tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58344718543021336592024-02-20T07:16:33.992-08:00From the Valley and BeyondThings to do and see in the Okanagan Valley and some of the other parts of the world I've been lucky enough to visit.Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-78629103400353793012013-09-08T09:24:00.003-07:002013-11-20T17:05:36.020-08:00Back In The Pocket<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For some reason I just seem to prefer posting on my <a href="http://www.pocketfullofmemorycards.blogspot.com/">Pocketful of Memory Cards </a>blog. It allows me to post about Kelowna and places I've visited as well as including personal photos and musings for family and friends. If you'd like some info on <a href="http://www.wellsgray.ca/">Wells Gray Park</a> I've got a series in progress with photos and info from a wonderful week we spent there in August. Here's a few of my favourite shots posted thus far. <br />
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And a couple of the up and coming towards the end of the week.<br />
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Check out the first one via this <a href="http://www.pocketfullofmemorycards.blogspot.ca/2013/08/alpine-meadows.html">link</a>! I'd love it if you left a comment or two, on either blog.<br />
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-88102548470247855612013-08-07T08:52:00.001-07:002013-08-07T08:55:09.457-07:00Wordless Wednesday from the Caribbean Festival<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-71574358906841162052013-08-04T12:46:00.001-07:002014-11-18T08:55:31.083-08:00My Blue Haven<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Saturday morning the stars aligned and my hubby I and finally made it to Kelowna's <a href="http://blueberryhaven.com/">Blueberry Haven</a> on Webster Road. Located just above Rutland Playing Field, the farm is a family run U-Pick owned and operated by David and Michele. Four years ago, the couple purchased the farm from Michele's parents who started Blueberry Haven twenty five years ago. You can gather your fill of organic blueberries for only $2.50 a pound and there are a couple of rows of blackberries ripe for the picking at $3.50 a pound. Just check the <a href="http://blueberryhaven.com/">website</a> for the next pick.</div>
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It's more relaxed here than the strawberry patch where you must bring your own bucket and march down the row behind the guy with the hat and the flag who instructs you to "Pick along this row. Both sides. Make sure you get every ripe berries, even the small ones. Be sure to mark where you finish." (To be fair, strawberries are very different from blueberries and there are good reasons to do as he says.) At Blueberry Haven you can borrow a bucket for picking but you need to bring your own containers to take them home. After you procure your bucket, you stand before the berry laden bushes while Michele waves her arm over the green rows, like one of Barker's Beauties and instructs you to 'Find a spot and pick', </div>
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For me, the mindless repetitive task of picking has a calming, almost meditative effect. The tangled mess of my thoughts slowly unfurl and disperse. Without the ubiquitous soundtrack of traffic, my ear tunes in to the gentle symphony of my surroundings. </div>
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At first all is a distant murmur. Then I pick out the tick, tick..swishhhh of the rotating sprinkler. Crickets chirp and I hear the trill of a bird. I hone in a little closer, to the syncopated thunk...thunk, tha-thunk as juicy berries fall from my fingers and strike the bottom of my pail - now yellow, soon blue. There's a low, pleasant hum from the voices of the surrounding couples interspersed with percussive laughter as regulars greet and tease each other. "You know they weigh you too before you leave..."</div>
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As the clock reaches a more reasonable hour the families arrive; moms and dads and kids, grandmothers and grandfathers with their young charges. The children chime in, sharing their discoveries, "I can pick 'cause I'm taller!" "But the caterpillar <i>wants</i> to be on the tree!" "Mom! ...Aiden ate <i>all</i> his blueberries!" "It's <i>fuzzy!</i>...it's fuzzy <i>not</i> pokey!" </div>
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Soon our pails are heavy and the sun decidedly strong. We work our way back up our row, stopping to pick the beckoning fruit we somehow missed on the way down. "Did they ripened since we got here?" </div>
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In an hour and a half our efforts have gleaned ten pounds of berries. By coincidence it's exactly what we came for. It's mostly for our freezer so I think I'll visit again to pick a few pounds for immediate consumption. And I'll follow the website suggestion to hang the bucket off a belt next time, so I can pick with two hands.</div>
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I can't bear to put them all in the freezer. Can you imagine how good a pie tastes made from blueberries fresh off the branch? Berries that have never seen the inside of a refrigerator?</div>
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The <a href="http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/blueberry_pie/">recipe</a>.<br />
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Bon appétite!</div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-33693089777615559472013-06-20T09:49:00.001-07:002016-06-20T07:10:59.813-07:00Small Shop First Stop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Kelowna is celebrating <a href="http://www.downtownkelowna.com/what-to-do/small-shop-saturday/">Small Shop Saturday</a> on the 22nd and I have a suggestion for your first stop of the day. Pulp Fiction Coffee House covers the northwest corner of Pandosy and Lawrence and has been open since August last year. Its hours are 7 to 10 Monday to Saturday and 9 to 9 on Sundays. </div>
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It recently made the short list on the Capital News "best of" issue in the categories "Best place for a first date" and "Best Coffee House". They have my vote for both. </div>
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Nestled within the coffee shop you will find Robbie Rare Books, accessible through an iron gate that is almost always open. Robbie is the mild mannered standard poodle and CEO that greets you in the doorway. The eclectic collection of books, magazines, comics, posters and collectables are curated by Kelowna resident Max Sloan. </div>
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I love that this place is locally owned and what a fitting name for the owner of a store that sells paperbacks by the likes of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. Max Sloan sounds like the perfect prickly detective with a weakness for dames in trouble. In reality Mr. Sloan is a very knowledgeable, generous and helpful man. His weakness appears to be books...besides the hundreds you can find on the walls and every available surface in Robbie's Rare Books, he admitted to having two warehouses filled with just as many.</div>
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The books aren't just pulp fiction tiles from the 50's they also include many of your favourite classics, some in near perfect condition.</div>
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Check out these beautiful early editions of Anne of Green Gables. $1,000 for the middle one which has the dust jacket and shows the cover as very well preserved compared to the blue one priced at $200.<br />
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This one's for you <a href="http://thepeartree.ca/">Mrs. Pear Tree</a>. The House at Pooh Corner is under glass, so it must be a good one!<br />
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Though many collectors will turn aside a book with an inscription, I find they add character and spark the imagination. You never know what you might discover. When Max opened this book to show me the hand written message, a gift tag fell out. I imagine it was used as a bookmark, and added a little more mystery to the story of the journey that brought it here.<br />
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$2,000 Edgar Allan Poe</div>
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Torrid romances...</div>
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The books are both fiction and non-fiction, all giving you a peek into our checkered past. "The World of Wit and Humour", published in the early 1900's was instructive and amusing. The complaint about women taking too long to get ready in "Things Which No Young Lady Ever Does If She Can Help It" was re-iterated by Jerry Seinfeld at his recent gig in Kelowna when he described what "I'll be ready in five minutes" really means - plus ça change! And speaking of Seinfeld, he picked up an Ice Mocha from the coffee shop while he was here.</div>
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Between the books on the shelves and tables you'll also find some great Victorian and Georgian antiques along with some fabulous art deco items.</div>
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Art Deco </div>
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collectibles</div>
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There's lots going on at Pulp Fiction, so check out their <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PulpFictionCoffeeHouse">Facebook</a> page to see what's coming up next. Most events are free with purchase. Singer/songwriter <a href="http://www.emilyrowedmusic.com/">Emily Rowed</a> will perform on June 26th. I hope I can attending the <a href="http://newvintage.vpweb.ca/default.html">New Vintage Theatre</a>'s reading of Confessions of A Paperboy on June 25th. I was sorry to miss their reading of The Glass Menagerie in May. The June show is their last of the season so if I miss this one too, I'll have to wait until the Fall. Don't miss it!</div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-65612633050731481972013-06-05T05:00:00.000-07:002013-06-05T05:00:08.566-07:00Wordless Wednesday on Crawford Trails<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-26047796280950031812013-06-01T11:40:00.000-07:002013-06-08T20:28:23.066-07:00Goosha What Now?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Guisachan Heritage Park (commonly pronounced <i>Goo-</i>shigun) is located on Cameron Avenue in Kelowna. <a href="http://worldclasscatering.com/contact_us.htm">Guiscachan House Restaurant</a>, shown below has a lovely ambiance and a variety of tasty lunch choices. It's open daily from 11 to 3 and I very much look forward to going there for my next lunch date. <br />
