Osprey Village a delight of a day trip

You’ve probably all seen that gorgeous little magazine published in Vancouver with the great photography called Edible. I was flipping through the summer 2016 issue on Sunday morning when I came across the pull-out of the Self-Guided Circle Farm Tour 2016. It’s a guide that lists all the areas of interest related to food and alcohol in locales up the Fraser Valley to Chilliwack and Maple Ridge Pitt Meadows; a great little day-tripping guide.

As I was skimming it, my eyes landed on the words Osprey Village, a place about 20 minutes from where I live, nestled along the Fraser River in Pitt Meadows. It always amazes me that I could have lived in the Lower Mainland most of my life and see names of places that I’ve never heard of, often because like this place, they’ve sprung up as a result of development.

I’ve always been both excited and forlorn that there are so many pockets of life in the world where people live their entire lives that I’ll never know about and never get to see. Beautiful places with Tuscan-coloured walls and grapevines or hand painted ceramic tiles of sunny yellows and cerulean blues, dusty roads and market stalls crammed in beside humanity, hips to elbows to shopping bags, in walkways or places on sidewalks where people eke out a living selling local food that you might be a little wary to try. Do you know what I mean? Places you and I would love so much but don’t even know exist and never will. That’s what makes travel so fantastic. It delivers those types of places. And it leaves me wanting more, more, more.

I’m long overdue for another trip it would seem and as usual, I digress.

In trying to satisfy the adventure dragon and slipping it mere morsels, I do the occasional day trip as I did on Sunday and I was captivated by this Osprey Village. Where art thou?

Freeway from New West.  The 7 out to Mary Hill Bypass (Maple Ridge) across the Pitt River Bridge and then a right on Harris road, drive to the very end, marvel at how much Pitt Meadows has changed. A short walk on a leafy trail parallel to the Fraser River and suddenly beautiful townhomes, meticulously manicured with hanging baskets, patios and balconies, and tranquility pushed back from a grassy knoll and there it is.

At first glance, like something out of a 1950s movie. Both off-putting in the uniformity of its newness and yet desirable (to me) at the same time. Yes, you can like both Finn Slough and Osprey Village. There’s room for both as long as the latter doesn’t completely destroy the former which, as we know, it not only tends to, but it too often has and continues to.

A Bistro. A community centre. Salons. An ice cream parlour. A doggy daycare. Little businesses lined up awaiting customers. At first glance it’s a real chick flick of a place if you know what I mean. A girl’s getaway.  I walked down the white street perusing the services on offer and was greeted as I walked by, by a woman inside the Blue Heron Gallery. I was talking to the very warm Soledad Avaria and I’m not exaggerating when I say that her name has to be one of the most beautiful names I’ve ever heard. Her mother was German and her father was Spanish or vice versa, I can’t really recall. She now lives in Ruskin, B.C. and she paints these wonderful acrylic paintings. If you’re out in Maple Ridge on July 16/17, she’s exhibiting at a show called Two Painters and a Potter at the Red Roof Art Studio, 9702-284th street in Maple Ridge from 9-5 pm.

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Artist Soledad Avaria at Blue Heron Gallery

I also met artist Roberta Combs who was dropping off a tulip painting that had been sold. Here’s some of her work on display.   RobertaCombsforweb

Of course, being me, I couldn’t resist the Sweet Tooth Creamery. Dropped in for a gelato and to get some cool on the 30 degree day. sweettooth

Sat down out front and took in this scene and was eyeing the woman out front of a flower shop across the street called Ode to a Bloom.

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Joanne at Ode to a Bloom

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Ice cream devoured, I walked over, and went inside and stepped over sweet Cappy, a wire-haired terrier and I met Joanne.

After some conversation, I asked her whether she’d be open to a photo for my blog and we started chatting about this and that and she told me how often synchronicity is a part of her life. I handed her my card and when she read a quote I have on it, “Creativity takes Courage,” she said, “That’s the saying that’s on my journal that I write in every day.” It’s not that I’m a stranger to synchronicity, no sirree, but it was just odd and struck me as significant given that I’d just finished reading Betsy Warland’s new book, Oscar of Between, and she makes a lot of references to various events of synchronicity, or I’d actually call them pre-cognitions, that I found really interesting.

It was a nice relaxing interlude on a slow-poke of a Sunday.

Have you been anywhere new on your walkabouts lately?

