You might say of a friend that they are a "good egg", or a demanding boss is "hard boiled".  An intelligent friend could be an "egghead".  And , if we were faux arguing, we could be "egging one another on". I don't profess to have useful etymological thoughts on all these weighty matters, but I know that I know a good egg when I encounter one.
     We live at sea level of course on Lotus Island so timing is important for the egg and  for our "good eggs" to remain at any state to be soft, contained and delectable. It is easy for us to treasure a good egg. On the other hand the best " hard boiled" are also perfect when heated slowly to the immediate point of boiling and then pitched into a cold shower. We learn more from tough experiences sometimes rather than soft handling.  One  however has to be careful with rough handling. When ever a young and fresh egg is badly over boiled it will have unsightly grey margins at the center.
       This is unattractive in person and in egg, giving a grey shade to the derivatives; potato salad, deviled eggs, doing business, meeting people, charitable acts. The grey shade will not happen if the cold shower is applied in timely fashion at sea level  to "the hard boiled".  As always in love, war, business and eggs, timing is everything, There are "eggheads" in the soft or hard boiled of course, but the hard boiled are a somewhat more difficult chew.

I bought a print the other day of the Camino;  the road from France to the Spanish town of Santiago de Compostela. It was in our library as part of an exhibition series exploring the nature of roads. Standing on the road  ; a trail really;  was the solitary, lengthened shadow of a pilgrim with a  walking stick; and the low sun, the sense of impending twilight, and the antiqued paper, giving the print of the road a quality of roughness and endless distance.
        A road always suggests a journey:  leaving somewhere, or someone, or something. and going to something else. But the gist of the journey is the process, not the beginning or the end of it. The shadow on the road is fully in contact with it and will look forward and look backward throughout the journey, leading and following the traveler and in the midday foreshortened, watching the traveler from one side or other throughout much of the heat of the day. Though the traveler passes through the country, the road hard and rough, the traveler footsore, he is confined by the direction of the roadway if he is to progress to the intended target.
         If it's the road to Zanzibar Dorothy Lamour made with her friends, or the Yellow Brick Road, or the Camino Road, the place to be is the place between. This is where we walk one step at a time. In my print, the solitary figure expressed by the shadow gives a feeling to the viewer of the loneliness of the roadway. There is no Bing Crosby to accompany Dorothy or Toto to accompany the other Dorothy. And these roads are beside the point. The Camino road is the point. The road in my print is for each step, the present and the only reality. My print could have been anywhere because road is a metaphor for life.
         I have never taken the road to Santiago de Compostela, marking the way to the Cathedral of St. James, and I am too old to do it now, but a road is a road is a road and we are all on a roadway to somewhere and leaving somewhere. It's a process that we live, from that road we decided to take, rather than the goal that would take us somewhere else. How many times did you start with a goal and find during the journey that the real purpose was somewhere else?

When I was a little boy in the forties, a cartoon, The Watchbird, appeared regularly in The Ladies Home Journal, a magazine to which my mother subscribed. The cartoon always featured a bad boy being observed by the Watchbird. The cartoonist would always draw and describe the naughty, or whiny, or stingy bad boy being surveilled by the Watchbird. The boy was caught in the sinful act and then the clincher would come. "This is the Watchbird watching a sneaky!" Named and shamed by his sin.
       A second view of the Watchbird would be drawn facing the young reader. The heading would read, "This is the Watchbird watching YOU1"  Pediatric ethics 101 from the lips of The Ladies Home Journal. But what was most interesting was that naughty activity provided the young reader a certain vicarious pleasure. The Watchbird was a simple line drawn, fat little cartoon bird, peering at an offender and then at me, the implied offender. I can remember hurrying to find the cartoon every month to see the bad boys.
          The assumption that we all bore close scrutiny at six or eight for our little secrets was never really challenged in those days. My mother told me she occasionally spanked  me with the hairbrush for no definable reason other than the gut feeling I deserved it.  She was probably right. She was a stay at home mum and probably knew far more than the Watchbird.  I don't think the cartoon had any lasting ethical benefit because even then, naughty was far more interesting to watch  than goody-two shoes. I guess it wasn't the enlightened child raising we see today, but there was never the feeling that I was shortchanged in the love game.
          My mother subsequently had three further boys and the hairbrush retired.  The Watchbird disappeared. Ideas changed. Parents relaxed. I didn't get any useful ideas from the Ladies Home Journal but, things carry on and we are still under scrutiny today by Watchbirds called Media.  Stingy, naughty, sneaky and whiny, are still around and in current play.

