DAY of the APHIDS 1982

“Canada day” . (It used to always be called “Dominion Day”, since 1867…just a bit of history there). My mother’s first day of summer in Victoria, B.C. She’d don her train engineer overalls, tie a blue kerchief on her head, grab a mason jar, a paintbrush and head out. 

She’d start with the Nasturtiums, planted in the spring mud, by the steps of the old porch. They grew like weeds. The aphids loved them. 

She'd brush quite a few into the jar, add a nasturtium, and tie the top with a white handkerchief.

We’d watch the little creepy crawlies scuttle back and forth over the flowers.

My mother cut the grass with her old electric mower, and chop wood for the winter. Then we’d pick sweet peas to stuff into her antique pitcher. 

Sweet peas tall as trees, up the side of the house, peeking into the dining room windows. Bees buzzing to and fro; dopey with the  heady scent.

I’d stuff sweet peas into my mother’s antique pitcher. I still use it to this day…

In the afternoon, my mother baked. 

Walnut slice, with chunks of nuts peeking out from sticky centers, piled high on a short bread base, orange icing melting over each piece. A gooey, sweet mess we’d eat with homemade iced tea. Real tea, floating with lemon wedges.

We’d watch the aphids in their jar. They were very organized.

  Then it was time to make Dundee Cake, one loaf for us, one to give away. 

A rich, pound cake made with butter, eggs, sugar, and  raisins with cherries, soaked in hot tea till they were plump. Like fat little aphids. 

When the cake had barely cooled, it was wrapped in a tea towel, and I’d take it next door.  

In the early evening we’d set the open mason jar out on the grass, giving the aphids their freedom. 

They probably went right back to the Nasturtiums….

In the dark, we’d hear fireworks, hidden from our view down at the waterfront. Bursts of sound, car horns blaring, over crickets chirping in the dark warmth.

This year, I will stand outside to see fireworks exploding  over the North Island. With just the crickets, singing long and low, in the deep silence of the night….

 PHOTOGRAPHS 2025  Happy Canada Day!!

LINGER in the GARDEN there....

TO ANY READER by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) 

From "A Child's Garden of  Verses 1885"

(Dedicated to his nurse Alison Cuningham, who cared for him in his childhood)

As from the house your mother sees you playing around the garden trees

So you may see, if you will look

                           Through the windows of this book,

                                                                                         Another child, far, far away,

                                                           And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

                  By knocking on the window, all that child to hear you.

He intent is all on his pay-business bent.

                                                                     He does not hear; he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

                                          For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

                                           And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there..................

Photography 2025

"A Child's Garden of Verses 1885" is in the Public domain....

 

"THIS SONG of MINE....."

MY SONG by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) from  "Crescent Moon" collection 1913

Poet, writer, composer, philosopher, Nobel peace prize  for literature in 1913."because of his profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse he has made his poetic thought, in his own English words, a part of the literature of the West." (Poetry Foundation)  

This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child

like the fond arms of love.

This song of mine will touch our forehead

like a kiss of blessing.

When you are alone it will sit by your side

and whisper in your ear.

When you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness.

My song will be like a pair of wings to your dream.

It will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.

It will be the faithful star overhead

when the dark night is over your road.

My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes,

and will carry your sight into the heart of things.

And when my voice is silent in death,

my song will speak 

in your living heart......

"I slept and dreamt that Life was joy. I awoke and saw that Life was service. I acted, and behold, service was joy..." -Rabindranath Tagore

      Photographs 2025                                                      (Sweet Simon)