Sandra-Kay Austin

Think that there are no flies in the ointment of life on Vancouver Island?  Well here’s a recent event that might change your mind.

Isn’t this Fun?

They snuck in by air, arriving silently above me like a fleet of World War I zeppelins.   Aware that they were searching for a target, I urged my hand-weeding tool to work faster. Maybe the breeze will come up again and carry them away. After the air stayed still for the next thirty seconds, I watched them head directly for me.  Great. I eyed the dots beginning to gather around my head and tossed a large clump of grass into the partly full bucket of weeds that were wilting as fast as my afternoon goals.  Quickly jabbing the base of a broad-leafed weed, I drew in a deep breath of resignation. Yuck! I snorted, pulled out a tissue, and blew my nose until it felt as if my brain would be expelled. Now you asked for it! Wielding the white tissue like a sword, I cut through the cloud of tiny bodies.  A slim line of clear air appeared in the wake of my tissue and disappeared just as fast. Well that was pointless. I rose to my feet and the moving air currents drove them back a few inches. Yeah. Go somewhere else. Right after that a crawling sensation near my temple warned that one of the invaders had bravely managed to sneak in under my straw hat brim.  I stopped it in its tracks by crushing it. Triumphantly wiping my wet fingers on my dirty jeans, my gaze took in his buddies who were advancing toward me as if they intended to get even.  I tossed a weary glance over at the specks swirling above the semi-circle of clipped grass behind me. Okay. You guys win for now. I’m going inside.

Spring’s song of trilling birds and gently rustling greenery seeped through the closed windows early the next afternoon, tickling my eardrums and tugging at my heart in spite of the housework I was busy doing.  Finally, the urge to venture out into the beauty on the other side of the kitchen sliders became too hard to resist. My hand settled on the door handle. Then the multitude of sunlit brown spots gliding around grabbed my attention. Wow! More than yesterday. No way I’m up to that battle today. Disappointment surged through me and I turned away.  Guess you’re stuck inside for another day. Maybe they’ll be gone by tomorrow.

Two weeks is long enough for you guys to be here, my mind reminded the fly before I fanned the area near my face to send it on its way.  Just after that I noticed that a few tiny black flies were attempting to hide among the hoards of slightly larger brown ones that were circling nearby.  I threw my neighbour-friend a ‘isn’t this fun?’ look. “I’ll sure be glad when…yuck!  I hate it when they fly in my mouth! I don’t need the extra protein! Like I was saying.  I’ll sure be glad when fly season ends!”
Her blue eyes smiled.  “You’re lucky you have long hair.  They crawl in my ears.”
“Well they still find the part.  But what I hate most is when they try to get into my eyes.”  Realizing that one of the black ones was sitting on her cheek, I gently flicked it off.  ”I think it’s the black ones that bite.  The brown ones mostly just drive you nuts, but I’m not sure.”
Thanks.  I was just into Courtenay and there aren’t any there.”
“Yeah.  They’re just here.  Must be all the bush around us.” My neck started to tickle so I lifted a shoulder and squeezed.  ”I guess we should be glad that they don’t bite very often or pester us for too long though.  And that we really don’t have many mosquitoes or biting bugs once fly season ends.” I watched as she brushed flies away her dog-companion’s brown and white face.
“Well,” she said a bit reluctantly, standing straight again and peering up the paved street. “They descend on us every time we stop so we better get going.”
“I know.  A person doesn’t dare stay still.”  Stepping back onto the gravel driveway, I glanced at my front rock garden.  “Hope they leave soon.  I don’t have to be outside much since I don’t have a dog to walk anymore and I’ve been mostly opting for inside exercise these days. Not gardening much or getting my walk in.” Waving my two friends on their way, I turned and crunched toward the gate.

A week or so after our conversation, my grin widened and I tilted my head back. Sunrays bathed my already flushed face, simultaneously adding to its heat and quenching some thirst deeply hidden within me.  My leg muscles screamed for me to stop, while the sound of my panting breaths combined with nature’s symphony urged me onward.  I picked up the pace, my solitary footsteps slapping the pavement and joyously beating out the message, fly season’s over! A sudden desire to gleefully throw my arms in the air brought on a laugh. Get real Sandy!  It didn’t last that long.  And there are worse things. You just don’t want any flies to bug you at all. I nodded. Right. Too bad I’m not in control of things. They’d stay in the bush and leave people alone.

Yes. It is too bad that we can’t control everything that comes our way in life.  And it’s too bad that the flies of tough times and adversity have a way of descending on everyone sooner or later.  Maybe we should all remember that.  And when we see others struggling through a personal fly season, shoo the critters away if we can.

Ready for a taste of West Coast Spring?  Enjoy!

Spring’s Wonderful Song

“I don’t believe it!” popped out of my mouth.  “What a crazy place to build a nest.” I grabbed my binoculars.  “What in the world?…It’s gone!”  Realizing that the sparrow’s nearly completed nest had likely fallen to the ground, I strode outside to search through the salal at the base of the bare grey fir trunk. The sight of shattered chunks of mud and twigs made me shake my head.  “What was it thinking?  How foolish to build on a flimsy knob of branch in a completely exposed spot.”

