Fingernail shadows

A tsunami of sickles on a street near us

The first partial solar eclipse that I remember occurred on a warm summer afternoon years ago.  Our neighbours in our Edmonton neighbourhood had a small rectangle of smoked glass, and about half a dozen children took turns peering at the strange image of a black circle biting into a bright orange one.  (Not a recommended medium today!)

It was the only indication that anything was different about the afternoon.  The sun continued to shine brightly -- except that I noticed the shadows made the sidewalk appear to be paved with cloudy cobblestones.

It wasn't until I was a parent myself, on a bitterly cold and cloudless Christmas Day, my first in Hades, that I realized what I had been seeing hadn't been a childish fancy.  The midday light reflected through the latticework of our porch on to the pitiless smooth snow, a strange cluster of half-discs. 

Not long before we finally escaped from Hades, another partial eclipse swung by us on a summer's afternoon.  I tried a colander, to no avail,  but wandered to the front of our house, where tiny crescents were scattered amid the shadows of the leaves on our front walk.

So, on Saturday,  I set the timer on my phone, and wandered home from the coffee shop, scanning the ground for sickles. About two minutes before the eclipse was scheduled, I spotted what I was seeking in the centre of a quiet street, and frantically gestured to an older lady strolling up the sidewalk.  She told me, in an accent faintly tinged with Eastern Europe, that a neighbour from her building had already shown her the view through a "screen" - I didn't dare ask - and that it was "once in a lifetime" for her; she'd never seen an eclipse.

Next, a family with two young boys meandered by, but the kids were too young to be impressed, and their parents, though polite, were reserved, when I pointed out the odd shadows on the grass. 

Undaunted, I headed back home, following a trail of sun-bows, and, ahead of me, a young woman was holding up her camera to the sun.  A friend had just alerted her to the event via text.  I pointed to the shadows behind her, and she exclaimed in astonishment, and starting snapping pictures.

Stopping at the path leading to the entrance of our building, I used my phone as well - to phone the Resident Fan Boy, telling him only to "come out --- now".

By this time, a matter of less than ten minutes, the fingernails were rapidly thickening into something less delicate, more ordinary.

Bright illusion

 This year, our online Advent calendar has a Nordic theme, so we're particularly aware of Santa Lucia Day. 

So, yesterday evening, after my daily drop-in to visit Demeter, I decided to make my way deeply into darkened Fairfield, the sun having vanished by 4:20.  

The further south and east I ventured, the thicker the illuminations, bright arteries of colour spreading out of both sides of Linden Avenue.

A fashion this year appears to be multicoloured nets of bulbs, draped over shrubbery, or the sides of porches.  Others have taken long strands of lights and wrapped them several times about bushes.

As I passed one house, I seemed to see an animation at the top of a side entrance -- a man of dots of light, rather like the final moments of Peter Gabriel's famous 1986 video of the song "Sledgehammer":

 

I soon realized it was someone hanging a criss-cross mesh of lights up, the colours following the contours and extremities of his body as he reached for the hooks.

After pausing at the intersection where Linden meets Chapman, I turned further east, passing simpler strings and angles.

Looping homeward, I encountered explosions of decorating dynamite. Here cars were stopping -- headlights, unfortunately, left on high-beam -- and children, barely tall enough to make a sillhouette, chattered excitedly and gazed.

Dazzled, I returned to the relative dark of Fairfield Road, where I was cheered to see our single string dangling above the patio.

O schadenfreude

For the third time since we returned from Hades, we accompanied Demeter to the Butchart Gardens for Christmas tea. The first two excursions featured heavy downpours; Butchart's has its own micro-climate:
it's either hotter, colder, or wetter than what you'd expect in the Victoria area.

But this time, we were blessed with a semi-sunny day, although a thick cloud of mist had been trapped in Brentwood Bay, like a bowl of meringue.

After the ritual ride on the carousel - I rode the zebra this time, while younger daughter rode a deer with a nose reddened for the season, and the Resident Fan Boy sat astride a medieval charger - we feasted on tea, scones, sausage rolls, trifles, and real gingerbread.

