Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end

Do you remember that song? I still sing it in my head. Often.

Have you been watching the new PBS series, Call the Midwife?

The first week, I forgot it was starting. I think we had a houseful of progeny, which wipes my brain of all coherent thought. I tuned in the second week and then watched the first episode on pbs.com. 

I am in love. 

The story takes place in the East End of London in 1957. It was a period and area of great destitution, and the show highlights the plight of working families. It also puts in frequent plugs for the glories of the National Health Service, a fairly new institution in England at that time. I will not debate the pros and cons of that topic here, because that is not the story I wish to tell. Just let me say that, while I am opposed to a health care system that is run by the government, the plight of the working man and his family in early 20th century England was hard indeed, and heavens knows they needed a break. If government health care made their lives a little easier, hallelujah!

I was born in 1956 in an area of Birmingham that was not unlike the East End. My heartstrings strum a little when I see those babies sitting outside, all strapped into their prams.

Why, you ask?

My little self, alongside a friend.

I'm pretty sure my doting, overprotective mother would never have left me alone in the pram for one second, but the pram was probably the one essential piece of baby equipment for every new mother.

Oh, ha, I just noticed that Anne has the straps on! 

While I was looking for photos of the pram, I ran across a bag of photos and letters that I brought back from New Zealand last year. When Anne and I were going through Mum's house, we ran across lots of photos that we had never seen before, including several of Mum when she was a girl. 

We knew about this one. Mum, or "Elsie", as she was known back then, is the little one in front.

Then, we found some treasures.

Elsie, who must have been a bridesmaid at her Aunty Vi's wedding, front and right.

Again, with her Aunty Vi and a friend.

I don't know anything about this next one, except I'm assuming the girls were dressed in some kind of costume. Mum is on the left.

That's all we have of our Mum as a girl.

Four blurry snapshots.

Then, she met my Dad.

Oops, this is with little brother Dick, who often tagged along on their dates.

Although, how they worked that out when a motorbike was their form of transportation, I do not know.

And then they got married.

And life was beautiful and Mum was always in style.

She designed her own clothes and had them made by a seamstress.

She used to tell us that her best friend often copied her designs.

I think it annoyed and secretly delighted her.

These were the good old days.

Yes, that's our lovely cousin Lynne in the front.

I must be getting old, because my mind often wanders back to those times of innocence and simplicity. I love my life now, but it is so darn complicated. And I miss my Mum as she used to be. It has been a long time since she was really happy.
I miss my Dad, more and more, it seems, as the years go by. I was reading a letter aloud to Jeff tonight, words written about Dad by a man who knew him, and I ended up reading most of it through my tears. He died too young, for someone who had such a zest for living.

This memento is proof positive of Dad's dreams.
The passport that opened the way for our family to move to New Zealand.

And this one just for a laugh. I think one of my aunties was the instigator. A hairnet, big glasses, and my knitting.

Almost prophetic, isn't it?

Thanks for walking down memory lane with me. 

Hope I didn't bore your socks off.

P.S. I learned how to use our scanner, can you tell?

It must have been a slow day at Station 21

We live just around the corner from a fire station, the second to be established in our town. We often hear sirens as the medics and fire fighters rush to an emergency.

I always wonder whose life has been inexorably altered at that moment. 

It was built just a few years ago, and a several-stories-high training structure was erected in the back lot, so fire fighters from all over the area come here to train. 

This morning, I was working on arranging a number for my senior choir, enjoying the challenge and feeling good because I was ahead of schedule, when every single smoke alarm in my house started blaring. 

It was unnerving.

After I had inspected the premises and determined that there was no smoke, no itty-bitty flame to be found anywhere, I called the fire department. 

About ten minutes later (lucky I wasn't on fire), a small truck pulled up and parked on the road. A couple of hunky dudes, all geared up, came sauntering up the driveway and into the house. 

Just as well I had been tidying up all morning, although our bed was unmade in our messy bedroom. 

Embarrassing.

They checked all of the alarms and were soon joined by another, who seemed to be slightly higher in the hierarchy because he immediately took charge.

I do love a bossy man in fire gear, don't you? 

They removed all of the detectors from their brackets and played around with them for a while and still couldn't figure out what was wrong.

Well, I said, the one in the hallway is about thirty years old.

That impressed them. 

It's not working at all, said number one.

He turned over one of the four newer ones and read aloud, Replace by the year 2005.

Oops!

But still, none of the detectors were acting as he expected.

Maybe because they were almost as old as him.

