Perspective

The sun was low on the horizon as I drove westward, making it difficult to see on-coming cars or the road. I focused on the edge of the pavement on the passenger side and slowed as I drove. It was a stressful way to end a difficult time.

I was returning from Mount Pearl, Newfoundland to my home in Buchans after my father's death. I spent a week with Mom and my brother after Dad died, helping Mom do a few of the deathly details you don't think about as you accompany a loved one to the end. Although glad to be going home to my husband and daughter, I was heart broken. I could only imagine what my mother and brother felt and I was not there to share it.

The last time I saw Dad was two days before his death. We didn't realize how close he was to the end, never having seen a death from cancer. Dad had beautiful brown eyes, the windows to his patient, kind soul. Those eyes were all that looked familiar; Dad was swollen, barely conscious. He still could speak and we parted after loving goodbyes. "His spirit is eager to leave now," I said to myself as I gazed into those eyes that day.

There was a moment on that journey home when a straight stretch of highway to a hill lay before me. The sun was behind the hill now and a brilliant sunset was imminent, with flaming colours. The road appeared to come to a point in the flames and I thought of that gentle spirit soaring now, free of pain. I felt it as Dad's way of saying he was at peace.

Several days ago, on a walk by the bay, I took this picture which I didn't really see until I downloaded it to my iPad. 

 

It startled me at first. I realized it connected me to that previous experience, how the bridge disappears into the air, even though it connects to the land on the far side. Unseen though it is, we know it is there.

Who knows what is to come? But, every now and then, life has a way of reminding me of the faith of my youth and it is comforting. Maybe that is all it is meant to be, comfort in the face of the eternal nothingness. Or maybe...

Mowing Carrots

They are everywhere these days. Fields and ditches are covered with Queen Anne's lace, also known as wild carrot or bird's nest. 

 

Since we don't spray for insects or weeds, our lawn is sometimes green, though often variously coloured by weeds. This year, the wild carrot has its moment in the sun, sending forth its stems and blossoms. It's time to mow, again.

"I'm going out to mow the carrots," my husband says as he heads to the garage. Within the hour, not a stem remains. Before long though, they're back, determined to reach towards the sun. The plant which is so pretty in the fields and ditches, is frustrating in your lawn.

 

A closer look at the root system of the plant makes it easy to see why the plant devastates a lawn. 

 

It is difficult to pull this root out of the soil. Its wild carrot name comes from this root, the young plant tastes like carrot and the leaves resemble carrot leaves. 

 

As the plant matures however, the root becomes woody and inedible.

The flower is a circle of blooms from a collection of branches off a main stem, each branch full of individual blooms. 

 

The blooms appear as a unit, making a flat or slightly convex circular flower. 

This construction is a wonder in itself, but the purple or red non-reproductive flower in the middle of the central branch is a total surprise and a mystery. 

 

Legend has it Queen Anne pricked her finger while sewing lace. 

 

A single drop of blood fell on a lace flower, hence the name. 

 

As the blooming finishes, the flower head curls up in a nest-like structure which is curious also.

 

Inside this nest, the seeds are forming. How many billions of seeds will be carried on the breeze across this island this year?

Wild carrots are biennial plants, producing flowers every two years. We will have to wait for the flowery fruits of this year's growth until 2018. We may not have a lawn left at that time, though losing it to the beauty of this wildflower may be worth it.

 

Summer Bounty

High temperatures and humidity this past week, without the east coast breeze, has made it intensely hot. This is unusual for us, but our garden is flourishing. Tomatoes are ripening;

 

 beans are forming.

 

We are eating kale,

 

Swiss chard, lettuce

 

and broccoli.

 

The grocery bills are lower because of our own fresh vegetables.

 

It is great to pick your own organic vegetables 

 

and eat them right away. Now I know something of how my grandparents felt about growing their own food, though they did it out of necessity.

 

This is freshness which the grocery stores cannot duplicate and it's from a small, raised vegetable box.

 

The cucumber plants our granddaughters planted late in June grow inches every day. It will be a few weeks before we are eating cucumber but maybe not with this weather. The girls water their plants every time they visit.

 

The rhubarb is growing still

 

and our grape plant has a bumper crop this year.

 

 Ah summer, thy bounty is wondrous.

Sunday Wishes

May peace and harmony be yours.

 

Bottoms Up

European starlings are in the neighbourhood and on wet days, they land on the front or back lawns. 

 

They are stout little creatures, with long, sturdy, pointed beaks. 

