It doesn't pay to get complacent

Odie and the carrier

A couple of weeks ago we had Robin, the bird trainer, back to see how things were going and to give us some suggestions about how to get Odie to go into his carrier willingly. That's important so that eventually either of us can take Odie where he needs to go. As it stands now, Richard has to put him into the carrier for visits to the vet or when Odie 'goes to camp.'

I was worried that Odie would decide he didn't want to cooperate while Robin was there but he was a regular little show-off. He targeted on cue, turned around when I asked him to and stepped on and off the rope perch. When he's out on his gym he often rings the bell on one of his toys and I've been giving him a treat when he does it. He even showed Robin his bell-ringing prowess.

Robin was delighted with the progress we've made. She gave us some suggestions as to next steps with the carrier and she encouraged us to keep working with Odie the way we are doing. I admit to feeling a bit smug when she said that Odie and I both got A+ for the training.

A day or so later we were in a festive mood and decided to add a battery- operated candle to the dining room table. We had it on while we ate and then set it to come on before dinner the next night. I so happened that Odie was on Richard's shoulder the next night when the candle came on. Odie freaked out. He lunged at Richard's face and bit him on the cheek. Richard tried to get Odie back onto his cage while Odie hung on with his feet and flapped his wings furiously. Not knowing how best to help, I offered Odie the rope perch and, to my surprise, he stepped on it. I put him back onto his cage while Richard went into the bathroom to mop up the blood.

When a bird perceives a threat it will sometimes try to drive its mate away from the danger. We think that's what Odie did when the candle came on. To say that the experience was a wee bit unsettling for all of us is an understatement. The bite wasn't deep; it healed up quickly and gradually our interactions with Odie returned to normal. It's just another reminder never to take Odie's behaviour for granted and to try to anticipate things that might scare him as he has a tendency to bite first and think later. It also makes me very thankful that we opted for a small parrot and not a cockatoo! And, by the way, we moved the candle to the living room.

On coloratura and hand saws

On the weekend. I was fortunate to be able to attend a workshop given by Andrea Hill who is in Calgary to sing Rosina in Rossini's The Barber of Seville. The time flew by as Andrea talked about her experience as a singer and what she has learned.

The gathering was informal and Andrea was down-to-earth. She often prefaced a remark with a phrase like, “This is what I've found works for me,” or “What I've learned so far is.” She noted that two teachers might say completely opposite things and both be right depending on the student's experience and physical make-up. Andrea told the story of a teacher who helped her move her singing forward in significant ways. Then the progress stopped and it was time to move on. She spoke of how colleagues had helped her with different aspects of her singing and she stressed the importance of finding out what your voice can do and developing that to the best of your ability. Andrea told of a colleague whose voice enables her to sing one type of role brilliantly; however, she hates that kind of role and wants to do other roles not suited to her voice. Andrea said, “You have the voice you have and you can't exactly return to the store and get a new one.” She talked about putting in the hours of practice, finding the people who can best teach you what you need to learn and then giving up control and trusting that your body and voice know how to do what they need to do.

As I listened I found myself thinking about my work with hand tools and wood. I am beginning to understand how to let go and not overpower the saw when making a cut. The turning point for me was a phrase Paul Sellers used in one of his videos: he said to start a cut you stroke the wood with the teeth of the saw. Because of the hours upon hours of practice and frustration I have put in, that phrase at that time allowed me to let go and let the saw do the work.

That's cause for a huge celebration but I know I haven't got it made. Things can go sideways at any moment. David Pye, who was a professor of furniture design at the Royal College of Art, said when working with hand tools a person engages in 'the workmanship of risk.' One cut may be perfectly perpendicular and the next one may stray at a slight angle. One note may be sung accurately and beautifully and the next one may be slightly off. A piece of writing may flow smoothly and the next one is a total slog. On some ordinary days life seems to sail along while other ordinary days are grey and crush the slightest attempt to move forward.

Andrea said for years she avoided singing coloratura, those passages in opera which seem to have millions of notes that go blindingly fast and either lie high or ridiculously high in pitch. It was difficult to learn and to do it she needed to stop thinking about every note and instead think of anchor notes and broad gestures in the music. She had to sing legato in order to sing the rapid passages. She spoke often of learning to 'ride the breath.' She advised us to learn to sing coloratura if we really wanted to sing well. That stopped me. I've always assumed that it was too hard and I wouldn't be any good at it anyway. I gave myself a mental slap upside the head. How many times have I said to students that purpose of doing something is to learn from the experience? Andrea stressed that lessons we need to learn in singing are lessons we need to learn in life and visa versa. In life, as in singing, there comes a point where a we must let go of control and trust. Andrea characterized moving through her life and her career as constantly seeking a balance between control and grace and, she observed, “Control never wins.”

To do something with grace, to me, is to step off a precipice into an abyss knowing I will either fall or soar and that, either way, stepping off is what I must do. I want to be able to work wood with grace. I want to be able to sing with grace and, most of all, I want to live my life with grace. I have so much to learn and I am grateful for Andrea Hill who has taken the time to hone her craft, to reflect on what that means and to share both craft and meaning with others. 

The Graveyard of Blog Posts

The wonderful thing about writing a blog, at least the way I do it, is that I have no deadlines and I'm not obliged to write to keep food on the table. Thinking that some of you might be interested in our cycling trip to Holland and Belgium, I tried three times to write a post about one aspect of another of the holiday. No go. One sounded extremely whiny and nobody wants to read that. Besides, I enjoyed the trip overall and whining about bits of it would give the wrong impression. The two posts were just plain tedious and if they're tedious to me why would anyone else would want to read them? It was tempting to get something posted because I'm behind on the self-imposed number of posts this year but all the writing felt awkward and uncomfortable so I decided it was better say nothing.

I'm not sure why it's so hard to write about holidays. When I try to cover what we did and where we went it ends up sounding about as interesting as a shopping list. Maybe it's because I spend a lot of time in my head and when I'm seeing so much that is new I'm busy taking it all in rather than thinking about it. Even the funny or dramatic incidents sound trite when I try to capture them in words. So where does this leave me? I don't think I'm going to be writing about the trip in the near future and I know some of you would be interested in it. I have put together a photo album with captions and, if you like, you can go to this address and take a look. https://photos.app.goo.gl/zpcO7M4mSlrimiL83 

Apologies to those of you who have already seen this album. As I have time to recall bits and pieces of the trip something blog-worthy may come up and if it does I'll follow the lead. This tiny dilemma has reminded me to stop, take a breath and ask 'why am I doing this?' It has also helped me to realize that I want to offer something to think about in this space. It feels good to have discovered and articulated that.