I’m not the C-word police [but I could be]

female anatomyIt’s not every day you get pulled aside by a 75-year-old woman celebrating her birthday who wants to read you a poem that she wrote and wants your opinion on whether the c-word should be left in or removed from a stanza.

“I removed it because I didn’t want to offend that older lady,” said the birthday girl nodding to the woman across the room fiddling with her hearing aid. I found that amusing since the even older woman with hearing difficulties wouldn’t have heard it anyway.

It’s weird that she should pick me to ask my opinion. Or maybe not. After all, I am sometimes referred to both affectionately and derisively by one close friend as The Presbyterian Nun.  Therefore staying true to my virtuous (uptight?) nature, I’m not about to be a big fan of the c-word even though I have read many of the arguments about how its reputation as the most shocking and taboo word in the English language derives from and represents misogyny and therefore we should, as owners of said part of anatomy, take it back. We should take back the c-word in a march or something and if we took back ownership of ourselves “down there” we’d happily be flinging out the c-word in casual conversation because we could, dammit! And with pride!

Of course, on closer examination, it’s not about us at all, or our anatomy. It’s about inequality and belief systems related to women’s sexuality and I guess we’d  known things had finally, actually changed in the world when the c-word loses all potency as the absolute worst thing to say to a woman.  It’s unlikely you or I will be alive to see that day.

For the record, I don’t like the b-word either. It’s probably my age but I’m regularly annoyed by the use of the word Bitch. Then again, I can’t say I typically throw around the word dick either but saying that to a guy certainly has less impact than the slap-across-the-face feeling that the c-word can provoke. Some guys would actually take it as a compliment.

I guess for me it’s more about feeling that such aggressive and angry language should be curbed in a world that’s elevated aggressive and angry to an art form, the Kama Sutra of anger.  If each one of us refrained from using these aggressive words, we could, to use an overused phrase that makes me feel somewhat ill, even if I wholeheartedly agree with it in principle: “Be The Change We Wish to See in the World.” PUHLEEZ!

So my vote was take it out. Nix the c-word from the poem.  In hindsight, I realized that it was actually the sentence that didn’t make sense and to C or not to C, was the secondary factor.

On a lighter note, I found this great joke off the First Presbyterian Church of Oneida New York website.

THREE NUNS WERE ATTENDING A YANKEES BASEBALL GAME.

THREE MEN WERE SITTING DIRECTLY BEHIND THEM.
BECAUSE THEIR HABITS WERE PARTIALLY BLOCKING THE VIEW,
THE MEN DECIDED TO BADGER THE NUNS,
HOPING THEY’D GET ANNOYED ENOUGH TO MOVE TO ANOTHER AREA.

IN A VERY LOUD VOICE,
THE FIRST GUY SAID,
“I THINK I’M GOING TO MOVE TO UTAH .
THERE ARE ONLY 100 NUNS LIVING THERE.”

THEN THE SECOND GUY SPOKE UP AND SAID LOUDLY,
“I WANT TO MOVE TO MONTANA .
THERE ARE ONLY 5O NUNS LIVING THERE!”

THE THIRD GUY YELLED,
“I WANT TO GO TO IDAHO .
THERE ARE ONLY 25 NUNS LIVING THERE!”

THE MOTHER SUPERIOR TURNED AROUND,
LOOKED AT THE MEN
AND IN A VERY “SWEET” AND CALM VOICE SAID,

“WHY DON’T YOU GO TO HELL…
THERE AREN’T ANY NUNS THERE.”

Oh, and for more information than you’ll ever need in this lifetime related to the C-word, check out this site by Matthew Hunt.

Michiko Suzuki packages dreams and secrets into Hope Chests exhibit

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Fabric tents with image of girl by Michiko Suzuki seen here explaining about her art.

When I was a kid, my childhood friend Phyllis gave me a Japanese doll in a tiny glass case. It was a small plastic woman with a white plastic face, not even brown skinned, wearing a typical silk kimono. I can’t recall now what colour the kimono was. I think it was red. It was probably made in China even though the gift was given in the 1960s. The case stood about six inches tall. A mirror on the inside back of the display case highlighted the back of the kimono. And there was that little knapsack-styled bulge on the back of the kimono, the name of which I had to look up and have now discovered is divided into many segments: Senui. Obiyama. Otaiko. Tare.

