Christmas Cheer

Early last week, my daughter and I participated in our (almost) annual tradition of helping to pack Christmas Cheer bags for needy families in our community.  We have done this since she was a young child, almost every year, with a few exceptions because of illness or work. 

In our town, the process has evolved into a smooth operation.  Churches and community members buy toys, books, clothing and other items for children up to age 12, and donate them to the Christmas Cheer programme.  There are guidelines: they ask for no computer games, movies or music because some families might not have the appropriate electronic equipment, and they also request that batteries be given with electronic toys. 

On packing day at one of the local churches, all of the donated items are sorted by age and gender.  Large red bags are placed in a pile, one bag per family.  Each bag has a tag on it indicating the age, gender and clothing size of the children in the family.  Volunteer packers each take a bag, and go around the room selecting appropriate gifts for their bag. 

It is a humbling experience to pack Christmas Cheer bags.  I am always struck by how thoughtful many of the gifts are.  There are women in our community who spend hours knitting beautiful socks and mittens especially for Christmas Cheer.  Often, there are wonderful books, sometimes classics, and I think about how those same books created excitement and wonder in my children when they were little.  There are always lots of crayons and colouring books, and stuffed animals.

I am equally moved by how seriously the volunteers take their job of packing the bags.  We frequently ask each other if an item is appropriate (“Do you think a 12 year old girl would like this?”).  Great care is taken to choose the prettiest mittens, or the nicest sweater, or the coolest book or toy for their child.  This year, my daughter saw a Hello Kitty sandwich grill, and the first bag she picked up was for two girls aged 10 and 12 years.  The sandwich grill went into that bag with great excitement as she imagined how much they would enjoy that gift. 

I am continually amazed at the generosity of ordinary people at Christmas time.  Just yesterday, a friend of mine from a nearby city posted on Facebook that she had heard of a single parent family in the city, someone she didn’t know, who was facing a Christmas with nothing.  No special dinner, no gifts, not even a Christmas tree stand for their tree.  She asked if anyone was willing or able to help, and 9 hours later, she was on that family’s doorstep with gifts, 20 bags of groceries, and almost $1600 in gift cards and cash.  This friend, a young mum with two small kids and all of her own last minute preparations, basically donated a day of her time and energy to help another family she didn’t even know.  I know that this friend of mine also collects winter coats for kids in her children’s school, and does a lot of other work in her city throughout the year to help people in need.  I am in awe.

I have some issues with the fact that in our society of plenty, we need Christmas Cheer programmes and Food Banks, and I struggle with the commercialism of Christmas and other holidays and events.  But those are for another time.  At this moment, I want to revel in the good that Christmas represents, to celebrate the goodness of people, the concern for others, the love for our fellow human beings that motivates us to act in the most outrageous spirit of generosity. 

Although this is a Christian holiday, I know that there are many who celebrate Christmas who are not Christian, or even people of faith. But I hope that whether you believe in a Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, or Happy Holidays, you will experience in a real and lasting way the joy, peace, hope and love that I believe this Christmas season represents.  And I hope that maybe together, we can find a way to be outrageously generous and kind not just at Christmas, but throughout the year.

Why I like football

The past couple of years have been very exciting for our local university football team, the Mount Allison Mounties.  After a fairly successful run in the late 1990s, the new millennium has not been kind.  We are a small school, with a small football budget, in a small town and a have-not province, and although academically we are one of the very best of the best in Canada, our football programme has often struggled.

In 2013, it looked like it was going to be another one of those years.  Our team started out with a record of 1-4.  However, something happened to our team.  Our players met together to discuss their season and their goals, and at the end of the regular season, our record was 4-4, and we had earned a playoff spot in our conference. 

I’m not sure I can describe how exciting the end of last season was.  Those of you who aren’t sports fans probably can’t even identify with getting excited about a game.  But for me, the end of last season will stand out as a highlight.

