Friday Update

We spent most of today (Friday 30 May) at St. Joseph's Hospital getting the bronchoscope and biopsy for Morningstar. Much of the time was spent with paperwork and waiting, both before and after the procedures. The procedures themselves only occupied about an hour. Now Morningstar is resting at our motel. All of the staff were very competent and kind, but there are still no answers about her condition except the confirmation of the obvious – her right lung is partially collapsed and there are clear visual signs of inflammation. The doctor is still concerned about cancer, but is waiting for the results of the biopsy before he can make a definitive diagnosis. We will be spending the weekend with some very good friends on Whidbey Island and Morningstar's son will be joining us from Oregon. Then late on Monday afternoon we will be driving back to Bellingham to meet with Morningstar's M.D. He is hoping to have the lab work by then. Every effort has been made to expedite these efforts. It is hard to keep in mind that this has all happened in four days.

On the way back from the hospital we stopped off to see the rescue cat that had caught our attention the other day. He seems to be an affectionate, playful guy and is just as interested in Morningstar as she is in him. There was no reason that I could think of to wait, so I phoned the woman in charge and we will complete the adoption on Monday. That will help make it a good day.

... Bob
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Life Changing Event

“I’m afraid this is going to be a life changing event for you.” I have had several life changing events… sometimes I even welcomed them. But when those words come from your physician, it is not something you want to hear. I heard them yesterday after a series of lab tests, chest X-rays, and a CAT scan. And although the diagnosis is not yet clear, it is likely that our life in northern British Columbia will no longer be possible. Tomorrow (Friday, 30 May) I am scheduled for a bronchoscopy and biopsy of my right lung. By Monday afternoon we will have the biopsy report and discuss “next steps.”

Rereading what I have just written, I realize that it sounds so unemotional. Events have happened so quickly that I am not sure I really comprehend the seriousness yet. I have enjoyed good health all my life. Even now I do not feel “bad,” just very tired. There is a mass in my right lung and the upper lobe of the lung has collapsed. I have never smoked in my life and all of my lab work shows everything to be well within the normal range… leaving the doctors with more questions than answers. And leaving Bob and I wondering what the rest of our lives will look like, and how much time there will be. But we remain optimistic.

I can honestly say that I have never feared death. Maybe it is because I had to face it so early in my life. Four years old is awfully young to discover that nothing lasts forever, not even a 38-year old father who was loved by everyone who knew him. He wrote in a journal, that if he could make a difference in even one child’s life (he was a schoolteacher) his life would be well spent. From what I have heard, he touched many lives with his kindness, compassion, and inspiration… even the life of a small four year old who missed the father that took her to school with him, and picked carrots together in the garden.

I will die too… sooner or later. I have lived my life to the fullest, with a sense of wonder rather than fear. And like my father, I think I have touched a few lives along the way. This is one of my favorite bits of wisdom:

For the truth is that I already know as much about my fate as I need to know. The day will come when I will die. So the only matter of consequence before me is what I will do with my allotted time. I can remain on shore, paralyzed with fear, or I can raise my sails and dip and soar in the breeze.

Richard Bode, First You Have to Row a Little Boat

… P. L. Morningstar
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No Sale

I received my “economic stimulus” check last week. I guess I’m supposed to run out to the shopping mall and buy things I don’t need in order to show my patriotism… in order to keep the economy growing and corporate America rich. But buying more stuff isn’t the answer. A consumer driven economy is unsustainable. And most of our consumer goods are imported… so whose economy are we really helping when we make our purchases?

I have had the great fortune in my lifetime to be able to travel to many far-flung destinations of the world. With each international experience, I became more aware of the excessive nature of our American culture, and of my own complicity in that consumer culture.

While traveling in India, I took a walk outside the ancient walled city of Jaisalmer in the warm afterglow of a desert sunset. I watched a dark-skinned man beside a dusty road, carefully cutting narrow strips of rubber from an old tire to repair another man’s sandal – the flip-flop kind we wear to the beach or swimming pool and throw away at the end of summer. I looked down at my own feet, at the sturdy brown leather walking shoes that I wore, knowing there was another pair of shoes in my bag at the hotel… thinking about all the shoes that sat on my closet floor at home, shoes for any and all occasions, shoes to match every outfit, shoes that go out of style before wearing out. When was the last time I actually wore out a pair of shoes? For that matter, who repairs shoes anymore? It was not so much that I felt guilty that I had more than these two men who squatted in the desert dust repairing a plastic sandal with bits of rubber tire, although I did; it was that I had more than I needed… a dozen pair of shoes for one pair of feet – and handbags in colors to match. The slender man with turbaned head slipped the newly repaired sandal onto his bare foot, tested the black bands of rubber, smiled at the “shoe repairman” and turned to walk home.

We cannot buy our way out of the mess that we are in. Consumption is not the solution… it is the problem. My rebate check will sit in the bank, waiting to be needed.