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It's been the site of many celebrations, particularly weddings. If you think the space would be right for you, Chef Georg Rieder is happy to arrange a consultation. The rest of the grounds are beautiful and provide great photo ops for fun or special occasions. Because I haven't been been posting much lately due to time constraints, I'm going to leave you now and let the pictures do the talking. These shots were taken mid summer 2012.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Update! Took my daughter to </span>Guiscachan House for lunch Friday.<br />
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Pristine Victorian decor.</div>
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My chicken mushroom crepe</div>
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My daughter's dessert.</div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-14970484664615562392013-05-22T08:21:00.006-07:002013-05-24T11:31:52.330-07:00Cottage Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Going to a cottage or "camp" as we called it in NW Ontario, has always been my favourite summer vacation. When my parents drove across Canada from Whitby in 2010, we decided it would be a great way to show them another beautiful area of BC without going too far afield. It was almost three years ago, but with summer on it's way I thought I'd post about it and add to your summer vacation idea list.</div>
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We found a nice little cottage on Paul Lake about fifteen miles from Kamloops. It went by the name of "<a href="http://www.cottagesincanada.com/lakecottage15">Hidden Gem</a>" on the <a href="http://www.cottagesincanada.com/">Cottages in Canada</a> website. If you follow the link you can see they're renting it for $150 a night, which is a pretty good rate when you throw three families into it. We had six adults, one child and one dog, and lived quite comfortably in the two bedroom cottage for four days and three nights. One bedroom was large, with two double beds and a pull out sofa, the second had one double bed. </div>
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We loaded our kayaks onto our little red truck and drove up Highway 97 Friday afternoon with Pitou on my lap and my parents following behind in my dad's caddie. My sister, her hubby and daughter drove up from the coast in their big black truck with the four wheeler in the back and joined us later in the day.</div>
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It was an enjoyable two and half hour drive from Kelowna that took us through Vernon and Kamloops with lovely scenery along the way.</div>
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The description said there was a beach but if there was, it was submerged. It was lake-front however, with a narrow road between the cottage and the water. There was a private dock and a boat that you had to rent on top of the cost of the cabin. Though you couldn't tell from the online photo, there were many cottages along this road with very little space between them. This didn't turn out to be a problem though, in terms of privacy and noise. Even when we were all out on deck we couldn't see our neighbours and noise wasn't an issue. </div>
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Hidden Gem is the blue cottage in the middle.</div>
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There was no shortage of things to do, with fishing being a popular choice.</div>
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There was fishing from the dock,</div>
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fishing from the kayak,<br />
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and fishing from the boat</div>
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There were lots of four-wheeling trails not far up the road.</div>
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We saw some lovely sunsets, and there were lots of critters and birds to observe.</div>
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Swimming was also an option but I don't think anyone was brave enough to do more than dip a toe in. The lake was still a little chilly.</div>
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The deck got a fair bit of sun and bit of shade which made it a great place to catch up on family news and take in the view. We also had a visit with family friends who live in Kamloops. It was a treat to see Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie who had been great family friends in Sioux Lookout. Their daughter had been one of my closest friends and their son was my first crush. Ah memories!</div>
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One of the highlights for me was mornings spent on the dock with my niece.</div>
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The hike I took with my husband, and our dog one morning to the top of <a href="http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Gibraltar-Rock-Paul-Lake-Provincial-Park-near-Kamloops-BC-733">Gibralter Rock</a> was another high point, pun intended. It was challenging but well worth the effort. </div>
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The view from the 900m elevation was spectacular and the boys were exhausted after their efforts.<br />
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For the golf enthusiast, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pecu316l7VM">Tobiano Golf Course</a> is about a half hour drive from Paul Lake.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMaAF30jQ2_vK1UeHVXdf7UsgK0VnelYWaq6t0WyfAiAPeOWQoY5iog4XtOeUOnsH7X4qNU-6z3p-C4sL98jPhzU_cW6aayzDvTujqbo5pdNk6P2N0H2pDKXOKyWDhRsR1iv6LL3EhTE/s1600/DSC_0557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMaAF30jQ2_vK1UeHVXdf7UsgK0VnelYWaq6t0WyfAiAPeOWQoY5iog4XtOeUOnsH7X4qNU-6z3p-C4sL98jPhzU_cW6aayzDvTujqbo5pdNk6P2N0H2pDKXOKyWDhRsR1iv6LL3EhTE/s640/DSC_0557.JPG" width="640" /></a>All too soon it was time to pack up the toys and head back to the city. It was a memorable vacation with something for everyone and I'd highly recommend it for you and your family.</div>
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I thought Paul Lake was a great location but I don't think I would rent the Hidden Gem cabin again. Upon arrival were surprised to discover two resident cats along with a note that asked us to feed them from a bin of food they supplied. My brother-in-law has a cat allergy and though the owner insisted it was in the description, most of us had visited the website before we decided which cottage to rent and nobody had noticed any mention of cats. </div>
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Though the place was relatively clean when we arrived, the bathroom was a bit mildewy and grimy in spots and the barbe-cue was filthy, despite the requirement that the renters were to clean everything before leaving or forfeit the $100.00 cleaning deposit. It seemed the previous renters didn't follow through. </div>
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I didn't mind giving a cleaning deposit but I was very frustrated to note that when we returned home the cheque had still not been cashed, though they had cashed the cheque for the rental. When I contacted her to suggest that she just destroy the cheque and we call it even, she refused, despite the fact that she had already been to the cottage and concluded we'd done a good job cleaning. It took several days for her to cash the cheque, and then another week or two and some harassment from me, before I received a cheque in the mail in the correct amount. She claimed it had to be that way for bookkeeping purposes, but it seemed rather odd to me. You may not have issues with any of this but I thought I should give a full report on our experience.</div>
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For those with tents, there's a <a href="http://www.thompsonshuswapeh.com/kamloops/parks/paul.htm">provincial park</a> with a campground on the north side of the lake. There is some sort of resort on the east side of the lake (pictured below) but I can't seem to find it online, and there are other cottages for rent in the area.</div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-33709025002545660722013-05-17T06:09:00.000-07:002013-06-01T12:12:18.885-07:00To Market, to Market<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On Mothers Day weekend, my daughter and I visited the <a href="http://www.kelownafarmersandcraftersmarket.com/">Kelowna Farmers' and Crafters' Market</a>. I was surprised to see how much produce is available already. The more often I visit, the more I realize how lucky we are to have such a great little market. <br />
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Playing for "potoato golf" for the chance to win cash prizes of 50 and 60 dollars.</div>
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If you'd like to see a few more shots of the market check out my daughter's recent post on<a href="http://www.younglovestyle.blogspot.ca/2013/05/to-market-to-market.html"> Young Love</a>.</div>
Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-61042166978691469582013-05-15T09:02:00.005-07:002013-05-21T15:56:21.419-07:00Kuiper's Peak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you're looking for a short hike with some great views and a variety of terrain, I recommend a visit to Kuipers Peak in Kelowna's south slopes. It's a short trip up Lakeshore Road, left on Barnaby, then straight up Southridge. Blue signs do a fairly good job directing you the rest of the way.</div>
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The first part of the hike is a climb up, along, and over the ridge that provides the park's front boundary. Spring is a great time to hike through this area. The greenery is lush and these snowy bushes have a subtle sweet scent proving a softening contrast to the craggy coral terrain.</div>
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Once at the top you're rewarded with lovely vistas up and down Okanagan Lake.</div>
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Since my last visit they've extended the trail down into the valley just before what I would imagine is some sort of utility building. </div>
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As you have probably figured out, this area is recovering from a wildfire. Just east of Okanagan Mountain this park was devastated by the 2003 <a href="http://www.kelowna.ca/CM/Page129.aspx">fire</a>. Still I find beauty in the sooty black trunks with spidery legs that alternately stretch towards the sky and curve to the earth, swallowed up by patches of <a href="http://www.nativeplantsociety.org/oregongrape.htm">Oregon grape</a>, fluffy wildflowers and sunny clumps of <a href="http://www.fs.fed.us/wildflowers/plant-of-the-week/balsamorhiza_sagittata.shtml">balsamroot</a>.</div>
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To be honest the above photos were not taken along the main trail. There is a path less travelled that angles down the slope and meanders through the fallen logs and wildflowers, eventually merging with the path pictured below.<br />