 

The young birds have grey brown colouring, the older ones are black.

 

They do everything as a flock and are noisy, flying around the neighbourhood looking for their next meal, a drink or a bath. 

 

A dead tree in the neighbourhood is a favourite observation deck. 

 

If we make any noise while they are on the lawn, they fly to the nearby fence to assess the threat. 

 

Their pursuit of food makes for interesting photos while they are on the lawn. Bottoms in the air, 

 

their heads are deep in the grass as they dig for insects, worms or grubs after the rain. 

These starlings were introduced to North America when one hundred birds were released in Central Park, New York in the 1890s. Many generations later, there is a flock in Summerside, Prince Edward Island, descendants of those immigrants, who adapted and made the best of their lives on the new continent. It sounds like a familiar story. Bottoms up indeed!

 

Not Just Another Boardwalk

Boardwalks are plentiful here in Prince Edward Island. We frequent the one by the bay in Summerside as do many other residents. All around the province, boardwalks attract people to the outdoors, by the ocean, over marshes or wetlands, in parks and towns. Islanders are fond of their boardwalks.

 

This summer my husband and I are exploring more of our island home as we can drive from east to west in several hours. Our most recent discovery is the boardwalk in North Rustico, northeast of our home. The hot summer day did not dissuade us since we had natural air conditioning again, an east coast breeze.

North Rustico is an area which was first settled by Indigenous people at least 6000 years ago. Then the European explorer, Jacques Cartier, sailed along the coast in the 1530s. Rene Rassicot fished in the area in 1729 and named it. Rassicot, with the silent t, became Rustico over the centuries. By the 1790s, the first French settlers, Acadians, built their homes in the area. Descendants of those first Acadians live in the area today.

This part of the province still is involved in the fishery. The community has less than one thousand permanent residents, but that number swells in the summer when cottagers return and visitors flock to the area. Meanwhile, life in the community continues as it has for centuries, linked to the sea. Now however, the tourist industry is also a part of that lifestyle. We shared our day in the community with many other visitors, most of whom were from other provinces and states across the border.

The boardwalk runs along by the harbour, a prime location. 

 

The path is lined with wildflowers 

 

and trees, where birds sing their varied melodies in the thick vegetation, unseen but not unnoticed.

 

In the harbour, boats go by

 

and share the waterway with kayakers this time of year. 

 

Overhead an osprey is making its presence known as herons wade in the water. Along the path, various monuments mark people and events which are significant to the area.

 

                                                             Monument to the Acadian Settlers

At the end of the boardwalk near the entrance to the harbour, if you cross the road and follow the path, you will arrive at the beach. Sand dunes obstruct the view of the beach which opens before you on the far side of the dunes. 

 

The beach is crowded, by island standards.

 

At the head of the harbour, rental places and eateries attract visitors. 

 

This lighthouse is one of four remaining of those which housed keepers and their families for decades. 

 

Lobster traps are for sale but don't look out of place.

 

We will return.

 

 

Beyond the Dunes

In the last six years, I've grown accustomed to beaches in Prince Edward Island. 

 

 

They are different from the beaches of my youth 

 

but the essentials are the same.

Growing up in Newfoundland, I spent time with my grandparents every summer in Maddox Cove. Their house was set back and up from the ocean with Motion Bay spread out before it. The breeze through the trees and the sound of the surf were constants.

My grandparents and Uncle France enjoyed my summer visits as much as I did. However, Nan was nervous when I was around the water. She warned me to stay away from the ocean because a tidal wave would come and take me. When the other children went swimming on the beach, I was to stay out of the water.

I didn't; I wasn't going to be the only one sat on the beach. Aided by my Uncle France, I swam as much as the other kids. There was little sand on that beach, mainly beach rocks, rounded by the wave action. The North Atlantic was bitterly cold, but after a few minutes in the water, you felt warm or numb. We didn't mind it, the fun distracted us. Besides, who would admit it was too cold to swim?

Today on Prince Edward Island, the dunes are different from the shoreline of Maddox Cove. Red sand replaces beach rocks. 

 

 

The water is warmer too; the Gulf of St. Lawrence is not as cold as the North Atlantic. These days I don't venture into the water; the years have washed away the desire to swim. In spite of the changes, my spirit recognizes the essence of the scene, prompted by the wind and the surf. A feeling of freedom pours forth, in sync with the ebb and flow of the tide and the breeze. It is good to be home. 

Come join me for a few seconds.