Let me go back a bit.  My dad was a huge sports fan, and we always watched Hockey Night in Canada as a family.  He also watched CFL football on television.  I was a hockey fan, or maybe even a hockey fanatic.  I knew who every player in the NHL was, and could give you statistics and information about them all.  I used to listen to hockey games on my radio when I was supposed to be in bed sleeping.  I absolutely loved hockey.

Then I got married and moved to southern Ontario, where the only game in town was the Toronto Maple Leafs.  After growing up with successful and talented western teams (like the Gretzky-era Oilers), I just could not watch the Leafs, and my hockey fanaticism waned (sorry, Leafs fans... it’s the sad truth).  Also, I was married, working full-time and eventually had children, so other things captured my attention.

I watched some football when I was a kid, but after seeing a CFL game on television where a player sustained a critical injury and died, I decided that this was not the game for me.  I didn’t watch another game until I was in high school, and then only because I had to.  I was part of the school newspaper and yearbook committee, and one of my assignments was to cover football.

After I was married, I worked in the office of a sports physician who counted among his many responsibilities caring for a CFL team.  I got to know a few of the players (the injured ones), and my husband and I started attending some of the games.  I enjoyed the game, and grew to respect the players I saw in the clinic, who overcame injuries, some of them devastating, to play the game they loved.

When we moved to Sackville, we were too busy settling in and growing our family to attend the local university games.  But after a couple of years, everything changed.  The Mounties and the university had attracted the attention of a young running back from Quebec named Eric Lapointe.  Eric won the national Rookie of the Year award, and during his next season, we decided it was time to check out the hype around this young man and his teammates.  We went to a game, and then to a post-game reception for players and fans.  My young son, who was 6 at the time, met some of the players, including Eric, and in his eyes, a hero was born. 

It was not smooth sailing from here though.  A couple of weeks later, a Mountie player tested positive for using steroids.  The player was suspended, the coach was fired, and several of the players quit in protest of how the university handled the situation.  My son wrote a letter of support to some of the players he had met.  To make a long story short, just before the very next game, every one of the players returned to the team, the Mounties finished the season with a 4-4 record, and Eric broke the national record for rushing yards, despite being injured for one game.  He went on to have a very successful college career and in the CFL.  More importantly, he became an inspiration and a friend to my son and indeed, to our whole family, the first of many Mounties to do so.  Over the next 17 years, Mountie football was a way of life for our family, and especially for me and my son. It became the special “thing” that we did together for 8 weeks every autumn.  He did not miss a game over those 17 years, and I only missed 3 games.  My son went from being the Mounties’ #1 fan, drawing posters and offering encouragement, to being a ball boy, then a water boy, and then their equipment manager for about 7 years.  His involvement with the Mounties led directly to his present job as an equipment manager for the CFL’s RedBlacks. 

Fast forward to the end of last season, November 2013.  Our team travelled to Halifax to play our nemesis Saint Mary’s Huskies in the conference championship game.  Until last season, our team had not won a game in Halifax since the late 90s.  The stands were filled with Mountie fans, who significantly outnumbered and out-cheered the Huskies fans.  The atmosphere was electric, and our boys were bursting with confidence.  We won that championship game on a last minute field goal, and the crowd erupted.  That moment, the excitement, the joy, feeling of achievement, is a moment I won’t forget soon. 

After the terrible and shocking shooting in Ottawa in October, James Duthie, a sportscaster for TSN, wrote an online article reflecting on the city where he grew up.  http://www.tsn.ca/talent/duthie-a-great-city-with-great-people-will-persevere-1.113629  What particularly caught my eye was one of the comments underneath his article.  Jamey Boudreau wrote:  "It's nice that in spite of something so terrible we can sit back & take stock of our lives & appreciate things we might sometimes take for granted. That real life requires the same sort of perseverance as sports, yet a loss in sports could never equate to a loss of life. That the thrill of victory & glory of being a champion, as great as that is, will always be secondary to the triumph of the human spirit. For that is the one thing that could never truly be defeated."