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Looking back on the trail I didn't follow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNA8vLVyc5kDNiiNlHHS2LEKi-oucHiRcsdBchvaYqKMxHn28DLqSiS7UCtyGcK2X7jGhK96xRIrf8Ri5s0fWZe1E_YuyYPD2oWV5KNyeeDafd_qRC-gP-SdjanSKdEl5gpxxYndIrZlM/s1600/IMG_1932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNA8vLVyc5kDNiiNlHHS2LEKi-oucHiRcsdBchvaYqKMxHn28DLqSiS7UCtyGcK2X7jGhK96xRIrf8Ri5s0fWZe1E_YuyYPD2oWV5KNyeeDafd_qRC-gP-SdjanSKdEl5gpxxYndIrZlM/s640/IMG_1932.jpg" width="640" /></a>Spidey</div>
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Sharkey</div>
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I was pleasantly surprised to discover this little pond at the bottom of the trail. <a href="http://www.theponds.ca/pond_inspired_green.aspx">The Ponds</a> development dedicate Kuiper's Peak Park to the City a few years ago. It's the first phase of a planned eleven kilometres of linear park that I will look forward to investigating as it develops. For now, if your looking for a lovely short hike head up to Kuiper's Peak and discover how a forest recovers naturally from fire. </div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-73823564715860322352012-07-09T13:24:00.000-07:002012-07-09T13:24:26.238-07:00My Mission Statement<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today I thought I'd invite you to visit a very well known part of Kelowna: the <a href="http://www.greenway.kelowna.bc.ca/">Mission Creek Greenway</a>. Over the nearly seventeen years that we've lived here, I think I've traversed 80 percent of the seventeen kilometre trail. My favourite stretch is the section at the far end of Hollywood Road South. It's the most challenging for me with some steep hills to climb but the views and the incredible variety of landscapes and vegetation make it well worth the effort. I've only done it once, but hope to try again later this summer and post the photos here.</div>
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Today Max, Pitou and I walked our most travelled section of the creek. It's a 2.5 km loop that starts at the Mission Sports Field entrance, one of 15 access points to the trail. We usually head east and then cross over the creek at Casorso Road heading west on the north bank of the creek until we cross back over again at Gordon Drive and continue back to where we started on the south side. </div>
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Some sections of the greenway that are farther east are fairly close to Highway 97 and you'll can hear the sounds of the traffic as it rushes past. Along this loop, there are a few spots where you can see through the trees and notice the trail travels through agricultural land, golf courses and ball diamonds. The rushing sound you hear is the creek and other than the twittering of birds you can be assured of a fairly peaceful walk.</div>
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This year I've seen more wild flowers and swallow tailed butterflies than I can remember. Squirrels, robins, red winged blackbirds, sparrows, and quail are also plentiful and though I can't seem to capture the flickers with my camera, their presence is evident.</div>
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With more than 1,000 people using the greenway each day, you might think it would be a sea of people jogging walking and cycling past you, but I find I can stop and look east...</div>
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...and then west...and not see or hear a soul.</div>
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You will surely encounter a few people..</div>
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...families, seniors, cyclists, joggers, runners, pole walkers and dog walkers, all enjoying this oasis in the middle of our busy city.</div>
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And if you greet them with a smile and a "Good morning" you are very likely to receive an equally cheerful reply as you continue on your merry way.</div>
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</div>Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-69024778316970868322012-06-25T10:45:00.001-07:002013-07-03T16:47:29.672-07:00Summer Concerts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There are many opportunities to attend outdoor concerts if you find yourself in the Okanagan Valley this summer. <a href="http://parksalive.festivalskelowna.com/">Parks Aliv</a>e puts on two or three free concerts a week in Kelowna, Festivals Kelowna has a great line up at the <a href="http://www.keloha.com/">Keloha Festival</a> happening in Waterfront Park July 6th to 8th. I even know of a few people who hold jazz and blues jams in their back yards, but I think the best venues in the valley for sound and beauty are the wineries. Imagine yourself in a low slung chair with green grass tickling your toes. The evening is warm, and grape vines and mountains surround you as you sip a citrusy rosé or an aromatic gerwertz. </div>
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If you're looking for something casual, East Kelowna's <a href="http://thevibrantvine.com/">Vibrant Vine</a> hosts local musicians starting at 3:00 on Saturdays. If you head out Lakeshore Road <a href="http://www.cedarcreek.bc.ca/">Cedar Creek Winery </a>provides a spectacular view of the sun setting behind the mountains as you listen to Chantel Kreviazuk or Andrew Allen this year. Head south some time to the Naramata Bench where a number wineries host musical events including <a href="http://www.keloha.com/">Sunday Sounds</a> at Elephant Island winery. If country music is more your style <a href="http://www.tourismpenticton.com/events/listing/township-7-vineyards-winery-western-township-anniversary-party">Township 7</a> is celebrating the Calgary Stampede's 100th anniversary with great wine, food and music July 6th.</div>
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Lyle Lovett and Chris Isaacs are scheduled to rock the <a href="http://www.missionhillwinery.com/of_significance/events.html">Mission Hill Amphitheatre</a> July 19th and 27th respectively and last night I was lucky enough to attend Chris Botti's performance there, along with the 899 other souls who prayed away the threatening rain (to paraphrase our host Ingo Grady). </div>
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When I purchased my tickets in March it was more for the enjoyment of a romantic night out with my husband, drinking wine in a beautiful outdoor venue. My impression of Chris Botti was of an easy listening, albeit talented musician who played the type of jazz overheard as you walk through the mall. The impression was strengthened as Botti started with a ballad whose name escapes me. He did up it a notch when he threw in a few what I call "look what I can do" riffs, delivering rapid notes that reached impressive heights. He transitioned seamlessly into the very recognizable <i>When I fall in Love</i>. This only served to further support my expectations, but once the piano player took off with his first solo, I knew it was going to be a night of <i>real</i> jazz. <i>Damn he's good! </i> I thought and was then embarrassed when Botti introduced him and I discovered I hadn't recognized ten time nominated, four time Grammy winner <a href="http://www.billychilds.com/">Billy Childs</a>. </div>
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Chris Botti more than met the bar set by Childs and the rest of the band was spectacular with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4_PXTXAF5U">Richie Goods</a> on bass, drummer <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GioYJwlx_c8">Billy Kilson</a>, Brazillian Guitarist <a href="http://www.reverbnation.com/leonardoamuedo">Leonardo Amuedo</a> and a synth player whose name I'm sad to say I didn't catch. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6EKBKFDofh7IaxCnseMc7Y7UZkbtZi_ji535_6BFrhcSQ9ygSzYXaotPBeB5Btdv0qAdYmBY6ALzihFxdS7SYdWLF2M95ZKDqg9qQ4PDJBppHS9fnIqFVixtJ-B-vcBtv3ShaswZNiM/s1600/_DSC0592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ6EKBKFDofh7IaxCnseMc7Y7UZkbtZi_ji535_6BFrhcSQ9ygSzYXaotPBeB5Btdv0qAdYmBY6ALzihFxdS7SYdWLF2M95ZKDqg9qQ4PDJBppHS9fnIqFVixtJ-B-vcBtv3ShaswZNiM/s640/_DSC0592.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUIH6bULbSbrdSXAeuUxCAr6YXkfa-1IkHZZi_oaydsbZyPJcPh3Gzpt19vD5wlYleR-jLtx-urbRVPltpo0OCpx2PhP-QZ7p5mttifLZ7bprGqvMh31RVOikKmULKGRkjQChbTHnx-Y/s1600/_DSC0600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUIH6bULbSbrdSXAeuUxCAr6YXkfa-1IkHZZi_oaydsbZyPJcPh3Gzpt19vD5wlYleR-jLtx-urbRVPltpo0OCpx2PhP-QZ7p5mttifLZ7bprGqvMh31RVOikKmULKGRkjQChbTHnx-Y/s640/_DSC0600.JPG" width="428" /></a>I wasn't expecting any other performers but after the second tune we were treated to our first guest. Swathed in a glittering violet gown, pale skin bathed in matching floodlights, virtuoso violinist Carolyn Campbell was outstanding. She joined the band on several tunes and stood in for the orchestra on Botti's version of the Miles Davis classic <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=put2qrL7sYw"><i>En Aranjuez con Tu Amor</i></a>. Her dynamic, passionate playing filled the amphitheatre.</div>
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I was thrilled they performed this piece as it beautifully illustrates the very definition of jazz through inspiration, improvisation and cooperation. Miles Davis recorded his version in 1959, influenced by a concerto for guitar written by Joaquin Rodrigo in 1939. Perhaps as a result of time spent in Davis's band, in 1972 Chic Chorea was inspired to create his iconic <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=huIcAdTbMbM">Spain</a>. I regret I was not at his performance at the Vancouver Jazz Festival a few years ago when the audience <a href="http://www.jacmuse.com/form%20in%20music/trading.htm">traded fours</a> with Chorea through one verse. Lastly Chic Chorea's version led to the inclusion of lyrics by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDBaqbj6nD4">Al Jarreau</a>.</div>
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lisa_Fischer">Lisa Fischer</a>, who toured with the Rolling Stones for 19 years, was the next guest. She was an inspiring vocalist with a range that blew my mind. Fischer matched Botti on many of the high notes and harmonized beautifully with him on others. I basked in the liquid warmth of her bass notes on <i>Italia</i> and her notes that reached the stratosphere were still full and sweet with none of the harsh strain that cause many singers to fail in the high registers.</div>
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The energy of the band and the crowd was truly invigorating and audience members gave well deserved standing ovations throughout the night. Early in the evening Botti had spoken to a young musician in the crowd named Eric and he invited him up on stage to play the drums during the first encore.<br />
