I promised to follow up with two different men who both work on houses.
One – John – has been working on a BIG house, restoring it by himself.
The other – Jean – creates tiny houses – for birds.When last we heard from Jean, he was working on his Xtreme Birdhouse. While I was impatiently waiting for the photos of the finished product, Jean sent me these other ones, made from the corks of wine bottles and said:
“I can assure you that I was totally sober when I worked on those…. lol…..”
Jean Long’s Wine cork Birdhouse
I promised to believe him. Which doesn’t mean YOU have to.
Jean Long’s Creation
As for his Xtreme Birdhouse, it’s complete, and it’s even larger than it looks in these photos:
Bird Cathedral by Jean Long
Which may explain why Jean calls it “The Bird Cathedral”. Congrats, Jean, on one heck of a birdhouse! Here’s another view:
Jean Long’s Bird Cathedral
So let’s go over now to Prince Edward County and check in with John, our intrepid house-restorer, and his wife Ann. When last we heard, they were about to move into the beautiful old house. Here are some photos, starting with Ann sitting on the step waiting for the truck:
John says: “The Move went as smooth as SILK!! No surprises, no grief, and very good weather!”
The couple had spent the days prior cleaning the house, and now it was time to roll out the rugs and put things in their places:
Within a day or two, the dining room, living room, master bedroom and third floor den were partially set up.
John’s office, meanwhile, looks like it’s always been there….
Of course, there’s a lot of work left to do. They’re also keeping an eye on the garden, to determine how much work it will require. But one thing you and I know about John: he has a plan for getting it all done perfectly, and on time.
Ann and John, congratulations.
Top 4 photos by Jean Long, remainder by John Garside.
My staircase looked as tall as Mount Everest. But there was no alternative: I’d have to climb the mountain.
My back and leg were on fire with pain. As I’d done so many times before, I stood at the bottom of the stairs, summoning the courage. Then I started climbing — on hands, feet and knees — and told myself that I was a brave mountaineer. Sometimes, you just have to lie to yourself and hope yourself believes it.
At the top landing, I sat down. The truth was that I feltexhausted, sorry for myself and not at all brave. But it was worth the trip upstairs to my office. An email came from my husband, who’d left for work early that morning.
“Forgot to tell you”, he wrote. “I heard a Cardinal singing this morning. I looked out the kitchen door and saw a female… the male must have been nearby.”
Via vitalxrecognition.wordpress.com/
I smiled. I could almost hear the bird singing. Could almost believe that spring had really arrived and winter was really over.
It was mid- afternoon and my daughter’s little dog, Mr. D., woke up and headed downstairs. It was time for his walk around the garden.
Photo by Hamlin Grange
Together we went out the door and into the garden, snowflakes swirling around us.
He scampered along and I followed slowly, leaning on my cane. His fur is white, making him invisible against the snow without his sweater on. And he’s so small that the low boxwood plants that border the centre garden bed can hide him completely.
At one point I couldn’t see Mr. D. at all, though he was standing just a few feet away, wearing his sweater. Then I saw a blur of black and white speeding around the boxwood circle. I smiled. He slowed down till I caught up.
Photo by Hamlin Grange
When we returned to the front doorway, I saw a small box, with my name on it.
I tore open the cardboard. There was a book inside.
It was Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things. I’d been wanting to read it.
There was a short note accompanying the book:
“For Cynthia, who notices things ‘close up’ and understands in both visceral and transcendent ways the ‘Signature of All Things’ and can write so beautifully even when she hurts.”
It was from Jacqui, who works at the London Public Library. How did she know? I wondered. How did she know that on a day like today, this gift would cheer me up no end?
I smiled. The angel at work again.
Sometimes the angel is a sound: the song of a cardinal on a winter day; the harmony played by the wind chimes on our verandah; the hilariously huge snore that comes from a tiny dog’s body as he snoozes on the floor beside me.
Sometimes she’s a scruffy-looking stranger. The young man who rushed to open a heavy door for me, his kind smile illuminating his entire face.
Sometimes she’s a friend. Jacqui, sending me that book. My husband, telling me that spring is here: the birds are singing. My sister, showing a keen understanding.
The phone rang. My sister had asked me – I forget when, exactly – to find out something for her. I did. But now she was on the phone, asking for the answer, and I couldn’t remember what it was that I’d found out. Too much pain, too little sleep, for days and nights on end. I felt ashamed to tell her that I couldn’t remember. I tried to speak; instead of words, a disjointed stutter was all I could manage. For just a moment, I felt as if I might burst into tears.
My sister recognized the warning signs and reacted quickly.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Just stop everything and rest now.”