I kept that case on my dresser for years. It sat in an esteemed place where I could look inside it every day. And there was something symbolic about part of my white face, looming in comparison to the doll’s, reflecting back at me from behind the little figurine.

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The top of the flat, wooden hope chest with the girl’s name, the artist’s name on top.

Finally, and I don’t even recall when, after so many moves, I finally let it go. It might have been in my 30s or 40s.  I do recall the outside plastic was beginning to peel away and brown stains were forming on the back of the little silver box and that contributed to my decision. When it comes to stuff, I’m pretty good at letting go, too good in fact, inevitably as an afterthought years later wishing I could examine specific things long gone just one more time.

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The collage of photography and fabric and printmaking that folds into the bottom of the box.

Phyllis used to tell me that I was more Japanese than she was, my interest in all things Japanese greater than hers at the time. I’m not sure what it was exactly that appealed to me so much. Was it just viva la difference? Was it how everything in Japanese culture seems to be done with such pristine consideration and exactness and that way of being is so opposite to my somewhat fractured, spontaneous dabbling? Was it that secrets and privacy dot Japanese culture and who doesn’t love a secret, not in the form of gossip, but in the form of hiding places? Spaces that beckons us with the promise of mystery across a divide. The folds in origami. The aromatic and culinary delights lying in wait inside bento boxes? The fine manipulations of rolls to create sushi with the delectable tastes snugly molded into seaweed rugs.

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Peering inside, the image of a girl on the fabric tent and the bottom of the hope chest with the art inside.

So when I heard about this exhibit called Hope Chests at the Burnaby Art Gallery, I knew I wanted to go. Saturday afternoon, the artist Michiko Suzuki was there. A small group gathered round and she spoke in Japanese dropping in English phrases  doing her best to explain through an interpreter about this unique work.  We followed her from one fabric tent to the next as she explained a little about each girl she had chosen and the rationale for the colours of the girls’ hope chests and their interests.

There was something so delightful in the gentle pulling back of the panels on the white fabric tents, each girl’s image on the front, and peering inside to where the bottom part of the hope chests lay. A collage of images and fabric represented what the artist had learned about each adolescent girl, eight girls in total.

The project began from a much sadder place. The artist was thinking of young girls in the sex trade in S.E. Asia (Cambodia specifically) whose hopes for their futures have been so darkened and dashed and of the girls in Fukushima whose exposure to radiation has impacted their futures through others’ perceptions of them, almost as if they may be Japan’s untouchables.

If you live nearby, it’s definitely worth a visit to June 12th, 2016.  Michiko Suzuki is a well known print maker in Japan. Her husband,  Wayne Eastcott, also a printmaker, is originally from Trail, B.C. They split their time between Vancouver and Tokyo where the exhibit will go next.

Debunking Fame as the only legitimacy

When I saw the callout for proposals for workshops for LitFestNewWest it was on a whim that I began to create it the very same day. It came together as if I’d been writing proposals forever. Once it was accepted, Esmeralda Cabral and I fine-tuned it and fleshed out how we might do it together prior to the actual event, and that took more time.

The initial idea was easy because the kernel for the idea was found in J.J. Lee’s book, The Measure of a Man. In 2014 I was in a workshop led by Wayde Compton, writer, author, Associate Director of The Writer’s Studio. At some point J.J. Lee’s book came up. The book was published in 2011 to acclaim and as a finalist on many nonfiction literary award lists. I was amazed that an entire book of multiple story lines could arise from the artifact of a simple suit jacket that had belonged to his father.

I couldn’t think of a single thing that I owned from my father’s life that I could imagine building an entire book around. One day I walked absentmindedly into my bedroom, stared up at the open closet’s top shelf and immediately spotted this caramel-coloured, leather camera case. I took it down, the roughness of the weathered leather felt good in my hands. Inside was my father’s 8mm Paillard – Bolex movie camera.

My father took home movies of my twin brother and I when we were babies and toddlers. I was shocked when I saw it. I had always said that I was the only photographer in the family. I’d forgotten about him, the camera, and the home movies, regular intervals of us gathered round, eager to see ourselves on the grainy screen in the living room and the laughing. Family as foreign tribe revisited.

At the time, I’d started to write a story that made reference to my father’s emotional absence from our lives and when I saw the camera, the shocking realization between my observation about his emotional absence, and yet his consistent focusing of his viewpoint onto us from behind that camera’s lenses opened up all sorts of questions about him for me. And all because of thinking about J.J. Lee’s approach to his book.

