Hemmed in

The good thing about bad times, I used to tell my kids (and myself) is that once they're over, we're stronger, more confident. We know we can handle whatever comes; look what we just did!

So this year. This Christmas season. This winter. It's rough, I know. But we'll pull through.

And in the doing, we'll have discovered new stratagems, made new memories.

And some of those memories will be good ones, warm, comforting memories, memories that make us laugh, that bring gentle tears. "Remember the Christmas decorations we made for the tree at the nurses' station in the hospital?" "Remember that year we ate Christmas dinner in MacDonald's because we were broke? And came home to find a box of goodies on the porch?" "Remember when the stove went on the blink and Dad fried the turkey piece by piece in an electric skillet on the porch?" "Remember when it snowed so hard I ended up eating a fried sausage at home alone with the cat?"

We will make new, very personal, adjustments to our traditions, to be passed on year to year.

What new thing will you do this year?

Hemmed in.

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Lo bueno de los tiempos malos, les solía decir a mis hijos (y a mi misma), es que cuando han pasado, salimos con más confianza, más fuerzas. Sabemos que aguantaremos cualquier cosa que pasa: ¡Mira lo que acabamos de hacer!

Y aquí estamos. Esta Navidad. Este año terrible. Este invierno triste. Es difícil. Pero terminará. Y saldremos adelante.

Y al hacerlo, habremos descubierto nuevos recursos, habremos formado nuevos recuerdos.

Y algunos de esos recuerdos serán buenos; recuerdos de consuelo, recuerdos que nos hacen reir, recuerdos que nos hacen verter lágrimas felices. "¿Te acuerdas de las decoraciones que hicimos para el árbol de las enfermeras en el hospital?" "¿Te acuerdas de la vez que cenamos en Nochebuena en MacDonald's porque no teníamos dinero para más? ¿Y que llegamos a casa y encontramos una caja de comidas Navideñas en la puerta?" "¿Te acuerdas de la vez que se descompuso la estufa y Papá cocinó todo el guajolote, en piezas, en un sartén eléctrico afuera en el balcón?" "¿Te acuerdas de la vez que cayó tanta nieve que me quedé en casa, comiendo una salchicha frita con el gato?"

Haremos ajustes muy personales a nuestras tradiciones este año. Tradiciones que llevaremos después hacia adelante, año tras año.

¿Qué cosa nueva harás tú esta temporada navideña?

Foto: un honguito en "encierro".

Fog and winter sunlight

A collection of photos from two January afternoons on the White Rock and Semiahmoo beaches. (Same beach, opposite sides of the pier.)

Sunshine, fog, and the gulls flying ...

White breasts all in a row

More wing than gull

This little girl brought back memories. I was her, so many years ago. She moved along slowly, on hands and knees, examining each spot carefully. Once, she jumped up and ran to show her mother something she'd found. A minute later, she was back, searching through the stones again.

At one point she opened her arms as wide as possible, as if to embrace the whole marvellous beach. I know what she meant.

Kindred spirit.

Crow on a log. Some of the brush keeps its red colour all winter.

From the Semiahmoo beach, a hint of sunset, with birds flying into it.

The afternoon train, between the promenade and the actual beach.

Eagle, far overhead. Another golden juvenile?

Bald eagles, very annoyed. They were sitting on the rail by the railroad, and the train chased them off.

Late afternoon fog creeping in, slightly tinted by the setting sun.

I lived just up the hill a ways from this beach the year I was 11, back when the dinosaurs were still roaming about. I loved it then, I love it now; but more so on foggy days like this, with the gulls calling.

One-track mind

I'm too tired to think, maybe even to finish this before I fall asleep. The past few days have been exciting and a bit tense. All good, and I'll have the story for you as soon as I get it all sorted out, but now I can hardly keep my eyes open.

So I hope you'll forgive me if I'm a bit silly tonight.

On the White Rock railroad track, last week:

A sliver of golden hillside, reflected.

Down at ground level, this way, I remembered ... Sixty years or so ago, I put a copper penny down on that track, just ahead, around the bend. The train flattened it so that there's just a hint of lettering left. The trains went faster, in those days; the experiment, repeated now, nets me a squished penny, still identifiable.

I just went to look. After all those sixty years of peregrinations, packings and unpackings, I still have the penny.

A more conventional view. Looking east, towards the pier.

Looking west. Someone has lit a bonfire on the beach.

And now, goodnight!

Mom's Last Request

My mother had no "wish list". Not that anyone knew about. For birthdays and Christmas, she insisted that we spend little on her, and give her only useful items. She worked hard at being sensible and practical, at "pulling her own weight".

When she was 80, and in the middle stages of Alzheimer's disease, her self-control snapped; she asked me to bring her a birthday present, something she wanted "just because": a bird book where she could look up the birds that came to her yard or walked on the beach. I bought her The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds (Western Region). And while I was at it, a bird feeder for her window and the feed to go in it.

She didn't use the book long; a couple of years later she could no longer read the words or find the photos she wanted. But Dad still drove her to the creek to feed the ducks and she laughed with delight like a little girl.

Years have gone by. Both Mom and Dad are no more. And now I sit, evenings after supper, hearing the robins "Cheering up" the cedars and the flicker in the shrubbery, watching the chickadees come down for their evening bath and sitting, fluffed out to dry, in the rhododendron. And I laugh with delight.

Cleaning out old photos last week, I came upon this one: Mom, 1959, somewhere along the highway in Mexico. Smiling at a friendly parakeet.