... PLM

Enchanted Forest

Gardening and hiking… my two favorite outdoor activities. With a pack on my back and camera strap around my neck, I am in Nirvana… as long as the trail is not too steep. I don’t claim to be a good uphill hiker. But give me a relatively flat trail and I could go on forever. We have 123-acres of land, almost all uphill. We have explored most of it, finding shady, little waterfalls and open spaces that give a grand view of the Seven Sisters. There is a grove of old growth spruce where we found an enormous red squirrel food cache. This kind of exploration calls for bushwhacking and bear bells fastened to our hiking sticks - the locals laughingly call them “dinner bells” for the bears. When we want a more civilized hike, we head for Ferry Island in Terrace. We first visited the Ferry Island Trail when friends came up for a visit from the States. What makes it special are over 55 carvings hidden in the trees that line the trail. They are all carved into the bark of cottonwood trees. For several years, it was a mystery… the little carvings just magically appearing. It was usually children who first spotted them, like elf or hobbit spirits living in an enchanted forest. In 1995, it was revealed that the mystery carver was local artist, Rick Goyette. Finding the carvings requires paying attention. They are not obvious. Hiking the Ferry Island Trail becomes a treasure hunt, and well worth the effort. (Photo: P. L. Morningstar)

... PLM

Decoration Day

I snipped and placed each flower in a bucket of shallow water, branches of sweet-smelling lilac, stalks of yellow iris and purple iris, a few early roses, bachelor buttons, and lots of Jupiter’s Beard (Centranthus ruber). It grew behind my Grandmother’s house like a weed, and could always be counted upon to bloom in time for what we called Decoration Day, the 30th day of May. I don’t know how it happened… perhaps because I was the eldest child… but I was the designated flower picker for the bouquets that would later be placed on my father’s grave and those of my Grandfather’s sisters.

Although Memorial Day was first proclaimed in 1868 to honor Union soldiers who died during the American Civil War, and after World War I was expanded to include those who died in any war or military action, I don’t remember connecting it with wars and soldiers. It was just the day that my family drove to Eugene’s Laurel Hill Cemetery to clean and decorate the graves. It became a family reunion – of the living and the dead – as we greeted other relatives who had come to honor their own loved ones. Grandma, Grandpa, younger sisters, and mom and dad, aunts and uncles, we worked together pulling weeds, and scrubbing the gravestones. Mason jars were filled with water and all the flowers I had picked earlier were transferred to them from the bucket and placed on the various graves. We sat among the dead, remembering them in life; sharing with them the sun, the fresh green grass, flowers that bloom, and the legacy of the living. I grew up thinking of cemeteries as a friendly place, not a place to fear… and with the knowledge that death is as natural as life.

Congress made the day into a three-day weekend with the National Holiday Act of 1971, and people seem to have forgotten the spirit of Memorial Day’s traditional day of observance. As the VFW stated in its 2002 Memorial Day address: "Changing the date merely to create three-day weekends has undermined the very meaning of the day. No doubt, this has contributed greatly to the general public's nonchalant observance of Memorial Day."

Sadly I found Laurel Hill Cemetery listed on an “Endangered Cemetery Report.” With more than 2,000 graves, the report gives the condition of the cemetery as “neglected” and rarely visited; gravestones overturned, broken, stolen, desecrated, and tagged with graffiti. “The historic cemetery (established in 1852) is in very bad condition back in the older sections and the "Pauper Field". If you hike back into the overgrown areas, the graves are sunken and headstones are missing. This cemetery is overseen by the IOOF, a fast-dying organization with the average age of member past 70. This historic cemetery needs help! The last major clean-up was in 1973 by the City of Springfield to honor pioneer families.”

… P. L. Morningstar

Backroad Porcupine

The backroad drive into Kitwanga is a little like a wildlife safari. I never know what I will see, so I keep alert to any movement along the road. Yesterday morning as I drove in to see Richard, I saw a mid-size, four legged critter amble off to the edge of the road. But I was too far away to make out any detail. So I drove on around a curve and there was another one, same size, shape and speed, but this time in the middle of the road. I stepped on the brakes with the critter just a few feet in front of me - a porcupine - first live one I have seen. (Usually we see them flattened on Highway 16.) It slowly wandered off, crossed the grassy verge and turned to look nearsightedly back at me as it reached the eves of the forest. If you would like to learn more about this very interesting mammal (second largest rodent in Canada, second only to the beaver) click here.

... Bob

Mr. Toad

While working in my garden yesterday, I made a happy discovery. Pulling back the black plastic sheeting that covered last year’s cucumber bed, I saw what at first I thought was a dirt clod – that is, until I noticed two beautiful unblinking golden eyes. “Hello, Mr. Toad.” How wonderful to find a Western Toad Bufo boreas in the garden. Last year ants had colonized in the cucumber bed… they aren’t there any more, and by the plumpness of Mr. Toad, I guess I know why.

When I lived in Oregon I enrolled in the OSU Extension Department’s Master Gardner training program and received my certification. One of the things that we learned to use was Integrated Pest Management (IPM) - an effective and environmentally sensitive approach to pest management that relies on a combination of common-sense practices. As the online Garden Web states, “Integrated Pest Management works best when you look at your garden as small ecosystem. After the planting is completed, your job is merely to help nature maintain a healthy balance. And often that is best done by leaving things to nature." I couldn’t agree more.

We have a birdbath in the garden to encourage birds to come and feast on bugs. (I cover berries with bird netting.) Snakes are welcome too. But not all bugs are bad. I just learned about Beetle Banks today. “Beetle Banks are permanent habitat for predacious ground beetles in cropping systems. Through a collaboration with Oregon vegetable farmers, and the Farmscaping for Beneficials Project at IPPC (Integrated Plant Protection Center) we are exploring on-farm methods of beetle bank establishment and their effects on ground beetle populations.” You can download a pdf pocket guide to beneficial insects by clicking here.