But just a minute. Who was I to give a workshop on memoir? I haven’t published a memoir! And I’m getting the distinct feeling that there is some unspoken code that one must not give writing workshops about subjects where they have not achieved publishing success. I thought about that and eventually, in a defiant manner, rejected it because it is my pet peeve that “fame” seems to have become the criteria for the legitimizing of the sharing of, well, just about everything – knowledge, bullshit, sexist, racist, homophobic blah, blah blahing. I know you get it!

I thought back to Mona Fertig’s project that arose from her late father’s life-long work as an artist who received little, if any, recognition.  In 2008, when I’d moved to Salt Spring, I interviewed Mona and wrote a feature on her as she was embarking on her Unheralded Artists trade book project, a focus that many others said she was crazy to embark upon. Still she did it with many books now published under her MotherTongue Publishing.

And I began to think that we all need to find a way to fight the idea that we are only qualified to share our knowledge if we become “famous”. Because that is not how most of the world learned throughout history. They learned from elders, though storytelling. From trial and error. Through persistence. Via sharing in small groups, from a teacher challenging them from the front of the classroom.

And it is that kind of quiet sharing, one person to another — a grandmother teaching her grandchildren to knit, a fisherman showing them how to tie lures inside a wobbly boat on a lake with an Aurora Borealis of greens and browns highlighted on the lake’s surface by the sun’s first rays in the early morning.

And it is this form of sharing that is the way of The SFU Writer’s Studio which was started by Betsy Warland. It’s a commitment to relate as equals, mentor-students, one not more important than the other, that makes the SFU Writer’s Studio community a bonded one, person to person and then via social media for those who choose to stay connected after they move on.

So, as a bit of a stretch, I consider putting on our workshop, Mining Personal Artefacts as the Foundation for Memoir Writing, to be a very small political act specifically because I haven’t published a memoir. And yet, I do have something to share with others (as Esmeralda does) who may be farther back on the path than I am when it comes to writing overall.

Maybe you could assess your strengths and decide whether you have some level of knowledge and or passion, regardless of whether you’ve received notoriety from it or not, that you could share. Consider it a circumvention. That’s surely the attitude that self-publishing arose from.

And in that sharing, you might just help someone else think differently about something that they’re wrestling with personally, and maybe that’s enough. At the very least, it’s a start. It’s what J.J. Lee’s book did for me.

Memoir: Nobody wants to hear your half truths

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Photo by Duncan Hull off Creative Commons

In order to write a memoir, I’ve sat still inside the swirling vortex of my own complicated history like a piece of old driftwood, battered by the sea. I’ve waited — sometimes patiently, sometimes in despair–for the story under pressure of concealment to reveal itself to me.Dani Shapiro

I often think about how much writing a memoir is like therapy.

Nobody wants to hear your half truths. That’s the polite word. Now I’ll say it the way I would offline: Your therapist doesn’t want to hear your bullshit. Your readers don’t either.

But more often than not, we don’t even know we’re fooling ourselves, do we? And that’s always where the work begins.

I think that’s the most interesting part about trying to write our own stories and trying to figure out what it is exactly about the story we want to tell that might hold any relevance, hold the kind of universal truths that great writing often unearths, in a show AND tell kind of way. How can we truly get to the truth, the ugly, vulnerable, messy truth that’s at the core of what can make writing so challenging and inevitably sets it apart.

It is the exploration and the analyzing that reaches into the pithiness of your most sublime or challenging moments. It’s the wrestling with what it all might mean through an introspective process that becomes explicit on a page.

You’re aiming to translate those times when you’re (ironically) rendered speechless, forced to stop what you’re doing because the ache of wistfulness mixes with glory and rises up like a crescendo of awareness into a hyper awareness.  At that moment, you realize that one fleeting moment will never come again, not quite like it did that first time and you feel overwhelmed in a happy/sad way. This is the stuff and the understanding, I think, of the kind of memoirs that we’re all wishing we could write (and read), if we have any inclination to write (or read) a memoir at all.

It’s this type of treatment of a subject that can quell the concerns about why others would have any interest in our little lives. Because you’re not writing about your whole life. You’re crafting the experiences of your life, or an experience, into a story as unique as a work of fiction by examining the realities as you experienced them. It’s a feeling that comes from a keyhole inside your heart that gets unlocked because you are able to access the emotion that was present when you were touched in a way that almost never happens or you “get” something like you’ve never got it before.