Two Juncos zoomed by, one chasing the other, and a smile came to my lips.  Spring. It surrounded me.  Its subtle scent of the wet season’s mould and decaying matter not yet dissipated by the sun, mixing with the faint fragrance of the earliest flowers dotting the resurrected swath of green spikes and ovals in my garden. I licked my dry lips and tasted the tart flavour of wood smoke from my neighbour’s morning fire that stubbornly insisted on hanging in the air.  Brilliantly coloured Purple Finches filled the evergreens above me, the males singing for all they were worth in hopes of attracting a mate or perhaps boasting that they’d already acquired one. A squirrel scampered energetically up one of the nearby trunks, chattering happily in the new warmth that was attempting to chase the coolness from my bare face and hands.  Spring. Nature shedding the past and clothing itself in the promise of wonders to come.

Hesitating with my fingers on the light switch after supper, I glanced around our cozy living room.  Shadows teased the corners of the room but the hardwood floor in the centre still sported a soft golden glow and I dropped my hand. Pushing aside the afghan sprawled across my easy chair, the comforting thought came that soon I wouldn’t need it to fend off the evening’s chill. Shafts of sunlight slashing the air between the mature firs across the street pulled my gaze out the window as I sat down. My eyes followed a beam across the paved road until it kissed the climbing rose that was draped across the chicken wire fence and vanished.  Suddenly, I shot to my feet.  “Why are you coming now?”  You rob the feeders at night. Forget that! I dashed out the nearby door. The fat raccoon waddling across the pavement completely ignored me as I flew down the steps and driveway like a whirlwind. Then, right as it reached the fence, its beady black eyes swung to me.  I stopped, watching it jump up in the air and turn around in one motion. Satisfaction swept over me when it waddled back to the culvert at the end of the driveway as fast as its short legs could carry it and dove inside. Well.  Don’t be so stupid.

Look! There’s a hummingbird!” my husband exclaimed the next evening.
My face snapped toward the window.  Shifting slightly in my easy chair, I honed in on the dazzling green jewel hovering near the right corner. It moved slowly sideway along the glass looking inside at us and I chuckled. “Okay little scout.  I see you’re back. I’ll get your food made and fill the feeders tomorrow.”  Anticipation stirred at the tiny minute acrobat’s unspoken promise of our five resident families return from their southern vacation.

“It sure feels like spring,” I remarked to my husband, stepping out of the car at the grocery store the following morning. The shimmering sunlight seemed foreign to my eyes after the rainy season and I blinked.  Its warming rays began to seep through my black fleecy as Allan clasped my hand and it was almost too warm by the time I was approaching the entrance. The newly displayed flats of small green plants there caught my eye for a second, and then, the heavy automatic glass doors slid open.  Bouquets of Daffodils and Tulips.  Potted Lillies and Hyacinths.  Chocolate bunnies, stuffed chicks, and candy eggs.  Hot Cross Buns.   My heart sung!  Signs of Spring.  Signs that point to Jesus!  Sweet-spicy buns with crosses, reminding that He died so that we might live in intimate relationship with God.  Bulbs once dead and now in flower, reminding that He rose from the grave and desires that we experience the wonders of an eternity spent with Him. Bunnies, chicks, and eggs, reminding of the new life we can have in Him every day. I smiled, listening to nature’s spring song echo loudly through the store. Chocolate bunnies, stuffed chicks, and candy eggs, repeated the racoon’s warning against apathy and waddling thoughtlessly into the future. Bulbs repeated the sparrow’s warning that all that could be won’t come about if we trust in the wrong thing. Crosses repeated the hummingbird’s tribute to provision.  Spring’s wonderful song, vibrant with Jesus’  promise:
*”…I am the Resurrection and the Life, Whoever believes in (adheres to, trusts in, and relies on) Me , although he may die, yet he shall live.”

* John 11:25 Amplified Bible

Ever had ‘what if” thoughts stab you in the heart?

Any one, Anywhere, Any time

I threw a glance up at the single star brave enough to still be shining in the dark sky above the streetlight-less road.  Thank goodness the storm isn’t here yet. The soft rays of yellow escaping through the front windows of the modern single-level home ahead beckoned to me like a lighthouse.  Scrunching farther down into my warm jacket, I adjusted the beam of my flashlight and picked up speed.  Tomorrow night might be a different story. With Environment Canada’s warning that the Pineapple Express will bring severe winds and heavy rains. Funny how something that is happening so far away can affect us so much.

A smile came to my lips when my ears caught wild scuffling on the other side of the door. Then complete silence followed, which amplified the thud of my discarded shoes dropping onto the hard garage floor. I turned the key in the lock and flung the door open.   Seeing that I was at eye-level to and just inches away from a pair of bright eyes, I chuckled.  “Yeah, it’s me again.”  The dog responded by thrusting a wet nose in the direction of my face.  Ducking out of reach with a laugh, I climbed the two steps to the door, patted the top of his sleek brown head, and cuddled him. After that, gently nudging his thigh-high shoulder, I pleaded, “Let me past so I can turn on the back lights. I promise we’ll go out and play before I feed you.”  I padded toward the back of the house, listening to the pitter-patter of the New Zealand Heading as he followed me across the hardwood floor.  Suddenly he charged by me, pounced on a ball, and bounded back with it in his mouth. I laughed and shook my head. “We’ll play with one of your outside toys. You sure know we play when I’m dogsitting, don’t you?” Dogsitting. What a great word for scaled-down babysitting. My left eyebrow lifted. Wonder what it says about a society where even the dogs have babysitters? And more food and toys than most people in the world?