... PLM

WHEN THERE IS NO MORE

BBC 20 May 2008, Supply fears push oil beyond $129
Oil prices have surged past $129 a barrel as Opec comments that it would not be boosting output in the coming months increased concerns about supply… Oil investor T Boone Pickens forecast that prices would reach $150 this year.

“The real problem is that we use too much oil. It's that simple and that difficult. If we truly want to reduce our vulnerability to high prices, the best way to do so is to reduce consumption.” ...Oil and Politics By Richard Heinberg

GOOD NEWS – People Making a Difference

Where Industry Once Hummed, Urban Garden Finds Success
PHILADELPHIA - Amid the tightly packed row houses of North Philadelphia, a pioneering urban farm is providing fresh local food for a community that often lacks it, and making money in the process.

Cleaning her mountains one bottle at a time
TILCARA, Argentina (CNN) -- Carmen Salva's mission may be ambitious, but her belief is simple: "It's never too early to start caring for the land you live in and grow up in." That's why on Saturdays, Salva and a group of 60 to 100 students, parents and teachers can be found venturing into the high altitude of their northern Argentina mountains, trash bags in hand and llamas in town. They're part of Esperanza de Vida (Hope for Life), Salva's youth environmental group that is out to clean up the surroundings, one plastic bottle at a time.

CBC/bc Nominations for “Greenest Person”
In honour of Earth Day, CBC News asked British Columbians to share the story of the greenest person they know. Here are two nominations for the same person, Jackie Hildering of Port McNeill:

From Norah Brown: My name is Norah and I am 10 years old. I think the "greenest" person I know is Jackie Hildering. She is amazing because she leads the Young Naturalists Club, she goes to classrooms and helps kids raise salmon in incubators and then release them. She teaches us about watersheds and the water cycle.

Knowing Jackie has changed my life because I know that if you pollute the water it will end up where salmon are. We need salmon to eat and because they feed bears and bears fertilize trees and we need trees to make oxygen. She taught us that everything is linked together.

She helped us learn to make better choices. Jackie has taught many people how to be better to the environment. Our lives and the earth have been positively changed by Jackie.

From Dominique Hooper: I am 11 years old. I know Jackie from when she teaches me. Jackie Hildering is a caring person to the environment and believes in making things better for the earth. She has a very unique sense of teaching that attracts people to the subject she's teaching.

Jackie teaches us beach studies. We learn about the creatures that live at the beach like sea urchins. Jackie taught us about marine mammals. She helps us learn to think like scientists. She showed us how we are connected by the food chain and the persistant toxins that go up the food chain and don't go away. If we keep polluting, it will effect our source of food and it might make other species become extinct.

I know not to use plastic bags, to recycle more, and to not use chemicals that are harmful in my home. Jackie is earth friendly and teaches us to be too.

... PLM

Wildflowers

For as long as I can remember, I have loved wildflowers. Childhood memories always include late spring and early summer days of tramping about the southern Oregon hillsides looking for wildflowers. In later life I have fond memories of hiking up the Iron Mountain trail in July to photograph the wild profusion of alpine flowers in bloom. They are a wonder… wildflowers… popping up on their own accord with no gardener’s tender attentions, no soil amendments, careful watering, or weeding. They come and they go in quick succession, hurrying to spin their life cycle before winter comes again. With our unusually cool spring they have been late in arriving this year, but finally I begin to see Arnica’s bright yellow faces on a sunny roadside bank and Bunchberry dogwood blooms beneath the trees. (Photos by P. L. Morningstar: Arnica and Bunchberry Cornus canadensis.)

... P. L. Morningstar

Voluntary Simplicity

Imagine my surprise when I discovered an article (Chasing Utopia, Family Imagines No Possessions) in the New York Times online, that featured a young family who have decided to give away all of their material possessions to seek a self-sustaining life on the land. Their hope is to move to a cabin in the woods and become organic homesteaders in Vermont.

Though it may not be the stuff of the typical American dream, the voluntary simplicity movement, which traces its inception to 1980s Seattle, is drawing a great deal of renewed interest, some experts say. “If you think about some of the shifts we’re having economically — shifts in oil and energy — it may be the right time,” said Mary E. Grigsby, associate professor of rural sociology at the University of Missouri and the author of “Buying Time and Getting By: The Voluntary Simplicity Movement.

My surprise - and delight – was with the coincidental timing of the article and the second anniversary of our own move to a simpler lifestyle here in northern British Columbia. We wish the young Harris family all the best in their new life. You can follow their story on a blog cagefreefamily.com. Spread the word. Voluntary simplicity is not about living in poverty or self-inflicted deprivation - it is about Living in a way that is outwardly simple and inwardly rich… Duane Elgin.


There is that old philosophical riddle - If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? I was thinking about that yesterday while watching Bob whack up a tree that had fallen during last week’s windstorm. I don’t know if it made a sound when it fell, but I do know it will make good firewood. And that is living simply.