This is why I like football.  It is not the sum total of life, but it represents some of what life is about.  Perseverance.  Working together toward a common goal.  Confidence.  Sometimes wonderful examples of sportsmanship.  Unbreakable bonds of friendship and family.  The poetry of watching naturally gifted athletes in motion.  The thrill of victory, especially measured against the agony of previous defeats.  Unanticipated challenges and unexpected success.  And yes, as clichéd as it is, the triumph of the human spirit, winning against the odds. 

So this weekend, I will be in Hamilton, cheering on our boys as they play to advance to the national championship.  It will be heart-breaking if they lose, and it will be amazing if they win.  Nothing is certain, and that’s why the games are played.  We don’t have the biggest budget, the best facilities or the best field, but as our head coach says, it isn’t the facilities that win the game, it’s the team.  I’m excited about the weekend, reconnecting with players from past years, and family members and friends.  And I feel good about our chances.  GO MOUNTIES!

Note: I originally wrote this post in 2014, but now, on November 14, 2015, it seems appropriate to update it, especially after the recent events in Paris.  Today, as people around the world grieve and are shocked at the events in Paris yesterday, it seemed a bit frivolous to be excited about a football game. But I think it's an important reminder that life is short and unpredictable. Even in the midst of tragedy and horror, there are values, people and experiences we can choose to find joy in. So I am able to wholeheartedly shout "Go Mounties", at the same time as my heart weeps for all the tragedies around the world.  Unfortunately, my Mounties lost in the championship game, but that in no way changes the pride I feel for this team, and the lessons we can learn from football.

Reflections on my kitchen table

I really want a new kitchen table.

The table we have now is about 17 years old.  It is an ordinary table bought from a furniture chain store, for not too much money, after we decided that our old yard sale table (which seated 4) just would not do any longer.  The top is solid pine, and it is nicked and scratched, and the extension leaf has never really fit properly.  The apron underneath the table is starting to shift, so the two pieces of the table top don’t quite meet in the middle any more.  There are rings where people have left their mugs and cups, and a stain from when someone spilled water on the tablecloth and I didn’t discover it was wet until the next morning.  It’s a mess.

I really do want a new kitchen table.  I even have one picked out.

And yet...

I am a sentimental idiot.  I look at that beat up table, and I can remember when most of those marks were made.  I think of all the people who have sat around that table, all the meals that have been eaten, the cups of tea shared, games played, conversations, homework and projects completed at that table.

At various times, we have had seated around our table an off-Broadway actor, professional football players and amateur athletes, award-winning authors, musicians, a television and movie actor, University presidents, RCMP officers, politicians, teachers, doctors.  We’ve shared meals with university students, friends, neighbours, and family.  My children have grown up around that table.

That table has held staggering amounts of food at Thanksgiving dinners and birthday bashes.  We’ve taught students how to play Dutch Blitz at that table, and it has the scars to prove it – despite the fact that it is a card game invented by the peaceful Amish!  Friends have unburdened their souls at that table, young people have shared their hopes and dreams, and more than one teardrop has landed on its surface.  People who have sat around that table have shared good news, and bad news.  We have laughed and cried, learned and taught, talked and argued, and of course, eaten.

In the Maritimes, the kitchen is the centre of the house.  Here, the Gaelic tradition of ceilidhs (which usually include music, dancing, food and drink) has evolved into the Maritime kitchen party, where the party always ends up in the kitchen (also with music, dancing, food and drink).  Great Big Sea’s song “Goin’ Up”captures the spirit of a Maritime kitchen party.  There’s a line in it: “There’s thirty people in the kitchen and there’s always room for more.”   That’s what a kitchen table should represent, a place where there is always room, where people are welcomed and treasured and fed.