 On this weekend it  is Thanksgivng Day in Canada. In this country it coincides of course, with the Christian, Harvest Festival. It calls to mind an earlier Thanksgiving. My daughter is a nurse and worked a twelve hour shift at one time time, so her family, who often came to Lotus Island with us for Thanksgiving, were unwilling to leave her abandoned in order to come to feast with us. Appropriately so !  Well, that time the pianist and I went to the mountain.
       We were going to the mountain with the cooked turkey and all the trimmings. It's a bit complicated since iit's over the pond by ferry and critical timing of food as a warm mass in the hands  of transport is dicey. Our daughter asked if we could bring some of our home made fruit wine from the cellar . It's not rot-gut, but it's not stellar either.
        I usually serve that wine with family, but why is it that we take the people we love the best for granted and don't always provide what we prize the most?  Why should we provide or reserve our quality wine for the dinner party with friends, who we like, but do not love, and settle for less with some of the most important people in our lives? The answer to that is obvious.  Because we can !
         Perhaps we should reevaluate where we put our  "first fruits" .  It's kind of a useful question we pose ourselves as a new thanks giving thought for today. Too soon old, too late smart.

 When our mother died and we planned her funeral my brother Ken was elected to do the eulogy because the rest of us more easily cried.  He said in his remembrance that she was famous amongst her friends and acquaintances for her turkey gravy.  We, her family didn't know that. Sure, we knew her turkey gravy was good as we had eaten it many times but we didn't know its fame had known few bounds. Ken also said that she was somewhat less famous, but not much less for her lemon curd tarts and her small soft buns:  there was a small soft titter amongst the funeral crowd at "small soft buns".
     When I married the pianist years ago she made gravy like her mother did. The pianist's mother was a careful cook who followed a recipe exactly and was vigilant to avoid ingredients that could lead to obesity or heart disease.  Her turkey gravy method was to spoon off virtually all of the fat and add pre-mixed flour and water to the turkey brownings, boiled vigorously. The water she used was carefully saved from earlier boiled vegetables with added seasoning. She was clearly ahead of her time.
        My mother on the other hand, to my knowledge never followed a recipe. Her construction of the gravy consisted of adding the dry flour directly to the drippings and the browning without removing any fat. She would stir and scrape this molten mass into a brown , boggy , glob, whereupon she added plain water,  stirred more vigorously, boiling to reduce. She only seasoned with pepper and salt. Of course the flavour of the gravy was from the dressing as well as the turkey and I am not sure what they both added to it.
        Now the pianist is well known for her gravy by the family and has adopted the excellence of both her mentors, She gets rid of a measure of the fat but adds dry flour directly. An amalgam of history. For this we can give, each year, a hearty thanksgiving.











    