... P. L. Morningstar

Anniversary

On the day we took possession of this cabin and 123-acres, pulling down the For Sale sign felt like planting a flag to claim our territory. We had just been to the Kitwanga post office, a blue metal building in the upper village, to get a post office box so that we would have an official mailing address. There is no physical address for our cabin, and no home delivery. Ironically, we later learned that mail was once carried by dogsled (in winter) along the very road that transects our property – transporting mail from Cedarvale to Hazelton.

Along with our symbolic territorial claim, came the commemorative photos. I wanted a photo of Bob and me – together - in front of the cabin. I had never used the self-timer on my digital camera but between the two of us, we worked out which dials to change, and what buttons to push. Then I sat on the doorstep of the cabin while Bob used the hood of the Jeep as a platform for the camera. He focused, and then pressed the time-delay button. A little light blinked off and on as Bob ran like hell to get to the doorstep and sit down before the shutter clicked. We did it three times; the third photo being the best – thank God – I don’t know if Bob could have done it a fourth time.

Let’s admit it. We were sappy happy, as excited as any little kid finding his first bicycle under the Christmas tree, rather than the senior citizens that we were… ready to willingly give up public utilities, convenience stores, and reliable running water. What were we thinking?! We waltzed through the early days viewing everything through rose-colored glasses – until the toilet stopped flushing, the water didn’t pour forth from the faucet, the pitter patter of little mice feet interrupted our sleep, and hot water came from kettles sitting on top of the woodstove.

18 May Journal Entry…

Flush the toilet. No flush. Turn on water at kitchen faucet. No water. Bob pokes his head out from under the bed covers. “What’s the matter?” “No water,” I say. He sits up, swings his feet to the floor and says, “I’d better go check the intake.” He dresses, puts on his hiking boots and heads out the door to a chilly, grey morning. He makes his way through wet grass to the creek and to the water intake for the cabin. The previous owner’s son had told Bob that we need to check the intake every morning to clear the makeshift filter… an old metal bucket punched through with holes and covered with window screening. While Bob is gone, I get the fire going. I feel like an old pioneer woman standing in my long johns poking kindling and newspaper into the woodstove. I light a match and put a teakettle on the cooking surface for hot coffee. Then I sit down, comb and re-braid my hair. Soon the cabin water is running again and Bob is making pancakes. Sammy lies curled up behind the stove, gathering dust balls, and warmth. He’s tired from the nighttime mouse activity… so are we. Especially the ones that don’t die quickly and end up dragging the mousetrap all over the cabin! Sammy just sat on the bed meowing at us to get up and take care of the matter. Come on – you’re the cat.

23 May Journal Entry…

We continue to have problems with the water system. The creek is a rushing muddy torrent now, filled with floating leaves and red alder catkins that adhere to the filter and stops the flow of water to the cabin every hour or two. Bob went into Kitwanga this afternoon to place phone calls at the public pay phone. While he was gone I had to hike up to the creek and clean out the filter twice. The second time, I took off my boots and socks and just waded into the creek. Tonight I washed my hair with creek water heated on the stove. Oh, a hot shower would feel so good right now.

We cleaned, and cleared out. Windows sparkled, showcasing the view from every side of the cabin. Each day brought new discoveries. Rhubarb and currants growing in an old garden plot. Fruit trees beginning to bloom… blue violets and wild strawberries in the meadow, Canada white violets near the creek. Bob startles a great horned owl in the woods behind the cabin one morning. We watch three beavers swimming in the pond. They slap their tails loudly against the surface of the water, then dive, only to reappear and swim closer to look at us. Two moose high-step across the meadow in front of the cabin in the fading light of evening.

That was two years ago. By most people’s standards, we still live a rustic lifestyle, but since those early days we have installed a propane on-demand hot water heater, satellite internet connection, and a stainless steel self-cleaning water intake filter at the creek… with Stronach creek once again a muddy torrent of snowmelt, we especially appreciate that upgrade… no more daily or hourly trips. There are things we miss… like a washing machine, convenient video store, and a good Thai restaurant (or any Thai restaurant). But on a day like today when I can breathe deeply the clear, fresh air and the only sounds heard are rushing water and birdsong, I guess those are sacrifices we can live with. Yah, we’re still sappy happy.

... P. L. Morningstar

Canada is "Nice"

Yesterday my son Greg sent me an article that he thought would interest me… “Outright Barbarism vs. the Civil Society” by Sara Robinson (Campaign for America's Future), an American who now lives in Vancouver, B.C. He was right, and because our experience in Canada, and concerns for the future of the United States are similar to the author, I would like to share the article with you. She begins with:

“ I live in a nice place. I mean that literally. It took some getting used to. After 20 years in Silicon Valley, where people put a premium on being direct and to the point, have no time to waste on small talk or personal sharing, and will call a stupid idea stupid to your face, moving to Canada required a whole lot of gearing back on that brusque American aggressive-in-your-face thing. The humbling fact was: We had to learn to mind our manners.

Much of the adjustment work that first year involved re-learning the art of Being Nice. We had to get used to meetings that started with 10 or 15 minutes of personal chit-chat. We had to train ourselves to stop interrupting people, and to be more careful to say "please" and "thank you." …Civility is, in a very real sense, the glue that holds this big, diverse nation together. Name-calling, othering, and losing one's temper is, quite simply, un-Canadian and unpatriotic. … In the land where "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" is supplanted by "peace, order, and good government" as the organizing values, there is simply no excuse at all for that kind of behavior, ever.”