Via achurchforstarvingartists.wordpress.com/
I imagine that if the angel ever showed up as herself, she’d look like my mother: soft brown skin, short, silver-grey hair, the picture of serenity. In the meantime, she takes different forms and sounds, and helps me out when I least expect it.
“How do you manage to project such positive thoughts on your blog when you’re feeling so miserable?” a friend asked me one day. She’d paid me a surprise visit, and found me struggling to get around.
“When I write on my blog, I try to uplift my readers,” I replied. “Not sure what it does for them, but it sure makes me feel better!” At that, we’d both shared an understanding laugh and sipped our tea.
Of course, I should also have said: “Did I ever tell you about the angel?”
Dedicated to Merle, Jane, Joanne — and all the other angels in my life.
A couple hours north of Toronto, the winter has been harsh. For days on end, my friend Deb and her family were snowed in.
“This week it was minus 36 degrees celsius,” she wrote, “not counting the wind chill! It was so cold that the trees sounded like they were exploding; like shotguns firing nonstop.”
But something sacred is taking place inside this home.
Deb’s mother Gladys, who lives with her, is declining in health. Week by week, something else fails. Two weeks ago, her feet swelled to the point where her shoes couldn’t go on. Gladys is getting weaker.
“Every day is a gift”, Deb wrote recently.
I know what this means. When time is limited, when every day is a gift, one uses time differently.
Every day, mother and daughter try to create – or simply appreciate – moments that bring joy.
Joy comes in many forms.
It comes from listening to music that Gladys enjoys. “We try to fill the house with her favorite songs from opera to Frank Sinatra.” She particularly enjoys Maria Callas and Andrea Bocelli.
Doing things together brings a special kind of joy. Gladys, an accomplished artist, still loves to paint. “Sometimes,” Deb says, ” Mom has enough energy to sketch with me or show me how to paint a picture. Sometimes it means just sitting quietly together in front of the fire and reading.”
Joy comes from simple things like deciding what to cook. “I pore over the recipes and ask her opinion. Then I try to tempt her to have a little, though her appetite has waned.
“I still offer her a glass of wine or a hot chocolate spiced with something special. And Mom still enjoys her peanut brittle, though she has to suck on the pieces rather than bite them (90 year old teeth)!!!!”
They take joy in nature. Gladys often sits in a comfortable chair beside a large window. On the other side of that window is a bird-feeder and beyond that, acres of woods and a snow-covered lake.
“We watch for the many different birds that come to the feeder right by her chair,” says Deb. “We watch the snow swirl around the house and whistle through the trees. We are amazed at the snow sculptures — also known as snow drifts!”
There’s also joy in laughter. The two women watch funny movies together. Like “The Heat”, with Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy. They laughed so hard, they cried.
When friends drop in, they enjoy tea, cookies – and laughter.
And then there’s the kindness of others. “The nurses that come every second day have been so kind and are gentle in spirit.”
Gladys faces each day with a mixture of hope and acceptance. She points out that the doctors are experimenting with a new injection that seems to be helping to give her some strength back. And she also says: “My bags are packed and I am still waiting for a clearance on the runway of life…… That is what snow blindness can do to you. Illusions??? Think positively! Spring is coming!”
Indeed, there are signs of rebirth in the air. Just days ago, a new baby was born – Gladys’ third great-grandchild. It’s a joyful occasion, and Gladys looks forward to meeting the newborn soon.
There’s much sweetness in this time. And sadness. And wonder.
Deb notices that, whatever they’re doing, Bailey, the family’s pet retriever, “spends a lot of time at Mom’s feet as if he knows something.”
As her mother nears the end of her life, Deb finds herself reflecting. “I take Bailey out for a walk every day to breathe….to catch my breath, and pray. To find solace in nature….. to marvel at the snow. I spy two moose in the forest, a mink sliding across the driveway. I tell myself that all I can do is my best. The rest is up to God…the when – and the how – of how this will come to an end.”
She says Gladys is “calm and brave”, her sense of humour and memory still sharp. She surprised Deb recently by reciting a quote from a book she received on her tenth birthday, 80 years ago:
“Deem it not an idle thing
A pleasant word to speak
The words you use, the thoughts you bring
A heart can heal or break”.
It’s moments like this that bring tears to Deb’s eyes. Some days, all it takes is “a word, a song, a story Mom tells.”
But there’s a lovely sense of grace in this home, perhaps reinforced by the words from a prayer by St. Francis which Deb frequently recites: “Make me a channel of Your peace”.
Dedicated to Gladys and Deb, and to all those who’ve had a similar experience.