It’s just a table.  I know that.  And yet, it is so much more.  That battered table represents the connectedness we have experienced with so many people.  It represents friendship, family, warmth, love.  It represents home. 

At some point, we will have to get our new kitchen table.  It will start out blemish-free, a clean slate.  New memories will be created around it, and eventually, it will get banged up and scarred, too.  And although the experiences around the table will be different from the old table, I hope that what those experiences represent will continue to inspire me, and that there will always be room for more. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uECyM7H4Ors

Life Lessons

I love autumn.  I love the deep intensity of the changing colours, the crispness in the air, the smells.  But these days, autumn is bittersweet.  It is also the anniversary of my Dad’s death, and my experiences with cancer.  I have all my follow up appointments in the next couple of weeks – mammogram, MRI, doctor, etc. – which inevitably reminds me of what was an extremely frightening and unpleasant time in my life.

However, I also learned a few things in my journey with cancer and grief.

I learned how meaningful the support of family and friends is.  One friend drove two hours to come to my dad’s funeral, in the middle of her hectic life, representing, she said, all those who wanted to but couldn’t attend.  My brother- and sister-in-law also unexpectedly drove for two hours to support us, especially my husband, as he led the funeral service for my dad.  The same brother-in-law drove up again after I had my surgery, delivering in person a care package of Body Shop loot and a bag full of novels and magazines, and to see for himself that we were okay.  Friends, church people, students and neighbours visited, called, brought food, books and magazines, sent cards, and prayed for us.  Faraway friends and family sent messages, cards, flowers, and prayers.  I learned that the most important thing wasn’t necessarily specifically what people did, but that what they did reflected that they were there for us, thinking of us and reminding us that we had the love and support of many people, and that there were many people who were travelling this road with us.  These gestures, which seem so small, held such deep meaning for me and my family.

I learned that adversity makes a person self-centred.  That’s healthy, to some extent; I needed to take the time to focus on myself and my family, to heal from the emotional and physical wounds I experienced.  I needed to make sure I took the time to recover from my surgery and to become as strong as possible, emotionally and physically, for whatever came next.  But I also realized that the temptation is to focus too much on myself to the exclusion of others.  The reality is that I am not the first or only person to experience these things, and actually, there are people who suffer far more than I did.  In the midst of the moments when I felt sorry for myself, I was reminded to look outside of myself, and to follow the example that my friends and family set for me, by reaching out to others.

People told me I’m a brave and strong woman because of how I “dealt with” the challenges in my life three years ago.  I learned that “braveness” and “strength” don’t really have anything to do with it.  I am not brave or strong.  In fact, I was scared out of my mind.  Being “brave” implies a choice – people who are brave choose a difficult course of action.  Cancer isn’t a choice, and people who are sick with cancer aren’t brave.  They don’t have a choice.  Falling apart and becoming an emotional basket case wouldn’t change anything, and it wouldn’t make me feel any better, and it certainly wouldn’t have helped my family.  Dan Rather said “Courage is being afraid but going on anyhow.”  That’s the only choice we have, to go on, and try to get through our challenges wiser and stronger.  I believe that there is a reason that things happen. I also believe that I might never know that reason, but that something good comes out of every situation. I also know without a doubt that this journey would be much more difficult if I had to do it alone.

I learned that my life is about more than the fact that I had cancer, and that people deal with being cancer survivors in many different ways.  Some people get very involved in fundraising for cancer, in runs, walks and organizations.  It helps them heal, and their efforts help others who are experiencing cancer.  So far, I can’t be part of those activities.  It goes back to what I said about needing to be self-centred to a certain extent.  I am reminded that I had cancer every fall when I go through my cycle of tests and check-ups, and every day when I take my medication and see my scars.  I don’t want any other reminders.  I don’t want the rest of my life to be defined by the fact that I had cancer.  I need to focus on activities that do not remind me of cancer.  Maybe the time will come when I can participate more fully in cancer-related fundraising and other activities, but I'm not there yet.