Wrapped in the wild night’s wet black shroud late the next evening, I once again hurried in the direction of my lanky brown-and-white friend. Let him out. Tuck him into bed. And then you’re home. The wind made a sound like water tearing across sand and my eyes rose to the towering evergreens close by.  Please Lord, don’t let the batteries on my flashlight die, I breathed, realizing that I couldn’t even distinguish the forest from the sky. I gave myself a mental shake. This is ridiculous.  You only have to go two houses and you know what’s here. Nothing has changed. You’re on a paved road with no traffic, your neighbour’s lawn is on one side, and there are trees on the other. Soon you’ll be back in your own cozy little house, snuggled into your easy chair again watching the end of the TV show. So what if the storm is here? It’ll pass and tomorrow everything will be back to normal.  You are so blessed!  Just think of the earthquake victims in Haiti.

A horrific slide show featuring earthquake survivors started to play in my mind.  Bloody faces and moving arms sandwiched between concrete slabs. Huge shocked eyes belonging to gaunt children wondering aimlessly through mountains of rubble.  Weeping filthy people desperately searching for loved ones.  Weary people trying to survive without even food or water after having survived with not much more for years.  Real people caught in a real-life nightmare. Tears in my eyes, I pushed the images from my mind but facts sprung up take their place.  A 7.0 earthquake hitting right before dark. Hospitals, several orphanages, schools, government buildings, the International airport, communications systems, all destroyed.  33 aftershocks, fourteen of which registered 5.0 and 5.9.  A guestimate of 200,00 dead.  Hundreds of thousands of injured.  An estimate of over 2 million people now homeless in Port-au-Prince and surrounding area.

An icy hand gripped my heart.  Haven’t our scientists been warning us for some time to prepare for the same thing? They’re always saying that the two stuck tetonic plates off the West Coast could let go any moment and a massive earthquake will follow.  What if the earthquake had happened here in Canada instead of in Haiti? What if it had happened to me? Would I be wondering around in silent shock or screaming for my missing loved ones? What if I had no water or food? Could the unthinkable that is happening in Haiti actually happen here? The stench of my neighbour’s and friend’s dead bodies turning my stomach.  My dead loved ones being carted away by dump truck to be buried with 80,000 other people in a mass grave. And what if I were severely injured?  If I made it to one of the few remaining places where I could get medical help, would there be any supplies left?  Or would I, like many injured in Haiti, be treated with cardboard splints and already-used latex gloves, or have no painkillers when I must endure an amputation performed with a vodka-disinfected hacksaw?

Life is fragile.  Every day we live is a gift from God. Are we thankful for it?  Do we remember that natural disasters can happen to anyone, anywhere, at any time. This one happened to some of the poorest people in Haiti.  But it could just as well have happened to me in one of the wealthiest countries in the world.  And some catastrophe could happen to you too.  Then, who will sacrifice to give money to reputable relief agencies so they can help you? Who will pray for you and your rescuers? Who will provide the means to rebuild your home and your life? It’s often said that ‘to whom much is given much is expected or required’. Right now, it’s time for those of us who have much to be *’good Samaritans’ to Haiti.

* Luke 10:29-37 The Holy Bible

Sources for information on situation in Haiti: Wikepedia Encyclopaedia and CNN

PS:  I’m giving as much as I can and I hope that you are too.  Below are links to just a few reputable agencies working in Haiti that will use your money wisely:

MCC,  World Vision,  Crossroads, and  The Salvation Army

Had any wild visitors to your yard lately?  I did.

Why do it?

“No way!  It’s the middle of the afternoon!”  Muffled by the sliding glass doors in the kitchen, my voice drew an unconcerned glance from the bandit’s glossy black eyes.  Swaying plants pulled my gaze to the strip of thigh-high winter garden behind the waddling 20-pound raccoon, where a small coal-coloured nose on a short triangle of eggshell white fur was pushing aside dried stalks. I saw two alert eyes in a black mask appear, and then a band of white, followed by the rest of the broad little grey head with its cup-shaped ears.  A baby raccoon! It shuffled out into the clearing and my lips formed a crescent.  They rounded to an ‘oh’ when I spotted two siblings following.  Three babies! Shifting to a more comfortable stance, I watched as they followed their mother across the grass like rail cars attached to an engine. All of a sudden, it dawned on me that she was leading her bandits-in-training to the bird feeder.  Bolting out the door, I grabbed the corn broom and raced to cut her off.

I knew that the large raccoon was dismissing the threat when she barely glanced at the waving broom before ambling on. She arrived at the bottom of the cement pedestal and my brow creased.  I swept the air a few feet closer to her and she responded by swishing a hand-like front paw through the inch of discarded shells and spilled seed on the ground. My broom froze when the first baby ambled up to her. How cute are you?  I better get a good look at you before I chase you. While I was studying it, the mother chuckled. My eyes widened when she rose to her hind legs, inserted a paw through the chicken wire around the feeder on the pedestal, and scooped seed into her mouth.  You brazen hussy!  I’m standing right here. When the baby scratched its way up the cement base and stretched up to copy her, I gasped, “Don’t teach it that!” Then the other two waddled up to her hind end and I realized what was about to happen. Rushing toward them with the broom, “Shoo!” shot from my mouth.  Their mother dropped to the ground and turned to face me.  Her eyes met mine. I bit my lip when she calmly dropped her head and shovelled more food into her mouth.  My broom nudged her well-padded bottom.  “Go on. Go eat in the bush.” I urged, but she simply shuffled around to the opposite side of the base and called her babies over there to eat. Why do it when you know you’re going to get whacked? Well okay. Here it comes! With a shout, I charged around the base and swooped down with the broom to give her ample bottom a good smack. She jumped, her wild eyes touched me, and then she galloped away with her charges.

