CHERRY LEMONADE DAYS....

I remember those endless, warm summers when we'd make cherry Koolaid, poured over ice, and drop a few cherries on top. My mother called it Cherry Lemonade...

She grew a few wild roses, pale pink ones that eventually were smothered by tree roots over the years.

There was tea. On those warm summer days. On the old blue and white Mikado china, and grapevine cups, steaming with amber.

Bees hummed around Caraway Seed cake, thick cream, and the sugar bowl.  They were always hopeful. Usually, drunken flies landed on the Cherry lemonade, spilled over on the table.

One, or both of our cats wandered by the porch, sleepily looking for a place to flop.
 

My mother hummed tuneless tunes. Her favourite was "Let me call you Sweetheart"...

She told me how my dad liked to sing it to her, years ago. Long ago. In the summertime. She missed him. She never said as such, but I knew. 

After seed cake, the koolaid and tea, we'd pick sweet peas. They grew like ivy, all over the side of the house. So tall. I'd get a chair to stand on, and pick handfuls for the old white pitcher. I still have that pitcher. It waits, yearly, for sweet peas...

"I heard a red-winged blackbird singing down where the river sleeps in the reeds: that was morning, 

 and at noontime a hummingbird flashed on the jewel-weeds...

...clouds blew up, and in the evening a yellow sunset struck through the rain, then blue night, 

and the day was ended that will never come again..."

                                                                                  - Sara Teasdale ( A June Day)

My world hummed with the heat.  Ants marched back and forth, stealing crumbs of seed cake.

Trees rustled. The sprinkler sprinkled.  Sweet peas and nasturtiums bloomed at the side of the old porch steps, where my mother sat with her tea. 

We'd slurp frozen Koolaid popsicles, mixed with cherry jello, a melting frozen treat on a stick. Bare feet on hot pavement. End of day.

It was summer. Every summer...

Photographs 2026

THE WHITE CAT...

 I met her, 19 years ago, after we moved in. She liked to swirl her feather duster tail around my feet. So pretty. I took her picture. Often. It was how I started to seriously get into photography. Because of her. 

White Cat came every day. She was my model. 

Her housemate, I had named “the Lion”, liked to follow her. Sometimes curious. From afar. From the fence. He just stared.

When I met their family, I discovered White Cat’s name was “Cordelia”. The Lion was “Patience”. It was a great way to meet friends...

I discovered White Cat liked to sleep in the grape vines. It was closer to the birds. She liked the birds. A lot. I used to find bird heads in the garden.

She brought me the head of a bird ( such a lovely gift). I took the hint, and started photographing birds. Live ones. 

And the occasional, slithering garter snake. I praised her. Patience still never left the fence. He just stared. I praised him for being so attentive.

Seasons changed. Years toddled by. Cordelia came over to visit in snow, rain, the heat of summer. Other cats followed her here. Patience still stared from his fence.

She no longer hung out in the grape vines, but opted to sit on the steps.

Cordelia got cuddles.

Hawks hunting in the yard, swooped low to catch prey. The hawk hooked her yellow talons over bare tree branches, to sit and watch Patience. 

Cordelia concerned herself with washing her pretty paws.

Cordelia always brought her friends. Now there are different cats who come by every day. Golden Mr. Spencer still shows up . To whisper greetings. 

In latter years, Cordelia and Patience could no longer get over the fence. I’d go to them, up on the hill. Through the slats, I’d see them nuzzling together, under the trees, in the long grass.

After all those years, Patience let me reach through to stroke his golden lion’s mane. Cordelia always by his side. We had many sweet words together, those gentle souls, and I.

But at the end of the day, they always looked to home.

Then it was only Cordelia who came to share a quiet moment in the day. She was a little slower, but still so sweet and lovely.  At last, she formally retired inside, to a warm home and the family who loved her.

But for 19 years, she was my muse, an inspiration.

I can still see her, when the light is low in the winter sun, and hear myself whispering: 

 “Hello, White Cat…what beautiful adventure shall we have today?”

 Photographs 2026  In memory of Cordelia ( Jan 2026 age of 19) 

                           and Patience ( March 2024 age of 18)

ISHBELL's SHORTBREAD ...

She was my mother's best friend. For always and forever. She was a talented artist. She had a family. She laughed and believed in the goodness of people. She loved my mother, and my mother counted her as her best friend. My mother fondly called her "Ishbell". She knew my dad. After he was gone, she told me how "Davy" as one in a million, about his generosity and kindness. I only knew him for a short while. Ishbell made him come alive.

My mother was godmother to her daughter, Marie, who became one of my best friends, my "god sister". To this day, Marie and I share a unique bond with each other, a friendship that has lasted through thick and thin. Ishbell gave my mother her the recipe for shortbread one year. Mum made it every year, squishing the tops with silver dragees, then  filling up the glass cookie jar with the  sugar showered rounds. I used to sneak them at midnight knocking off the silver dragees into the sink, pretending  they were marbles... 

                                         

 ISHBELL's SHORTBREAD ( updated with plant butter)

1 pound plant butter (you can use butter), 1 cup brown sugar, 3 3/4 cups flour ( maybe a tad more to get the right consistency of dough) 

"Christmas is the day that holds all time together..." -Alexander Smith

Beat the softened plant butter with the brown sugar till combined like pudding.

Add the flour and combine like pastry.

My mother and Ishbell were  so good for each other. So good for us.  She spent many Christmas evenings at our house, by the fire, listening to me dutifully scraping away at carols on the violin, then playing the same ones on the piano. "Wonderful, dear," she'd say encouragingly, no matter how I sounded. 

Combine dough well, and press into an ungreased, lined, cookie sheet. I used foil, because I ran out of parchment paper. Works just as well. 

Bake at 325 for about 12 minutes, for the first half of baking.

Score the hot shortbread into rectangles, or squares. Place back into oven and bake till brown and baked through. About another 8 or 9 minutes. I just keep an eye on it and lift up a piece to see if it's baked through.

It was always exciting when Ishbell and her family came over. She told stories with my mother, sipped sherry, and munched on fruitcake and shortbread. 

Lovely, sweet lady. I can still see her,in later years, long after mum was gone, surrounded by paintings, drawings, sketches, cards, and wonder. She  was full of wonder and grace. She still called me "dear". I can still hear her soft voice saying "Wonderful, dear..". But she was the dear one, for always and ever....

       "At Christmas, all roads lead home..." -Marjorie Holmes

Photographs 2025   "Ishbell's Shortbread" For Marie.......

                                                  
                                   

          ( "Ishbell" with her daughter.)     Mum walking on Government Stret, Victoria B.C. 1940's