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With Eric, Billy Kilson and a roadie on the drum kit, they brought Nessun Dorma to a dramatic conclusion. And speaking of drummers I really enjoyed Billy Kilson who Sting referred to as "badass". I find most drum solos boring, kind of like a car chase in a movie - they're fast, furious and end with a crash. Kilson was very cool. He showed speed, technique and dynamics tempered with thought, making me pay attention as he lowered the volume of his playing...before ending with a crash. I loved how he supported his bandmates with his body's constant motion and appreciative facial expressions, unlike some guys I've seen who stare blankly into thin air or seem to be sharing some mocking secret with the piano player.</div>
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For me the true talent of musicianship comes in knowing when to keep it simple. Chris Botti ended the night with a perfect illustration of his genius by dismissing six of his seven band members. He and Billy Childs then gave a haunting, subdued version of My Funny Valentine, where notes were pure and meaningful. Towards the end of the piece Childs ran his fingers over the taut piano wires, sending shivers down my spine. The arrangement was the perfect romantic ending to the evening.</div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-13942396169005944482012-02-19T15:17:00.000-08:002013-05-14T10:08:10.757-07:00Park It!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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While running some errands downtown last week I decided to wander over to <a href="http://www.kelowna.ca/CM/page2062.aspx">Stuart Park</a> to see what was happening. The outdoor ice rink that opened last winter has been getting rave reviews from my friends and neighbours and I was keen to check it out. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0ZuQO7WyNuxRknF7-S0twdtGEF9vSsa2Gs4u2vj86ogeV0NTdAaRmHJDc4LfF4kfJroDf7knixttJc44tJOyP1KA7awjMOAKqmUbLm9Bq_i9fexWkMOQCZmD4BnFXzarPM88HUJTwyA/s1600/DSC_0558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0ZuQO7WyNuxRknF7-S0twdtGEF9vSsa2Gs4u2vj86ogeV0NTdAaRmHJDc4LfF4kfJroDf7knixttJc44tJOyP1KA7awjMOAKqmUbLm9Bq_i9fexWkMOQCZmD4BnFXzarPM88HUJTwyA/s640/DSC_0558.JPG" width="425" /></a><br />
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I picked a perfect day. It was crisp, clear and sunny and the park, located right next to <a href="http://www.kelownayachtclub.com/">Kelowna Yacht Club</a> on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Okanagan_Lake">Okanagan Lake</a>, was a hive of activity. Not having brought my skates, I had to be content watching people of all ages, from children to seniors glide around a sheet of ice as smooth as glass.</div>
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A particularly cute couple caught my attention as they skated around the rink holding hands, while Taylor Swifts "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pb-K2tXWK4w&ob=av2n">Fifteen</a>" played over the P.A.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">On the lakeside promenade, skaters of a different sort sped along the boardwalk, some on roller blades, some on skateboards, dogs trotting happily along with them. Between docks in the Yacht Club Marina, a flock of feathered skaters toddled along the ice surface, appearing to walk on water.</span></div>
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Overseeing it all, was the Kelowna Bear, a lovely sculpture in my opinion, that looks quite stunning at night when the park is lit up. The Bear has had it's controversy for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that the artist is from Rhode Island, and not the Okanagan.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUSxCgjiaXJIZd66kjFPEZv6Q9P7RyzwmL9wng1UJOiXle2Sq4GI_wP36A9ObN4xqKSDMGZHX5THgDQI8nD1Tsz7dQWVtcoFzLR73JYAatHA0f5mOQm-wovms-J-OiC1flQl6qc8kYbM/s1600/DSC_0544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUSxCgjiaXJIZd66kjFPEZv6Q9P7RyzwmL9wng1UJOiXle2Sq4GI_wP36A9ObN4xqKSDMGZHX5THgDQI8nD1Tsz7dQWVtcoFzLR73JYAatHA0f5mOQm-wovms-J-OiC1flQl6qc8kYbM/s640/DSC_0544.JPG" width="428" /></a>Whatever your thoughts on the bear, Kelowna's Stuart Park is part of a very vibrant area just north of the downtown core across from City Hall. It's worth a visit in all seasons, but particularly in the winter when the ice rink draws the community and tourists together.<br />
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Afterwards a visit to<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/giobean-Espresso/173525099330799"> Giobean Espresso</a>, just up the street for a warming latte would top off an afternoon of skating perfectly! In fact, if you began your afternoon at the nearby <a href="http://kelownaartgallery.com/">Kelowna Art Gallery</a>, you'd have yourself one heck of a date.<br />
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In the summer, I've strolled by the park a number of times and watched the <a href="http://www.okanaganderbydolls.com/">Okanagan Derby Dolls</a> doing their thing. Looks like fun, but I think it's a little out of my league. For now I'll be storing my figure skates in the car, so I'm prepared the next time I find myself driving past. </div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-42646767176887581162011-04-02T16:09:00.000-07:002013-06-10T17:08:30.950-07:00I love a rainy night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpkUm664kV73LqMgVPrJcmj0ytDvSQd-SdqXzZPrklzrW2L6Ghdxh1SnLQFvtrSYzOoG6bKIAzEzSGmqITXNxZD9cs50efnHB6ScIXIdQ-CYfxfDY9tuNkASXL817IVbaAu4XsDdvt3c/s640/399546222_71378c1433_o.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;">Photo by Dean Barrera, Flicker</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">While driving home one dark and soggy evening I switched to a jazz station and found myself in the middle of a piano solo that swept me away. It was so simple and smooth, yet nimble and within the improvised notes I could detect the ghost of a song I knew. I strained to recall it, trying to hold onto the thread of the melody as the pianist deftly tugged my mind free of familiarity, drawing me into a musical labyrinth.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">There is something magical about driving alone on a rainy evening. Solitude, darkness and the white noise of falling rain muffles the outside world and tunes your ear to rhythmic ambient noise; the swoosh of passing vehicles, the deep thrum of the wipers as you wait at the light, the tick, tick, tick of the blinker, the crescendo of water spraying the sidewalk as you round the corner.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">As the piano was joined by bass and drums I felt it had to be the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keith_Jarrett">Keith Jarrett Trio</a>. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> I listened more carefully and my feeling was confirmed by the sound of Jarrett's voice on the live recording. He hummed and moaned along with his playing, so engaged in creating his art I imagined he didn’t even realize he was doing it. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The beautiful noise enveloped me in it's spell and triggered my returned to 2004 when I recorded my CD<i><a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/between-love-and-fascination/id74363357"> Between Love and Fascination</a></i>. Before the final session, the piano player made a practice backtrack for me. As we listened to the playback I closed my eyes and became lost in the music. When I opened them I felt like I had been in another world and blinked in surprise to find myself back in the studio.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Oh to be able to move people like that! I was struck by such a yearning to do the same and in a Mittyesque moment I imagined myself at a keyboard. In my mind I stretched for those same notes with confident fingers as my friends were surprised and delighted by my hidden talents.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The bass solo drew me back to reality and I bobbed my head along with each note. The piano returned, following the written melody for a moment and I was tickled to discover the song's identity. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2092708857">“</a></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2092708857">My Foolish Heart</a></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yx0q0hBYn-c">”</a> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">was a favourite tune I claimed as my own despite the fact it was written more than 60 years ago and was recorded by hundreds of singers and musicians. I was not surprised when realized it was the same song that moved me to another world when I listened to the backtrack nearly ten years ago. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">On the radio Jarrett brought the tempo down once more; slower... now slower. He hesitated, he lingered on the keys as though like me, he couldn't bear the end. The closing notes were arpeggiated, then a trill. His touch pianissimo, the tempo diminuendo. The final sound, a gentle cymbal swell that echoed the <i>shhhhhhhhh</i> of the water beneath my tires. As it faded into silence I quickly turned the radio off before the announcer could break the spell, and allowed the music of the falling rain to carry me home.</span></div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-739757084291334052010-09-25T17:02:00.000-07:002010-09-25T17:02:10.778-07:00September on the Oregon Coast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEdZ0yo0pW8OkGfHo6VhJX1IxKDLhnAIQTY-8TnQSueRzvRSPwZ8cWqFQKoV_6SFIKb1jsifmQZu8KvG3VoCnLp4LdV41jWNxgYYBQk9yddTpQu6MsI95AT1XL097rS2vT0dLfgTyUbE/s1600/DSC_0303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEdZ0yo0pW8OkGfHo6VhJX1IxKDLhnAIQTY-8TnQSueRzvRSPwZ8cWqFQKoV_6SFIKb1jsifmQZu8KvG3VoCnLp4LdV41jWNxgYYBQk9yddTpQu6MsI95AT1XL097rS2vT0dLfgTyUbE/s320/DSC_0303.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The next several entries of this blog detail a recent trip my husband and I took along the Oregon Coast. </span>Though my intent upon return was to write a comprehensive travel guide I forgot a very important detail that might prevent me from doing this: my failing memory. I believed the photos, the guide book, notes I took at the restaurants, and judicious use of Google would provide all the prompting I would need to recall everything we did. This doesn’t appear to be true, but I will do my best to inform and entertain with what I have and hope that as I have found in the past, things will come to me as I write. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As for a comprehensive guide, I highly recommend a publication by Moon Handbooks that I picked up at <a href="http://www.mosaicbooks.ca/">Mosaic Books</a> in Kelowna - <a href="http://www.moon.com/books/moon-handbooks/moon-coastal-oregon-third-edition">Coastal Oregon</a> by W.C. McRae and Judy Jewell. I purchased it a few weeks before we left and it helped us with some early planning. Once on the road it was our bible, providing excellent and accurate information on what we should see, where we should eat and even recommending where and when to go for the best sunrise and sunset photos. Though it would take several weeks to do everything recommended in the book, it really helped us decide on the things we definitely wanted to do and the things we’d do if we had time - so useful if you are visiting someplace you know nothing about.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The other thing I highly recommend is to buy or borrow a GPS system, despite the fact that they are known to make the occasional mistake. We borrowed <a href="http://www.bestbuy.ca/en-CA/product/magellan-magellan-roadmate-gps-navigation-system-1412-roadmate-1412/10100482.aspx?path=62fdfcd9e6ca0144d29c4d9e56516489en02">“Magellan”</a> </span>from a friend and though I wouldn’t necessarily call it a marriage saver, it preempted a number of incendiary comments about poor driving and navigation skills. Neither my husband nor I will ever win an award for patience, and in those few instances of error, Magellan allowed us the much healthier alternative of yelling at an inanimate object, rather than each other. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp3gcLmQIybKxCga-Kibh4_bEirWDtVtC3HRx-hUWQTsNrqV0LaRYRGo_fAhVrp8qvHT6Nh0ICI7Qhe5UH5grAtSaHTttfXmh96enDydXotG0BsEUZ6bvJUpfodvzIokVJlFM0Kt4BOs/s1600/DSC_0410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp3gcLmQIybKxCga-Kibh4_bEirWDtVtC3HRx-hUWQTsNrqV0LaRYRGo_fAhVrp8qvHT6Nh0ICI7Qhe5UH5grAtSaHTttfXmh96enDydXotG0BsEUZ6bvJUpfodvzIokVJlFM0Kt4BOs/s320/DSC_0410.JPG" width="214" /></a></div><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">If you are under the age of 10 or over the age of 40 another good thing to know about driving the Oregon Coast is that there are bathrooms a-plenty! I’m with <a href="http://ellen.warnerbros.com/2010/04/martin_short_gets_funnier_with_age_0421.php">Martin Shor</a>t who says “The only time I don’t have to pee is when I’m peeing.” So have no fear there are public restrooms pretty much everywhere you go; at every rest stop, every State Park and sometimes when you ask nicely, at the out of the way gallery you discovered. </span>Even though they didn’t have a washroom, The Lookout Gift Shop at <a href="http://n.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cape_Foulweather">Cape Foul Weather</a> thoughtfully provided a hand drawn map that showed the location of the nearest restrooms, both north and south of the cape. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I look forward to seeing you visit here over the next few weeks as I share photos, stories, restaurant reviews and suggestions for a wonderful drive along Highway 101 in Oregon, U.S.A. Stay tuned for the next post which will cover Chuckanut drive, the wreck of the Peter Iredale and the quaint little town of Seaside.</span></div>Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-49412448171084303672010-02-24T08:49:00.000-08:002014-11-18T09:25:46.211-08:00Carrer De La Flor Del Lliri<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">We arrived at the apartment building, our home away from home, at the same time as an elderly couple. He, slightly bent over with wire framed glasses sliding down his nose and a full head of white hair, she with dark auburn hair and owl-like glasses. Stout and slow moving, they climb the narrow stairs ahead of us, each carrying a bag of groceries. Groceries are a common accessory here, as we soon discover. We have rented an apartment in a building directly behind <a href="http://www.barcelona.unlike.net/locations/301406-Mercat-de-Santa-Catarina">Mercat de Santa Caterina</a>, in one of the oldest neighbourhoods in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barcelona">Barcelona</a></place></city>. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Thick walls constructed in the 19<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup> century separate us from the noise of the neighbours within the building itself. It would be easy to imagine we were the only ones living here if not for the rare occasion we see another occupant tramp up or down the crooked stairs towing grocery bags or dogs of varying miniature breeds. They are usually very quiet – both dogs and neighbours, with the exception of last night. In the wee hours, I recall footsteps clattering on loose tile, a drunken voice bouncing around the stairwell and the urgent “shhhhh” of a companion.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Each morning I wake to the metallic thunder of rolling doors flung upwards on the backs of trucks and loading bays. The deliveries begin around 7 a.m., bringing fresh produce, meat and fish for the market, which opens at ten and closes at two. I don’t resent the early wake up call; I’m a lark, not a nightingale. I greet each day with much anticipation, and the knowledge that I have no knowledge. I have a vague idea of where we will go but I can’t begin to imagine what experiences we will have and as entertaining and peculiar as my dreams are, the blank slate before me is too enticing to keep me in bed once I’ve woken up.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">This afternoon, five days after our arrival, I am looking out our bedroom window watching life unfold below me on Carrer de la Flor <place w:st="on"><state w:st="on">del</state></place> Lliri. We’re not usually around this late in the day and I’m curious to get a closer look at our neighbours. The man on the balcony below and to the left of me waters a lush green collection of plants. He wears a rumpled white dress shirt and thin brown suspenders hang like skipping ropes from the top of his trousers. Smoke wafts up towards me from the cigarette dangling from his lips. The smell of smoke is ever present in <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Barcelona</city></place>. There is no escape. No such thing as a smoking section in restaurants, or anywhere else it seems. Some days my nose and eyes burn with it, but I have come to accept it as part of the ambiance of España. Today it feels as though the scent has permeated my nostrils so deeply that I can smell it even when there are no smokers around me. The insides of my nostrils now smell like smoke. You´ll soon find my smoked snout in the market behind the glass, artfully display between the smoked ham hock with one sinewy leg and yellowing hoof still attached, and the pale piglets, eyes forever closed, corners of their lips curled into a Mona Lisa smile, as though they dream of mud baths and truffles.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Movement attracts my eye and I watch a curly haired boy in shorts and a bright yellow polo shirt step from the sunny street into the shadow of our lane. Each hand grips the blue plastic handle of a four litre jug of water. He places the jugs on the ground and a round gold tin appears in one hand. My initial thought is <i>snuff?</i> When I describe the scene to my husband, he makes the same suggestion. Perhaps when in a foreign country your mind looks for less than ordinary options. The boy, who can’t be much older than eight, pries the lid open, rummages in the foil and pulls out a sweet covered in powdered sugar. He pops it into his mouth rearranging the foil with great care before closing the lid and tucking it into his pocket. Has he liberated the sweet from the tin his mother asked him to buy, or did she tell him to get himself a treat with the change when she sent him off on his errand? Hoisting the jugs by the handles, he continues on his way shuffling along the stone to the end of the alleyway. He presses the building’s buzzer, hollers into the speaker and shoulders his way through the door. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">If I were brave enough to stand on the narrow balcony and test my weight against the aged wrought iron railings, I am sure I could easily lean forward and shake hands with someone standing on the balcony opposite me. Kitty corner across the alley and one floor down, they are renovating. Two men have been sweating it out all week. Normally businesses other than cafés and restaurants close between 2:00 and 4:30 for a siesta, but there is no rest for these two. When we come home for lunch or a change of clothes, we casually check their progress, listening to the music of hammers and an electric saw, of heavy lumber hitting the floor, and a male voice singing snippets of flamenco and opera along with the radio. Through the pale raw pine of an open balcony door, we watch a puzzle of mosaic tiles come together piece by piece. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">The doors are an ingenious and remarkable layering of wood, glass and wood that allow you to open everything at once, open them with glass still in, protecting you from the elements, or close indoor wooden shutters over the glass creating instant darkness. I watched them fitting the wood “window” layer into the folding doors. It takes some time and requires some adjustments, some grunting and perhaps a curse or too. My understanding of Spanish swear words is limited but something about the delivery is universal. The younger of the two men, pants riding down on his hips, holds the wood patiently in place as the older man grumbles his frustration.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">They count the floors differently here. We are on the 2<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">nd</span></sup> floor, according to our address, but in <place w:st="on"><country-region w:st="on">Canada</country-region></place> we would call it the fourth floor. Nothing much on the ground or floor, just mail boxes, then the Principal floor above that, then the first, then the second with four more above us. I decide to head down to street level for a closer examination of the lane. Stores, galleries, and studios occupy the ground floor levels. It’s late afternoon and the sky above is bright and free of clouds, but the tall buildings and narrow alleyway provide no room for sunshine. The artificial light feels both odd and familiar to me, like something from a recurring dream. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">My first stop is a travel agency specializing in trips to Africa and the <place w:st="on">Middle East</place>. The sign overhead reads “Cultura Africana y Viajes” <i>African Culture and Travel </i>I think. I have some rudimentary Spanish, but this is Catalan, kind of a French/Spanish combination. I pretend to read the brochures and write-ups pasted on the windows while I peek into the store. There are beautiful photographs of golden orange sand dunes with sharp wind blown edges and smiling children with liquid brown eyes, glowing skin and beatific smiles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see pale strawberry blonde hair. A woman focuses on the computer screen in front of her, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She looks up and I continue on my journey. Across from her, there is a hairdresser, one of several in the area. My attention is drawn to the sign offering hair colour for 10 euros…tempting…..