Thanks for reading this. I appreciate your support.

Side note: I wrote this is a word processing program and pasted in the text rather than working directly in blogger. The text is too crowded but I'll leave it for now and experiment with other possibilities in the future.

Weird and wonderful bicycles

A bike that can walk!

After supper in Cuijk, Marijka, our guide, announced that she was going to take us on a walk to see some bicycles.  I was feeling lazy and didn't think I really needed to see any more bicycles but decided to go along. As we walked she told us the story of how she had met the maker of these bikes.  She was walking one night and came upon a huge bicycle in front of his house.  He was in the yard and she stopped to talk. He invited her into his back garden to see some of his other bikes. She was captivated and, as she prepared to leave, she asked if she could bring some of her tour participants by the next day. He agreed and his garden has been a stop on her tours ever since.

Within moments of entering his back garden, everyone was smiling and the braver of us were trying out the bikes. I think the one with the wooden shoes was my favourite. As the rider pedals the feet walk forward providing a rather slow and bumpy ride.

The saddle-testing bike

Sometimes it's hard to choose a saddle.  No problem try one and if you don't like it just rotate it out of the way and try another one.







Got a set of long horns? Use them as handlebars.

Richard trying out the longhorn bike.

I'm not exactly sure what this one was.

Glenn, part of the small Canadian contingent, checking out a cruiser.

I'm very glad I decided to go on the walk. The bikes and the photos of them provide me with a long-lasting gift of whimsy.

A different take on cycling

A bike parking in front of a home

We recently returned from a bike and barge trip in Holland and Belgium. Of course I had heard about the prevalence of bicycles but it was hard for me to imagine how important bikes are to everyday life there.

Bike with a kiddie seat in front

Everywhere we went we saw bicycles and not just one or two, bike lanes and pathways were crowded with bicycles. There were special traffic lights for bikes, and many many miles of beautiful pathways in the countryside. Our guide told us that kids in The Netherlands ride bikes from the time they are small.  They ride to school in all seasons and in all weather because that's the only way to get there. Dutch bikes are thoughtfully designed for everyday transportation. They have plastic chain guards so you don't get your clothing dirty and some have platforms welded to the front to support boxes or bags of groceries. For children too small to ride their own bikes there are seats in front of the adult rider.

We saw the lycra-clad folks on road bikes whizzing along in neat lines outside the cities but most of the folks on bikes were in ordinary street clothes.  There were gangs of teenage boys riding together and laughing loudly, seemingly delighted to pass the odd-looking tourists in their helmets. Only the roadies seem to wear helmets in The Netherlands. There were women with bags of groceries on their bikes. There were construction workers in their heavy boots, hard hats and reflective vests.  We saw women cycling in high heels and folks older than we are out on their bikes on the canal paths. On a ferry we met four people who were cycling to a nearby town for lunch on a Sunday afternoon.

Toinne parking our bikes on the higher level in the garage

Then there are the bike garages. We parked in one that had 4500 spaces and that wasn't the largest one in the country. In Utrecht the main garage will eventually hold 12, 500 bikes and, as The Guardian reports in this article, some think it will be too small. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/aug/07/worlds-biggest-bike-parking-garage-utrecht-netherlands

The big bike parkades are located near the central train stations so that people can park their bikes and then take the train.  Some people have two bikes, one to get from home to the train and one to get from the train to work. They ride in the rain and in the snow and hop on their bikes as we would hop in our cars. Car drivers are used to cyclists and they wait patiently behind until there is room to pass, even if there is a line of 20 cyclists on a narrow rural road.

A bike parkade

The Netherlands, of course, is a smaller country than Canada. There are  approximately 17 million people in The Netherlands and 36 million in Canada.  The area of The Netherlands is around 42,000 km2 while the area of Alberta is roughly 662,00 km2 so there are more people in a smaller area to make use of the infrastructure. I can't help wondering if the city of Calgary, for instance, could ever be more like Amsterdam in the way it accepts and provides for cycling as a way of life. There is sometimes the heavy snowfall and cold temperatures but there are still usually 6 months where the pavement is free of ice and, during the winter, the city does clear some of the more heavily used pathways into the downtown core. I wonder what it takes to create a culture where a bike isn't either for kids, roadies or people who want to ride on mountain trails.

Maybe the terrain also has something to do with it. Holland and Belgium are not 'flat' but the hills are relatively gradual. I found I could easily tackle most of them by hanging back from the cyclists ahead, shifting to a lower gear and the powering up the hill. The steepest hills seemed to be coming off ferries or climbing up to an overpass over a busy highway. Rarely did I need to shift gears in the middle of the hill and it was a totally different strategy than riding the hills at home where I tend to put the bike in a low gear, find a fairly low cadence so I can keep my feet moving and so I don't get too out of breath. The bikes we rode had 8 speeds and I found 6 sufficient for my needs.

Richard's noble steed for the trip

The bikes we rode were of a totally different design than our bikes at home and we wondered how we would adapt.  All have lower beams rather than the high bar of the triangular frame of the road or mountain bikes making it easier to mount and dismount. The riding position is more upright, perfect for sight-seeing without crooking your neck. Our bikes had gearing in an internal rear hub and a grip shift to change gears.

Since coming back from Holland I'm trying to regard my bike differently, as a vehicle for transportation as well as a vehicle for recreation and fitness. I don't think I'll ever get to the point where I see the bike as my primary mode of transportation but I now consider the possibility of riding to pick up a few groceries or to an appointment. I don't have to go fast and I don't necessarily have to put on all my bike duds. I do wear a helmet which most of the Dutch and Flemish riders didn't. I also wear my cycling shoes since I like the clipless pedals on my bike. One of the things that drove me slightly crazy on the bikes we rode was I couldn't clip in and pull up on the pedal to get it to the correct level for starting off.