I learned that life after cancer is scarier than life before cancer.  Even though I make a concerted effort to not dwell on cancer, just for a split second, when I feel a strange or new ache or pain, or when I get sick in ways I haven’t been sick before, the question floats through my consciousness: “Is this the cancer coming back?”  It’s always there, that question, just under the surface.

I learned that life is worth living, and there are no do-overs.  Yes, I know it sounds trite and everyone says that, but it’s true.  Every day I’m alive, I give thanks for another day.  I don’t know if my every day activities have changed much in the last three years, but I think my attitude toward living has changed.  I think I feel more joy in just being alive.

I learned that even though I am a person of faith, there were times when I just couldn’t pray.  Not because I didn’t believe in prayer or because I lost my faith.  I was just so overwhelmed at times that I couldn’t formulate the words to pray.  During those times, I really felt the prayers of others who were praying the words I couldn’t, prayers for me, and for my family.  I drew a lot of strength and comfort from knowing that there were people who were saying those prayers that I couldn't pray for me.

Maybe the most important lesson I learned is that there is always, always something to be thankful for.  I am extremely thankful for my father, for the kind, gentle man that he was, and his life and legacy to me and my kids.  I am thankful for the example my mother has given me about dealing with adversity and trials, and finding joy in the small things in life. I am thankful for my children and my husband, the care they gave me and the strength they lent me.  I am thankful for my brother, my nephews, my in-laws, and their genuine love and concern for us.  Even in the toughest and scariest moments, I can be thankful for the warmth of the sunshine, the beauty of a bird, a kind word spoken, the taste of a fresh chocolate chip cookie, a hug from one of my kids or my husband, the relief that comes after the tears, the smell of the autumn leaves, a morning of picking apples with good friends, a good book, or a million other every day experiences.  And I am always, forever thankful for my friends and family.

I am sure there are more lessons down the road for me.  And as I go forth for all of my annual tests and checkups, I am reminded that there might be more challenges too.  I hope that whatever my test results show, I will remember the lessons I've learned thus far, and that I will be reminded every day that this journey of life, that we share together, is full of joy and beauty.

Happy New Year!

I love summer.  It is a time to relax and slow down, sleep in, catch up on reading, renew ourselves with family and friends.  I love the lazy days of summer, sitting on my porch in the sun with a book and a cup of iced tea, watching the world go by, or strolling one of the beautiful beaches nearby. 

But I also love September.  It’s actually a little bit of a relief to return to a routine, to feel the renewed energy that the students bring to our little town, and to be a part of the hustle and bustle of university town life.

For those of us who live in small university towns, this is the last weekend of summer, and in some ways, the end of the old year and the beginning of a new one.  Although there are many other facets to our town, because our population increases by 50% each September, our town’s heart beats largely to the rhythm of the academic year.  Varsity athletes and international students arrived on campus at the beginning of last week, first year students arrived on Thursday, and by Tuesday, the first day of classes, the returning students will be back on campus and in town.  And thus, another cycle begins.

At our university, we have several days of orientation activities for first year students, the “frosh.”  One of the highlights is the Commencement Service.  It is a service which introduces the frosh to some of the traditions of our university, and also blesses their time and activities at university.  When I look around at the assembled faces, I always wonder what the next four or five years will hold for these students.  Which courses and professors will inspire them?  Which students will emerge as the leaders on campus, in their clubs, on the sports fields, in student politics?  Which students will make a difference through their quiet inspiration?  And will they leave the university with the same life goals that they had when they entered, or will they undergo a transformative experience that will flip their life plans upside down?

The frosh students are easy to pick out.  They are a little bit nervous, slightly terrified, and really excited.  Some of them arrive alone, others with parents and other family members in town.  When it’s time for the parents to leave, sometimes there are tears, sometimes smiles and laughter, but always there is great anticipation mixed with equally great anxiety.  Four years from now, when these same students graduate, we will experience similar emotions, but instead of welcoming them into our community, we will be watching them leave, and, as Jane Siberry writes, “wondering what in the world will the world bring.”   

