pencil sketch from a photo of Winston Churchill


my humble attempt at a pencil rendering of the great man

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NEW GRAD HERE


Checking back with Georgian College I discovered today that I had indeed copleted the course work in order to receive my certificate from their Teaching and Training Adults.  Way to go, Bill.  Now I have to send in my completed application and the fee and wait to receive my certificate.  I floated away from the phone when I got the news.  Yippeee!!!

sweet water


“The earliest settlers called it “Indian molasses” or “Indian sugar”, the Algonquins called it “Sinzibuckwud” (drawn from wood) and the Objibways called it “Ninautik” (our own tree). They preferred to use the rock maple or Sheesheegummawis (sap flows fast) for sap collection. Basswood trees were excavated in order to make troughs to collect the sap in. This was heated by throwing hot rocks into the sap to cause it to boil, thereby reducing it to sugar. This method offers evidence that sugar making was an established custom before the first settlers appeared in Canada.”

I am not allowed this good stuff anymore, but it pops up in my dremas from time to time.  My late mom used to indulge in it in an unusual way: buttered toast accompanied by a small fruit dessert dish, usually glass, with a good portion of maple syrup that she would scarf up using a teaspoon.  She always preferred the Amber, dark quality syrup.

THE UNIT – THE SHARK IS BACK IN THE OCEAN


stayed up late to watch The Unit on KIRO 147 on my box.  Excellent story again, which left me with s astrange take on my surroundings, namely in the case of a chlorine gas attack, what around me offers life giving air: in the show, that included a pool toy, an old lady’s  oxygen tank, and a neighbour’s scuba tanks, along with air from a car tire.  The wonder of the air we breathe.  Great show, great cazst.  Glad to see Tiffy and Mac reconnecting, I hope it lasts.

Poem – the Can’t Story – reposted


The Can’t Story

It has come up many times.

A traditional story like the one

About me giving away my big sister’s tricycle

When I was three to a boy who asked for it.

My sister taking

the Red Cross swimming lessons.

Taking the tests for lifeguard.

Crying in the water,

Saying she can’t.

My mother, the Swedish Viking woman,

The lumberjack’s daughter,

Standing on the balcony spectator level

Leaning over the rail and using

The Norse battle voice

Pushing her will

Over the rail

Through the air

To my sister

In the water.

“I don’t want to hear can’t.

You can.”

She did.