A month ago, a world away

And this long, long month ends.  I look back at the end of last month, at a different time, a different world.  I was aware of the coming pandemic; it's in my journals, but it was still so far away.

I donned my commuter coat on a cold Saturday, because it was the last day of February, and an extra one at that, and it was my very last chance to catch the One Tree Exhibit.

This happens every two years, and I was determined to make my way to the Robert Bateman Centre (which used to be the Royal Wax Museum), because a) I missed the last one in 2018; and b) a gifted wood craftsman, who went to high school with the Resident Fan Boy and who used to be married to the friend who introduced me to the Resident Fan Boy, was listed as one of the participants. You could say he was a classic Victoria connection, the city where everyone is separated by three degrees, rather than six.

The One Tree Project works like this: an ancient tree that has to come down because it’s reached the end of its lifespan is divided amongst 80-100 artists and artisans. The tree for this year’s project was a Big-Leaf Maple, which stood for more than two centuries near Westholme in the Chemainus River Valley, on Halalt First Nation traditional land. It was on the farm of the Barclay family for a very long time.

I arrived at the Bateman Centre, and, being my first visit, went into the Gift Shop to purchase tickets, not knowing tickets were available at the door upstairs. (I was later very glad I did.)

Once upstairs, I moved quickly through the exhibit, using my usual museum strategy – noting stuff that “called” to me, so I could zoom in on them during my second round. Of course, I was mainly looking for the gifted wood craftman's contribution; having owned three of his pieces (made specifically for us), I figured I’d spot them.

After moving through twice, seeing furniture, sculptures, paper, art, jewelry, anything you could possibly make from a tree, I hadn’t located his work. Finally, I found an interactive exhibit, which showed the tree, as it had stood in the farm. You could choose a section of the tree and see the names of the artists and craftspeople associated with it. I recognized few names on the list, and the one for which I was looking wasn't there. Since he was on the initial list, and participated in 2018 (I think it was an oak tree that time), I think he must have been signed up and for whatever reason, didn’t have a submission. I knew several of the craftspeople involved this year were former students of his – including his current wife, who works with him in their woodworking business up-Island.

Guess whose work called to me? I've failed to find a picture that does it justice. It’s a medium-sized casket/jewelry box, with removable sections and divisions inside. A map embossed on the lid shimmers and undulates. Apparently the craftswoman specializes in something called “marquetry” – creating pictures using different types and colours of wood. I overheard a couple commenting on the high level of craftsmanship, and later, when I returned to the gift shop, the lady told me that particular piece sold on the first day of the exhibit, way back in November for about $1200, and that her skill-level had been the finest many experts had seen.

*Not* the cajóns I saw

Another piece, from another artisan, that intrigued me was a cajón, which is a kind of Peruvian percussion instrument. There was a smaller one in the gift shop, and when I asked about it, the lady was kind enough to find two videos on her phone for me. Apparently the drummer from Tears for Fears, if you please, made a special visit to the exhibit, and with permission, tried the cajón out.

And I hurried home into the morning sun, thinking of what I'd seen, of the beautiful box, of the woman who had made it, and how very much she looks like my friend, the gifted wood craftsman's first wife.

Tree rings

It's the third day of Christmas, and this post might be more appropriate for the fifth day of Christmas, but what the heck?

I was making my way home yesterday, and happened to glance to my left as I turned up Richmond Road for the zigzag that leads me to the crest of the hill where we are living. This minuscule tree, perhaps with pretensions of being a majestic evergreen someday, was festooned with four tiny plastic Christmas rings, rather than five gold ones.


(And yes, I know that "five golden rings" refer to a ring-necked pheasant - probably well-roasted.)

Echolalia

Some time after I cross Rockland, I start hearing the music.

It's a male voice singing in a swooping, sad sort of ballad. It sounds like he's being accompanied by a trombone; I don't know how likely that is. The music seems to be coming out of someone's backyard, but fades as I pass, only to issue out of a garden gate. The melody, what I can make of it, swings around houses, first on the right, then the left.

I realize, as it echoes from a balcony, that the performer is far away, perhaps Beacon Hill Park, or at Ocean Point, or the Inner Harbour, or even in Centennial Square downtown. This is a feature of a summer evening in Fairfield; I used to hear eerie echoes of concerts at the Cameron Bandshell while standing by my front gate on Collinson Street.

Perhaps the concert will still be going if I head into the park, I tell myself.

I walk through the ancient arch of maple trees on Chester Street, hearing the song ricochet, and then a voice seems to say, "Thank-you."

But in the park, I hear no music, and the sun is sinking goldenly into silence.

On the logs where the turtles sunbathe during the day, a long row of ducks are grooming in preparation for bedtime.