I enjoyed the trip and I'm intrigued by what it would be like to live in a bicycle-centric culture.  I also wonder what the rate of head injuries in Holland is compared to Canada where helmets are more common. Are the Dutch more skilled riders since they ride almost from birth?  Are the speeds slower so injuries are less severe? That's something I'll have to investigate. In the meantime it was an eye-opening trip to a small country with rich agriculture, great art and miles and miles of places to cycle.

One of these days it will click

I've been spending a lot of time in the shop lately and it's been fairly productive.  I've completed a set of shelves for the laundry room, made a few spoons out of hard wood and I'm working on a Japanese toolbox commission.

More and more these days I'm choosing to pick up one of the hand saws that have come into my care rather than turn on the band saw or the table saw.  I don't know who owned each of the  hand saws.  Some came from my dad and probably belonged to his dad. Some came from my mother's father and I know of at least one came from my father-in-law. I shipped the whole lot off about a year ago and had them sharpened. The steel in all was good and they sharpened up nicely.

I also have quite a collection of hand saws that I have bought seeking the perfect one. One was touted as practically idiot-proof.  For me that was 'practically' with a capital 'P.'  It's astounding the variety of curved cuts I can make with a straight blade. I shake my head, fix the inaccuracies as best I can and keep on using the hand saws.

Earlier this year I built a spoon mule using mostly hand tools.  I chose to make the long rip cuts by hand. I've been watching a lot of Paul Sellers' videos and I'm amazed at how accurate his cuts are and how little fuss he makes of setting up a saw cut. Somewhere along the way I quit worrying about whether or not my cuts were perfect, because they never were. The long rip cuts on the wood to make the levers on the mule turned out straight enough to work well.

Pencil line in tact

A couple of days ago I needed to break down a board for the Japanese toolbox.  I don't have room to handle a whole sheet of plywood or any board longer than about 5 feet in the shop so I often reach for a hand saw. I own a circular saw but most of the time I'm too lazy to find it in the garage, blow the dust off, find a way to support the boards while I cut them, set the correct depth of cut and find an extension cord. It's easy to simply pick up a hand saw and make the cut and, I remind myself, it's all practice. I drew a line of the board square to the face and carried the line onto the edge of the board. Then I put the board on my saw bench, held it in place by putting my left knee on it and started the cut.

Hallelujah, it's square!

When I finished the cut I looked closely at the piece I had cut off.  The cut was straight and the pencil line was in tact. The next step was to see if the end of the board was square to the face.  I held the board up to the light, set the square firmly against the face of the board and lowered the blade of the square onto the edge of the board.  I couldn't see any light between the square and the board.  I moved the square along the board.  Still no light. The tiniest bit of light would mean the edge wasn't square to the face. I checked the entire length twice more because I didn't quite believe my eyes. It was square! I gave a little hop and a fist pump and yelled, "Yes!" to the empty shop and any squirrels that might be listening through the open windows.  As I admired my handiwork something my mother said when I was frustrated came back to me. "Never mind," she would say, "One of these days it will just click." What a perfect description of the moment when, after a long struggle, things fall into place. Here's to celebrating every last click no matter how small.

Kombucha Time

ingredients for ginger kombucha

I said in my previous post that kombucha was a subject for another day.  Well, it's another day.  The fact that I even tasted kombucha was a bit of a fluke.  I was at my annual writing retreat and as one of the last ones to leave, I had the task of cleaning out the fridge.  There wasn't really much left so it wasn't a chore.  There was, however, a bottle of kombucha. The owner of the bottle pronounced it foul and said that anyone who wanted the remaining bottle could have it.  I was intrigued so I put it in the cooler and set off for home. I'm not sure how much I knew at that point, maybe that it was a fermented tea beverage and by the time it was ready to drink there was very little alcohol left in it. I stopped for lunch at a Subway and decided that instead of buying a diet pop, I would try the kombucha.

I ate the sandwich and then I took out the bottle and looked at it for a good few minutes. What if this weird concoction didn't agree with me and I ended up sick on the drive home?  I went over what little I had read, that it was supposed to be good for your gut micro-biome, that it had no more alcohol that .5% beer which I drink. If it was bottled commercially there probably wasn't anything too terrible in it. Well, bottoms up! I opened the bottle and gave it a sniff.  It didn't smell bad so I took a sip and immediately liked it. It was kind of tart and it was wonderfully fizzy. As I drove the other 5 hours to get home I found myself wishing that I had another bottle of it in the car.

When I got home I began to do more research online.  I didn't feel quite up to making my own so I looked around to see if there was anywhere in Calgary I could get it.  Turned out that  a market not that far away from my house was beginning to sell True Buch kombucha on tap. The first time you go, you buy a bottle and then bring it back for refills. I started with a  2 litre jug or growler.  It wasn't long before I bought a second growler.  Then I bought a litre bottle so that I'd still have some kombucha when I'd emptied the 2 growlers. I limited myself to one glass of kombucha a day. I would like to have drunk more but I could really have burned through the money if I didn't put some kind of a limit on my intake.

About every 2 weeks I'd return to get the growlers filled. There were all sorts of different flavours offered but my favourite was ginger.  Seems like it was everyone else's favourite too since they usually had ginger plus one other flavour. In time they added another spigot and had three flavours on tap. I continued my fortnightly pilgrimage for kombucha until a friend decided to try to make her own. She obtained a scoby (symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast) from someone and started a batch. She reported that it tasted good and that making it was really easy. Encouraged by her success and realizing that my habit was becoming rather expensive, I decided to try making it myself.

First I needed a scoby. Some websites said you could use part of a bottle of commercial  kombucha to start your own brew but others discouraged that. I looked online and  found Karma Cultures.  They not only had scobies, they also had kombucha starter kits with everything you would need to get going.  I ordered a starter kit.

It was a frigid day in January when the scoby arrived in the mail and I wasn't home until late afternoon. The scoby, whose name is Violet, (I'm being absolutely serious here: she came with that name) had ice crystals in the bag and the liquid was more the consistency of gelatine than of tea. I worried that I had killed her before I even tried my first batch.  Turns out, Violent is one tough little organism.  Even though I did a whole bunch of things wrong she survived and produced a batch of kombucha with the proper PH balance in about a week.  Since ginger is my favourite I grated up a bunch of ginger root and boiled it.  Then I strained it and added sugar to the remaining liquid in order to do a secondary fermentation. One thing you must attend to when making kombucha is to make sure to "burp" the kombucha once it's in the bottles.