 Our family and also our extended families often had Samoyeds for family pets.   The last dog the pianist and I cared for and cared for us was Tika. She was one year old when she came to us and the breeder who owned her sold her because she couldn't breed her  or show her because of a delayed knowledge of  serious eye problems in some of her lineage. She was a beautiful calm animal, alert and bright and careful not to ruffle the fur of our two watchful cats who were less than enthusiastic about a dog and had already killed two canaries.  Tika made friends rapidly with us and ignored the cats. Our life with Tika was incident free for about two years and then they began to happen.
      The photo is Tika at 10, Still hale and hearty but totally blind and with the grandchildren.
        When she was two and our first grandchild was near two they played together in town when Joan was looking after them both. Two two year olds at play and Joan wrote a book of poetry about it that intimated the shepherding nature of Tika that was present even then,  that indicated that Hannah was her charge to be cared for and protected.
         We cottaged on Lotus Island regularly and the pianist changed the furniture in the living room one day and brought in a large organ. When Tika came into the house  from town she ran smack dab into the side of the organ that had hitherto been an empty space.  Then when we were walking down the roadway to the beach and called her to come, 50 pounds  of dog ran down the hill and didn't stop and hit my knee. I couldn't walk. She couldn't see me in time to stop. I had surgery and was off for a couple of weeks
       The vet Claus Andress referred us to the animal ophthalmologist who told us that she was blind. She had severe retinal atrophy. What we didn't want to hear finally started to make sense. One night in town when we were sleeping I heard a sound like a child crying and calling near our swimming pool. I got up and went to the pool deck and she was crying and swimming in the pool and couldn't get out . I jumped in the shallow end and lifted her out. A Samoyed coat in water is like blotting paper. She was heavy. The then tendency to put it down to slip and fall was  in error obviously.
        And other clues were ignored. I was often blamed for moisture on the toilet seat but when she probably had her water dish relocated the toilet never moved and her hairy muzzle dripped a bit on the seat since she didn't know to lift it. When the neighbors Roland and Mimi excavated a pit for a basement extension she failed to notice the hole and fell in and called for help.
       As her condition got worse I observed what I thought was very neurotic tendencies on her part. Out side on the property she wandered into every single area, sniffing, nose down, almost following a pattern.  She seemed enormously preoccupied. It came to me that she was mapping our acreage and Roland's property which flowed into it. There were no fences and she knew nothing about survey stakes. She was using her nose and the pulp of her feet to map the territory.
         She avoided the beach because a blind dog can't protect herself and her lesson came one day when a rough dog chased her down the beach and she couldn't see where she was going. I came down at the noise and yelled at the dog and it ran away. It was just somewhere she couldn't mark.
       She loved the cottage and her territory. When  we left town for the island she knew where we were going. On the highway on the island as we approached the road to the turn off I would always feel a soft muzzle on my right shoulder and with the turnoff the muzzle would nod in pleasure. Her highlight was when our grand children came.
         We  buried her ashes in a beautiful bowl Joan had made for her beside three Douglas Firs notched into the deck she always lay on. She was 12 years old  and most of them blind. but she was failing in the end. When we took her  to Claus Andress for passage  he weeped with us. She was a brave and resourcful loving  little dog.
 

Some years ago I became captivated  by the romance of fly fishing. Casting a dry fly to a rising trout seemed an experience "du jour" for a person of my precious sensibilities. The thought of immersing myself in the wilds of nature, wading a small stream brought home the sense of finesse of it all.
       Accordingly I purchased fly fishing tackle for dry fly fishing including dry flies recommended for our area. Since I had not done any such casting before, having only experienced trolling a wet fly behind a row boat  in the high lakes of the BC interior, I resolved to practise casting on our lawn.  After several weeks of diligent prectise  I was pleased with my progress and no longer wrapped the line around my head or snagged myself in the trousers. I could cast a fair length and hit a modestly small target area.
          For my benefit the pianist and our children arranged a  picnic at a park by the Sooke Rver , a place where trout were known to lurk. Before the meal I donned my wading gear and proceeded out into the stream with my tackle and flies. Resting against a tree in the little park I saw  two farmers in coveralls watching me as I cast to and fro with considerable aplomb. I thought that they were probably admiring my technique. After a time I gave up and concluded it was a poor fishing day and my efforts were unrewarded. I repaired to the family for the picnic.
            As we started to eat, and the sun prepared to go down, we could see little circles forming in the otherwise smooth flowing surface of the river. Then the farmers took off their coveralls and waded into the river where I had vacated. They cast their flies with practised skill hither and yon and left with several trout each. I set aside romance, finesse, an experience "du jour", aplomb, and my precious sensibilities for the time being, though my family was supportive and the picnic delicious. What I learned again is that in most activity of any sort we enter into, timing is everything, or if not everything, at the least, bloody important.


                                                                        