The encounter with my wild visitor returned to mind as I was entering the kitchen at bedtime. Glass of water in hand, I peered out through the glass doors. My breath caught because the moonlight-bathed half-circle of back yard grass and its perimeter of thick evergreen trees looked like a magical silvery setting prepared for a dancing fairies. If those are dancing fairies, they’re awfully fat and awkward. “The coons are back,” I yelled to my husband.

“Be careful you don’t hit them in the eye,” instinctively rolled off my tongue.  The oft-repeated words elicited a lopsided grin and another promise from Allan that he’d only sting them on the bottom.  He quietly closed the door behind him and I pressed my nose to the glass.  I watched as he aimed the airgun. The pop sent my eyes flying to the family near the feeder but they didn’t react. Missed. Another pop sounded and I saw the mother start.  When she turned her backside slightly away and continued eating, I heard two quick pops break the silence. I watched her right hind leg jerk.  That stung. She moved off a foot or so but my relief only flickered because she waddled right back to eat at the same spot.  What are you thinking?  You’ve got lots of good food in the bush.  You know you’re going to get hurt eating here. The popping sounds picked up speed and I heard myself chuckle while she was stuffing her mouth between jumps and sideways body-shifts.  Then Allan stepped off the deck, fired as he approached, and I sighed, “At last.” My mouth opened in a yawn as the round grey family was disappearing into the night. Time for bed.

Eleven-thirty. Snuggling further under the blankets, I glanced at the empty side of the bed beside me and then at the door. Where is he? The house seemed strangely quiet as the red numbers on my digital clock began to work their way towards midnight. Finally curiosity drove me back into the dark kitchen. I stopped dead as soon as I spotted Allan standing motionless by the outside wall.  “Whatever are you doing?” I asked, watching as he peeked outside.  He flashed me a smug grin and replied, “Waiting for them to return.  They’ll be back.”

And they would, but I wasn’t staying up.  The great white hunter can wait and zing them again.  You’d think they’d learn.  Sunflower seeds might be tasty at the moment.  But they come with a helping of sting or whack. I padded in the direction of the bedroom.  Guess though, that raccoons aren’t the only ones that insist on returning to momentary pleasures that bring pain. People do it too. The corners of my lips curled. Maybe at this time of year we should all be asking ourselves, “Am I any smarter than a raccoon?”

Raccoon at feeder in summer

What are we all apt to thoughtlessly and generously give away?  Been giving quite a bit of it away lately and you probably have too.

We All Give It

She slips silently out of the bush and I freeze.  What are you doing coming out on the road right in front of me? The doe’s timid dark eyes settle on me.   “It’s all right girl,” I croon.  Noticing the thin covering of flesh on her ribs, my forehead creases.  Why are you so thin?  Summer’s almost over. She glances down the empty sunlit pavement in both directions, regards me again, and moves a bony leg to stand more comfortably. Well!  You’re certainly not afraid, are you? After a few seconds, she turns to peer behind her.  What are you looking at?…Oh!…this can’t be real! My awe-struck brain attempts to soak in every detail of the white-spotted wobbly-legged fawn as it walks up to her. Just after it disappears behind her tawny flank, I blink because a perfect little duplicate is prancing out of the trees.  Twins!  No wonder she’s thin! My wide eyes return to their mother and she regards me expectantly. “They’re beautiful!” I whisper, my gaze racing to the first baby again as it reappears.  Suddenly it’s as if I have been thrust into a fairytale for it joins its sibling, their noses meet, and they nudge each other playfully.  “Oh, you’re so cute!” escapes before I can stop it. Aware that my outburst will probably end the encounter, my eyes dart to their mother but she seems pleased by my feedback and only raises her head proudly.  For a few magical moments we both watch the wonderful wee creatures play, and then, she slowly ushers them back into hiding.

My eyes are still smiling when I greet one of my neighbors down the road.  Turning to regard the sandy-haired four-year-old perched on the back of the navy stroller, I ask, “Did you see the deer?”
The boy’s blue eyes cloud. “I only saw a white butterfly.”
My grin slides down to my lips. “Why I like white butterflies too!  They’re pretty.”
The middle-aged woman peers wistfully up the road while I am telling her about the deer.  After that we bend to admire the delicate round face peeking out of the soft pink cloud of blankets inside the stroller. A high-pitched “Look!” causes us both to shoot upright.  Half-expecting that the deer have stepped out of the bush again, I glance that way.  Nothing. My eyes swing to the youngster’s excited face. Amazement surges through me when I realize that his stubby finger is pointing at a white butterfly that is drifting down past the fir trees near us like a snowflake. Wow! My feedback sure changed your viewpoint!