So when and where did the United States go wrong, to become a violent, intolerant, polarized nation that feeds upon itself and others? Sara Robinson reviews a recently published book “Outright Barbarous: How the Violent Language of the Right Poisons American Democracy”
by Jeffrey Feldman (New York based anthropologist and author of Framing the Debate). An expert on language and political messaging, he describes how “30 years of us-versus-them rhetoric has polarized the country, forced us into unnecessary conflicts against each other and everyone else, and virtually destroyed our ability to govern ourselves.” More from Sara Robinson:

“Taken as a whole, Feldman argues persuasively that the right wing's use of violent language and imagery over the past 30 years has gravely, deeply - perhaps even mortally - wounded the American body politic. As social theorists from John Dewey to Miss Manners have pointed out - and as my Canadian neighbors seem to understand as the central fact of their civic existence - civility is the necessary ingredient that allows democracies to function. Without it, there is no common good, no mutual respect, no reason to have faith in our ability to govern together wisely and well. When these basic agreements fail, so does our ability to self-govern. Reading this book from my peaceable perch on a mountainside in western Canada, the destruction of America's civic order, as Feldman describes it, looks utter and complete.

If we want democracy, we need to be able to see our fellow citizens as human beings, possessed of their own inherent worth and dignity.

If we want justice, we need to grant them the same rights and respect we feel entitled to - even when they're strenuously disagreeing with us, or when their interests and ours line up on opposite poles.

If we want security, we must first learn to be safe with each other, and trust ourselves as guardians of our collective well-being.

A final note. The idea that Being Nice is a sign of weakness is, as noted above, inherent in the conservative narrative Feldman describes. Anger merchants like (Ann) Coulter and (Bill) O'Reilly have sold an entire generation of Americans on the idea that the mere desire to gather facts, contemplate them calmly, and discuss them rationally with people who might have other points of view makes one a traitor to the nation - weak, ineffectual, and dangerously liberal.”

The belief that being nice is a sign of weakness is an attitude with no future… or at least not any kind of future that I want to contemplate. When I was being unkind, my Grandmother would look at me and say, “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” In other words, Be Nice. With some exceptions of course, Canadians seem already to know this; but Americans need to relearn that old folkism… and the value of civility.

... P. L. Morningstar

April Showers Bring May Bears

The last few days have been getting warmer; it is raining more, and the wind has been ferocious, at times gale force. Late last night there were flashing lights and the sounds of chain saws on the backroad near the gate to our place. This morning I found the remains of a huge popular tree that had fallen across the road and was cut into segments by the Billabong road crew, and moved to the side. It should make great firewood. Just another chapter in this unusual spring.

Yesterday I saw the first black bear of the season. It was an adult, probably a male since there were no cubs. He was ambling across the backroad just west of Cottonwood Canyon. Last year the first bear that we saw was in April. But this April was the coldest in 50 years and May has been setting low temperature records as well. Now Environment Canada is predicting a sudden and significant warming for this weekend… 21 to 30 degrees C (70 to 85 degrees F). Given that the winter snow pack has experienced little melting so far and stands at 130 % of normal in some areas, local flooding is expected as a result of the high temperatures over the next few days. CBC Radio just broadcast a seasonally late avalanche warning for the upcoming “long weekend.”

Last year when similar conditions led to the flooding of the backroad near its junction with route 37 (and the rest of the world) we were cut off from town for two weeks, which led to a crisis of sorts: Sammy our 16-year old resident cat at that time was out of kitty litter. Sammy was a lot like Felix Ungar in the Odd Couple. Sammy had been known to spend the better part of a quarter hour rearranging the litter box. And that's with fresh litter. The situation was becoming unacceptable and he let us know it. We had a few needs of our own, drinking water, food, and fuel. So I emailed Richard, our friend who lives in Kitwanga, and together we worked out a route that got around the flooding: I drove the Jeep to a railroad access point near the Kitwanga River bridge. He came from route 37 by truck, then down the railroad tracks in his quad, across the railroad bridge and met me at the access point. When I got there he handed me a bag of kitty litter. He understands a real emergency. Then I got on the quad and together we rode approximately 2.5 miles of railroad tracks back to 37, got his truck and went shopping in Kitwanga for the rest. Not much of a selection in the general store, the shelves were only partially stocked. Then we reversed the process and got me back to the Jeep. Richard is a real friend. (I shot this picture of Richard on the railroad bridge over the Kitwanga River on the way back from the store.) We were re-supplied, and Sammy had his fresh litter.

The road now has new culverts that will hopefully keep it passable if the Kitwanga River decides to flood again.

… Bob

Sweet Treats

There are a couple of good reasons to go to our Petro Canada station at the junction of Hwy 16 and 37, were the big “North to Alaska” sign hangs… that is, other than filling the gas tank. They have ice cream and bannock. Our little low-energy refrigerator won’t keep ice cream frozen, so the big tubs of Dairyland ice cream – eight assorted flavors - at the Petro station have become one of our favorite summer afternoon treats… well, anytime actually. If you ask for a cup of ice cream, they cram big scoops of it into a tall paper beverage cup and charge about three bucks – such a deal. The other drawing card is their fried bannock (fry bread) piled into a basket near the cash register. In western Canada, bannock is closely associated with the aboriginal culture, even though Scottish fur traders likely introduced it to them in the 18th and 19th centuries. During the tourist season we often see it for sale at roadside stands near First Nation villages. It is delicious, especially when still warm and sprinkled throughout with dried currants. Ice Cream and bannock – two nice things to soften the price shock at the petrol pumps.