Being able to transform the ordinary into wonder is the work of poetry, through words, written as prose that germinates from the muck that is ever evolving self-awareness. And with any luck, that self awareness leads to honest revelation and your unique journey from A to B that happened as a result which you’ve miraculously (and I consider every published memoir a miracle) deposited onto a page.

At least that’s one aspect. A start. My current understanding. For me. Yours is likely different.

Esmeralda Cabral and I, are offering a workshop as part of LitFest New West called Mining Personal Artefacts as the Foundation for Memoir Writing on Saturday, May 14, 3:15 pm at Douglas College, Room 4247.

Hair Crazy: Mothers and Daughters and Hair Obsessions

Lemonup from MORE Magazine

Shampoo from the 1970s from MORE magazine

For as long as I can remember my mother was obsessed with the hair of her four daughters.

For my identical twin sisters that obsession seems to have infiltrated their hair follicles, and gone straight into their brains like a yet-to-be diagnosed brain disease. Even in their sixth decade, they are still obsessed with their hair.

They live 500 miles apart and have for years, but until recently, when one of them let her hair go completely white, they were always colouring, cutting, wondering how the other cut it, suggesting they needed to cut it, wanting to colour it, wishing they hadn’t used THAT colour. Sometimes because they are identical twins, they got the same haircut on the same day, unknowingly. Sometimes, even now, when they greet after months and months apart, one of them is likely to say, “What’s with your hair?”

The one who has let her hair go completely white is, I think, emulating my mother whose thick, black, wavy hair turned into a beautiful silver-white sheen in her elder years.

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Ginger head as a baby

I am the only person who had strawberry blonde/red hair in a family that consisted of six black-haired people. I think I got the ginger gene from my dad’s side. My paternal grandfather had light auburn hair.

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Circa 1981. With Lilian, a friend from that time.

I’m just going to say it, and it took a lot of therapy to be able to proudly utter this: I had, and on some days still have, beautiful hair. I didn’t think about it and wouldn’t have described it that way back then but I used to have the kind of hair colour where middle aged and senior women would come up to me at a bus stop in my twenties to admire my hair, to comment on the golden-copper light of it in the spring sunshine. I’m not making this up.

That reaction was surprising to me, and nice. It was both of those things because at home it was always, “Gayle, what are you doing to do with your hair? It’s just hanging there!”

Well, guess what? Fifty years later, it’s still just hanging there, thick and coloured to try and match my former natural colour. I comb it once in the morning and that’s it, done, and that’s how I like it.

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Permed beyond recognition

What is hair is supposed to do?, I wondered, especially after the fail of hairstyles through the decades. Can you even spit out the word “perm” (left) without inducing a bit of a PTSD reaction?

Then there was my absolute favourite statement, favourite for its astounding level of unconsciousness on how not to speak to a girl child, as in, “I like you better with long hair!” And this was after I’d finally caved in and agreed to a shorter haircut.  Crazy making!

When I was a teenager I’d get so mad whenever my mother even dared get that look in her eye, eyeing me up, and I knew she was about to mention my hair because by then I’d figured out that she had some weird hair fetish in general, but only female hair, the hair of females that she had birthed.

I never could quite figure out why it made me so angry, and I hadn’t really thought about it too much in the past decade until I heard about this book:  Me, My Hair, and I: Twenty-seven Women Untangle an Obsession.  It turns out that when it comes to daughters and their hair, my mother was in good company. If only I’d known I wasn’t alone back then. We could have started a support group. And the issue, of course, is that another human being is focused in a critical way on a personal characteristic of ours and most importantly, that personal characteristic in the big scheme of who we are as a person, seems rather innocuous.

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1970s version

There is an entire chapter written by Deborah Tanner,  Why Mothers and Daughters Tangle Over Hair.  In one of the stories, a woman describes how after she appeared on television standing behind the president of the United States in a bill-signing ceremony, and her mother’s comment later was, “I could see you didn’t have time to cut your bangs.”

The author goes on to acknowledge that any choice a woman makes around hair (and other personal choices) is “marked”, that is, it says something about her. This is not true for men. (Well, before man buns it wasn’t true).

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Don’t even think about it from www.manbunhairstyle.net

Hair, said Tanner is a secondary sex characteristic. Our mothers were desperate for us to be the best reflections of themselves (not ourselves) that we could be, because inevitably THEY felt they were being judged by how WE looked.