Violet at work

During the initial fermentation Violet does her thing in a large jar full of sweet tea.  The jar doesn't have a lid but is covered with a tightly woven cloth with an elastic that holds it onto the neck of the jar. Violet needs caffeine, sugar, and air in order to work her magic.  Although Violet is back in her jar working on another batch by the time the first one gets bottled, there are still small bits of scoby in the bottles and they work to produce carbon dioxide. If you forget to burp the bottles the pressure can build up enough that you end up cleaning kombucha off the ceiling. I've never had to do that, knock wood, but the dear friend who first started me down the kombucha route has had 2 explosions, both quite spectacular.  When the level of fizz reaches a point I'm happy with I put the bottles in the fridge and that slows down the carbon dioxide production.

At first I tasted the kombucha every day after about day 2 and then checked the PH.  Now I know it takes about a week so I usually leave Violet alone for about that long. If I'm running low it can be less than a week.  If we haven't been drinking much kombucha it can be more. I made my 34th batch of kombucha tonight. That's about 134 litres so far.

Violet is still going strong.  She is what's called the mother scoby because after a few batches she grows to a size where she can be split in two and the baby scoby can be used to start its own batch of kombucha. I divided Violet once but that made way more kombucha than we needed so I gave the baby away to a friend who now makes her own kombucha.

I could certainly divide Violet again but I just keep putting her back into the jar. I think she might work faster as she gets bigger and I may have to take part of her out and throw it into the compost if she gets too big for the jar or if she works so fast I can't keep up with her but so far so good.

So how do you make kombucha? There are many good sites with specifics but this will satisfy basic curiosity if you are still with me.

flavoured with nanking cherry juice

Make tea, either green or black.  Let it steep and remove the tea bags.  Stir in sugar until it dissolves. Add cold water so the tea won't be too hot for the scoby. Add the scoby and the starter liquid.  Cover the jar and wait. It's like making sour dough in that you reserve a portion of the kombucha to start another batch before you bottle the rest.

Sometimes I look at Violet and think oh no, I really should bottle the kombucha but not tonight.  Then the next night I have to do it or it will turn into vinegar. Even though it's a bit of a chore sometimes the effort is well worth it. I drink water and I drink regular tea but kombucha is something special and I look forward to my daily glass. When I go to a party I take kombucha with me. I'm delighted kombucha has become part of my routine and if it's good for me, so much the better.  Another thing that makes me smile is imagining what my tea-totalling father would think of his daughter fermenting tea on her kitchen counter.  Cheers, Dad.

Picking cherries at twilight

The main cherry bush

It's been a hot day today and things didn't go exactly as planned. I was tired, hot and grumpy when I decided to go and sit on the front step.  The temperature inside and outside were about equal and outside there might be a breeze.

I stepped out the door and the red Nanking cherries beside the step caught my eye. They aren't the large plump varieties that come from BC or Washington. They have a huge pit compared to the size of the fruit but I like their tart taste, and they grow in my front yard!  I got a bowl from the kitchen and proceeded to listen to the magpies natter before going to roost as I picked cherries.

They grow in clusters

We have two bushes in the front.  We assume the main one in the middle of the lawn was planted by a previous owner.  The one by the door is a volunteer, thanks no doubt, to the magpies and other feathered friends. Most of the cherries were ripe and slid easily from the branches into my hands. I dropped a fair number on the ground as I picked by the handful.  In about 20 minutes I had 3/4 of a bowl and there were lots left for the birds. I don't know whether the hares that hang out in the yard like cherries but there are plenty on the ground for them too.

This was before they boiled over

When you pick fruit you have to eat at least some of it. Because they are quite acidic, I ate as many as  I dared and then searched the internet for what to do with Nanking cherries. They are pretty soft and they don't keep well. Liqueur seems a popular choice as do jelly and syrup.  None of these products are high on my list. I have, however, been making kombucha since last February and I use a variety of juices for the secondary fermentation.  I can't exactly buy Ocean Spray cherry juice so why not make juice out of them and use it in the next batch of kombucha? (Kombucha, that's another post.)

I put the cherries in a large bowl and covered them with water so that the leaves and other bits would float to the top where I could skim them off.  After I washed them I put the cherries in a pot with about a cup of water.  One source said to mash them with a potato masher but she also said that it worked better when she got in there with her hands and squished the cherries. Right.  I'm not particularly bothered by the textures of the foods I eat but I hate getting my hands in slime.  I never liked finger painting as a kid and I can't imagine taking up pottery. At least squishing the cherries would be room temperature rather than slimy and cold.  In I went, only one hand though, and dutifully squished and squashed until I thought I had most of the cherries broken.  Next I boiled them and, of course, the minute I turned my back they boiled over leaving a sticky mess on the stove.

I guess if you want your juice or syrup or jelly to be picture perfect you strain it laboriously through a sieve lined with cheese cloth. Phooey on that noise.  I've got nothing against pulp so once the cherries had boiled for a while I poured them into a colander, took the potato masher to them and then finished the mashing process by pushing the pulp against the bottom and sides with a wooden spoon.  That left me with a little bit of pulp and the pits which I consigned to our new composting bag that will be picked up by the city for the first time on Monday.

I decided to take a stick blender to the resulting pulp and juice. We have a very fancy new blender contraption but I thought that if I had messed up and there was a pit somewhere in there I'd rather wreck an less expensive appliance. All went well in that part of the operation. The juice is now cooling on the counter and I'll put it in the fridge so it will be ready for the kombucha next Tuesday. I confess I did put some sugar in it.

In filling the bottle with juice I spilled some on the counter.  Rather than waste it I did a taste test and slurped at the puddle with a straw.  It tasted pretty good. I cleaned up most of the mess in the kitchen, including some cherry juice that managed to make its way onto the backsplash behind the sink.  All in all, it was an entertaining way to spend a couple of hours on a hot summer night and I'm looking forward to the next batch of kombucha so I can enjoy the results of the evening's work.  I'll let you know how it tastes.

I have singing

I first sang in a choir when I was 8 years old.  You had to be 8 in order to sing in the junior choir at church. I don't remember making a decision to sing in the choir. I just took it for granted.  

