Widow's Endorphins: The Mystery of the Autumn Woods

Widow's Endorphins: The Mystery of the Autumn Woods: Walking through the moss covered forest at sunrise, I follow a well worn path, past a weathered fence.  My footsteps are silent acro...

The Mystery of the Autumn Woods

Walking through the moss covered forest at sunrise, I follow a well worn path, past a weathered fence.  My footsteps are silent across the scarlet carpet of leaves, not yet dry enough to crunch beneath my feet. The sun's rays peak over a hilltop, illuminating the fiery reds and oranges of the Maple leaves...

Do you really think that I would be out walking in the woods, alone, at sunrise?  My idea of the great outdoors is an outdoor cafe! This isn't even a forest.

Of all the photographs I have taken, this one arouses the most curiosity.   

The photograph was taken right in my kitchen.  It's the bottom of a hot copper au gratin pan, which I use for everything from chicken to fish to pasta.  I had just taken the Rosemary Roast Chicken and Potatoes out of the oven, and as I placed it on top of the stove, I noticed the copper base was glowing pink, red, purple, and orange. The chicken and potatoes were unceremoniously cast aside, while I took photograph after photograph of the glowing copper oval. What appears to be sunlight peering over a hill of trees, is the glare of the overhead stove light. Years of scratches have left fence-like markings on the bottom of the pan. After forty years of use, it has a rich patina.

The photograph is called 1776, because the dates 1776-1976 are stamped across the bottom of the Limited Edition Revere Ware pan, to commemorate the American bicentennial.

Now you know the mystery of Autumn woods.

Photograph copyright of:  Ruth Adams, Widow's Endorphins Photographic Images Incorporated.      

Widow's Endorphins: Gone Fishin'

Widow's Endorphins: Gone Fishin': It's easier if I just pretend he's gone fishing.  Brande would be 65 today, a time when many men his age are planning the ulti...

Gone Fishin'

It's easier if I just pretend he's gone fishing.  Brande would be 65 today, a time when many men his age are planning the ultimate fishing adventure.  He's been gone almost a year.  Liver cancer.

You could say that he had that ultimate fishing adventure back in the Summer of 2001.  The year he went fishing, and came home with a wolf.  

We had a rare fight.  It was a big one!  You'd think I could remember what it was about.  I long ago forgot.  We both did. That night, he got in the car, and drove all night.  He called the next morning from near the Ontario-Manitoba border, and said he didn't want me worrying.  He was going to drive to his nephew's home in Saskatchewan.  His best friend flew out to join him, and a week later, with the car loaded with a brand new tent, sleeping bags, and fishing gear, they set out to fish all the way back home.

Clearwater Lake, near The Pas in Manitoba is deep, clear and cold, and renowned for its large lake trout.  The lake is 16 kilometres (10 miles) wide, and at its deepest point, is 39 metres (127 feet) deep.  You can clearly see a world beneath the boat.  Clearwater Lake is cold - even in Summer.  The perfect conditions for trout to slowly grow.  The Manitoba Government says that in that lake, it is possible to catch a 60 year old trout, weighing in at 16 kilograms (35 pounds)!  

So, it was there that the guys spent their days out on the water, far away from the man-eating Bulldog Flies on shore. They would laughingly recall the time the wind blew his friend's hat off his head, and said friend nearly flooded the engine of the boat, doing wheelies trying to catch his hat.  From the boat, they could see deer coming through the boreal forest, down to the lake to drink.  

If you're wondering if they caught any fish - no, not a bite (except the Bulldog Flies and mosquitoes). That is not the point of fishing.  It's about Being.     

   

   

In The Pas, Brande learned about a First Nations artist who had recently been named Northern Artist of the Year. Keith Campbell was known for his detailed pencil drawings of northern animals, especially wolves.  And he only lived about an hour or so from the lake.

With a pouch of tobacco in hand, Brande drove North, to Cranberry Portage.  As he neared the reserve, the road turned to dust, and he soon found himself welcomed into the Campbell home. Campbell had just begun a new work.  His first painting.  The wolf was staring from the easel.