My youngest daughter's first job was Pink Lady at the hospital in Lotus City.  She was 15 years old and by simple persistence talked them into hiring her for the summer despite the age standard: not yet 16 and against the rules . This was 1978 and the nurses still wore white uniforms, and the other classifications were pink ladies, yellow ladies and blue men. Pink ladies were the ward cleaning staff and my daughter felt she belonged because we were hospital people connected by the pianist who worked as a nurse and me on the wards every day.
     An esteemed partner of mine, Dr. G, was admitted to the cardiac ward with a mild heart attack and was being actively investigated on the ward where our pink lady worked. She chatted wit him every day as she cleaned around him and he seemed to be doing well as her nightly report to us noted. One morning I got a distressed phone call from her to tell me he had died. She had been sent by the head nurse to clean up the room where he had been. The bed had been stripped and the side tables emptied.She inquired about doctor G and the nurse replied in a doleful voice that doctor G had "gone". Then the head nurse looked down at her feet and left.
       Body language!  After the pink lady called me I phoned G's wife at home to give solace and invite myself over to commiserate. She said cheerfully that she would love to see me and so would G as he had been discharged. Dr. G was not a goner at that time. Words accompanied by inappropriate body language have the power to mislead. Words that have multiple meanings even more so. In contrast, even in the presence of a completely foreign language, body language will communicate. The face, the hands, the tone, the posture.
, the animation, will usually tell the aware what they need to know. We hear with the eyes as well as the ears. That's the real anatomy lesson.

My parents, my brothers and I lived in small town railway stations for years. They were our home. In the fifties we lived in a station on the mainline of the Canadian National railway and there was a train whistling through every couple of hours day or night. In our little town the trains usually went by at full speed and they whistled twice for the level crossings. 400 yards  and 200 yards from the railway station. The track was about 25 feet from the station, separated by the platform, and our rooms shook when the trains whistled through. Many were very long freight trains and the shaking would be minutes long. The two transcontinental passenger trains both came thundering through at night as well. Over time, we never woke up with the shaking and thundering  noise at night. My mother, who was light sleeper under some circumstances, rarely awoke.
      The station caretaker came into the station at four AM. lit the fire in the potbellied stove in the waiting room below the boys bedroom, met the way-freight, unloaded the mail and manhandled the jangling cream cans on the platform attached to the station and we never woke up. Sensory adaptation.
        However, when the running employees went on strike and the trains stopped running for a few days the silence was eerie. We all woke up repeatedly during the night. Habituation,  no matter how chaotic
told you everything must be alright with the world. We adapt to the familiar , however unusual, but change, seemingly innocuous, brings sensory adaptation to a halt. Unconsciously alert to danger. There is little control of part of the autonomous brain which serves protection.

     In mid January on Lotus Island I hustle to the supermarket to get the first of the Seville oranges that have just arrived. They are not a hot ticket item any more so they often languish in the bin at the store and dry out. We hardy few who look forward to our bitter marmalade preservation every year mark the calendar. The Seville oranges came from the boulevard trees in Mesa, Arizona.  At then.  Mary, Queen of Scots would have had her oranges shipped from Spain. My reason to hurry is the oranges are still early arrivals and are young and moist.
      A patient of mine, a distant Chivers relative, gave me his three-day recipe which I have always diligently followed. However since some of the people I love do not like large peel slices I use the Cuisinart  rather than a knife to chop the peel more finely and skip tradition. Because I was early,  my oranges are plump and clean without scars. Sevilles, even so , are the most ugly of the orange varieties so don't be dissuaded by their lack of beauty!  Don't take offence at the bitterness of the fruit. Ugly and bitter will transform to sublime in the hands of the lover.  Gentle patience is all that is necessary. The following is the recipe I was given a la Chivers.
       Day1, 8 large Seville oranges, 2 lemons. Halve these all and remove the fruit. Leave all the pith on the peel. Place the fruit in a muslin bag. Chop up the orange and lemon peel with the pith. (I use the Cuisinart). Place all the material together in a large container. {Make sure your muslin bag doesn't leak or you'll have seeds in your marmalade}. Add ten cups of water and soak overnight.
         Day 2, Boil contents for 45 minutes. Let cool and rest for the balance of the day. I have found that you may need a little more water. Keep a sharp eye.
          Day 3,  Take out the muslin bag and squeeze well.  Add one and one quarter cups of sugar to each cup of your product. Boil for 45 minutes timed from the point of rapid boiling. Simmer longer if the marmalade does not jell well when dripping off the spoon. Then fill your jars with hot product, the jars preheated at 275 degrees on a tray in the oven. Seal.
         The quality of the jelling varies with the thickness of the pith in my view. The need to add water at any point varies with the varied hydration of the oranges. The marmalade darkens over the year but the quality is unchanged. No extra pectin is needed: no treacle: no food additives: just sugar and fruit.  Bon appetite.