From sea to sea, a visual collage of beauty shots taken on our travels in Canada last year between July 1, 2018 and June 30, 2019.
Tag results for: Canada
More than three decades ago when we lived in Calgary, Magellan and I thought we’d go to Japan in the spring for the sakura (桜), the Japanese word for cherry blossoms derived from saku 咲, which means to bloom. I even studied Japanese in anticipation. For some reason that I don’t recall, we didn’t go. How foolish we were to even think we had to travel that far for hanami—viewing cherry blossoms—you only need to go as far west as Vancouver, which now has its own Sakura Festival every April. Since April is also National Poetry Month, we’ve curated a collection of our favourite sakura haikus, adding Spice’s own attempt as well.
After too much wine at dinner last February just before Valentine’s Day, Magellan said to Ginger, “I’ll drive your stuff to Saskatoon.”
“Dad wasn’t serious was he?” Lynn asked on the walk home. “There’s no way,” I replied. “Driving a big rental truck through the mountains at this time of year would be ludicrous. Plus there are border issues. He’d have to drive down to Seattle first to pick up all Ginger’s stuff. I’ll talk him out of it.”
Eighteen days later Magellan was behind the wheels of a thirty-four-foot U-Haul truck attached to a sixteen-foot U-Haul trailer—a fifty-foot rig! And I was riding shotgun.
“I’m stranded here,” my mother said when I called her one evening last week.
An eye infection in her good eye has left mom totally blind, in a sea of darkness in her room at Birchview Home.
It made me think of Pesuta. She’s been stranded for ninety years, since 1928, the year mom was born.
In this season, in the silence of night, who among us doesn’t pause, rewinding time back to childhood on Christmas Day?
Among those memories, there’s often a grandmother.
In my case, Grandma Danchuk. Alice. Born 110 years ago, on Christmas Day in 1908.
One of our best experiences this year was on the OceanLight II in the remote Gwaii Haanas (the southern part of what used to be called the Queen Charlotte Islands).
Onboard was a crew of three: Captain Tom; first mate Jennifer; and cook Luise.
And four jubilado couples: Stewart, the eldest, and Denise; George (a storyteller with a killer sense of humour) and Veda with her broken left arm; Jean-Paul (a Frenchman whose first question every morning was “When is fishing?”) and Judy (Jean-Paul’s translator and George’s cousin); and the two of us.
“I’ve found Jean-Paul’s diary,” announced George one night when nightfall curtained the July sky.
Gather round the galley and listen to George read the “fake” diary we’re calling Fish Tales.