... P. L. Morningstar

Memories of Mother

When Bob’s mother died in Pennsylvania, we were unable to attend the memorial service, and his sister asked him to write down a few memories to be read aloud at the service. His mother suffered from Alzheimer’s at the end of her life - it is others who now hold onto her memories. With Mother’s Day only one day past, it seems an appropriate time to share and honor Bob’s memories of his mother, Frances L. Weimer.

As I write these few words I am sitting at our front window looking out over our meadow at Woodcock Mountain. Mist covers the mile high mountaintop and the autumn leaves of Cottonwood and Douglas Maples color the slopes. The air is cool and dusk is approaching. Soon I will have to light one of the kerosene lamps. I think Mother would have enjoyed it here.

Every day we see things that would remind her of her childhood – like the stray cows from the farm down the road that seem to prefer our meadow to their own pasture, and the occasional fox checking on our now empty chicken coop. And there are some surprising things that would certainly have delighted her; black bears climbing in the crabapple trees, moose prancing in the meadow, and mountain lions ghosting through the deep woods.

But Tracy has asked me to share a few of my memories about our Mother, so I have been sorting through some six decades of memories about her. Some are true. Some memories belong to other people but have been told so often that I have adopted them as my own. Others are the way that I wish that it had been. Here are five memories that I trust, and that mark for me the long path of a remarkable woman.

The first memory is from the day I fell from a tree that I was forbidden to climb and broke my arm. I took my broken arm, my broken pride, and myself to our apartment. Mother was there alone. No lecture, she just assessed the damage and started to improvise a splint and sling. A dishtowel served as a sling, but there was nothing for the splint. So she pulled out a dresser drawer, emptied it, and broke out the bottom – bam! – splints. Then off to the ER where the MD on duty was my Father. The lecture came later.

The second memory is from the time when we lived at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. My dog Laddie accidentally got the leg of a Colonel’s daughter in his mouth while she was swinging (my version). I was just explaining this to my Mother when two MP’s showed up at the door. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we’ll have to take the dog…” which meant of course that he was about to lose his head. Mother said, “No, sorry but that’s not going to happen,” and firmly closed the door. I’m pretty sure that those MP’s must have felt the same sense of awe that I did on seeing my Mother in high dudgeon. There was something about her absolute certainty that won the day. Laddie remained my trusted companion for many years to come thanks to her.

The third memory is also about a dog and was only a decade and a half ago. I was home for a visit and while reminiscing, mentioned Ypsi, my stuffed dog from early childhood. Mother said, “Follow me,” and led the way up to the attic. Opening a small cardboard box, she pulled out a plastic bag full of mothballs, and Ypsi. Ypsi now sits upstairs in the glass bookcase over my desk. Thanks Mom.

The fourth occurred during Mother’s visit to Oregon in 1996. Mother and I were on a grand tour of the northwest part of the state when she suddenly announced that she wanted to meet an Indian. Okay. I had done some consultation with the Grand Ronde Native Americans, so I suggested that we stop at their Spirit Mountain Casino, which was nearby. “A gambling casino?” Yes. She very reluctantly agreed and we decided before going in that we would only be there a few minutes. Once inside, she started getting interested and wanted to know how the slot machines worked. I ended up suggesting a ten-dollar limit on the quarter slots, and when it was gone we would leave. She played for a few minutes and was quickly down to six quarters. No problem, we will be back on the road in no time. Then she won. Not much. But she was back in the game. Soon a small crowd gathered, cheering her on. Sixteen dollars. Twenty. Twenty-five. “I think we ought to get going,” I suggested. “But I’m winning, and you said…” We stayed.

She finally leveled off at 27-dollars, a gross profit of 17-dollars, but it might as well have been the jackpot. At last I talked her into leaving the slots and getting some souvenir T-shirts for the grandkids. And we finally met a genuine Indian, the sales clerk in the gift shop. But for the rest of the trip she would not let me forget that I had dragged her away from her “winning streak.”

This last memory really is my last memory of Mother. I talked with her by telephone on her birthday, just before her death. She seemed bright and cheerful and remarkably in touch. It was truly a very happy day for her and she said that everyone was wishing her a happy birthday and singing to her, and that there would be a cake later. At some point I asked about what was new and she became very serious and said, “You know my husband died?” “Ah, yes.” I wasn’t sure where this was going. “Well, I went out and bought a new car.” The only thing I could think to say was, “What kind of car?” “A Ford, of course. We always buy Fords.” No, we didn’t always buy Fords. But when Mother was a young girl, I’ll bet the James family did.

And while this is about my memories of Mother, it is comforting for me to know that at the end of her life her memories were happy ones; memories that reconnected her to her James family roots.

Now it is dark and the mist has descended into the valley. So I will close with the same words I spoke to her at the end of that last telephone call – “Goodbye for now Mom, I love you.”

