Set The Alarm For Music (cont)

   Please, dear reader, I ask in all humility that you read the previous post first before perusing further - otherwise you may wonder what in (that fiery place) is going on.

     Wow! I thought the roof of the house had blown off! 
      I'm not referring at this moment to the climax in the Wagner piece, it's those yodelling Valkyries! Boy-o-boy-yo, they're sure out in full force this a.m. Gad zooks, but how the wind doth blow, the surf doth foam, and the winds doth play "shake-em-up" with the trees! Yet me begins to think that along with their flying beasts those weight challenged ladies must be tiring. What prompts me to come to this assumption? Well, 'cause the howling and screeching inside the windy gusts swirling madly around the house doth appear to lessen, which gives credence to my assumption, that they're finally considering coming in for a landing.
     "Ye gads, look at that, it also doth snow! Verily and forsooth! Ah, but not for long I warrant!"
     Thank you, Mother, for yesterday!
      Going back now to the Mahler morning -  for I have digressed. . . "Excuse me, what did you just say? I have what?"  "Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb." "Well, that's a bit unkind. . . but, ahem, there is a grain of truth in your charge, so I forgive you. Kiss, kiss." . . .Ahem, now were were we? Oh yes. . . Janet and I decided we needed to get out for the day, being too long cooped up, making only little visits here and there, you know, doctors, optometrists, hospitals, etc., fun stuff!! Heavens! The way today turned out we waited almost too long!
     What a glorious one we chose! The "Where are we going to go on this special day?" question (particularly special because of the Mahler), had been tentatively decided the evening before, and the morning's perfection capped it for us.  Mt. Arrowsmith Golf Course and Country Club!
     "You're a golfer?" I hear you exclaim. "I had no idea, not a clue. You are a sly one!" Well, keep that thought.  
       Listen, the closest I've come to being involved in any way with golf was when I was ball bonked on the head by a wide swing from an obviously lousy player a few years back, just as I was about to climb into my car parked near a golf course down island. True, and again this week when my doctor told me - I had gone to have a mighty painful elbow seen to - that I was suffering from "Golfer's Elbow." I roared with laughter, as did he, being cognizant of how ridiculous that was. And here's me thinking I had "Tennis Elbow!" Which was equally hilarious since I have never played either of those sports! It's nice to be able roar with laughter about things like that, especially when you have a feeling that you may have to have your arm - or maybe they could just take the elbow - removed because there is no way it can be saved.
        Anywhichway, though it is true that the words golf, golfer, or golf course could have been in our thoughts when we were deciding where to have our little outing, Janet came up with the perfect destination.
        It was a most appropriate link (no pun intended), because, because, because of the many, many times over the years we had driven by it on our countless up and down the island trips on highway 19A. We had vowed repeatedly that one day we would follow the arrows pointing off the highway to where Mt. Arrowsmith Golf Course and Country Club stood, and pay it a visit. Though neither of us are golfers we wanted to make the visit a satisfying resolution to a long standing desire, and also, being practical, a hope that they would serve up a tasty and worthwhile lunch. (We had  known, during those long years, that they had a dining lounge. . . it said so on the directional sign at the side of the highway! Gee! So. . .).

Set The Alarm For Music

 
  Have you ever woken up in the morning to a day that could be classed as Symphonic? Well, have you? You know, clouds like soft drum rolls waiting for crescendos that will surely come, the sea gently undulating as to a melancholy tune from the vibrating strings of violins, and the sky seeming on the verge of filling it's great dome with exquisite melody, a melody terribly sad yet so immensely beautiful that you could easily break down and weep were it not so filled with joyful promise.
     I hope so, because I have. Yesterday morning it was as though I had woken to a Mahler Symphony, conducted by Mother Nature herself. When  I threw back the curtains to let in the day I could well have believed I had suddenly been transported from my front room into the vast auditorium of Carnegie Hall. I stood looking out across the strait, absorbed by the glorious panorama before me and the heartbreaking yet joy filled music sweeping through me.   
     