Are you stark raving jealous?????

Number one apologized after about half an hour of head shaking and bemusement.
I'm so confused, he said, I've never seen this before.
The detectors howled with their batteries in and no electricity.
They even howled with them out.
What is going on? I thought, Phantom electrical impulses?
They howled when they were plugged into their electrical outlet, whether the batteries were in or not.
It was a mystery.
It's okay, I said, I'll just go buy new ones.

So I did!

P.S. I have to say that these men were so dad-gummed sweet and helpful (did I already mention that they were hunky?) that I just might put some money in the boot next time they're raising funds on the street corner.

The Great White Huntress

Warning: graphic pictures may be upsetting to some people.

Well, if you dislike photos of ugly upper arms, anyway.

The story goes, on Saturday I decided to be daring and spontaneous and rid us of the recently-discovered nest of yellow-jackets that had taken up residence in a corner of the greenhouse.

So I grabbed the hoe (in my best Indiana Jones imitation) and bravely knocked the nest to the ground.

Yellow-jackets flew out of the greenhouse door, but I ran as-fast-as-a-rabbit over to the house and was none-the-worse for it. 

Too many hyphens?

A little later, I found the killer spray and aimed it right at the corner, where the insects were congregating and (I assume) were planning their rebuilding strategy. 

This made them very angry and they buzzed a little louder and the ones that weren't lying on the ground in the throes of death flew at me, but I escaped yet again.

Angry, stinging insects: ZERO.

Great White Huntress: EVERYTHING.

Behold, the site of the former nest.

Well.

I was feeling pretty cocky and bragged just a tad on facebook.

You know how it is. A body has to celebrate the small victories, right?  Because life can knock us down in a heartbeat. 

My friend, Marissa, happened to mention that she was the proud owner of some kind of buzzy stinging insect nest by her front door, and her husband is out of commission for a while. Like the stupid brave-hearted soul that I am, I told her that I would bring my hoe and can of wasp killer and rid her of the beasts.

Well.

I walked over to her house and was surprised by the fact that this was not a yellow-jacket nest. It was a ground-dwelling, mud-slinging nest of wasps. 

Now, if I had done my research. I would have known that wasps are much more aggressive than yellow-jackets when their nest is attacked, and that this is a particularly bad time of year for said aggression.

But I hadn't done my research.

So I attacked that little nest with my trusty hoe and the wasps came after me and I ran very fast and got away.

The mud nest was not as easy to dismantle as I expected, so I tried the spray.

Which was all used up.

So I tried the hoe again, only those little wasps must have remembered me and this time they attacked with a vengeance. I ran screaming across the lawn as the wasps flew up my skirt and in my hair and up my blouse, stinging me multiple times. I ran into the open garage door where Marissa and her boys were hiding hanging out and ripped off my blouse, modesty thrown to the wind. There were several wasps between the layers of clothes and I was slapping my skin and shaking my clothes and trying to get them all off my body. The pain from the stings was intense, so it was hard to tell whether I was still being stung or if it was just existing wounds.

We decided to call a truce with the wasps and wait to get some spray, and as I was standing talking to Marissa a dead wasp fell out of my skirt.

Awesome.

I walked home, carrying my hoe, and felt like I still had wasps in my clothes, but figured it was just the pain of the stings. When I got home, I scurried into the bedroom and ripped off my clothes and out flew....a wasp. 

My skin crawls as I think about it.

That wasp settled on the mirror and I squashed it dead with a copy of Martha Stewart Whole Living.

I knew those magazines would come in handy some day.

Great White Stupid Huntress: about ten stings.

Wasps: one slightly damaged nest, which they are now rebuilding.

Most of the stings were on my upper arms, which are not attractive at the best of times, and there are others on the back of my neck, stomach, and leg. The stung areas swollen and red and are now at the itchy stage.

More awesome.

Jon said, when I told him my sad story, that I should have called him because he has obliterated many nests of stinging insects. 

Too late, I said.

He also said that pouring rubbing alcohol on the nest at night would do the job.

Did you get that, Marissa?

The best little town in Oregon

Jeff has decided that, if he is to continue working at a job that causes him continual stress, he must have things to look forward to.

Meaning: trips.

They don't necessarily have to be extravagant affairs, just relaxing.

Our August getaway, courtesy of a Living Social deal, was to the Silverton Inn and Suites, in, you guessed it, Silverton.

We arrived on Thursday evening, much later than I had hoped due to an, er, difference of opinion that needed resolving. Thirty-two plus years and it's finally getting easier to have those difficult discussions. 