The choir leader's name was Mrs. Hurlburt.  She seemed to me to be at least 100 years old.  She had longish grey hair and when she sang she made a sound a little like a fog horn, but none of that mattered. I was excited to be singing in a choir. Through elementary school I continued to sing with the long-suffering Mrs. Hurlburt. We were kids: we got into mischief

In junior high I took vocal music in a school that had highly regarded music programs, both instrumental and vocal. Marilyn Perkins, the ‘real’ music vocal teacher didn’t teach the grade 7’s but we all knew who she was and without breaking stride, she responded with a curt nod and a hello, when we spoke to her in the halls.

In grade 8 I switched churches so I could sing in Miss Perkins’ church choir as well as in her school choir. My father, who was on the board of the church I had attended since I was born, was none too pleased but he didn’t stop me. As a result of the church switch I got to sing in the senior choir Thursday nights and Sunday mornings. That meant I was singing 5 days a week. The way the timetable worked at school we didn’t get music every day. Days without music class dragged.

Of course there were kids in the class who were way better than I was. A lot of them played the piano, which never really interested me, and some of them were adding singing lessons to their activities outside school. By grade 9 these kids were trying out for and getting into The Young Canadians, the group of singing dancing youth who took part in the Calgary Stampede grand stand shows. The idea of auditioning for anything scared the liver out of me and I knew I couldn’t dance so Young Canadians were out. The idea of singing lessons did appeal to me and I wanted Miss Perkins’ approval and attention. Many students were in awe of her.

My dad taught high school math and my mum stayed home with me. They didn’t have a lot of money and I thought singing lessons might be a hard sell so I got resourceful. I lied to my parents saying that Miss Perkins suggested I take singing lessons. Miss Perkins didn’t do anything of the kind but the lie worked and I studied voice for a number of years.

I got involved with musicals in high school and then in the community. I was with people who were interesting and who accepted me. I was hooked. My bewildered dad borrowed money against his insurance policy to send me to The Banff School of Fine Arts where I eased into stagecraft. After I graduated from university with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Drama, I went to work in the theatre department at Banff School of Fine Arts and spent 3 years there. 

The first year I didn’t sing in any choirs and by the second year I missed it. I was used to Miss Perkins and the way she did things. I borrowed money from my great aunt to buy a car so I could come to Calgary Thursday after work, attend choir practice, and drive back for work on Friday morning. After work on Friday I drove to Calgary, stayed with my parents on Saturday, sang in church Sunday morning and drove back to Banff Sunday afternoon for work Monday morning.

When I left Banff to return to university I continued to sing in the church choir. I met my husband through the church choir and for many years we have sung together there. I have friends in the choir whom I have known since we were teens. We sang together as young adults, when some married and started families, as their children moved out and established homes of their own, and now as they entertain us with stories of their grandchildren’s exploits. Many of us came to Scarboro because of Marilyn Perkins and, although she died almost 15 years ago, her voice creeps into our heads with instructions when we sing a piece we often rehearsed with her.

When I retired from teaching I went back to taking voice lessons, this time with Elaine Case, the daughter of my original voice teacher. I enjoy the lessons and I realize that my true enjoyment comes from singing with others. 

At the end of June this year our church choir joined with another and we travelled to Ottawa to be part of a 600 voice Unisong choir that celebrated Canada Day at the Shaw Centre and at the National Arts Centre. There were choirs from Yukon, Nunavut, Labrador, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Manitoba, Alberta, British Columbia, and one choir from North Carolina in the USA. Singing in a group that size is incredible. On the one hand there are so many singers that if I make a mistake no one is likely to notice. On the other hand if not enough people get it right you end up with musical mush.

“Music of the Land” by Kathleen Allen presented a particular challenge. It required us to sing in English, French and Inuktitut and features throat singers and Inuit drummers and dancers from Labrador and Nunavut. I didn’t get all the French or the Inuktitut right but the thrill of being part of that piece made every hair on my arms stand up. Many of us choked up at points as we sang and then regained control and sang even more fervently. It’s impossible to describe the emotional high of being a Canadian singer, and making music with others from all across the country. Unisong has posted this performance on YouTube so have a listen if you care to.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcHLC7v5g_U&feature=share

Singing has given me so many gifts. It has given me companionship, laughter and it has taken me to  Saskatoon,  Vernon, New York City, Ottawa and Powell River. It fills my head with song. I seldom listen to music because If I’m awake, not concentrating too hard or listening to an audio book, I’m singing in my head. Sometimes I sing bits of songs over and over and sometimes I sing through whole pieces. Often I hum or whistle. The music is there whether I’m happy or sad and I have gotten myself through tough cycling days and hikes by singing inside my head. Singing has comforted me when I have been afraid and when someone I have loved has died. I simply can’t imagine what my life would be like if I did not sing.

I’ve cycled through a number of other pursuits, each of which was foremost in my life for a time. When I was training for long distance runs I used to get irritated by people who asked me if I was a runner or a jogger. My response was,  “A runner is someone who runs no matter how fast or how slowly. I’m a runner.” Similarly, a singer is one who sings regardless of how loudly or softly, beautifully or scratchily. By that definition I owe a debt to Mrs. Hurlburt and her foghorn voice. She may not have sung beautifully but she sang enthusiastically and she made it possible for me to sing in my first choir.

A couple of concerts ago One Accord, another choir to which I belong, sang “I Have Had Singing.” This is the story of the piece taken from a program by Steven Sametz. http://stevensametz.com/composer/works/info/i-have-had-singing/

Program Notes

I Have Had Singing paraphrases lines taken from Ronald Blythe’s Akenfield, Portrait of an English Village.  In the 1960’s, Blythe traveled to the north of England interviewing farmers, plowmen, blacksmiths — people whose stories dated back to the early 20th century.  One subject, given the name Fred Mitchell in the book, was an 80-year old horseman who told his story of working a bleak, unfertile land in a life filled with little joy. In the midst of his story, he stopped and said, “But there was always singing; the boys in the field, the chapels were full of singing. I have had pleasure enough; I have had singing.”
I Have Had Singing was written for the Berkshire Choral Festival, a summer amateur music festival. I Have Had Singing speaks to amateur and professional musicians alike about the simple love of singing and the lasting joy it can bring.