I’ve been at both ends of this spectrum as a parent, with two children who have attended Commencement as frosh, one of whom has also graduated and left home.  Letting my kids go has been paradoxically one of the most difficult experiences of my life, and one of the most fulfilling.  After all, isn’t this the goal that we have set as parents – to raise children who are self-confident enough to leave home, and capable enough to make their own way in the world and meet their challenges head-on, and well-adjusted enough to be happy and fulfilled wherever they are?  Yes, I worry about them and where their lives will take them and all of the possible obstacles they will face, but I am more excited by the possibilities and adventures that are ahead of them.

We’ve seen a lot of amazing people come through our small campus over the past twenty years.  They have become professional athletes, doctors, lawyers, clergy, entrepreneurs, moms and dads, teachers, actors, journalists, politicians, and live all over the world.  It is humbling and inspiring to witness their accomplishments as professionals and as people.  It’s even more humbling and inspiring to witness the lives of my own amazing children as they unfold.

So here’s to another year of beginnings, of as-yet untapped potential, of experiences beyond everyone’s wildest dreams, with lots of learning and exploring, new relationships being made and old ones strengthened.  Here’s to another cycle of football, hockey and basketball games, recitals, plays and exhibits, special presentations and speakers, and lectures, assignments, and exams.  I can’t wait to see what this crop of students will achieve in our town and beyond!

Going Home

My husband and I have just returned from a three-week vacation.  We “went home” to southern Ontario, where we spent our first eight years as newlyweds and a young family.  We wanted to see people and places that were once important to us.  We had a wonderful time – visiting with former students from Mount Allison University and old friends and family, going to museums and art galleries, attending three Canadian Football League games courtesy of our son (including the first ever home game of the Ottawa RedBlacks in their new stadium), shopping, and eating various ethnic foods that we just don’t have access to in our small town.  We were tired when we arrived home, but in a good way.

I really miss the variety of life in southern Ontario.  I love driving on back roads, and where we live now, we have a very limited number of back roads.  To drive to Moncton, we have basically two realistic routes.  It gets old pretty fast.  I love shopping (not necessarily buying, but browsing and looking), and Moncton is full of chain stores, but really has very little in the way of unique and different shops.  Halifax is a little better, but it still can’t beat the sheer number of quirky, funky, interesting, artsy, independent little shops and markets scattered throughout the towns of southern Ontario, and the dizzying variety of ethnic foods represented there.  Although I love the architecture of old Maritime homes and towns, the old homes and buildings of rural Ontario also speak to me. 

At one point, we discussed whether we could ever live in southern Ontario again.  We have been gone for over twenty years, and in that time, the places we once knew like the backs of our hands have changed considerably.  The little country road where we used to live is now advertising a subdivision, the closest major town to us has monster homes and townhouses and condominiums way out into what used to be countryside and farmland (I was completely disoriented even though we used to drive down those roads frequently), and even our favourite little conservation area, which used to be isolated and underused, has undergone improvements and beautification (and now charges $12 for day use!).  The major highways have been expanded, box stores have sprung up in places we wouldn’t have dreamed of putting box stores twenty years ago, and the population of the area has exploded. 

I was reminded of the saying that you can’t go home again once you’ve left.  Thomas Wolfe, an early twentieth century American writer, wrote a novel called You Can’t Go Home Again, and he wrote "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."