</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">“<a href="http://www.recdi8.com/uk/home/">Showroom RecDi8</a>” farther down the street draws my attention with tall glass doors that don’t have a metal cover-up at night. I wonder how they avoid being broken into. The contents are enticing with beautiful art works - vases, sculpture, wall hangings, knickknacks, displayed on tables and shelves in minimalist décor. Lighting is subdued and the creations seem lit from within. In the loft at the back of the store, a handsome man with a crew cut sits on a chair chewing his nails, staring intently at the computer screen in front of him and I walk past unnoticed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">The <a href="http://www.beorganicbarcelona.com/">“Be Organic”</a> shop is open despite the fact that it’s siesta time. On either side of the door, shiny white onions, bumpy orange squash, organic and blemish free, peek out of wooden crates. Picture perfect tomatoes on the vine fill one cardboard box, and cherry tomatoes colour the bottom of the one beside it. Wooden shelves display bottles, jars and cans that proudly announce their pesticide free goodness. A blackboard hangs on the concrete wall and curving pastel letters proclaim “Tienda Ecólogica”.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I walk past the Showroom again and the man from the loft has moved to the main floor. He is more relaxed now, leaning back in his chair, arm casually thrown across the table in front of him. A contagious smile lights up his eyes while he listens to someone on his cell phone. He looks very appealing and I imagine the talker is someone he’s very fond of. I’m smiling myself at the thought and when our eyes meet he quickly looks down as though embarrassed to be caught in an intimate moment.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">It’s now 4:00 and people are slowly returning from their siestas, checking their watches and opening doors. Two women stand half way down the alley, one is the travel agent, the other wears an apron with the Be Organic logo. They laugh, and speak to each other in English with German and Spanish accents. I wonder if they see the irony of smoking in front of the health food store.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I walk back to my end of the alley and I stop to lean on the wall. I’m holding my notebook at chest level and I write furiously, trying to describe everything around me, to record a memory of this world that is both so old and new. I’m filled with regret at the thought of all the opportunities I've missed to transcribe the life surrounding over the past few days. Until today, my attempts to capture <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Barcelona</place></city> have been with my camera not my pen. It seems that sometimes a thousand words are not enough. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I hear the jingling of the tags on a dog collar and raise my eyes to see another neighbour who resides somewhere above me. He leads his twin schnauzers into our building. My gaze turns to a couple at the end of the alley, one holding up a camera. I look back to my book and continue writing as the flash goes off. I wonder if she’s taking a picture of me as I write about her, smiling, blissfully engrossed in my task. Or perhaps she taking a picture of the quaint <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Barcelona street </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and will later wish she could have snapped one without that crazy writing woman in it. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">High heels click along the cement drawing my attention to the opposite end of the lane once more. My eyes sweep over the slender silhouette of a woman walking up the middle of the alleyway. Her purse is slung across her body and she carries a bouquet of flowers. I can’t tell what variety they are, only that they are a vivid profusion of pinks and yellows and blues. A bright white piece of paper surrounds them. In the dusky lane with late afternoon sun and artificial light bouncing off brass coach lamps and store windows, with her hand clutching the tissue covered stems, the effect is so stunning I imagine I will request white paper around all future bouquets that I buy. She is striding confidently in my direction, in heels and a short denim skirt. Her arms extend out to the side with elbows bent, the bouquet in one hand and a plump red mango resting on the other. She carries the mango as though holding a tray with her hand at a right angle to her wrist. She walks past me but turns around before she reaches the end of the street, then doubles back. She seems to be looking for something in particular. When she reaches the Showroom she stops and peers through the window. I wonder if she’s looking for the handsome man. Was she the source of his blissful smile? The woman stares into the showroom for a minute or two and then walks to the end of the alleyway. She hesitates, seeming unsure of which way to go; steps tentatively one way then strides off in the opposite direction. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihn2twDb0LjJfGQ67COO67iGvuBrzIDSwu43txCd1w8OCWdctrDmU47t5eCP-Hl27tFMKr_tLLzEBCGYKi4VgQ_wydTWv-JSgtEMBpsVNsPCylpMKCpaQLSi6VbIXUNqGR25uKrdYiSBE/s1600-h/DSC_0465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihn2twDb0LjJfGQ67COO67iGvuBrzIDSwu43txCd1w8OCWdctrDmU47t5eCP-Hl27tFMKr_tLLzEBCGYKi4VgQ_wydTWv-JSgtEMBpsVNsPCylpMKCpaQLSi6VbIXUNqGR25uKrdYiSBE/s400/DSC_0465.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I’m dying to know what her story is. The fear that I’ll be mistaken for a stalker if I’m seen again, doesn’t stop me from casually strolling by the store with a quick glance over my shoulder at the last minute. I spot him back in the loft, staring intently into the computer screen, chewing his nails once again. I’m limp with disappointment. What if they were meant to find each other and didn’t connect. <i>I saw you….He: handsome nail chewing artist, She: Dark haired mango toting beauty. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">At the end of the street, I hear footsteps running down stairs. The apartment door swings open and the young water carrier bursts out of the building. He is wearing the same yellow shirt but has traded shorts for a pair of jeans with flared legs and fraying hems. A woman’s voice bounces around the stairwell and he pushes the heavy door back in just before it slams shut, shouting back into the building impatiently, in a tone that says: <i>I have man’s work to do now woman, let me on my way.</i> </span></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">They volley back and forth in that musical rapid-fire tongue that has become so much a part of my world that I dreamed in Spanish the other night, but when I woke I had no idea what I’d been saying. The boy’s mother, if indeed it is his mother, has received a satisfactory response and he bounds away from the building, veering right at the end of the lane, no hesitation, his destination as mysterious to me as my own.</span></i></span></div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-88918150779719908262009-12-01T12:22:00.000-08:002014-11-18T08:39:39.681-08:00Over the Meadow and Through the Snow....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3UD8gDFEnT7hgeJpZGH1ZbZL6Kzpyf1FyOJnzf_LLImAz9mvINkH680Evan9eJH-ojuNbMLnAjZlL_2AmaGuHU-b54qZc2Xp-l2RRGLPb2ObdsRXJyIa6ieKuSuf-zrcwfGkEeDYbyg/s1600/through+the+snow.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3UD8gDFEnT7hgeJpZGH1ZbZL6Kzpyf1FyOJnzf_LLImAz9mvINkH680Evan9eJH-ojuNbMLnAjZlL_2AmaGuHU-b54qZc2Xp-l2RRGLPb2ObdsRXJyIa6ieKuSuf-zrcwfGkEeDYbyg/s320/through+the+snow.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410386078354691938" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 237px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 227px;" /></span></a>Ironically a winter memory comes to mind whenever I hear the opening lyric of Nat King Cole's "That Sunday That Summer". It begins</span>...</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: black;"><i>If I had to choose just one day, to live my whole life through…</i>For me,<i> </i>it would surely be that snowy winter’s eve in 1977, when I was 15 years old.<br /><br />That Saturday I planned to spend the evening at the home of my best friend who lived on the other side of town. I shoved my feet into my sorrels, shrugged into my duffle coat and looked out the kitchen window. Fluffy snowflakes as big as quarters floated down from the sky, settling gently onto the unblemished drifts that covered our backyard. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: black;">On tiptoe, I rummaged through the front closet shelf and found what I needed. With a scarf looped around my neck, my toque pulled firmly over my ears, and mitten cuffs tucked into my coat sleeves I was ready to face mother nature.<br /><br />I stepped out of the house, filled my lungs with prickling winter air and headed towards my goal at a brisk pace. Along the hard pack on the roadside, snow squeaked in protest with each crenelated boot print I left in my wake. The surrounding neighbourhood was silent and few cars drove past. As I neared the bright and noisy downtown, I realized I didn’t want to spoil the peace and quiet. I decided to detour across the railway lines that ran parallel to Front Street. On the other side of the tracks lay a large open area, a little bigger than a football field. Beyond that, a gentle slope led to a smattering of houses, one of which belonged to my friend.<br /><br />I crossed the tracks and slipped into the darkness, my breath fogging the air in front of me. Guided by moonlight, I wadded ankle deep through the white expanse. All was quiet save the swish of loose powder around my ankles and the crunch of my boots compressing the snow beneath me. I alternated between feeling the frosty air on my face, to snuggling my cheeks and chin into my scarf where my warm breath formed and then melt tiny crystals in the damp wool.<br /><br />When I came to the middle of the field, I stopped and took off my mittens. My heated hands welcomed the cool air while I closed my eyes and turned my face heavenward. Thick flakes melted on my cheeks and tickled my eyelashes. I couldn’t resist and opened my mouth, chasing snowflakes onto my tongue. Over my shoulder I could see the narrow trail I had made, leading back into the darkness. It was the only thing marring the pristine swath of white behind me and I felt like I was the only one on earth. A feeling of immense joy and serenity seeped into my soul. I continued on, a smile on my face and warmth in my heart.