         

   But this morning when I threw back the curtains it appeared as though the entire program was being dedicated to Richard Wagner! You know, the "Ride of the Valkyrie" and so forth. Don't get me wrong, I am a fan of the man. I could not imagine going through life having never heard the - may I say it - caressing, seductive, accelerating, orgasmic climax of the magnificently beautiful  "Love-Death" music accompanying Isolde's famed tragic final aria. If the greatness of this trail blazing arrogant, egotistical musical genius is unknown to you, then turn your ear to the video that follows. Go also to YouTube and check out the Wagner offerings. You may not like everything, not to worry, many of his admirers feel the same way, and if the vocalizing is not to your liking, just listen to the orchestral performances. The following clip - about 8 minutes of music - should give you a very strong hint as to why Wagner is more than - falsely believed - ear splitting vocals. Bypass it if you wish, it's your loss, and that's sad. (A suggestion) When the conductor lowers his baton you might like to stop the video, it's thundering applause from then on. Mightily deserved!

Oh glorious day!

Okay, maybe a bit over the top, but there is a lot of truth in it. On account of the cornflower beauty in the blueness of the sky: the fluff of the cotton ball clouds snuggling into the nooks and valleys of snow laden mountains; the fjords along the coast; the answering stillness in the breezes resting in the trees; the radiant sunshine the. . . . oh, oh, you’re probably remembering a penchant that I may have (you think?) that at this very moment troubles your mind with the question, “Oh, my god, is he out to do it again? Is laying out a mess of superlatives and assorted sticky, candy coated words which will once more cause a dull unseeing haze to blind my mind?” Moi, do such a thing? Heaven forbid! Okay, let me explain.
I’m sitting here at the computer, fingers idly, no firmly, typing out this post, but my gaze is constantly distracted from the moving letters in front of me. Why? Because my eyes keep glancing towards the window on my left. You see, the sights of nature as described in the opening sentence of this post lure my sight, and my mind away. Oh look, at this very moment I see the breeze beginning to stir the branches of nearby firs, giddying them to release their seed stuffed cones. (Great! And upon the grass will they lie, waiting to clog up the cutters of my hand pushed lawnmower, thereby forcing me to bend down every few seconds to  dig the damned things out!) No, no, I destroy the moment! Forgive me! I have shamed myself.
Mia culpa, scusa! But fret not, I shall go on, for I wish to have you with me to share the beauty of the beautiful Comox Valley. A beauty that gives unstinting pleasure season in and season out, every day of the year.
The Olympics, a wonderful success, are now over. The tens of thousands of visitors and athletes who attended the games have left the province and returned to their respective homes, there to spread word of the many wonders to be explored on this abounding island. Yes, we have had a wet winter, a very wet winter, which was not good for the slopes of Vancouver and Whistler, but everything worked out fine in the end. For us here though, Mt. Washington, just over a half an hour away from our home, had, amazingly, the deepest snow cover of any winter resort in the world! Just under 500 centimeters. Crazy, eh! Dozens of athletes from many countries practiced on the slopes above us, as did many Canadian competitors. Right now athletes who will be competing in the Paralympics are up there, busy preparing themselves for the March 12th opening of the Games. It is amazing that only a short distance away, and up a majestic mountain, a massive snow base has built up and is being utilized - even as I write - by snowboarders, skiers etc., while down here we enjoy the calm smooth sea, the mountains across the Strait framing the distant views, and welcoming flowers, Spring’s heralds, popping up all over the place, Even the lawn, growing thick at the edge of the sea, prepares itself for it's first haircut of the year.  And it’s only March 3rd! Wonderful!

A tale from the 30’s

       The story following this preamble is partly in the realm of fact; partly in the realm of fiction. Factual, because the story itself is true, fiction because the full remembering of it is not possible. It happened a heck of a long time ago you see, and time has a way of erasing memories. (Gee! Who would have thought!). Details I would love to remember sift away on the shores of time like grains of sand, and like the footprints that marked our yesterdays, are washed away by the tides. So, I’m employing a writer's prerogative, and calling upon the imagination with its many colored threads to stitch together the fabric of my story.

Though the mists of time may cloud my memory and the past hide itself behind a veil I remind myself daily that just because there are clouds in the sky today does not mean there will be no sunshine tomorrow. 