Brande bought it, with the agreement that it would be finished before the week was out.  Campbell wanted to get the wolf's eyes just right.  One day, Brande returned from fishing, to find a note under a rock in front of the tent.  The painting was ready to be picked up.

When Brande returned home, his spirit restored, his tanned face beaming, he showed me his "catch". It was better than any fisherman's prize.  There's an intensity and a tranquility in the painting, especially in the eyes of the wolf.  This is a close up of a small portion of Campbell's wolf.  

  

  

Brande loved fishing.  He truly was himself on the water.  Once he was on the list for a liver transplant, he could not venture any further than one hour from Toronto General Hospital. Fishing trips became something to look forward to, post-transplant. The night before the transplant surgery, a last minute CT Scan showed the liver cancer cells had made their way to his lungs.  There would be no liver transplant.  A year and a half later, he was gone.

September's birth flower is the Forget-Me-Not.  He was an unforgettable man.  He was Hemingway and Huck Finn all rolled into one.  He hitchhiked, and jumped rail cars across Canada.  At age 15, he lied about his age, and signed up with the Coast Guard, becoming Chief Petty Officer, celebrating his 16th birthday while crossing the Arctic Circle.  He travelled as far South as Mexico by motorcycle. He fixed a condenser with a condom, and drove from British Columbia to California, and back.  His life was a daring adventure.  He was a great storyteller, and an even better listener.  I still feel his presence, although his absence is stronger felt.        

A few months after Brande died, I was doing a photo shoot for the Valentine's blog story The Salt Shaker (see the archives for Feb 2015).  I believe that on the final day of the photo shoot, he sent me a message in the shadows, to let me know that he has found a heavenly fishing spot, and he is happy.

Photographs copyright Ruth Adams, Widow's Endorphins Photographic Images Incorporated
Wolf painting by Keith Campbell 2001

Widow's Endorphins: September

Widow's Endorphins: September: September.  The park next door is surprisingly beautiful.  Even in the haze of a hot, humid day, there's a vibrancy of colour. T...

September

September.  The park next door is surprisingly beautiful.  Even in the haze of a hot, humid day, there's a vibrancy of colour. These Crocosmia are sun loving perennials.  Their mango orange, and chili pepper red blossoms really stand out.

Daylight fireworks, with every Dahlia blossom in the park.  They combine wonderfully with the deep blue Caryopteris Clandonensis, or Bluebeard, which is easier to say, and even easier to remember. These two flowers look like they're doing the Chinese Lion Dance. 

  

While they won't attract lions to your garden, Caryopteris blossoms attract bees, butterflies and hummingbirds.  The Bluebeard shrubs had an abundance of bees and bumblebees.

  

The rose trellis still has a few late bloomers.  These withstood the violent wind storms which downed trees.  I have often photographed these roses, and their petals seem to change colour with the weather and the light of day - sometimes a light peach colour, sometimes pink, and sometimes the palest of pinks, as they were on this day.  

French Hydrangeas reach their peak in August and September, bringing yet another vibrant colour to the garden. Depending on the acidity of the soil, hydrangeas will vary from deep blue, to lavender, to pink.  The more acidic, the bluer the hydrangeas.  I guess this soil is sweet 'n'sour.

Paniculata Hydrangeas, or "the pointy ones", as I like to call them, herald the arrival of Fall.  These, and the more popular French Hydrangeas can be picked at this time of year, and dried.  The preserved blossoms last for years, although they are a **!!* to dust.  Don't even try to vacuum them, or you'll end up with sprigs of twigs in a vase. 

As I was leaving the park, I overheard a group of women staring wistfully at the garden, saying that it would soon be "torn up", because of a major problem underground.  It is built atop a reservoir. Even a perennial garden may not last forever.

Photographs copyright:  Ruth Adams, Widow's Endorphins Photographic Images Incorporated.

Widow's Endorphins: Hi and Goodbye, Hydrangeas

Widow's Endorphins: Hi and Goodbye, Hydrangeas: They bloom from early Spring to late Fall, bringing us joy from Easter to Thanksgiving.  Now, it's nearing the time to say goodb...

Hi and Goodbye, Hydrangeas

They bloom from early Spring to late Fall, bringing us joy from Easter to Thanksgiving.  Now, it's nearing the time to say goodbye to Hydrangeas.