… Bob Weimer

Why and How Come?

Today is Mother’s Day. Don’t worry, I’m not going to wax poetic about the sanctity of Motherhood or to say that being a mother is the most important thing I have done in my life. I cannot say I have been a great mom although I have tried to be; it was not a role that came naturally to me. While my sisters gravitated easily to babies and little children, and are now enjoying the role of “Granny,” I have always felt awkward around children. On the other hand, children seem to like me… perhaps because I listen to them. We can learn a lot from children. They ask questions that cause us to reevaluate things - to question accepted views, questions that can re-ignite our own sense of wonder as we see the world anew, through the eyes of a child. Their “whys” and “how comes” make us think.

Times are changing. With an emphasis on security and fear, our culture seems to be in a rush to turn children into “little adults.” No questioning or youthful exploration allowed. Books are banned from school libraries, teachers suspended or fired for presenting different views, experiencing the natural world is denied to children for fear of sexual predators and/or “dangerous” wildlife.

I worried about the safety of my children too – though for different reasons. They were boys and I grew up in an all girl family. Climbing trees, playing in the canal where there were turtles and water moccasins, or riding a bicycle down a steep gravel driveway towards a wooden ramp that propelled bicycle – and rider – across the road and into a wooded gully, were not the kind of things I grew up with. But I knew my sons had to be free to be boys – to be children. I closed my eyes and prayed a lot to any guardian spirits who happened to be around. It seemed to work – no broken bones – and two grown sons, unique individuals doing their own thing. Incredibly, they allow me to think that I have been a pretty good mom. One Mother’s Day, a star was named for me. This year I received a very special YouTube greeting. But the best gift my sons give to me is their acceptance - not only as their mother - but also as a woman still testing her own limits and still looking for the answers.

My two sons... Greg (left) lives in Arizona. Jeff (right) lives in Oregon.

Sitting with the Cabbages

It was 32-degrees this morning, still too cold to transplant the vegetable starts I purchased at the Skeena Valley Nursery on Sunday. But I dutifully carry the trays outside each morning to soak up the warm sunshine, and bring them back into the cabin at nightfall. Today I decided to join them.

Sitting on the bench that Bob and I moved to the garden a few days ago, I feel my body unfold and expand; reaching for the sunlight, not unlike the cucumber, zucchini, cabbage, tomato and marigold plants that sit in trays just beyond me. Sometimes I forget how calming a garden has always been for me. Tending them has gotten me through most of life’s rough spots; the tumultuous teen years of my sons, the death of my father, and the end of a long marriage. I often joked that I had to have weeds always growing in my gardens for those times when I needed to “weed beds and clear my head.”

Other than emerging from a long winter in a small cabin, I have no rough spots to work through today. I am simply content to sit here in the sun with the cabbages, zucchinis, tomatoes, and marigolds… just bring me in at nightfall.

… P. L. Morningstar

Omar Ahmed Khadr

Bernard Amyot, the head of the Canadian Bar Association is asking the Canadian government to intervene in the case of Omar Ahmed Khadr, the youngest detainee at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Khadr who was captured by the U.S. military in Afganistan in July 2002 and transfered to Guantanamo in October 2002 when he was 15 years old. He has been there six years, a quarter of his life. Omar Khadr is the only person in modern history to be charged for war crimes he allegedly committed while a minor. His story has been told in detail in the Globe and Mail, Rolling Stone Magazine, CBS television, CBC television, CTV, Amnesty International, Human Rights First, and Trial Watch among others. Yesterday (7 May 2008) the Globe and Mail reported that "Even by the surreal standards of the Omar Khadr saga - one that has seen allegations of doctored evidence and arguments over whether the detained Canadian is allowed to read a Lord of the Rings screenplay - the scene in Ottawa yesterday was striking: About 50 teenagers dancing and demonstrating on Parliament Hill, chanting "Omar! Omar!" and demanding Mr. Khadr get a fair trial." And Liberal Leader Stéphane Dion kicked off Question Period yesterday by asking Prime Minister Stephen Harper why he is refusing to demand the return of Canadian citizen Omar Khadr from Guantanamo Bay.

This represents a clear shift in both institutional and popular support within Canada for the return of Omar Khadr to stand trial in Canada. There is little hope left that the U.S. military courts and the heavy hand of the Bush administration will allow even the appearance of justice in this already sorry case. Intervention by the Canadian government is the only chance that Khadr can receive a fair trial. Let us hope that the Canadian government will have the courage and integrity to stand up for the rights of one of its own citizens.

We respectfully add our voices to the call for the Canadian government to intervene in the Khadr case and to work to end this shameful chapter. If you want to add your voice, visit the Amnesty International website entitled "Bring Omar Khadr to Justice. Bring him to Canada."

... Bob

What Color is a Purple Finch?

I’ve noticed this question on several websites that promote “The World’s Easiest Quiz” along with other questions like: How long did the Hundred Years War last? (116 years, from 1337 to 1453), Which country makes Panama hats? (Ecuador), What is a camel’s hair brush made of? (squirrel fur – don’t let our squirrels hear about that!), Where do Chinese gooseberries come from? (New Zealand), and What is the color of the “black box” in a commercial airplane? (orange). We know the answer to the Purple finch question because we have had one feeding with the White-crowned and Golden-crowned sparrows for a couple of days now in front of the cabin. It is a male and a beautiful rosy red color. The sparrows are not too happy with him, making half hearted attempts to chase him off, but he loves the sunflower seeds and keeps coming back.