 

THE RUSTY RED WAGON
     Wheels grinding out sparkling stars, the huge Interurban screeched, grunted, groaned, gathered speed and pulled away from the station above Gladstone Road, indifferent to the plight of  the four weary travelers trudging slowly along, twenty feet below the high bank of the rail lines. Stopping to look up as it sped to its next destination, each imagined how wonderful it would be - if they'd had the money – to be among those passengers who just got off; one of the lucky ones clambering down the long wooden stairs leading from the burnt-red waiting room. Instead, they had walked the three miles to, and the even longer three miles back from the nearest swimming hole. Always known as “The Lake,” it had, during the two years they lived under the shadow of the rail line, taken on the aspect of some unreal mystical place, appearing occasionally in conversation, but never to be seen. Today it had become a reality.
                                                                              * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Journey Begins
      Running back and forth through a miserable splash of water reluctantly emitted by an old piece of garden hose tied to a pole, and pretending it was a waterfall, pretending it was cold, pretending it was fun wasn’t working  for the three children. It was just too hot to pretend it was when it wasn’t, and besides the game was stupid. Today everything was just plain boring.
     Maggie, their equally suffering mother, watched her three youngsters gamely trying to squeeze enjoyment out of the miserable excuse for a refreshing fall of water, and decided - no matter what - today was going to be the day she had promised them weeks before. It couldn’t possibly get any hotter she reckoned, wiping at the moisture running down her forehead, so today would be the day they’d swim in “The Lake!”
      Slight and thin, Maggie was by most standards small, but not by hers. “Small? I am not small!” She would assert; dressing down anyone who dared dispute it. “I am five foot and a half inches, tall!” She would point out firmly. “I am not under, I am over 5 feet, and I do not wish to hear anyone say otherwise!” All who heard got the message.  Maggie’s height was definitely not a subject for debate.
     A true Scott,  she was feisty when riled, but generous to a fault to anyone in need. Her health, always delicate, deteriorated after the birth of her youngest, Pearl. She now tired easily. A heart condition troubled her, a legacy left to her by a measles epidemic which had swept through Scotland when she was a child. Doctors warned repeatedly against over exertion. No matter. Even though she dreaded what the walk to the lake entailed, she was going to see to it that her children would have a day they would always remember. Today there would be a proper amount of water, cold water, to play in.
  “Children!” Weary, sweating faces turned up to where she stood. “Remember when I told you that on the hottest day of the summer we would have a picnic at the the lake?”
     Eyes widened, in hopeful, but doubtful, expectation.
     “Well, today is the day!” All six sky blue eyes opened even wider, and a triple ear splitting, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” roared from the ecstatic trio.
     “Yes indeed,” she laughed, “ today you’re going to splash in real cold water, no more pretending!” The elated siblings leapt up and down like puppets on a string. The promise of a real swim was a jolt of lightning to the children. The distance? Of no consequence in their young minds.
     Scampering quickly out of their woolly bathing costumes they wrapped them in the old towels they’d been using to dry themselves, and rushed into the house to change. Ready now for the journey, towels and bathing trunks in hand, they  ran whooping and hollering from the yard and down the street. Excited laughter flowed freely in anticipation of what they had dreamed of all through the hot summer.  Finally they were going to see, and what was even greater, they were going to swim in, “The Lake.”
     Little Pearly, in all innocence asked, “Are we going on the street car, Mommy?”
     Maggie looked at her, a sad smile edging her face, “The street car? No, I’m afraid not sweetheart. It’s walking for us.”  Ride on a street car? How she wished. Money was not only scarce it was absent. She hadn’t seen a coin in days, and if one were to turn up it certainly would not have been used on street car fare. So, walking it was.
     The hard hot pavement; the dry roads swept with yellow dust; the relentless scorching heat, all took a certain edge off their laughter. The time it was taking to reach the lake lessened the childrens initial burst of energy, but it did not lessen their anticipation.
     Pearl soon began to tire. In an effort to ease the long walk for her baby Maggie hefted her up, hoping she could manage it for a short while at least, but soon put her down. It was just not possible. Tiny though Pearl was she was five years old, and would just have to manage the long walk herself,  Maggie  couldn’t do it for her. The heavy pounding of her heart from the effort to carry her daughter had frightened her. No, she couldn’t! Her heart; the heat; the weight of her daughter, were all too much.
    “Sorry, Pearly”, she said gently to her dust streaked little girl, “Mommy can't carry you anymore, you're a mite too heavy for me”. Pearl’s look at that moment would have melted the meanest heart, but she tempered it with a dramatic sigh of resignation, and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. Your icky, sticky, anyway.” Maggie laughed, pulling her into a bear hug.