reprint - for lack of time and slow dial-up...

Through the smoke of distant fire
Drawn into the dusky sky
Growing stronger - rising higher
There it met my eye
Its glow was sure - a firey red
A pagan sight it's true
From the sleeping sun it fed
And yet it was quite blue

Any idea what it is?

A Study in Pink

I took this photo early today.

As the sun rose, it caught the clouds at an unusual angle.

The eerie morning light illuminated the landscape, creating a surreal glow that reflected itself from the wet surface of the deck.

Tucker also appeared to be enjoying the moment.

Stewed Red Tomatoes

It's Fall. And the nesting urge is upon me.

As the days grow shorter and the winds blow colder, I feel I must reap and gather. Although I don't have a vegetable garden per se, I do have a selection of tiny, green plastic pots bearing fruit. Well, in this case, tomatoes... which, arguably, are indeed a fruit - but I use them in a vegetable context...
These tiny, green plastic pots were purchased through Jenny's school to help raise money for her class trip to Quebec next spring. The entire idea being, that the plants growing in these tiny, green plastic pots be transplanted to a traditional garden or large planter. In my case, this did not happen. I moved into my new home this spring, and the idea of hoisting a large bottom-half-of-a-barrel filled with soil and seedlings was not appealing at all. So, there the wee plants remained - in the tiny, green plastic pots.
Throughout the summer I tenderly cared for the tiny flora. The dill discontinued, the cilantro croaked and the basil breathed its last. The parsley promised not to perish, but the tomatoes triumphed!
There they were - four of the most-cherished vegetablefruit in the valley.
Today, I swept down upon them. I reaped and I gathered. Then I cooked.
I don't know if I can eat them now...

After the Harvest

The End Result

In Memory of Patrick Swayze...

Tucker

Why.

Skiing B1st in 2006.

Each year, we look forward to winter and, along with it, our preferred sport - alpine skiing. We do, of course, enjoy everything the other three seasons our temperate zone offers up, but our true passion lies among the folds of the snow-covered hills.

Spring reveals growth and renewal - an efflorescent season of rebirth, delivering possibilites and potential.

Summer settles into relaxed freedom - escorting a period of sultry peacefulness while fashioning maturity.

Autumn, spring's reverse counterpart, declares further change - with the achievement of growth, it dictates reaping and gathering, while heralding a period of slumber.

Winter, a span during which the land is in repose - bearing with it a blanket of colder temperatures - and snow.

As members of the ski industry, we depend upon it. Without snow we would be unable to satisfy our urge, and other's, to glide over the packed and sweep through the powder. Elements of physical fitness and a sense of well-being are addictive, as is the resulting adrenalin rush.
The social aspect of this mountain sport is important, as well. There is nothing quite like the muffled resonance of whoops and hollers from like-minded enthusiasts, as we make our way through the the trees on the backside (and, hopefully, not our backside) of the mountain. This is an individual sport but, to share it with a friend, or several, most certainly adds to the fun - and can be handy if one finds themself in a tight spot.

Once the lifts have closed, and the patrollers have done their final sweep, the communal feel will often spill over into apres ski. Stiff boots are replaced with comfortable hikers and bulky ski suits substituted by soft, warm woollies and fleece. Refreshments, hot and cold, are held high beside the fire in honour of the moment, followed by boasts and embellishments of the day's adventures. Tired and happy souls will soon make the trek down the mountain, home to warm dinners and snug beds.

Only the fortunate few get to rise early, braving the frigid morning air, to do it all again!

When the cat's away...

Beau in front of the fire - notice his short front legs.

... should I worry?
I thought we had lost Beau over the weekend.
He is such a bold and friendly kitty and I was sure that had landed him in trouble.
He disappeared for more than a day and I feared he had been scooped by a weekend visitor and whisked away to the city.
A good example of Beau's bold attitude is, just the other evening, we were out at the front of the house watching a doe and her twin fawns feeding on the empty lot across the road.
Beau caught sight of them, crouched down in the tall grass, wiggled his back legs and pounced, right into the nose of the mama deer! She just looked at Beau, with her big doe eyes, and sniffed noses with him.
Imagine! Wee Beau attempting to take down a deer who's head alone was larger than his body!
Beau did return last evening, none the worse for wear, although he is favouring his right front leg. There were many people about over the long weekend and I think he just went visiting - after all, it wasn't nearly as exciting here as it was several doors down...
Now that all the action has passed, he appears content staying at home.

Wait Ten Minutes...

I awoke this morning to frigid feet and a nose fit for an eskimo kiss.
After last week's heat, with wild storms and rain, one might think this would be a welcome respite.
Could it not have waited just one more day?
It's presently the last twenty-four hours of the summer holidays and many are hoping to lounge in and about the lake. A couple of hardy souls are out this morning, braving the single-digit temperatures, but, other than the accompanying whitecaps, the lake is quiet.
A fire is now roaring in the fireplace as I sit with my coffee. Patched sunlight is creeping down the mountainside across the valley and will soon slide across my deck. Tattered clouds are sweeping from the south, banking ominously above the northern horizon, and the wind is tossing the leaves about.
A fresh snowfall caps the peaks.


We have a saying in the mountains:
If you don't like the weather,
Wait ten minutes.
It will change.

Wind Over Windermere

The wicked southwest gale brought trees down all over Windermere. Huge willows, that have been standing for years, were scattered like matchsticks and once stately pines were split into halves, as though snapped by the hands of a giant.
A second wind storm - no rain this time - blasted down from the north in the early evening, wreaking further havoc. I was in town at the time and returned to find my deck in shambles.
My large, heavy corn plant had been tossed onto its side and was surrounded by dirt and scattered pebbles. The comforter from my outside couch had blown completely free and was wedged against the railing at the other end. The tablecloth would have completely disappeared, had it not been held down by my Christmas cactus - a hardy little fellow. The only reason my bike was still standing was because I had it cabled to the rail and my flowers were also spared, as they are located at the southern end of the deck.
Wild weather, indeed!