Text

The singing.
There was so much singing then
And this was my pleasure, too.
We all sang, the boys in the field,
The chapels were full of singing.
Here I lie:
I have had pleasure enough;
I have had singing.



I can’t say that I have had pleasure enough because I hope there are many more years of singing pleasure ahead but I can wholeheartedly say along with Fred Mitchell, I have had singing and my life has been richer for it. It’s not expensive and it doesn’t take a lot of equipment. Although I don’t, I can sing anywhere. While there are things I love more there is nothing I have loved longer. Whatever else happens in my life from this point on I, too, can say I have had singing.


Have a listen to ‘I Have Had Singing.’



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71WS7sS2nDw

The path from rain jackets to former students

The collection

I have four rain jackets.  Why does anyone need four rain jackets? Well, no one does. I bought the first one to replace a Goretex jacket that didn't breathe anymore so I ended up cold and damp inside it. When we were headed for the Chilkoot Pass four years ago I was lucky enough to get a green waterproof breathable on sale.

The third one I bought in Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland.  It was the same kind of jacket the park staff wore and I thought it would be a very practical souvenir. It's quite heavy and it's black with yellow trim. I don't wear it much because it is often too hot for what I need. This one was not on sale and I keep it partly because I paid so much for it I'd feel guilty giving it away.

The fourth one I bought recently on a trip of the West Coast. Some of my friends laugh at my habit for constantly making lists. For this trip, I made a list of what I wanted to take with me including the clothes I needed to pack and the ones I intended to put in the car for easy access on the road.  Often I lay the car clothes out near the back door the night before. This time I didn't but rain jacket number 2 was on my list. The morning I left we were both in a hurry and Richard helped me by carrying stuff to the car so I could load it in. On my last trip into the house I grabbed my messenger bag and headed back out to the car.  Richard followed with his water bottle and asked if I was through in the house. I said I was, forgetting completely about the list or taking any kind of jacket.

As I passed Banff it began to pour and I realized I had no jacket. I could probably do without one although I might get a little wet. I'm not sugar. I won't melt. As the rain continued I became anxious about not having a jacket. I hardly go anywhere without at least a wind shell. I don't like being cold and I think being cold with a wind cutting through my clothing is more than just a physical discomfort. When I'm wearing a jacket that cuts the wind I somehow feel safer.  I stopped at the visitors' centre in Lake Louise and beside it is a sports store. I went in just to have a look. I really would feel a lot better if I had a rain jacket. I looked through the racks and most of the jackets were way more than I wanted to spend. There was one rack of sale jackets and on that rack was one jacket in an orangish colour. I didn't particularly care for the colour and the jacket was too big; nevertheless, it was the least expensive jacket in the store and I bought it. As I continued driving and the wipers cleared rain from the windshield, I felt much more comfortable knowing I now had a rain jacket even if it didn't go with any of my other clothes.

The second rain jacket, the one I was going to take, didn't really go with many of my clothes either. I bought  it to replace a favourite waterproof breathable I wore for years. When the zipper broke and I had it replaced. Eventually the jacket no longer shed water no matter how carefully I washed it or what kind of water repellent treatment I applied to it. Rain jacket number 2  is my go-to, everyday jacket when the sky is grey and brooding and it looks like I might get wet on my way from A to B. It was also on sale and is bright fuchsia.  My turquoise and grey messenger bag absolutely clashes with it.

I guess I care more than I like to admit about whether the colours I wear go together. If I'm around home or in the shop it really doesn't matter but as I grow older I'm more conscious of looking like the weird old ladies I used to stay away from when I was a kid.  They wore too much make-up and the oddest collection of colours. I wondered if they were blind or crazy. It didn't enter my head that perhaps they were beyond worrying about what other people thought of them.

I'm also reminded of a former student who was on the autistic spectrum.  She, too, had a less than conventional colour sense. Her backpack was covered with small stuffed-animal keychains and she talked to herself or did calculations on her paper after she was finished her writing. She told me doing the math problems helped her to feel calmer. The rest of the class pretty much avoided her until one day I read out one of her pieces.

She was in an English Language Arts course for students whose plans did not include university. She seemed to like writing and had a keen eye for detail. It was a small class and when I finished reading one of the boys turned to her and asked, "Did you write that?" She nodded. He looked at her wide-eyed and asked, "What are you doing in this class?" She didn't answer but a slight smile traced her lips. The other kids chimed in. "That was really good." "That was cool." "I loved the part about the cat chasing the ball of wool."

I don't think her life changed as a result of that piece but the attitude of the other kids did.  She still sat off by herself and did math problems. When she talked to herself under her breath the other kids gave her no more than a cursory glance. Sometimes during discussions one of the others would ask her for her opinion and when she spoke they listened.

I taught thousands of students and have forgotten many of them even as they have forgotten me. Occasionally something like the number of rain jackets I own will trigger a memory and I send out good wishes to those students wherever they are.

Sometimes it all falls into place

It's very easy for me to sit back and gripe about things that don't go my way so  I thought I'd relate a series of events that slipped smoothly into place.

My father-in-law is 89 years old and has dementia.  He is a lovely man who retains his quirky sense of humour even as more and more of his cognitive abilities fail him. He's been living in a retirement home that provides activities set up for people who are independent.  The staff  have provided support above and beyond what we could reasonably expect from them and now Bill needs a place where he can receive higher levels of care.

As is the way with these things, his name was added to a list.  We selected a first and a second choice residences and then we waited. We got a phone call a few weeks later from a place that wasn't on our list.  When we went to see it none of us really took to the place.  It was far from where we live and the main recreation and dining area was below grade. It did have large windows with window wells that let in quite a bit of light. The bedroom was small.  There wasn't much of a view and the numbering system in the elevator disturbed Bill; nevertheless we thought we'd better take it and once we were "in the system" a move to one of the places on our list would be easier.

Since Richard was working I arranged to go with Bill for the intake interview and to help him sign the necessary papers. For no apparent reason I was apprehensive about the visit. Bill is very pleasant company and I had most of the information I needed to help him with the paperwork.

The day before the appointment to sign the papers we got a call from our second-choice spot saying a room was available. This is a brand new residence and Bill would be among the first to move in.  Richard cancelled the meeting to sign papers and we booked a tour of the new facility. Tours are on set days at set times.  We hastily cancelled and rescheduled some appointments which still left us with a time crunch. Richard was working the morning and had a dental appointment at noon but he had the afternoon free.  We had a plan in place should Richard's dental appointment run long. Part way through the morning Richard got a call asking him to please reschedule his dental appointment. Perfect!