Hello Blackbird

I heard a beautiful song coming from a small pine tree yesterday. Perched on a branch, singing his heart out was a male Red-winged Blackbird. His whole body was thrown into the song, hoping to win the admiration of lady blackbirds. According to our bird guide, BIRDS OF COASTAL BRITISH COLUMBIA, “Whichever male the females determine is the finest becomes the sultan of his patch of marsh, presiding over a harem of females all raising his offspring within his area of defended territory.” Interestingly enough the female Red-winged Blackbird looks nothing like her male counterpart. Instead she resembles a large sparrow with streaky brown plumage, helping her to blend into the marshland setting (our beaver pond) with her nest.

We put out our hummingbird feeder today and almost immediately a Rufous Hummingbird arrived. And we saw our first Yellow-Rumped Warbler of the season, hunting for insects in the grass. Our cabin has become a busy place this spring, and we laugh to watch all the “fur and feather” creatures gathered in front… Sparrows, Jays, Blackbirds, Hummingbirds, and Red squirrels… and only an occasional squabble among them.

... P. L. Morningstar

Saturday at the Cabin

The sweet honey fragrance of the cottonwood leaf buds, the pale yellow haze hugging the tips of poplar and birch, and the greening of meadow grass, tell me it is finally spring. We woke this Saturday morning to bright sunny skies... a good day for outside chores. But first there are the animals at the door, waiting for two sleepy headed folks to get up and throw out a handful of birdseed, and place mixed nuts on the stump. While we eat breakfast we stand at the front window watching a small flock of white crowned and golden crowned sparrows scratch in the grass, a couple of Steller's jays go for the sunflower seeds, with big hopping motions. Josie, the female red squirrel sits on the stump, nibbling filberts, and making little squeaky-toy noises to warn off Red, the other squirrel. We leave them to their own devices and go online to check for e-mails and the morning news. We try out the new computer sharing program, with mixed results. Enough of the technology for a while!

With milder temperatures there was no need to fire up the wood stove this morning. One less chore. Bed made, coffee cups rinsed out, Bob tries to sort out a problem with the trailer's battery charger while I head for the garden. Ooops! A couple of the garden peas I planted this week now sit on top of the soil. Yesterday we saw a pair of varied thrush in the garden. They eat insects, snails, and berries – which is good, except for the berries – they must have pulled up the sprouting peas. I push them back into the soft soil. Last year we had the garden tilled because it hadn't been gardened for a long time and the sod had grown back. After the tilling, and breaking up clods of dirt and sod, I formed raised beds, which were really just mounded beds two to four inches high and two to three feet wide. Between the beds were paths. I dug the beds deep and put organic composted manure at the bottom of a trench, then refilled with soil. The advantages for this kind of gardening is that the slightly raised beds warm quicker in the spring, are easier to weed and since the beds are not walked on, the soil does not become compacted. It also conserves on water use because you only water where the rows are, not the entire garden. This year there is no need to till. In fact, there is little I need do to prepare the beds other than a light weeding, adding more organic matter, and fluffing up the soil. The rhubarb is coming up nicely and I will soon be making rhubarb sauce.

Lunch for us. Throwing out more seeds for the birds. Bob works to hook up the garden hose to the faucet bib under the cabin. Pulls the insulation out from around the water pipes, and tries to reach the the bib. There is a problem. New firewood has been stacked against the cabin wall – a small opening left to access the water connections. I do mean SMALL – in fact too small. Bob can just touch the faucet bib, but can't get close enough to screw on the hose. "Morningstar, are you claustrophobic?" What can I say? Sort of, but the alternative is to unstack the firewood. So I squeeze my upper body through a space that is 17-inches wide and 13-inches high. It tapers to a smaller space than that under the cabin. I have to get both arms out in front of me. I dig my feet in and push further, finally reaching the faucet bib, and screw on the hose. I turn the water on, and Bob has to pull me out by my feet. Once wasn't enough. We soon discover the hose wasn't screwed tight enough, water begins squirting everywhere under the cabin and I have to make a second attempt. Fortunately, this time it was successful. That deserves a nap.

Later... more nuts on the stump for Josie and Red. We see our first hummingbird of the season. Where did we put the hummingbird feeder? Bob splits firewood and fires up the woodstove. We have waffles tonight for dinner, made with a cast iron waffle iron insert. Delicious with maple syrup. We could work outside some more – it doesn't get dark until almost 10pm, but I think we will read instead.

... P. L. Morningstar

Flower Attacks

Today is May Day, and to many people of my generation, it brings back childhood memories of making colored paper baskets, and filling them with spring flowers, any flowers… field daisies, dandelions, one of mother’s tulips, a stem of bleeding hearts, or a berry blossom. We would hang the baskets on neighbor’s front doorknobs, knock or ring the bell, then run like hell and hide behind a bush to watch them open the door. Can you imagine anything more benign? Flower attacks!! I never got to be on the recipient’s side of the door. Too many years, too many wars, and the loss of childhood innocence have intervened. But I like to remember when it was fun to be kind.

... P. L. Morningstar