A few weeks later, I’m reminded that feedback can have quite the opposite effect.
“Quit that you little dickens!” I hurl at the fat furry little brown noisemaker in the evergreen about two hundred feet above my head.   My words only fuel the squirrel’s anger and he turns the volume up on his chatter.  Ducking when more fir cones drop and bounce off the ground near my feet like hail, I glance around at the hundreds of cones already on the grass and in my gardens. A resigned sigh exits my lips. I know, little friend. You live here too and you’re gathering your winter food. But you never pack away most of the cones and I have to pick them up. Still…I shouldn’t have yelled at you.  I move away from the tree where he’s been working and snip off another dead flower. Just after it lands in the bucket, scratching lets me know that my buddy is skittering down the closest tree.  Now that’s more like it. Don’t stay up there and fire cones at me. Come and keep me company like usual.  A grin spreads across my face when he stops a few feet above my head.  You always look so funny like that.  Flattened against the tree trunk with all four legs out like somebody threw you there.  His beady brown eyes stare at me for a second before he raises his tail. Hey!  It’s okay, it’s just me!  All of a sudden, he unleashes a tirade of chatter that’s so loud that I cover my ears. Oh, no.  You’re really mad at me!  If only I’d kept my mouth shut.

Sunday after church a few weeks later, the word ‘feedback’ pops into my mind again.
The hum of conversation swells to a crescendo as I hug friends and make my way out to the foyer. “Uh,” I grunt, walking through the door and bumping into the attractive young couple who are stepping out of the balcony stairwell.
Surprise floods the man’s dark eyes.  “Why hi!  You’re sure looking good!”
Secretly pleased that all my exercise and healthy eating is paying off, I chuckle, “Well, you’re looking pretty good yourself!” My gaze slides to the slender woman at his side.  “And you look especially pretty in that colour.”
“Yes,” she responds with a giggle, “We’re all such good-looking people, aren’t we?”
We smile at each other like pleased fools.  Then we part, each of us carrying a warmer heart away after our exchange of complimentary feedback.

Feedback.  It can reassure, give new insight, encourage, or even change relationships for the worse.  We all give it.  And it always has an effect.

With fall already peeking around the corner, thought you might like to come along with me on a late summer hike.

Changing Seasons

An almost unnatural silence hung in the still air beneath the sky of puffy silvery clouds as I donned my cotton jacket in the parking lot.  Seven years and I finally get to see what’s here.  Too bad we couldn’t make it when the wildflowers were out though. Everyone says it’s so beautiful then.  But I guess the end of August is better than never. A wistful little sigh escaped as I followed my husband across the crunching gravel, heading for the fir tree entrance to Strathcona Park’s Paradise Meadows.

Surprise flickered in me when the feathery green corridor opened up after only a few feet.  Then, my breath caught at the sight of an abstract bog carpet of muted rusts, maroons, and greens, surrounded by an evergreen circle.  A grey boardwalk lay atop the carpet like a necklace displayed for sale and we made our way to it.

Soon voices interrupted our comfortable silence and a burst of quick hard thumps covered the rhythmic thuds of our steps on the dry planks.  I smiled when two bright-eyed children in colorful jackets raced past me. Nodding to the grinning parents who were playing catch up and weaving around me, I thought, years ago we could have been you. My eyes warmed and found my husband’s advancing back. Just you and me now kid. He squatted to capture a glassy finger of water on film and I waited, my heart dancing at the sight of a graceful dragonfly hovering and swooping through the nearby air.

A few minutes later I strode away, feeling like a child leaving a room with a newly discovered toy in hand and on the way to explore more rooms. A small meadow of inch-long bright-red-trimmed spikes punctuated by the odd mauve daisy evoked an admiring “oo.”.  A fluffy Canada Jay swallowing a berry in a meadow of Bog Blueberry entertained for a few moments.  A meadow of slivers of reflecting water framed by soft brown and pale gold spears caused me to linger. Leaning against the wide wooden handrail on a bridge, my eyes dropped to the six-inch-long grey-black spotted trout fry that were wriggling slowly through the shallow clear water.  Just moments later the urge to see what was ahead grew too strong to resist and I moved on.

“Well which way do we go?”  My eyebrows rose because my faithful leader seemed puzzled.  What’s the matter? You read maps. This one should be a cinch after the ones we used to read in Search and Rescue. I stepped closer to have a look at the colorful map sign. Right after Allan questioned its accuracy, we were distracted by a passing woman handing out grapes and snacks to half a dozen or so noisy preteens.  My gaze returned to the map once they were gone and I raised a finger to trace one of the lines. “Why don’t we take the trail that goes off here and go up to this lake.  It doesn’t look far and we can always turn around.”

Finally, some exercise. My breathing’s quicker and my heart rate’s coming up. A sense of accomplishment rushed through me. I glanced down at the steep forested mountainside on my left, straightened my shoulders, and plodded on up the nearly deserted dirt trail.  After a short distance the bush revealed its treasure: a delightful little oval alpine lake. The solitary fly fisherman submerged to his hips in the calm green water at the far end resembled a small plastic figure plopped into the pastel icing on a cake and I raised my camera before we turned back.