We were impressed with the place right away.  It has lots of windows; the numbering in the elevator made sense and Bill had the chance to actually choose a room. As we walked into the building Bill mused that he would like a room on the top floor. On the fourth floor there were two rooms with views of the mountains. In one room the bed would face away from the mountains and in the other it would face toward them.  Bill chose the one where he could lie in bed and see the mountains. The appointment to sign the papers was set for a day Richard wasn't working.

Even though the new place is a long way from our home, we can take a route on the freeway that has no stop lights which is less stressful than a more direct stop-and-go route.  The move went smoothly and we even found a good home for the window AC unit that Bill no longer needs. Change is never easy especially in the confusion caused by dementia but Bill has already made friends and is adapting to a new routine. Occasionally things just fall into place and that, in my books, is cause for celebration.

Opening the Marilyn Perkins - Memorial Hall

I was privileged to be able to make some remarks at the opening of the Marilyn Perkins - Memorial Hall in Scarboro United Church this past weekend.  Some of you who read this blog were there so feel free to skip it. Others, I know, wanted to be there but weren't able to. I thought you folks might be interested in what I said. It was a great evening and the hall was filled to capacity with people who knew Marilyn over the years or who came to celebrate the official opening of this wonderful new space. There were people in wheel chairs and with walkers, people who were in their 90's, people who came from out of town to pay their respects and celebrate the legacy of their former teacher. There were children and young people who are completely at home in the hall although they never met Marilyn. Sorry I don't have any photos of the actual event.  I inadvertently left my phone at home.

Good evening and once again, welcome. Since Marilyn’s death I’ve been the keeper of many of her personal papers and I’m pleased say that her papers now have a permanent home in the library here at Scarboro United Church. In organizing this material the word that surfaced most often in my mind was ‘giving.’ The stories of what and how Marilyn gave are legion. Some of you knew Marilyn longer and better than I did and I hope you will tell many Marilyn stories during tonight’s celebration. As is the way with stories someone has to go first.

Marilyn was my teacher, my mentor, my choir director, my vocal coach, and my friend. Before I retired I taught high school. I had some time during the school day to prepare lessons and mark papers and I looked forward to those periods of quiet. I was less than gracious if someone asked me to give up a prep. Marilyn, on the other hand, regularly filled her preps by working with individual students on vocal technique, repertoire, and interpretation. I don’t know how many people over the years benefited from this generosity but I know I did.

Marilyn was a great problem-solver and if she saw a need she stepped in to fill it. While she taught at Viscount Bennett there was a need for teachers to drive football players to games. Marilyn got her chauffeur’s license, drove the the bus and managed to recruit some of the football players to sing in the mixed chorus.

Tyrone Patterson, now a well-known Canadian conductor and the artistic director Opera Lyra in Ottawa for years, was one of Marilyn’s football recruits. He mused that he was probably one of the few young men who went to university with both a football and music scholarship in his pocket. He also noted that when he first conducted a choir it was much harder than he anticipated. As a student he watched Marilyn conduct and Marilyn, of course, made it look easy.

When one of her students desperately wanted to learn to play the piano Marilyn somehow arranged for the family to have access to a piano. When another student was about to get kicked out of school for being late and absent so often Marilyn phoned her in the mornings to make sure she was up. A number of people say it was only because Marilyn cared that they finished high school.

Those of us who had Marilyn as a conductor retain a persistent voice in our heads. “My tempo!” “ Now don’t get mad.” “Put the consonants ahead of the beat.” As we rehearse pieces we did first with Marilyn we remember her words, dynamics and phrasing. Most of the time that’s a good thing. Once when we were practicing a piece with Liz some of us insisted that the version we were singing had the wrong words. I don’t remember if Liz rolled her eyes or not but, during a break, she managed to dig up the copies with the ‘right’ words. We used that version even though the piano part was quite a bit harder.

Marilyn was a great supporter of the arts. While still quite young she worked as a coach accompanist in the Voice Opera department at the Banff School of Fine Arts. Marilyn conducted productions by the Calgary Theatre Singers where many singers got their first taste of being on stage in front of an audience. She directed many high school musicals. Years later, people with grey hair fondly remember rehearsals and performances of musicals such as The Fantastics, Bye Bye Birdie and Little Mary Sunshine. Marilyn also supported the arts by commissioning paintings and sculptures, attending performances and donating time and money.

Then there are the many, many ways Marilyn enriched the life of this church and helped with social services programs in Calgary. I haven’t even touched on Marilyn’s membership in the Order of Canada. There are many people here tonight who can tell those stories. As we celebrate the opening of this beautiful space I hope you will share your own stories of Marilyn or take a moment to listen to the stories of who she was and the many ways her kindness and generosity enriched people’s lives. I think Marilyn would be very pleased with this hall and the opportunities it offers to this congregation and the wider Calgary community. Enjoy the space, the experience of being here on this special evening, and, if I got a story wrong, feel free to tell the correct version.

Sewing machines and shave horses

Grandma's Bernina

A couple of weeks ago I bought a new sewing machine. I make no bones about my dislike of sewing and I've spent my life avoiding it. I can sew and suffered through the aprons, pot holders, skirts and blouses in Home Ec. When I was in theatre school we had to do a stint in the costume shop and I didn't like that any better. I do remember sewing a dust cover for the sound board and I didn't hate that quite as much.

Shave horse

In the shop the other day I made a shave horse to hold work while I use spoke shaves and the draw knife. The first time I used it the hinge pulled out taking a couple of chunks of wood with it.  I looked at the broken horse and thought, "Well, that didn't really work, did it?" and immediately started planning how I could fix the damage.  I took the hinge off the broken pieces and glued and clamped them back in place.  Then I hit the internet to see what other solutions there were for holding the ramp to the bench. As I worked it struck me how different my reaction is when I try to sew something and it doesn't turn out the first time. I get cross and have been known to fling the offending project across the room.  I don't recall having thrown any woodworking project across the room although I've been plenty frustrated at times. So what's the difference?