A sign informs me that an old tree is deceased and diseased, and will be taken down. I touch the rough bark and whisper goodbye, before going to catch the bus home.

. . . but they don't listen to me

I know I'm back in Victoria when I see the twisted branches of the arbutus trees and Gary Oaks -- and when I see pewter verticals of the cedars.  These were in Butchart Gardens today.  I'm a little too drowsy to say much else.

Sidewalk serpent

Blink and you'll miss it

I was on my way to the coffee shop this morning and stopped short of the driveway. For the very first time, I saw the leave-buds starting to open.

This is a terrifyingly quick process in Hades. Once the leaves start bursting forth, the bare branches are liable to vanish by the end of the week, so I ran back into the house, grabbed my camera and set it on manual mode.

I ran back in, replaced my camera on the desk, re-alarmed the house, and set off for the coffee shop. I was wearing a warmish top, but no jacket. It was 5 degrees Celsius at 9 am, and even though I avoided the shade, my fingers began to sting a little.

The coffee shop staff had anticipated this.

Note the pale green of the grass. It was khaki a couple of days ago. Two days hence, it will likely be a poisonous green, and our brief spring will be over.

Unless it snows again.

Hooked on a Peeling

According to the file accompanying this photo, I snapped this about 1:30 in the afternoon of April 4th, 2010 - drawn to the texture and the weather-beaten-ness of the ancient trunk. (If you're going to take pictures in Hades in April, shape and texture is pretty much all you'll have to go on.)

I suspect that, seven years later, I would be unable to find this tree. They've done a lot of lopping along the riverbank.

Ah, April.

Leaves much to be desired

(photo by Emmeline Greenall, who calls herself "Flickerfairy" at Flckr)

There were men in orange reflective vests and hard hats clambering in the high branches of the tree which overhangs our neighbour's backyard. The local dogs were going crazy. I watched as they made pulleys with ropes, attaching them to large branches. One of them, saddled on a pulley tethered to an even sturdier branch, straddled a limb and pulled up a small chainsaw dangling from his belt. After he sliced through, his partners lowered the severed bit on the pulley, as he scrambled to another part of the tree. He must have had the best view in the neighbourhood.

Huge, bristly bits of tree were dragged protesting to a nearby wood chipper. I noted sadly that they were covered with silver leaf buds shining in the disc of the sun barely making it through the cloud cover. Leaves never to be.

When the men drove off, the tree had gone. They had completely dismantled it. I'm sure there were excellent reasons to do so, but I think we'll miss that bit of the canopy this summer.

So far this year, I've managed one post per month, a new low. Time to kick myself in the pants. Barring a computer mishap (they tend to happen about this time of year), I begin another NaBloPoMo tomorrow, April fool that I am.

The second day of Epiphany? (Oh, let's stop...)

Last night, we stripped our lovely tree. Younger daughter couldn't bear it and disappeared upstairs; she had told her special education class that this had been "the best Christmas ever". I sat by the television which was playing Takin' Over the Asylum" (the Resident Fan Boy screwed his courage to the sticking place and set up our new universal DVD player over the holidays), my knees strewn with the surviving icicles from our first married Christmas. We've always sorted them into blue, gold and silver piles, although the gold pile is getting sparse. I averted my eyes as the beautiful bushy balsam was squeezed out the front door. Now it's propped in a snow bank, pretending to be alive, waiting to be taken away by the city next Monday.

Theoretically, we can leave the Christmas decorations up until Candlemas (or, to use its ugly modern moniker Ground Hog Day, Imbolc if you're partial to Pagan), but the tree simply would be heartbreaking at that point. As it is, we may have to take the holly down before Candlemas Eve. Younger daughter's godfather sends it every year from Victoria; it's one of his few remaining pleasurable duties as Alzheimer's besets his fine engineer's mind. The indoor branches have been sucked khaki-green by the heating; and the outdoor branches have been blasted black by freezing rain, wind chills, driving snow and other hallmarks of a winter in Hades.

We will, however, leave the strings of Christmas cards up. Increasingly, cards and the mass-produced, impersonal, and usually unenlightening Christmas letters which some people think are mandatory arrive after Christmas and well into February. So it's official, people, such missives that arrive before February 2nd are not late.

I always thought the sentiment of "wishing it could be Christmas every day" unrealistic, undesirable, and sappy (didn't like the damned song either), but this year, oh, I wish it could. I've watched younger daughter float through this time delightedly, words coming easily to her for the first time in months. It won't be easy watching her spirit get squashed steadily until June.

I managed to post daily for thirteen day straight over Christmas, but I really prefer posting every three days or so. I do plan to try NaBloPoMo in February, a) because it's only 28 days; and b) because I want to see if I can do it. Provided, of course, I don't have to pay for the privilege. The "Terms of Use" thingie isn't that clear...