the presence of the crate but he did come closer little by little. I'm not sure what spooked him but he began flapping his wings, launching himself off the top of the cart and ending up on the floor. I have 'rescued' him from the floor a few times so I got down on my hands and knees and extended my hand so that he could come over and climb up on it. Yes, it made me nervous because we are running about 50/50 in the bite department when I do this.  He wasn't at all interested and began exploring under the dining room table and then wandered his way into the kitchen, mostly ignoring me.  I offered the target stick hoping he would come back into the dining room and I could persuade him to come closer to the cage or the gym so he could climb up. Not interested. When he headed for the living room I walked around him, giving him a wide berth and blocked his path. He puttered for a few more minutes with me offering the target every once in a while and him ignoring it.

He was still interested in the living room and decided to attack my shoe. I stood my ground.  After some more puttering around he made his way cautiously toward me and, instead of attacking the shoe, climbed up on it.  From there he proceeded to climb up my jeans. I wasn't really happy about this and tried several times to offer him the target stick as a perch.  He wasn't having any of it.  I began moving slowly and steadily towards his gym as he continued to climb.  Unfortunately for me, he got to my shoulder before I got to the gym. With his beak no longer involved in climbing he lunged at my ear and gave me a hard bite. I didn't throw him off although I was tempted to. I said crossly, "Odie, that hurt," and lowered my shoulder to the gym. He stepped off onto the gym without hesitation. From there I was able to target him into his cage and close the door before dealing with my bleeding ear and wounded ego.

The past few days Odie and I have been wary of each other.  He has been hesitant to target when out of the cage and last night he came out of the cage but didn't want to move to the gym.  I was able to get the food and water bowls out in order to clean them and I managed to remove the bottom tray, change the newspaper, and replace the it while we eyed each other.  There was no way I was going to stick my hand in that cage with him sitting on top of it guarding his territory.  I sat down at the table and waited.  He went into the cage and checked out the wooden pot that usually contains an almond, a treat for him when he goes back into the cage. I targeted him out onto the bridge that goes from his cage to the gym and he came out, touched the target stick, got his lick of peanut butter and then turned his back and returned to the cage. "All right, Odie," I told him, " I'm not putting any food or water in the cage until you move away from it."  I went and sat down again. I tried a few more times to target him onto the gym and finally he came reluctantly to the bridge and then to the top of the gym.  I moved the bridge away and replaced the food and water bowls. Then I targeted him back into the cage and closed the door.  The whole rigamarole took about 45 minutes.

Odie on his gym playing with a straw 

I know many of you are questioning my sanity, shaking your heads and thinking, "Why don't they just give the bird to someone else?" There are a number of reasons: he's just being a bird and, although it might not seem like it, I'm actually smarter than he is. We've come a long way and I still have hope that we will be able to achieve a state where we can exist comfortably together and neither of us is afraid of the other. When we got Odie we made a commitment for life, his or ours. I don't believe in disposable pets.  I understand that in some circumstances impossibe to keep a pet and it's necessary to find them a new home. Just because Odie is difficult isn't a good enough reason to pass the problem along to someone else.  I'm sure that's how we got him in the first place. Despite it all he is a member of our family as much as a cat or dog would be.

But defending our choice to keep him isn't really what this is about. Living with the ups and downs of Odie has made me consider the situations of others in a different light.  Odie is a bird. He has a cage and I can throw a towel over him, put him into that cage and close the door.  We are both safe.  What about the women, and men who live with an abusive partner? My ride on the emotional roller coaster of having an unpredictable parrot is nothing compared to what they face each morning when they open their eyes. When is he or she going to lash out?  If I'm careful, quiet, invisible can I avoid the screaming, slaps and punches? He/ she is so sorry afterwards.  Maybe this time it will be different. We have such good times when he/ she isn't drinking. I still love him/ her. In days before Odie I used to look at those relationships, shake my head and ask, "Why don't they just leave?  I wouldn't put up with that!"

What about the parents of a child, afflicted with a mental disorder, who try everything they know without success? What about the guilt as they say to themselves, "Why can't I be a better parent? Why can't I find a way to help my child? What have I done wrong? It's just  a stage; they'll grow out of it." If you want an exceptionally good, though not pleasant, read that details what it is like to be the parent of such a child I highly recommend When the Ship Has No Stabilizers: our daughter's tempestuous voyage through borderline personality disorder by Fran Porter. Calgary Herald Interview with Fran Porter  The book is available on Amazon and the proceeds go to McMan Calgary that provides services to at-risk youth.

While I've been working on this post I've taken a few breaks. When I heard Odie cheeping I uncovered his cage and opened the blinds in the room. We have whistled our morning greeting back and forth through the house. I have paused to go to his cage when he has called me with the whistle I taught him to stop him screaming for attention.  He has pressed his head to the bars so I can scratch it and now we are saying, "'morning," and "hello" to each other as I finish this up. Things are returning to an even keel after the fright-and-bite episode. I have often joked that Odie and I must have something to teach each other in this life.  For now I think that lesson is one of compassion.

Odie enjoys climbing on Richard

*Target training in our world
The idea is to offer the bird a target, in our case a piece of 1/2 inch dowel, to touch with his beak.  When he touches it I say a cue word to let him know the reward is coming and then give him a lick of peanut butter off the end of a chopstick. The chopstick keeps my fingers well away from his beak. If he lunges no treat, the target goes away and we try again in a few seconds. He knows the game very well and will sometimes choose to play and sometimes not.