In many ways, that is true.  Life moves on, people and places change, our dreams and goals undergo revisions and transformations, kids and families grow up.  But near the end of our trip, we stayed with a family that “adopted” us when we were young newlyweds far away from our own extended families.  They made us part of their extended family which included themselves, their children, and their children’s children.  We spent many Sunday afternoons at “The Farm”, became good friends with their daughters and their families in particular, helped out once or twice during maple syrup season, and spent a memorable Christmas Day with them when I was pregnant with our first child.  Although we haven’t lived near them in over twenty years, it was like no time had passed.  We immediately felt the way we used to when we drove up the lane – that we were “home.”  Yes, a lot has changed at The Farm.  They have retired from raising cattle, the trees in their front field which were mere babies when we left are now almost forest-sized, and their grandchildren have children of their own.  But the love and friendship which was so much a part of our lives back then is still there.  That is what makes a “home”, and it is what makes it possible to keep going back home, even if we never actually live there again. 

We have a lot to be grateful for, friends who are our family, warm welcomes and emotional farewells, and the promise of “next time.”  At the end of our vacation, we were glad to be home again, but I left a little bit of myself “back home” in Ontario too.  Till next time.

The Lupin Lady

Recently, my mother and I drove to one of my favourite spots at this time of year – a “secret” place (okay, it’s not really so secret, but it seems a little more mysterious if I think of it as a secret place!).  I think it is an old quarry, and at this time of year, it is filled to overflowing with wild lupins of every shade of pink and purple you could imagine, with a few white lupins thrown in for good measure.  A few days later, my husband and I drove to “the shore” to spend time with some co-workers and friends.  On the drive, we marvelled at the many lupins we saw, and at one point, I was left almost breathless as we passed a field which must have held millions of blue flags (wild irises). 

This, I think, is my favourite time of year here in the Maritimes, maybe even more this year than usual.  We have long hard winters here, very different than the prairie winters where I grew up.  It can get very cold, and the northeast winds are bonechilling and penetrating.  It thaws, then freezes, leaving the world coated with a layer of ice, beautiful and sparkly in its own right, but not really very pleasant for the outdoor activities that I enjoy.  We wait so patiently for spring to arrive, and this year, we waited even longer, enduring a cold, wet, windy, and pretty unpleasant spring after a long, cold, unpleasant winter. 

Now, all of a sudden, the trees are in full leaf, the lupins are blooming, and the wild roses are opening.  This early summer world in the Maritimes is breathtakingly colourful.  It almost hurts the eyes to take it all in.  The marsh grasses range from deep green to the lightly shaded greens of hay grasses, highlighted in places with reddish yellow marsh grass and dotted with daisies and buttercups.  The blue of the irises is so subtle that you can easily miss them unless you are looking for them; once noticed, they add a rich layer to the colours of the marsh.  Pink and white sweet rocket, creamy white heliotrope, and the minute flowers of bedstraw punctuate the lush greenness of the landscape and leave their sweet scents lingering on the air. 

Barbara Kingsolver, in her novel Prodigal Summer, calls this time of year “the season of extravagant procreation,” and the most extravagant procreators of the early Maritime flowers are the lupins.  I am constantly amazed at how different each lupin is from the other.  Some are dark purple; others are deep pink.  Once I was fortunate enough to find a lupin that was almost a lavender blue.  I haven’t seen one like it since.  And then there are the bi-coloured lupins – dark purple on top and white inside.  Or pale pink with fuchsia highlights.  So much variety, every one different, and just when you think you’ve seen every shade of purple or pink imaginable, you find yet one more. 

There is a children’s book called Miss Rumphius that my kids used to read.  In order to make the world more beautiful, Miss Rumphius spreads lupin seeds all over her town, and becomes known as “The Lupin Lady.”  I have aspirations to become another “Lupin Lady” and spread lupin seeds in ditches where they don’t already grow. 

Soon, the lupins will give way to fireweed and devil’s paintbrush, and all too soon, they will give way to the burnished colours of autumn.  I guess in some ways it’s the shortness of the season that makes them all the more precious.  Already, since we visited the lupin quarry last week, they are starting to go to seed.  But what beauty they give every year.  Happy lupin days!