89. I Love ... the Hand Sewn.

I have things

that have been stitched 

by the hands of 

my mother,

my grandmother,

my children's great-great-great grandmother

and my adopted Nan from Newfoundland.

I hold them.

I touch them.

I wonder what they were thinking about

as they sat and worked away.

I wonder where they were sitting.

I wonder whether they enjoyed doing it

as much as I do.

Whether it was a respite from the 

hard work of the day

or something to fill vacant hours.

I cherish

that every single stitch

exists because of 

their hands.

I envision them,

sitting quietly,

infusing that creation

with their hours,

their energy,

their spirit

and their enduring love.

88. I Love .... finger sewing

Finger sewing,
my friend in Newfoundland calls it.

It can actually get me

out of bed,

early and enthusiastically,

to think that I have some

hand sewing

waiting for me.

I find it 

relaxing, meditative.

You can quietly accomplish something,

with so little.

So little materials and tools,

so little fuss and mess,

so little movement and activity.

I sit quietly

with music

or my books

or my thoughts.

I work away

and stitch by single stitch,

something is

born.

87. I Love ... camping

I used to not.

Love it, that is - or even Like it.

I loved it as a teenager.

We bought a tent for our

honeymoon to British Columbia,

wanting the adventure

and to save money.

We used it twice.

I think it was then

that I decided that a

pre-made bed -

up off the ground,

was preferable to the

primitive alternative.

The appeal of camping

dissipated with age.

'The Harbour Castle'

would be my answer if

someone asked where I liked to camp.

I bought a tent trailer

when the kids were young,

determined to give them the experience

of camping.

Although I had to do it alone,

as Brian liked it even less than I did.

I was up off the ground,

that was a bonus.

When they grew up and left,

I never camped again.

Until now.

I have come once again to

love it.

I still do prefer to be 

up off the ground.

86. I Love ... the crackling and popping.

Not the crackling and popping
of Rice Krispies.
That's what people from my era
think of when they hear
snap, crackle, pop.

I love the
crackling and popping
of the wood stove in the kitchen.

Especially in the evening
when I am alone in the
quiet;
wrapped in a blanket,
reading by a soft light.

She is company,
that old stove;
conversation
with her voice
being fueled by the intake
of the wind.

Welcome company.

85. I Love ...remembering the feel of my Dad's hair.

When I was a child,

I'd sit on his knee

and pull the little ten cent

black comb

from his shirt pocket.

I'd comb his hair

backwards,

sideways,

over his eyes.

He'd make silly noises

and I'd giggle.

His hair was so fine,

like silken threads;

a shiny mixture

of silver and copper.

So fine.

As he lay in 

final years,

I would sit beside him and

ever so gently,

I would run my fingers through that

fine hair.

Remembering.

Instilling those memories,

 and that feeling

deep into my heart

and soul.

84. I Love ... the Magic Bridge

Behind our barn,

on the neigbhouring property,

there is a plain, old concrete bridge

over a little brook

that goes by our house and winds its way

into the Avon River.

It is for the farm equipment to access the fields.

It dips down enough that you think that

you are alone,

secluded in the woods, faraway.

There is a huge old willow

weeping over the brook.

In the spring, or after a huge rain,

the water tumbles over the rocks,

sometimes rushing like a 

great and mighty falls.

Other times it is more like 

a trickle.

There is always some movement,

some sound -

roaring and rushing

or

quiet and melodic.

My children,

and now my grandchildren,

have always been drawn to that bridge.

It is

a secret place

far enough away

but close enough to home

to feel

safety and freedom and adventure.

83. I Love ... turning Nothing into Something

I was born doing that.

Perhaps because 

art stores and craft departments

weren't accessible everywhere.

Nor was money

it seemed.

A new pack of crayons

in your Christmas stocking

was exciting.

I don't believe I ever even owned

thin pointed coloured markers,

just that huge, smelly 

Black Magic Marker.

Musilage.

That bottle with the red rubber tip

that was only nice when it was new;

crusted and dried out so quickly.

I couldn't use the 'good' 

Scotch Tape

because it was "too expensive".

But what I could and did use was 

my imagination.

A twig stuck into a little green apple became

a person;

a toothpaste lid became a chair;

everything I could get my hands on became

Something.

I think that's why I have always

'seen' things

in the discarded.

'Necessity is the Mother of Invention';

I became an 

Inventor.

I derive far more pleasure,

more gratification in

re-purposing, re-birthing

than I do from starting from scratch.

There is a greater challenge in that

than simply going and buying

fresh and new supplies.

And more satisfaction for me in

breathing new life

into Something,

sending it on a new journey,

giving it a new story.