<br /><br />All too soon I was standing in front of Cindy’s door. I looked down at my jeans, now true bell bottoms, stiff with the snow that had first melted, then froze along the trek. Heat radiated out the neck of my coat as I began unraveling my scarf. I raised my hand to knock, and hesitated, fearing my rapping knuckles would break the spell. Catching sight of my rosy cheeked reflection in the window, I smiled. There was still the walk back home. </span></span></div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-33692665571653131122009-11-13T11:04:00.000-08:002014-11-18T09:28:27.081-08:00Froggie Courtin'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotkieoPIuFHIib59IlKOzCBt0QsYUWlAKnm6HD7AkGfcJlpL3YZUsPIIDvaO8UyXljfC-kUooW0m7qOqvoznyqfj_bgHgV1QohMTDa-ng0kkI_JEMqKZGHc8yKHuoOU1K7LuiXssVi1M/s1600/DSCF1091.JPG"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotkieoPIuFHIib59IlKOzCBt0QsYUWlAKnm6HD7AkGfcJlpL3YZUsPIIDvaO8UyXljfC-kUooW0m7qOqvoznyqfj_bgHgV1QohMTDa-ng0kkI_JEMqKZGHc8yKHuoOU1K7LuiXssVi1M/s320/DSCF1091.JPG" height="341" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405614496019007394" style="float: left; height: 220px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 258px;" width="400" /></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">I stepped through the doorway of the log cabin we were renting in beautiful Belleisle Bay, New Brunswick. I wiggled into dew dampened sneakers that had spent the night on the deck. Hitching my camera over my shoulder, I grabbed my travel mug off the railing and walked into the bush, following a well worn path through the crowd of ferns. Silver clouds blocked the sun and the patter of rainfall surrounded me. Looking more closely into the glossy green forest revealed the source was not rain falling, but condensed fog cascading from leaf to leaf. I remained gratefully dry other than my sneakers, which were now quite saturated with the morning dew.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">As I approached the pond I was thrilled to see it calm and blanketed by mist. It was literally picture perfect, but I worried the fog wouldn't show in the photos. The morning before, I had taken some shots with my small digital camera and from what I could see on the screen, the fog was invisible. I eased myself into a weathered Adirondack chair on the sandy shore and sipped my coffee, content within the peaceful scene. I was fascinated and mesmerized by the action on the pond’s surface. Even though a climatology course had taught me the scientific explanation for fog, I was still drawn into the illusion that it was a separate entity skimming across the smooth water. The wind forced the mist in front of it, pushing it around the pond in whispy vapours that swirled and skated across the glassy surface like a swarm of ghosts, all joined in a rousing game of crack the whip in the frosty hereafter. Silly old wind, trying with all his might to blow it all away. Whether an overcoat, or a coat of mist, the sun would win once more. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">Suddenly, a loud, drawn out <em>breeee-DEEEEP</em> echoed across the stillness. A moment later the response came from my side of the pond; a brief and comical <em>boy-yoing</em>! as though a bass guitar string had let go under the strain of someone slowly winding, winding… it’s almost right …but… snap! ....oops, too much. A few minutes later it sounded again - <em>breee-DEEEEP</em> … two…three…four… <em>boy-yoing!</em> I continued to sip and stare at the dancing fog, hypnotic as a campfire. The frogs carried on with their mating song. It wasn’t a constant tune, more of a call and response, an occasional "You there?" followed by "yup!".</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7meIt2LV_pxKVeqrwGyOgrrD9ufU0iEpPh26tcX1r9aBUcuE3vbEi8ZBPNMa45Z9do9z1GSk4wqC39mhgfaxjtksjk2lgbmbJepZKPv919jiOSqxCZvorgNiFlWoRFKDm8QsY9GpMnq0/s1600/73370013.JPG"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7meIt2LV_pxKVeqrwGyOgrrD9ufU0iEpPh26tcX1r9aBUcuE3vbEi8ZBPNMa45Z9do9z1GSk4wqC39mhgfaxjtksjk2lgbmbJepZKPv919jiOSqxCZvorgNiFlWoRFKDm8QsY9GpMnq0/s320/73370013.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405609531430415026" style="float: right; height: 151px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; width: 256px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A couple of canoes and two small kayaks lay bottoms up on the beach. I flipped the yellow kayak upright, retrieved a paddle from a nearby shack, hung my camera carefully around my neck and launched myself onto the water. The surface was so still and perfectly reflective, I hated the thought of marring the pristine glass with my tiny wake. Yet it had its own beauty too; silky, undulating waves, fracturing and gently warping the reflections, sending its ever shrinking echoes across the pond. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7vGcyH5okEjvMXcFtPh49J3dAtOxxF8RT4aJ4b-QPiL_o6vd9LvHRUP0uj2OON2l2QUJtcZpjs7MgN1bKIMRyrl_9kjGbGqDk0PR1B_6US37p0Wjn7m4AR0TitqtbgM2aEcOP3m_4ac/s1600/73370019crop.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7vGcyH5okEjvMXcFtPh49J3dAtOxxF8RT4aJ4b-QPiL_o6vd9LvHRUP0uj2OON2l2QUJtcZpjs7MgN1bKIMRyrl_9kjGbGqDk0PR1B_6US37p0Wjn7m4AR0TitqtbgM2aEcOP3m_4ac/s320/73370019crop.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405854959378797026" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 219px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 199px;" /></a>My goal was to find “King Henry” as I had named him.. My image of Henry the Eighth did not jive at all with “The Tudors” TV lead, all buff and attractive. Some painting in my memory showed a more bloated version dressed in a brown spotted tunic with pleated sleeves and a russet cape. I inched my way slowly and carefully, camera at the ready, paddle angling in the drink, trying to slow the boat's progress and not disturb anything. I spied his Lordship ensconced comfortably at the edge of the pond surrounded by grasses and half submerged, all round and large and brown and glistening. His supple chin bubbled in and out as he blinked lazily at me, his gaze filled with distain. I tried to slow the boat's momentum without startling him, reading my camera, slowly getting closer..... closer.... now? no, not yet, closer....closer...not....doh! Too close! He dove quickly under water. Chastising myself for missing a great shot, I decided I'd be less stingy with my next attempts and crossed the pond to see if I could find Miss Boleyn.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">I found the photography much more satisfying on the other side and took extra shots in the effort to keep from missing a good one. These frogs were mostly green and typically, frog looking where as Henry was more brown and spotted, appearing very much like the bloated lord and master that I had recalled. I decided to do a little frog canvas and slowly paddled around the pond. I thought I might come up with 17 altogether, but as it turned out there was 24 at my count. King Henry had many options it seemed and in the froggy world, I would imagined he would be something to lose your head over. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">Across from the beach I snuck up on one beautiful specimen who looked as though he'd been plated in brass. After capturing a good shot I turned back towards the last spot I had seen his Lordship. I discovered I only had one picture left and thought I’d try one more time. I looked towards the beach, surprised to see that my husband had arrived on little cat feet, sitting quietly in the chair beside the one I had occupied earlier.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeu1_IIQC5YZVMHd_TSfrlFotFxqYlC0_2cyId5ID7p1jzPBduKD8f0wyBCKi0LOolZE7x4a-4W5QpIVd9C9ujKyJvD3B3zbL0fkw_U9vAo7KiJnV0Du8vRpE_SwIRRtmGdLqeBhxwjaA/s1600/73370019.JPG"></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8mUY4RP4_2ewqul4HiqbYOkT0myxIZXc7z0JbRFOorEAisYdKZgkWgbD2wDgmmhWjs3iNiLMJW7PCMAIFN1W5kHHv9HrH4RSKm6e8mbc__O0P3IEc9KkwOikgpPKnxNfKb4_rZ7QkOM/s1600/73370022.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8mUY4RP4_2ewqul4HiqbYOkT0myxIZXc7z0JbRFOorEAisYdKZgkWgbD2wDgmmhWjs3iNiLMJW7PCMAIFN1W5kHHv9HrH4RSKm6e8mbc__O0P3IEc9KkwOikgpPKnxNfKb4_rZ7QkOM/s320/73370022.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405854951142782818" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 227px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 165px;" /></a></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"You're very stealthy." I called out, feeling a welcome rush of pleasure that he was there, yet somewhat embarrassed to be observed with my guard down.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"Well, you looked like you were being very stealthy yourself." he called back.</span> </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">All thoughts of photographing King Henry left my mind. My kayak turned toward the beach drawn by an undeniable force of nature. I dipped my paddle in the water once more and set out for the shore, intent on capturing my own frog prince. </span></div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-43784601460290985522009-07-28T07:43:00.000-07:002010-03-12T07:24:27.199-08:00Sun-Oka Beach<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpIqnZH2gaOU8CxTXX_Ly8fM1O55SIBGfWuQnIr71onYiWWV2nRKHspmP213aExc6_bK8pwTf0KgM0z7Mex3rrl606-i7G-WG7gsCm3FlhA8LfKYb25cdkGefiZAD1ZsaANu9XvlDw8w/s1600-h/beachscape+1.JPG"><span style="color: #333300;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363566481522502450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpIqnZH2gaOU8CxTXX_Ly8fM1O55SIBGfWuQnIr71onYiWWV2nRKHspmP213aExc6_bK8pwTf0KgM0z7Mex3rrl606-i7G-WG7gsCm3FlhA8LfKYb25cdkGefiZAD1ZsaANu9XvlDw8w/s320/beachscape+1.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 188px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 280px;" /></span></a><span style="color: #333300;"> <span style="font-family: arial;">At the south end of Summerland, across the highway from</span></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #333300;"> the Ornamental Gardens, you’ll find a Provincial Park with a beach that Mike and I have claimed as our favourite. Despite this fact, it’s the first time we’ve visited </span><a href="http://www.env.gov.bc.ca/bcparks/explore/parkpgs/sun_oka/"><span style="color: #333300;"><span style="color: #009900;">Sun-Oka Provincial Park</span> </span></a><span style="color: #333300;">since we stumbled up on it two years ago. There is something very appealing about this family beach that keeps it in my mind despite the fact that it's a good 45 minute drive away. Sarson beach, Gyro, Rotary and Strathcona are all within ten minutes of our house but I think that can be a disadvantage in a way. You sit on the beach for a few minutes then run into the water to cool down. If it’s a bit too hot or crowded, it’s easy to take off back home again where all those chores await, rather than letting your impatient brain wind down until those splashing kids are amusing rather than annoying and if you wait just a bit longer, perhaps a you can grab a shady spot when another group leaves.<br />
