210311 Morning notes.

 Mar. 11

What a grey and snow-blown winter we have had! A week ago snow devils were blowing across the meadow like the spirit of Tash through the Narnian forest, sentient, and purposeful. 

  

"In the shadow of the trees on the far side of the clearing something was moving. It was gliding very slowly Northward. At first glance you might have mistaken it for smoke, for it was grey and you could see things through it. But the deathly smell was not the smell of smoke. Also, this thing kept its shape instead of billowing and curling as smoke would have done. It was roughly the shape of a man but it had the head of a bird; some bird of prey with a cruel, curved beak. It had four arms which it held high above its head, stretching them out Northward as if it wanted to snatch all Narnia in its grip; and its fingers — all twenty of them — were curved like its beak and had long, pointed, bird-like claws instead of nails. It floated on the grass instead of walking, and the grass seemed to wither beneath it.

..."What was it?" said Eustace in a whisper.

"I have seen it once before," said Tirian. "But that time it was carved in stone and overlaid with gold and had solid diamonds for eyes. It was when I was no older than thou, and had gone as a guest to the Tisroc's court in Tashbaan. He took me into the great temple of Tash. There I saw it, carved above the altar." " *

Then, yesterday the sun shone all day and the temperature climbed to 12 degrees. Snow cascaded from the roof tumbling blocks of ice onto the porch. Patches of crumpled brown grass appeared on the apron, and puddles under the car's tires. The first rivulet of snowmelt trickled down the driveway. As I child I loved the little rivers and slush dams of the ditches and roadsides: I guess I'm still a child. They delight me still!

 

Fig lay in the sun on the porch. I could almost hear his little voice singing Alanis Morissette, "It's a black fly in your chardonnay." He came to the edge of the world where coyotes roam the hills and went blind two weeks after getting here. "Isn't it ironic?". **

          

He is getting very good at navigating his world, though. He is much more reliant on sound, pays attention to my voice and footsteps, he can readily find either door, his water bowl, his bed under the table. He and Blackie are friends now, or at least cohorts. He barks for Blackie whenever he goes out and the big dog comes bounding over the snow bank to visit. This morning it is overcast but 6 degrees already at 7:30 and here is Fig off to explore!

  *****

On Monday I cooked two pounds of chickpeas and froze them 3 cups to a bag, and the cooking water too. The broth has a lovely flavour and can replace chicken broth in soups and curries. On Tuesday, I made curried chickpeas and quinoa. Today I will make hummus, using a new recipe that I found for a black bean hummus. I called the black bean recipe "Tomorrow's Hummus" because on the day I made it, I thought it was missing something but the next day it tasted amazing!

Did your mother have one of these?

Or your grandmother? My mother's was more modern than this perhaps. It had several discs that changed the gauge of the grind instead of the cogs this one has and she used it often to process leftover meat for shepherd's pie. I will see how it processes chickpeas!

I think of my mother and father often and I wonder if they would like it here. I can't really picture them here, that's the thing. But she would have been charmed by the chalet, how the sun pours in the windows, the loft with its slanted ceiling and the balcony to step out upon and see the valley. She'd know the names of all the birds and wildflowers and delight in the bobcat prints so close to the house. My father would have enjoyed the rustic lifestyle, the woodshed and fire-stove, and the fishing. "There's trout in there, Elsa!", he'd say of every stream and pond. He would have liked seeing the farms, the cattle, the tractors and trucks. And the bacon, and fresh eggs from the neighbouring farm. He'd finally get a dog again. He wouldn't have a dog in the city, he said it was no place for a dog to live. The dog of his boyhood never knew a collar or a leash and roamed their little town like a coyote. They have both been gone so long, Elsa thirty years and Dad 18 years this week. 

Look! I thought we'd get rain but the sun has come out. The air smells as pure as a September morning at our long-ago family cottage after a storm. Here, at a place that is like nowhere else I have been in my life, the kaleidoscope of memories - my parents, their legacy of knowledge and their love of life - come sharply to mind all through the day. She is with me at the charity shops, and when we pass an old barn or a country church on the road, at the farm down the hill watching the cows plod across the field to drink at the stream. He is at my shoulder when I light the fire in the evenings, when I'm searching for interesting stones by the path, when I look out across Lac Memphramagog, and stand by the superimposed river that wanders blindly through the valley: pure enough to drink, clear as glass.

There are two others who are gone from this world whom I would wish to see here, having coffee on the porch in the morning sun. My brother, David,  dead 17 years (he died the year after my father died) and his partner, Angel, who died 24 years ago; both too young, too much in love with life and with each other, vagabonds of the world. They took each day as it came: he was a musician, she, his soulmate, his wife.

*****

Everywhere is it almost spring - the chalet roof bare and shining in the sun; the mountain rocks at the door, finally clear of snow, copper-coloured; the morning sun streaming in the windows and a caterpillar, fallen from the tree by the front walk climbing bravely up the snow bank; an underground (under-snow) river flowing from the downspout.

           

  

            

Today there is laundry to do, and the floors need sweeping, more wood to bring in; then I will sit and watch the valley in a cliche adirondack chair, plain and unpainted on the unpainted wooden porch. 

Keep well and keep safe. Thank you for visiting today.

Mumma Yaga.

*****

My first vineyard mosaic ready for grouting, there is another ready to begin; on Tuesday I picked up more brokens and a third project is already forming:

   

 

* C. S. Lewis, The Last Battle, book seven of the Narnia series, 1956

** Alanis Morissette, Ironic, 1996. ('96, really?)