Bouncing down the trail, my heart sang with gurgling mountain streams, shuddered as I took in huge trees ripped out by the roots or felled by vicious storms, and soared at the postcard views of chalets on Mt. Washington. Then male voices announced a group of hiking-boot-clad backpack-wearers who were on their way up. Must be heading into the backcountry, I guessed, shouldering up to the steep dirt bank to let them by. We could have been you a while back. Feeling strong and invincible. Ready to conquer the world.  Even if that world was just rough narrow trails, heavy packs, sore muscles, freeze-dried food, and cold nights on hard ground.

When I entered the meadow again, it looked as if the earlier invasion of hikers and tourists had never happened.  Five o’clock.  Getting time for us to think about heading home too. My foot tilted to the left, slanting with boards starting to give under last winter’s tremendous snows.  A few more weeks and most of us will leave the frosted slopes and wind-swept meadows to the hardy.

After hopping up yet another shallow step, I realized that what appeared to be a family of adults was gathered just ahead.  My eyes zoomed in on the center of attention, a frail senior who was heavily transferring his weight from a cane to a weathered plank bench.  Suddenly, it happened!  His pale blue eyes gazed out at the still meadow and softened. His thin mouth curved as if he was meeting an old friend.  He exchanged a smile with me as I was passing and I couldn’t help but think, I could be you in the future. Glancing over my shoulder a second later, I saw that the wrinkled face was already turned toward the meadow. It is beautiful, I agreed.  All of a sudden, my imagination conjured up a picture of it clothed in summer’s brilliant blooms. It must have been dazzling.  But was it any lovelier than when it showed off spring’s vibrant green attire? Or nestled under winter’s thick white cloak? It must be beautiful then too. My mind drifted back to those who had enjoyed its autumn beauty that day. People clothed in the innocent curiosity of the very young, the brave enthusiasm of youth, and the experience of maturity. People dressed in the beauty of every season of life. I wondered then if most of us actually even see the beauty that those close to us wear during life’s changing seasons.

Mount Washington Ski Runs In Background

Battleship Lake

Had a turn-your-normal-world-upsidedown-experience lately?  Last month one hit our house and thought you might like to hear about it.

No Warning

I leapt from the bed and froze, my mind struggling to free itself from the shroud of sleep.  My gaze zoomed through the darkness to the illuminated numbers on my digital clock.  3am. Muscles quivering, I shook my head to clear it.  Where’s Allan?  Why isn’t he in bed? Wow, is it ever raining! Suddenly, intense white light and a loud boom jerked me fully awake.  Thunder and lightening! But we don’t get it here.  We’re a block from the ocean. Confusion shot through me as I peered out at the black sky.  When it lit up as if God had turned a searchlight on the house, I blinked.  Then darkness returned with a ferocious growl and I cringed. Wow! That’s close!

The occasional streak of bright light was still dragging its tail of thunder across the distant sky in the morning when I dragged my bleary-eyed body out of bed.  Oh good the hydro works and there’s hot coffee, ran through my head, right before Allan cried out in dismay, “My computer’s fried!”

The freak storm had passed but left us slightly shellshocked. A cluster of lightening strikes had singled out our little subdivision and our morning routine was out the window. Exchanging damage reports with neighbors, we discovered that lightening had touched us all in some way. I gawked at the 4-inch dent it had burned in the heavy-duty foil drip pan that had been underneath our across-the-road-neighbor’s RV.  A chill ran through me when he said that lightening had run up the tree right beside it afterwards and torn off a thin strip of bark. When he went on to say that another strike had ripped his telephone box right off his house and fired it through his greenhouse, I gasped. The house could have caught on fire! And the whole subdivision and surrounding forest could have burned! Breathing a prayer of gratitude, I half listened as Allan listed our own damage: his laptop containing all his business files and presentations, the router, the garage door remote, and the satellite TV were all gone.

Our frustration grew during the next few days as we discovered more broken things and fought to get others fixed. Productivity and routine went out the window.  An army of telephone and hydro repairmen and trucks invaded our quiet streets each day.  A week later the fire department charged to our rescue for the fourth time after smoldering trees close to the subdivision burst into flame. With no warning at all, one storm had transformed our peaceful predictable little world into chaos. I feel just like the spider I wrote about some years ago, I found myself thinking, watching Allan fix yet another recent problem with The Internet on my computer.  The secret in the poem came to mind, my lips lifted, and I turned around to dig out a copy so that I could share it with you.

Spider Secret

~

One fine day I chanced to near

a spider’s web so thin and clear.

The dawning sun’s new warm light

made gossamer silk threads glow bright.

Then a delicate soft breeze

set it shimmering just to please.

Translucent and oh so fair

it clung suspended in the air.

~

Spun to life at spider pace

hung interlocking fragile lace.

What an awe inspiring sight

this masterpiece seemed woven light.

Yet aware I comprehend

my touch could bring its speedy end.

Then this sheer circular chain

only memory would sustain.

~

And if web should rip and tear

it could dangle beyond repair.

Then spider who spins so well

could disappear because he fell.

Devastated and resigned

he could leave spinning far behind.

Yet he just might forge ahead

by simply spinning one small thread.

~

Then should spider be so bold

a larger strand he could unfold.

Persisting thus strand by strand

he could work on ’til web is grand.

Finest art would come to be

should spider spin courageously.

Glorious when by sun caught

his web would be a wonder wrought.

~

Like spider we weave grand dreams

and life destroys our hopes and schemes.

Oft circumstance plays sad role

and we tumble with no control.

Yet spider lands not to stay

but spin anew or hide away.

