Eyes on the Morning Moon

In the daytime, the moon looks pale and transparent. At night, of course, is reveals itself as a sphere of solidity and substance.

Today I got up especially early. Stepping outside for a breath of morning air, I found myself squinting at the moon.

Though the sky was already the pale indigo blue of dawn, and the full moon passed three days ago, the nighttime orb was shining brilliantly in the dawn.

People used to believe the moon made us crazy -- lunatics. That idea is no longer prevalent, but the moon does exert a certain pull. For one thing, maternity hospitals report that more women go into labour during the full moon. The police report more trouble too.

Over the course of my life, I've witnessed at least two lunar eclipses, and I've observed the faithful lantern of the moon in many shapes and moods.

Never before have I seen such a gloriously lit morning moon, looking right at me, bathing me with its light.

Parade's End by Ford Madox Ford

Audiobook cover image Simon & Schuster

For many days I have inhabited England during and after World War I, flawlessly rendered by the literary genius Ford Madox Ford. Finishing his tetralogy, I am thankful to finally be released from the strains of being absorbed in that emotionally and physically draining era.

Yet this place of horrible fascination I could not leave. What would become of the suffragette Valentine Wannock, the conservative mathematical genius Christopher Tietjens and his dreadful wife Sylvia? Learning the answers meant waiting until I could read the last page.

"Mad Fordox Mad," my fellow English major pal and I called him, oh so cleverly. But we were too young to appreciate his work. Reading The Good Soldier (published 1915) at age twenty, I missed the comic tone entirely. Fascinating though this professor was, John Hulcoop's English novel class at UBC was an 8:30; perhaps I was too drowsy to fully appreciate his commentary.

But I never forgot the book. Many years later I read that Ford was a satirist, and broke my "once only" reading rule. One line that has stayed with me from that second and far more amusing reading concerns the ward Nancy, who is being passed back and forth between two men in competing fits of heroic self-abnegation "like a parcel no one wanted to pay the postage on."

On the whole, the Tietjens story is not funny, though it has some humorous moments. Parades End (Penguin, 1982; originally published 1924-28) has definitely stood the test of time. Besides rendering the particular and long-gone setting of time and place, the novel succeeds brilliantly. The era comes to life with startling clarity, but the struggles portrayed transcend place and time.

Cougar, Circling

Yesterday in dream country, I stood in logging slash watching two large predators. The cougar was tackling the bear, biting his back. Though I was just a passive witness, the dream felt distinctly threatening.

I grew up in northern BC, and in the peculiar logic of dreams, I figured I needed to go up north. That way, I would be able to figure out what the dream meant. But when I tried to get there, I found myself up against a fence that blocked access completely.

All day I wondered. What could it possibly mean? I did some inner work, and hoped for the best.

This morning I had another dream. In the boiler room of old my old high school, I caught a young cougar between my booted feet and pinned him. Looking down, I told him, "You go nowhere till I decide to let you loose." This cougar seemed benign, cute even.

Shortly after I woke, I suddenly thought about my first hiking boots. They cost the princely sum of $7.99. I was inordinately proud of them.

Brand name? Cougar. Strange how the mind circles back, using individual memory as intimate metaphor.

Cherries and Blueberries for Sale to Commuters

Today, in perfect summer weather, someone had set up a fruit stand at Commercial-Broadway Station. It reminded me of a similar one just outside Russell Square Tube station in London.

In the warm sunshine of that October day, I stopped to buy cherries. They were fresh and irresistible, though obviously not local, at that time of year.

"Goin-'ome prices," called the vendor, hoping to tantalize as many buyers as he could before packing up. I bought some to have with tea in my tiny room at the Penn Club in Bedford Place.

Didn't buy any today, but tomorrow, I'll stock up before I get on the up escalator.

Healthy produce at the station. Convenient and refreshing. It makes a really nice change from the chain-store fast foods that are sold on the same concourse.

Motive Power

In high school we had a teacher called Mr. Power. In contrast to his name, he walked with slow inflexible steps, dragging his feet along the floor. As teenagers often do, the kids created an epithet for him. They called him Battery Power. Only behind his back, of course.

Yesterday I fell down a couple of steps and hurt both feet. The injury wasn't serious, but my feet hurt all day, especially the right one. Not being able to take walking for granted really made me appreciate my feet. As I was quickly reminded, we need our feet for everything.

Wanted to repot a plant. Nope. Couldn't make it down the stairs to the garage, where the potting soil was. Wanted to water the garden, and nearly jumped out of my skin when I thoughtlessly tried to slip on my rubber garden shoes. Later we had to go out. Having to be helped into my loosened sandals caused a mixture of gratitude and irritation.

After a good sleep with ice on the injury, this morning I can walk without yesterday's pronounced limp. But my gait has changed. I drag my feet along the floor with slow, short careful steps. Just like Mr. Power, I suddenly thought, and realized he was probably a war vet.

How grateful I am to be physically able-bodied and whole. The temporary loss of something taken for granted can be a salutary reminder of how much we have to be thankful for.

Now I sound like my mother, who's been dead for nearly twenty-one years. Interesting, isn't it, how things have a way of circling back?

Remembering a Friend

Last night I attended a celebration in memory of a former colleague. I was not at her funeral in May, nor did I visit her frequently during her final illness. Nonetheless, I claim the right to call Sherie a friend.

As we toasted this remarkable woman in her back garden, an old friend, Steve, telling part of her history that he had learned only recently, filled in blanks in my knowledge of her family's past.

She was born in Vienna. Before her father made his way there and met her mother, he had lost his family to the Nazi death camps. Sherie's family left Europe to join a surviving uncle here.

No doubt it was in part the dark shadow cast by history on Sherie's family that made her who she was. People felt they could tell her anything. Looking into her dark compassionate eyes, as one friend said, "made you feel you were the only person in the world, that she understood you completely." A rare gift indeed.

A lover of fine food and wine, Sherie requested that this party be held after her death. "And you know how bossy she could be," said her sister. She wanted not a memorial, but a celebration of friends, with good food, good wine, and repartee.

Sherie joked (and smoked) till the last. Only two days before her death, she was taken outside for some fresh air. Frail but still courageous in the garden, she remarked, "Isn't life beautiful?"

"What Sherie has given to us," said Cathy, "is each other. For tonight we are here together to celebrate and to share our loss." For me, as for many, it was a privilege to know her.

Fresh Paint and Midnight Ratatouille

One of my summer habits is nocturnal cooking. Last night's brainstorm was ratatouille. For some reason, I love filling the silent sleeping house with food fragrances. At 10 pm, I piled the vegetables on the counter and began to sautee the onions.

My husband has been painting and our daughter is helping him. Ladders and drop sheets everywhere. It was pleasant working in the nocturnal kitchen, now painted a mood-lifting fearless orange that reminds me of a hotel lobby on the Mexican Riviera.

The fragrance of the cooking onions brought my daughter into the kitchen. "Something smells great," she said.

"It's going to be ratatouille," I said. She made us some herb tea and went back to her room. A cool breeze came through the open door. The spreading aromas altered subtly as I added ingredients.

The soft peach that tones in with the kitchen's bright orange is spreading too. First it was the dining room, then the living room. Now they're painting the hall the same warm vibrant colour.

I slept late but woke early and went into the kitchen where my husband was already making tea. "I made ratatouille," I told him, whipping the cover off the pot like a conjuror.

He sniffed. "Mmmm. Smells good," he said. He likes to check the smell of a dish before tasting. And I like to show him the food I've made. That way, he can find and eat it when he gets hungry.