When I'm working with wood I'm willing to put up with all sorts of set-backs. I don't enjoy them but I usually keep at the problem until I find a solution.  Sometimes I take a break of a few minutes; sometimes it requires a few hours or even a few days away before I can come back and solve the problem. Sometimes I simply abandon the project and move on to something else. I like the whole process of woodworking and I'm willing to put up with a lot because I do.

Sewing is different.  My tolerance for frustration is very low and I give up easily. I had a sewing machine willed to me by my grandmother. I kept Grandma's machine for 45 years and I used it whenever I couldn't avoid sewing. It was the best sewing machine she could buy at the time and it was built like a tank. The first impediment to using it was hoisting the behemoth onto the table. It was never really good at handling heavy fabric and most of what I want to sew falls into that category. I began to wonder if the machine were easier to use would I dislike sewing less.  It was getting harder to find the eye of the needle and newer machines will do that for you. After thinking about it for a few days I decided to try to find a home for the old machine.  It was in good working order. I donated it to a charity and heard that someone was very pleased to get it. Then I headed for a sewing machine store.

The New Machine

A lot of the machines were pretty intimidating and very expensive. I know how expensive good tools are but I just wanted a basic machine. When I spoke to the sales person she asked how much I wanted to spend.  I told her and she asked me if I could stretch the budget by almost 2/3 more. I told her no, that I hated sewing and I wasn't prepared to spend much more than the figure I gave her. She told me if I spent the extra I'd never have to buy another machine.  I guess she could tell from the look on my face that I had no intention of ever buying another sewing machine - period!

She showed me a very basic model.  It does 14 different stitches which is about 12 more than I will likely use. It is easy to thread and, while I won't say the idea of sewing delights me now, I am looking forward to having the results of sewing.  I went  a little over budget and I'm satisfied with that decision.

One of my curmudgeonly complaints is about the pathetic little pockets they put in women's jeans. In my world, pockets are meant to hold things and I mean substantial things, not just a single key or coin. The first thing I did with the new machine was to extend the pockets in one of my pairs of jeans. I get a little smile of satisfaction every time I put my keys in my pocket and I haven't worn either of my other pairs now that I have 'decent' pockets' in one pair. Other projects have required my time lately and as soon as this current one is done, the sewing machine will come out and I will fix the pockets on the other two pairs of jeans.

I recently crocheted myself a messenger bag.  It's very comfortable; it holds a lot of stuff and it stretches.  I didn't think that would bother me but I've lost a couple of pens out of the holes in the crocheted fabric and it really would look nicer if it retained its shape a bit better.  I'm not looking forward to making the liner although I am looking forward to having a lined bag. I have a fleece jacket with sleeves that are too long. I've been rolling them up for a year and I'd rather have them the right length. I have a pair of pants to turn up and I'll enjoy not having to roll them up too.

I don't see myself actually making clothes or looking forward to sewing but now that I have a machine that is more user friendly I have a smidgen more motivation to get the jobs done. I will thoroughly enjoy having big pockets in my jeans, a bag that doesn't sag,  pants I don't trip on and a jacket that fits my arms.  Who knows, as I do more sewing I might get better at it and hate it less. I'm not holding my breath though.

A Final Farewell

It’s a grey day here. April. The snow is falling in soft flakes that leave the pavement wet and the grass green. I’m at loose ends. I don’t know how to respond, don’t even know if this is my story to tell but, I am a small part of it and as I often have, I’m using writing as a way to make sense and make peace.

My dad’s only brother, the last of four siblings, will die in a little over an hour. I know this because he has requested and been granted medical assistance in death. My cousins tell me that he has very little quality of life left and that he is ready for whatever is next whether that be an afterlife or a nothingness.

There should be some way to mark this. In Canada these particular circumstances are new to us. My cousins tell me there will be a celebration of my uncle’s life before he is given the injections that will end it. This appeals to me because it brings a touch of familiarity to the situation. I know about celebrations of life. My mind moves to my father’s memorial service so many years ago. The minister used an image of morning sun reflecting off the belly of a rising airplane. I think of an airport terminal, a goodbye when a loved one is heading out on a new adventure. It is not our turn to travel and we wait until the plane moves away from the gate and rumbles onto the taxi way out of sight before we turn away from the window to walk back into our lives without the traveller. We are sad because he is leaving us but we are at peace because he is firm in his resolve and is ready to go.

I know of no rituals specific to this from of death so I make my own. I am alone in the house, Richard is at work and has left a note of support and comfort at my place at the table. I have put on clothes that give me comfort, sweat pants and a favourite grey plaid cotton shirt, wool socks. I have made myself a cup of tea. It is earl grey and it is strong. I remember many cups of tea with my mother. If she had had the choice to end her life sooner I know she would have taken it. She said to me rather crankily at one point, “I wonder how much longer this will take.” I could only give the answer that she so often gave me, “I don’t know, Mum, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

I have promised to light at candle at the appointed time and as I collect the candle, the one we lit at Richard’s mother’s memorial service, I remember a cross made from oak by my great uncle. I’m not thinking specifically of Christian ritual this morning but the cross ties together our three generations. For the first time when I take the cross out of its base, I examine the mortise and tenon and notice a knife line on the tenon cheeks, evidence of my great uncle’s workmanship. I remember my father telling me that Art, my great uncle, made a number of these crosses to give to chaplains. He made the cross removable so the chaplain could take the cross off the base and put it in his suit jacket pocket. I always thought the cross too big and bulky for that.

I look around for a place to put the candle and the cross and decide on the small table under the window in the living room where I can look out at the snow and the greening world. I go to the kitchen and retrieve a box of wooden matches from the metal container that stayed always on the second shelf in my mother’s kitchen. I wonder why I don’t just use the barbecue lighter but that seems wrong somehow. When I take out my phone for a photo of the cross, the candle and the matches, a message appears on the screen ‘camera failed.’ I try several more times and the same message appears. This has never happened before and the timing is curious. I have other cameras but have come to depend on the phone to always be there, available and easy to use. I choose not to spend the next half hour searching the internet for fixes for the camera.

I check the clock . Time moves slowly now and I think of all of my cousins, children of the four Hood siblings. I wonder where they are and what memories they recall as the last of a generation passes from this earth. I imagine a hospital room my uncle in a bed with his children around him. In my mind’s eye there are tears in the room but in my mind’s ear there is laughter. May it be so.