And we like him have choice too

to hide or start again anew.

~

Since we just might spin that thread

the spider secret must be said.

For some spiders when they fall

don’t tumble unattached at all.

Their dragline’s a long strand done

that’s anchor strong already spun.

And when they land on the ground

it is a ladder quickly found.

~

Some people although not all

are aided following great fall.

For ready there just in case

their dragline’s certain and in place.

They’ve a close relationship

which they can climb and firmly grip.

Attached sure to God above

they find Him reaching down in love.

~

Copyright 1999 Sandra-Kay Austin
Revised 2009

Ever come upon something unusual at the seashore?  I did recently.

Left Behind

“Looks like we’re the only ones here.”  The sea had spewed a number of large logs onto the beach and my shoes sank into the sand as I walked between two. Crunching through the gravel to a patch of packed sand, I marveled, not even a brave bird or boat in sight.

Before me, the wild wind pushed rows of murky green waves heavenward, forcing them up into churning white peaks, before it shoved them in my direction and eventually tossed them up on the shore. Water rushing across gravel played a repetitive cascading bass melody and as I watched, long strands of bulbous brown-headed kelp rose to dance in waves awash with soft after-dinner sunlight. The effect was almost hypnotic but after a few minutes, I pulled my gaze away and glanced over at the tiny turbulent bay a short distance off to my left.  What’s that? Oh, looks like someone was starting to balance rocks on an upturned log and quit.  Funny how people like to leave cairns everywhere.

Spying a somewhat-flat log in that direction, I asked my husband if he wanted to sit down for a bit before our half-hour uphill stroll home.  One side of my mouth lifted when he followed me but plopped down on a nearby rock and raised his camera. I brushed sand off the weathered log and settled down on it, scrunching my shoes into the shells already nestling in the course sand. Then one of the larger clamshells caught my attention.  Looks like an exquisite fan that’s part way open. I took in its scalloped outer edges and followed the fine ridges that left there down through broad semicircles of cream and beige until they met at the narrow rounded bottom. After that, I set the shell on the rough surface of the log so that someone else would notice it.

“There’s a turtle shell,” Allan remarked.

My eyes popped open the instant I swung my face into the tangy mist blowing off the minute bay.  Why it is a turtle shell!  I thought it was just a flat rock. The shoulder-high log standing on the beach like a raised totem pole pulled me to it. Wow, this is cool! I’ve never seen a sea turtle shell washed ashore before. With a smile, I bent slightly to get closer to the eight-inch dark olive shell sitting on the sawn wood top like a flat hat.  Suddenly, my nose screwed up. Smells ten times worse than the beach at low tide. A few long green strands of windblown seaweed clung to the shell’s hexagon-patterned top and my fingers dodged between them to gingerly touch the hard cold surface. Wonder what the inside looks like. Stooping, I peeked through the empty neck opening.  Yuck.  The birds couldn’t reach all the way in to finish eating the meat. I noted that the shell’s interior was a paler green before thinking, as I turned away, whoever found it could have cleaned it out with bleach and taken it home for a trophy.  I’m glad they left it here for me to see.

Even after we’d walked home in the shelter of the trees as the sun was ducking behind them, my mind returned to the sea turtle shell.  What a lovely thing to do.  Leaving behind something that others can enjoy. Instead of leaving garbage like some people do. Guess whether we realize it or not, we all leave things behind us when we leave places. Things that others remember long after we’ve gone:  lovely gifts such as kind deeds and caring words or garbage such as angry actions and harsh words.  I wonder if the things we leave behind make people smile or cringe?

Ever met someone who sticks in your mind long after you’ve parted?  Happened to me recently and thought I’d share the story.

Coming My Way

The tiny dark-skinned woman in bulky rubber clothing began to stroll eyes-down along the grassy shoulder of the empty road, sneaking a glance at me as the gap between us narrowed.

Salal picker, I thought, striding briskly toward her on the pavement.  My eyes searched the dense three-to-five-foot-high salal shrubs flourishing beneath the evergreens on both sides of the narrow road.  Where’s the man?  He’s the one I usually see out by the road.

Recalling the first time that this thirtieth-something-looking Philippine man had responded to my friendly smile as I was passing him again on my daily walk, his tentative ‘hello,” returned to my mind. A smile touched my eyes because that single word had now become a few general remarks spoken in broken English should our paths cross at the side of the road.  My appreciation of his efforts to learn his new country’s language had only grown with time.  However, the behavior of the women in his group was beginning to seem odd to me.  Why were they still murmuring to each other in their own language and observing our brief encounters from behind a protective wall of shrubs or glass?  Did I really appear that threatening?  Or was some idea from their birth culture holding them back? But now one is walking toward me!  Trying to look casual, but purposefully coming my way.

My heart skipped when she paused near me and raised her hooded head.  Why she’s my age. A mother or aunt? I thought they were interacting like a family. The expression in her molasses-coloured eyes resembled that of a starving deer being offered food from a strange hand.  Suddenly, determination transformed her round face.  “Hello,” she breathed, and I smiled.  “Hello, how are you?” I asked.  She beamed and repeated “Hello,” in an accent thick enough to be easily misunderstood.  Who are you? I wondered, and her expression told me that she was wondering the same thing about me. We grinned at each other in silence. “Nice day,” I ventured, pointing at the sun, even though the artic wind was cold enough to freeze a polar bear.  Her eyes found the yellow ball in the clear blue sky and she nodded.  Then her slightly panic-stricken brown eyes met mine. Quickly my blue eyes assured that she had done well.