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It ended up taking us an hour to get to our destination on Sunday, mostly due to the fact that we came to a long stretch through the construction zone where people had slowed down to a snail’s pace. At one point were driving 10 km/hr. Not because there was ongoing construction, but because there was a 50 foot section of gravel that had everyone fearful of rock chips I guess. The heat had render us rather disorganized earlier on in the day, so the red light on the dash had me in a bit of a panic as we crawled along with no knowledge of how long this woul</span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsU9d0jxFvCwoL0dH-KcTjmJrkenpbp0SjM8WuM7dyOa8U227yhD45mLHvDY8tc-PWD0gtGm9v3GFU6XASfTUDceozD0jgIXXgBv-kOiaEM9y_Rm9vCZNz3fvHODqe2H4VNaNycGc43YQ/s1600-h/later+that+day.JPG"></a><span style="color: #333300; font-family: arial;">d last. After the stop for gas, we visited a fruit stand where ripe apricots bowed the tree branches and tumbled down the hillside, into the parking lot. We bought some sweet cherries to munch on at the beach and I purchased my first field tomatoes of the season. </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRDZzZ0kB291aOEoMYVcO5aDUpDEb9reZJ9JwBf40ll25lFbWy-_4hi24SzYjgD43Wg9C2kPpR_VYTA7fyCbTGnZTcXMpaOFd_Fzwgqi5eCX1P8tJBT9qGmm8pdsRjIMtTmJPQhxPcyU/s1600-h/umbrella+ella+ella.JPG"><span style="color: #333300; font-family: arial;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363560125008309922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRDZzZ0kB291aOEoMYVcO5aDUpDEb9reZJ9JwBf40ll25lFbWy-_4hi24SzYjgD43Wg9C2kPpR_VYTA7fyCbTGnZTcXMpaOFd_Fzwgqi5eCX1P8tJBT9qGmm8pdsRjIMtTmJPQhxPcyU/s320/umbrella+ella+ella.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 202px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 271px;" /></span></a></div><div align="justify"><span style="color: #333300;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we finally arrived</span></span><span style="color: #333300;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I was disappointed to see how full the parking lot was. Between the lot and the beach a crowded green and shady area was filled with families sitting on picnic tables and blankets, rummaging in coolers and giant potato chip bags, looking cool and contented. Our parking spot was near the busy entrance so we lugged our chairs, beach bags, camera and cooler towards the far end of the beach. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Despite the initial crowded appearance, it was easy to find a spot on the sand, but still under the shade of a tree. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">People were far enough away that we couldn’t easily hear their conversations.</span> </span></div><div align="justify"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM59mW3sCdSptwMnQrX70agfLEx2QYNMDHKN_eng2PIQFDwwCLUuJasVnX1XvD6s9hsLv5XJUyH3pakilX88T1Y5ilORAabUPoVT9SPIdXcGtGwie2nL2IsTBRIb7BKrqtU7fRK2uZG-I/s1600-h/DSC_0471.JPG"><span style="color: #333300;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363562769323972242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM59mW3sCdSptwMnQrX70agfLEx2QYNMDHKN_eng2PIQFDwwCLUuJasVnX1XvD6s9hsLv5XJUyH3pakilX88T1Y5ilORAabUPoVT9SPIdXcGtGwie2nL2IsTBRIb7BKrqtU7fRK2uZG-I/s320/DSC_0471.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 214px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></span></a><span style="color: #333300; font-family: arial;">I sat in my chair reading m</span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_D9TiQydi7-0/Sm8v6wzhimI/AAAAAAAAAGE/RqomPO8K4lk/s1600-h/umbrella+ella+ella.JPG"></a><span style="color: #333300;"><span style="font-family: arial;">y book without much focus, observing the bobbing children and ducks, breathing in the smell of wet sand and sunscreen </span><span style="font-family: arial;">while I tried to figure out how someone so determined to avoid crowds had been drawn to this popular spot. Perhaps it was the cozy comfort I felt while looking out at the water, contemplating the stunning view down the lake towards Penticton. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333300;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span style="color: #333300;"><span style="font-family: arial;">To the east a sandy point curves out into the lake. Behind you trees shelter you from </span><span style="font-family: arial;">the highway noise and to the west the waterfront curves around to where the highway hugs tall bluffs. I feel Mother earth envelop me in a protective hug as <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span style="color: #333300;"><span style="font-family: arial;">tension unspools between </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNTzZHN5RmxoIMlJ9A0hwFmWe778o-fQs5phdujww9N8Mui0svupX95Pn5l-xzohx0s86yribNtnLuHX9PYZjt3wGN62xQpkOPalXJusAQTVeSNVUmWHBUErs36Cn6zZpzqXfqNO6dig/s1600-h/later+that+day.JPG"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></a><span style="color: #333300; font-family: arial;">my shoulder blades. I fight my natural tendencies to analyze everything. It’s time to just be.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-78679435923131126592009-07-26T12:29:00.000-07:002009-07-30T10:56:35.110-07:00Wind vs Sun<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#006600;">The wind blew through here like mad yesterday. It knocked our power out for a few hours and spread pine leaves and loose branches everywhere. Castanet says there were 70 incidents reported in a two hour period - trees fell on houses, cars and electrical lines. Two fires started by fallen wires were quickly put out up the hill from us. There was a deluge of rain, which I think helped dampen the fires. The Terrace fire is now 50% contained and some of the evacuated have been allowed back.<br /><br />This afternoon we will drive past the scorched earth of Glenrosa for the first time since the fires and I wonder how that will feel. We'll head down to what we call our favourite beach despite the fact we've only been to once. It's in a Provincial Park called Sun-Oka just south of Summerland. We stumbled upon it two years ago and fell in love. Used mostly by the people camping in their trailers in the park, I think Sunday afternoons are fairly quiet on the beach. It's just a little too far to pop down to for a couple of hours, so we have to make a concerted effort to go. Today we are. </span></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#006600;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#006600;">Ribs are marinating in lemon, oregano, olive oil and garlic as I type and I will barbecue them shortly as part of our dinner picnic. Hennie's famous potato salad is also in progress...with new red potatoes, green apples and green onions, sweet Vidalia onions, crunchy celery, and feathery dill. We'll stop at the side of the road for some fresh cherries, peaches and tomatoes along the way.<br /><br />I'm looking forward to sitting on the beach, reading my book. I will wear by bathing suit (but NOT my bikini!) and remove my cover up at least. I may even end up putting a toe in the water... or not, time will tell. Relaxation is difficult for me to achieve some times but I recall it wasn't a problem on our last visit and I was able to keep myself from checking my watch for more than an hour. If I get restless I can always walk up and down the beach and take some photos. Pop by in a day or two and see what I saw...</span></div>Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5834471854302133659.post-3373178345613205852009-07-25T10:56:00.000-07:002012-10-18T07:56:02.943-07:00Now and Zen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdBcw3xNStaLrOeicKRhOX6NZqqBOWeAZQHNJreMFDh6F5ovFd9KdK-SRYJShJHqany3Idv_Or1fbvygPdwM40JcSrApUTTE6cQufbiOPHv6bouf4DMVHoeRoE_spmgOLHJ1pl4pP2w8/s1600-h/lilies.jpg"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362464869746673698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdBcw3xNStaLrOeicKRhOX6NZqqBOWeAZQHNJreMFDh6F5ovFd9KdK-SRYJShJHqany3Idv_Or1fbvygPdwM40JcSrApUTTE6cQufbiOPHv6bouf4DMVHoeRoE_spmgOLHJ1pl4pP2w8/s320/lilies.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 214px;" /></span></a><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: trebuchet ms;"> I’m wilting on the steps of Kelowna’s Rotary Centre for the Arts, in the heat of a cloudless July afternoon. My thoughts turn north towards Tugboat Beach …yes, that’s what I need, the beach where’s there’s water and cool breezes and a lounge chair with my name on it. Where there’s people…lots and lots of people. And children, noisy children… and girls in bikinis….flaunting bodies that have yet to succumb to the affects of gravity and childbirth. Ah… the beach. I do not need the beach. My mind and body do a quick 180 (surprisingly quick in this sluggish heat) pointing me in the direction of what I truly need….the tranquility and peace of Kasugai Gardens.<br /><br />At the south end of the Cultural District, on the shady east side of City Hall, weathered pine doors are propped open, welcoming me into a beautifully tended sanctuary named for Kelowna’s Japanese sister city. Even as I step through the doorway of Kasugai Gardens, the din of the busy transit centre on the Queensway is muffled to dull background noise and I’m struck by contrasting sights and textures integral to traditional Japanese gardening. Pathways of crushed stone draw me past beds of pale pachysandra, into mini forests in shady corners, and around lush tama-mono pruned in a way that puts me in mind of a green mogul field.<br /><br />A traditional Japanese bridge crosses the reflecting pond in a graceful curve. This is the garden’s centerpiece where spotted koi nibble on lily pads, jostling waxy pink blossoms. Through a veil of weeping birch leaves I spy a small turtle basking in the sunlight, while three crows strut along the river rock on the opposite shore.<br /><br />Benches are scattered throughout in both public and secluded areas. Seating myself in a shady spot, I feel the tension drain away. Once the mental distractions are gone, I soon discover that peaceful does not mean without sound. Water spills from a bamboo spout and splashes into a shallow basin near the garden entrance while gentle birdsong wafts through the air. From under a bridge at the back of the garden, water rushes over large stones into the reflecting pond. Human generated noise is minimal as most people seem to arrive on their own, and those in pairs or groups speak in hushed tones, instinctively protecting the serenity.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><br />With a sigh I wiggle my feet out of my sandals, close my eyes and take a deep breath. My nose is filled with the scents of green plants, damp earth and sunshine and I feel more carefree with each passing moment. A little more time in this sanctuary and I may even visit the beach this afternoon, sporting my vacation bikini. Who knows, I might even dare to remove the cover-up.<br /></span></div>
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Suzan Wood-Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14026429238261707741noreply@blogger.com0