The pom-pom shaped French Hydrangeas (Hydrangea Macrophylla), are the ones most people think of when they hear the words, "I'm thinking of bringing a hostess gift of hydrangeas to Easter brunch". While they may not be blooming in Canadian gardens at that time of year, you'll certainly see pink and blue hydrangeas in grocery stores, garden centres and florist shops.

If you planted a lovely blue hydrangea in your garden, and it turned pink, don't blame yourself - blame the soil.  Hydrangea colour depends on the acidity of your soil.  The greater the acidity, the bluer the hydrangea.  I won't bore you (or me) with the fascinating studies of aluminum content in soil, except to say that aluminum absorption determines the degree of blue, and how the aluminium is absorbed depends on the acidity of the soil.

Within one or two growing seasons, you can alter soil acidity, and have blue hydrangeas simply by adding coffee grinds, or citrus peel, pine bark, or peat to the soil.  It must be all that citrus peel in the Azores that gives the island of Faial, the well earned reputation for being the "blue island".

There's another variety of hydrangea, Hydrangea Paniculata which we see in late Summer and Fall gardens.  These large, cone shaped hydrangea, are creamy white, dusty rose and burgundy.  Brought indoors, they introduce a Fall colour palette to the home (think of Autumn harvest Flame Grapes).

Some are more full figured than others...

It's hard to say goodbye.  There is a way to keep hydrangeas "forever".  You can dry them.  From now until October, is the best time to pick hydrangeas.  Choose blooms that are just beginning to fade, and the tiny flowers at the centre of the colourful petals are just opening.  Cut a foot long stem (or longer), and remove all leaves.  Place the stems in a large vase, and cover half way with water. Place the vase in a cool, dry place, away from direct sunlight, and wait for the water to evaporate. That's it.  I've had dried hydrangeas last for years.

Photographs copyright of Ruth Adams, Widow's Endorphins Photographic Images Incorporated.

Widow's Endorphins: Little Red Lunch Kit

Widow's Endorphins: Little Red Lunch Kit: This little red lunch kit got me through Kindergarten and Grade One.  Mum decorated it with butterflies and flowers - stickers that...

Little Red Lunch Kit

This little red lunch kit got me through Kindergarten and Grade One.  Mum decorated it with butterflies and flowers - stickers that were left over from the newly decorated crib for my youngest sister.  My name and old address are still visible on the bottom of the lunch kit, printed in my Dad's architectural lettering.

I cried every day in Kindergarten, and almost as often in Grade One.  Like a soldier's kit bag, my little red lunch kit was there through the "tough" times.  I'll never surrender it.

Leaving home every day, lunch kit in hand was a big deal.  I had a long, one-mile walk to school, and back, including crossing a busy street.  There were neighbourhood dogs, eight year old boys, and haunted houses (well, only one of those).  And every step of the way, I'd worry if stepping on a crack really would break my Mother's back.    

Walking the same route every day, was a chance to study the seasons:  the vibrant reds and oranges of Autumn leaves; the shape of snowflakes; the soft blue green of a real Robin's egg; and the joy of being able to wear only a light sweater on the long walk. On rare occasion, I'd take a different street, past the Sea Captain's house where the Monkey Puzzle tree grew.  I was told that it's the only tree a monkey can't climb.

I excelled in finger painting, was completely befuddled keeping time with the tambourine (worse with the triangle), and to this day, arithmetic and Ba-Ba Black Sheep are strangely linked.  Maybe it was loneliness for the family back home, or just low blood sugar...the tears would start mid day.  

The little red lunch kit was comfort.  It was home in a box.  I clearly remember the little plastic honey bear container which Mum filled with fresh milk each day.  You can still buy them in the honey aisle of most grocery stores.   

At the end of Grade One, we moved, to a new house in the suburbs, less than two blocks from the school.  I came home to a hot bowl of soup, and a sandwich every day. 

What's in your kids' or grand kids' lunchboxes?  Do you prepare the same lunches you grew up with?  What's changed in the brown paper bag department over the years? 

Photos:  Copyright Ruth Adams, Widow's Endorphins Photographic Images Incorporated.