Done well? I mused, waving farewell and striking off down the deserted ribbon of grey pavement. It seemed the understatement of the year. Would I have her courage? Could I leave everything and most everyone I knew and cared about behind and come to a strange land?  Could I learn a new language and try to fit into a new culture? I glanced behind me and she was disappearing into the bush again.  And could I work at a backbreaking job outside in summer’s heat and winter’s cold?  Would I want to push my way through thick forest all day to cut and bundle salal branches?  And how would I react when some people who had the blessing to be born here resented me for being here and doing a job that most of them wouldn’t want to do?

The wind slapped me in the face and I pulled the zipper of my coat up to my chin.  Record-breaking snow and subzero temperatures the middle of March. An April Fool’s Day joke of snow. Where was spring? It must be terribly cold for someone from the Philippines.  When it finally warms up, will someone celebrate by buying her a bouquet of spring flowers that contains a few sprigs of the salal that she worked so hard to gather?

When I looked back over my shoulder, the sun glinted off their solitary parked pickup truck. A shining beacon, it boldly declared that the Philippine salal pickers were in my community. And their very presence sends up a call echoed by immigrants in every community. Will you who have so much, welcome us who come from so little?  Will you look past our broken English, different skin colour and culture, and reach out to us when we meet? Will you be the one who warms us with a friendly smile on a cold day?

As love takes the stage again this February due to Valentine’s Day, are you glad or groaning?  Here’s a personal story that should get you thinking about it anyway.

The Silent Shout

The deep red stood out like a splash of bright paint on a tan canvas.

“Oh,” I said, in surprise, “What’s that?’

Glancing that way, my husband replied, “Just some artificial flowers.”

His tone of voice told me that he wasn’t impressed that they had floated in to mar the natural beauty of this perfect little cove in Pacific Rim National Park.  Tugging the hand that he was holding, I started in that direction.  My shoes dug into the soft sunlit sand as we walked along the high-tide-line of seaweed, shells, and lifeless crabs.  “No.  They’re real roses.”

A dozen blood-red roses lay on the pale sand, the edges of their velvety petals discoloured and curling, their dark green stems secured by a faded blue ribbon. What are they doing here? Something stirred in my memory.  “Isn’t this the beach where those Japanese tourists drown?”

My husband nodded.  “Yes.  South Beach.  A rogue wave swept them into the sea.”

We looked over at the mass of steep black rock that was jutting out into the sea behind us. “Someone must have been here remembering someone they lost,” I murmured, waves of sadness sweeping across my heart like the waves of seawater that were sweeping onto its jagged edge. One second. One huge unexpected wave. And instantly, someone was gone.

A few weeks later, I was reminded of that experience on a sunny breezy day that felt more like Fall than the end of August.  Smiling and clasping hands that afternoon, we exited the chair lift at the top of Mt. Washington.  My breath caught when I saw the birds-eye view.  It was a masterpiece only The Creator could paint: the alpine ski resort in the foreground and stunning Strathcona Park spread out behind, complete with rolling emerald hills, glassy lakes, and snow-capped cloud-touched peaks rising into a blue sky.

Soon, lured by the promise of similar vistas, we started along the dirt trail on the same side of the treed summit. A white-haired couple with friendly smiles and a landscape of steeper ridges greeted us when we reached a lookout on the northwest side. We shot a few pictures near the drop off and then, not wanting to intrude on the seniors on the bench any longer, moved on.  Helping one another, we hopped up and dropped down the rocky, uneven path as it meandered along the sheer edge.

“What’s going on?” I asked, when Allan stopped and I couldn’t see past him.  He stepped slightly to the right and I saw that a young girl with blowing golden curls was blocking the trail. Just then, the slender man behind her poured some seed into her tiny outstretched hand. A grey Canada Jay fluttered down, landed, and started to peck at it and the child’s blue eyes sparkled with delight as her rosy wee mouth rounded in awe. My heart melted and tenderness appeared on the male face behind her.  Right after that, another jay fluttered down to a branch just above my husband’s shoulder.  He raised the camera and captured it on film, and then, hoping that we wouldn’t disturb the happy scene, we crept past the birdwatchers.

Pausing to explore short less-used side paths that took us through the spindly trees to secluded viewing spots where earth met air, we gradually made our way around the rocky top.  Then suddenly, the east side of the Island, the Straight, and the distant Mainland stretched out far below us.

“Looks like it was taken from a plane,” Allan remarked. “Hey look at that wine glass.”

I pulled my eye from my camera and realized that an elegant stemmed glass was sitting on a flat rock near our feet.  My first thought was that someone had been enjoying a glass of wine with their scenery and had forgotten to take the glass home with them.  After that I noticed that the rounded glass top was full of white wine and that the glass was right beside the roped-off cliff.   “Maybe someone was remembering someone who went off here,” I murmured, picturing a partly drunk glass of wine in another hand.  Someone imagining what once was, what should still be, and what will never will be.

The roses and the wine glass still haunt my memory, even though summer is long past.  Somehow, they both seem sad reminders of the fragility of life that silently shout to all, who is in your life that you would miss this much?  And how can you show them that today?