Does that give anyone else hope? 

The room was elegant and had a kitchenette. I particularly liked the bathroom. It is an older hotel that was recently renovated and the old-style architecture adds charm to the new decor. The foyer was quite magnificent, with a vineyard theme and high ceilings, large artwork, lots of couches and seating areas and a big fireplace.  

We were in the middle of a hot spell in August, so we went for a short walk around the town before settling in. The inn is right in town, but Silverton is a pretty sleepy little town so noise is not an issue. 

The town is full of murals.

We also discovered, much to our surprise, that a river runs right behind the shops on the west side of the street. How many times have we driven through the town on our way to Silver Falls and never known? Several restaurants overlook the river and it makes for a pleasant dining experience on a balmy summer evening, as we discovered the next day.

Jeff had to work on Friday. It was only slightly further to his workplace than from home, so I figured I would have a quiet day, reading and crocheting and relaxing, then he could get off work early and we would have time to visit the Oregon Gardens, as tickets were included in the deal.

I slept in, then ate breakfast right before they closed the dining room for the day. Before it got too hot, I took a little saunter around town. Can I just say that I think that Silverton is the quaintest town I have ever inhabited, bar none. Maybe they work at it a tad too hard, but I was hooked.

The main street is full of eclectic stores. The frontages of the antique/knick-knack shops are lined with inviting chairs and samples of their wares. Colourful cushions adorn the chairs and fairly beg a pedestrian to sit and take a load off.

 

This is small-town America at its best. 

The chairs and other items stay on the sidewalks all day and night.

How awesome is that?

It's almost as if you are stepping back into time, fifty years or more.

Our plan had been to spend Saturday hiking the trail at Silver Falls, but we made a serendipitous discovery upon arrival.

This was the one weekend out of the year when Silverton hosts a fine arts festival. 

Silverton apparently makes a great effort to foster artists.

These banners were all over town.

I perused a few stores, but managed to resist temptation, then wandered around the river.

This is the view from under the footbridge...

 

...that has a covered walkway on top.

I walked up the main highway for a while and turned into a neighbourhood. The houses were small, but some were very unique and interesting. I noticed that one garden in particular was lush and full of colour. I admired it as I walked past and continued on my walk. 

I kept thinking that I should have taken some photographs and was kicking myself for not being brave enough to knock on the door and ask permission. After about a block I girded up my loins and doubled back in my tracks. The owner, Maury, was doing something to his truck and was more than happy to let me wander through his slice of paradise to take photos.

In fact, he dogged my footsteps and gave me a running commentary!

His wife, Susan, came out of the house to see what was going on and the three of us spent a very pleasant half-hour together. Their garden is small and flows around the footprint of their house, but every inch is full of character and colour. Almost every decoration was made by the couple.

Take a stroll with me around Maury and Susan's garden.

And here is the man himself. 

Susan was not enamoured of the idea of being photographed.

Walking back to the hotel, I passed the city library, wherein was being held a book sale. I managed to succumb to the temptation of a few books I have really enjoyed over the last few years and wanted to own.

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand.

The Help.

The Secret Life of Bees.

And some Shirley Temple DVD's for Bethany.

I sat in the nice, cool lobby for an hour or so and worked on the latest crocheted blanket, expecting Jeff to return at any time. As it turned out, there was an accident on the freeway and by the time he got back to Silverton it was dinnertime. We ate fish and chips on a balcony above the river and saved our Oregon Garden tickets for another time.

We spent most of Saturday in this park, listening to bands and looking at art.
It was a great day.
And yes, my kids will inherit just a few more art pieces after our outing to Silverton.

We added some wood pieces to our collection. The texture on these is so fine that I just want to caress them every time I walk past.

But that would be creepy, so I don't.

This painting was a bit of an extravagant purchase, but it will go nicely in our bedroom once I redecorate the walls. It was the winner of the poster art competition for next year's Iris Festival, so is historic in a way.

I loved this sign and it was only a small amount of money. It now sits outside the door to my music room.

I keep hoping it will inspire little musicians.

And, last but not least, my new native American flute, after which I have been hankering for a long time.

Some day, I may even learn to play it.

With over 80 artists displaying their wares, I was tempted by so much more. Jeff kept doing his head-shaking thing, so my impulses were curtailed, but I still regret the artisan compost container for the kitchen counter, more than one vase, and several paintings that we didn't bring home.

Next time, I'm taking the girlfriends.

Third weekend in August, girls!