Demeter, who has reached the age where every experience might be the last opportunity, wanted to stay and perambulate, because the Christmas lights come on at 3 pm, an hour before sundown. The Resident Fan Boy escorted our daughters to the bus home. Demeter accompanied me with her walker to the Five Gold Rings in the Sunken Garden, then made her way back by the wheelchair route. She's in this picture, dressed in gold. (You may have to click on the photo to enlarge it.)

Excited little boys pelted by me, pursued by their parents, past flowerbeds planted with electric lights, and I climbed the stairs out of the sunken garden, to meet Demeter by lanterns hanging from the bare branches.

We caught the bus, which took us past a kilometre or so of headlights, hundreds of cars headed in for a rare rainless Christmas season night. And there we were, headed swiftly and unimpeded in the opposite direction.

Dappled snap

Younger daughter and I were hurrying up Metcalfe Street past the panhandlers crouching on the sidewalk squinting into the late afternoon sun. I managed to coax some change from under my parka. It's warmer, but not that warm.

Three quarters of the way up the hill leading to the Parliament Buildings, I noticed the sun reflecting off an office block on to the older buildings at the corner of Sparks Street. As we approached, I thought, I don't have time. I don't have time… but look how lovely that is. I fumbled for my phone, stabbing the screen with my finger, trying to get the camera function to come up. The buildings were getting nearer and nearer. Come on. Aw, c'mon...

Just as we got to the intersection, my sluggish phone came through. I paused long enough to frame the shot, prayed the shutter would open and then race-walked once more.

We caught our bus. We even got seats.

Thunder-head-lights

It had been an odd day, anyway: a bomb scare to the north of us which faded from the social media as suddenly as it had appeared.  The city blackened under a sudden violent shower, followed by a double rainbow.

I missed both, but heading out in the early evening with the Accent Snob, noticed that our neighbour hood was ringed with thunderheads.  Saffron walls of cloud to the east and the south lit the streets in an eery glow.  I'd left my Nikon at home, of course.

To the west, the sky was mauve and peach, behind houses lit from the east, so it felt like morning and evening at the same time.

It was rather spooky, to tell you the truth.  The streets were nearly deserted, although I could hear voices from yards where Ottawans were determined to barbecue, damn it, on this last weekend before the year begins its turn in the direction of autumn and winter.

As I walked on, the thunderheads to the south and the east took the peach from the clouds in the west, and the upper windows of the houses blazed with lights -- although no one was home.  The dog pulled mightily on his leash; he wanted nothing of this nonsense and tried to go home. I only dropped my phone once, cursing him.

I don't suppose the view east -- yes, east! -- up McKay Street inspired his confidence, particularly when  I stood in the middle of the deserted street to get this shot, hauling him back with one hand, while poking the phone screen with the other.  The next morning, the sun rose in the east as usual.

But not as spectacularly.

Write of Passage Number Ten

I'm sitting rather closer to the front of the bus than usual when a child in a stroller is parked in front of me. (I don't know what the practice is for strollers and wheelchairs on buses in your part of the world, but in Hades, those sitting in the very front sideways seats hastily move back and the seat is flipped up so the stroller or wheelchair can be parked, usually facing the back.)

The child in this stroller is unusual, somehow unbabylike, a large head with a longing, searching face, rather like that woman in the Holman Hunt painting The Awakening Conscience. She earnestly scans the passengers in the bus as if on a religious mission. Suddenly, she breaks into a luminescent smile; someone has acknowledged her. Just as quickly, she's back in questing mode, but someone else gives her a tiny wave, and her face is radiant again. I'm a little farther back, so it takes a while for her to notice me. I'm ready with my grin, so I can claim my dazzling prize too.

She's busy distributing her graces when I get up for my stop. As I reach the back door, I happen to glance back at her. Our eyes meet, and the smile I get this time is a little more hesitant. She slowly lifts her hand and points to the side of her head. After a brief pause, I think I understand, putting my finger on the white iPod bud in my ear. I nod. A brief answering flash of light, and she returns her focus to those continuing the ride. I step down to the sidewalk, and the bus departs.