I find that really sad but it explains a lot.

Repeat after me. You are not your mother. You are not your daughter. And have a happy upcoming Mother’s Day.

Got any hairy stories about hair? I’d love to hear whether you had the same type of experience in your house growing up.

Point Roberts day tripping leads to tiny adventure

On a somewhat regular basis I get an almost bubbling up of a need to get out and about. I want to go somewhere different, see new things or go back to places I’ve seen but I haven’t seen for quite some time.  More often than not, a whim hits me and I find myself headed out, alone, to seize the day, just wander, my camera in tow.

Now I know many people would find this unappealing. They wouldn’t have any desire to do such a thing on their own.

I’d been thinking about Point Roberts for a while. It’s a place I used to go many years ago with a friend on a semi-regular basis, especially on beautiful weekends in August. We’d drive across the border, unload our bikes and ride a regular route past the golf course, to the lighthouse park on the ocean, then on to the marina, and farther along to that great little South Beach enclave down Crystal Beach Road. There’s a bench there with two flags painted across the back — a maple leaf and the stars and strips. Or there used to be.

We’d linger a while on a beautiful summer day under the reach of a lone Arbutus growing almost horizontally out from the cliff and we’d eat our snacks. We’d jump back on the bikes and head down the big hill to Boundary Bay, meandering along the beach and then finally head back up the ginormous hill, weaving across the road back and forth, all our effort required to not have to push our bikes up the hill, jubilant if we reached the top intact.

We’d usually stop at the end of the day for a drink at the little place with the great patio called Brewsters.

Now, perhaps the idea of a middle aged woman just wandering and not having a specific reason to be going anywhere, especially in this day and age where every minute of the day is prescribed with deadlines and activities and usefulness extraordinaire is just too strange for border guards. Maybe it was the fact that I was alone and when they peeked into my passport it showed that I’d been to Thailand and Cambodia a few years back. Maybe it was just completely random. I got handed a gold sheet that had the letters NNS written on it and was told to report inside. I got asked a few questions, the border guard typing madly as I answered. I’d love to know what he was putting in there. “Needs to dress better.” “Looks like a hippy”. “Crazy chic on a walkabout?” Whatever.

He wanted to know when I had last been to the U.S. He wanted to know what I did for a living. Good question, I thought. “Was I picking up a package?”  I answered them all with appropriate humbleness all the while wondering, if I was up to no good, why couldn’t I just pick a package up in Canada? I’m so innocent in matters of criminality that I can’t even figure out how it works.  Would I stand on the shoreline while someone in a boat threw me a package? Crazy! Least likely person to be up to no good. Put that in your computer.

colddayAnyway, with my passport handed back, I wandered a bit down at the beach. It was cold. I decided to check out Brewsters. I was seated beside a couple and the wife immediately started to talk to me.

Turns out they’d been high school sweethearts in Whittier California (they’d met at a youth center and he had to dump his girlfriend at the time AND he still felt bad about that). Imagine. He still felt bad. Fifty years later. That part was the most amazing to me.

They now reside in Bellevue,Washington. They are selling the place they’ve owned in Point Roberts for 10 years. He has a heart condition and at some point had to be airlifted back to Bellingham. I learned there is such a thing called helicopter insurance in case you’re in need of a helicopter to airlift you quickly to a hospital. I wonder if they have that in Canada.bluedoor

We chatted throughout lunch and she invited me back to see her garden. Of course, I took her up on the offer and got the full tour, including of the house. I learned they make garden ornaments from old china they collect and that they sell those in the summer at the Point Roberts Market, vendors totaling about five. I learned she’s a thrift store, garage sale aficionado.beeplate

Because they are selling their place – two bathrooms, three bedrooms – for $169,000 (US) she has begun putting prices on all the stuff she wants to unload in preparation for a big garage sale.  And as we toured the house, I came across this beautiful little oak dresser with a swivel mirror and instantly fell in love. She has put my name on it. dresserIn the meantime, does anyone want to buy  a pre-fab house in Point Roberts that’s in great shape? If not, perhaps you have $899,000 Canadian to purchase the waterfront property of their neighbors, Canadians who live in Tsawwassen, but who are selling their 10 acres on Pender Island.

It was the kind of day I love. I ventured out on my own feeling a little melancholy and in the venturing, I managed to find myself a little close-to-home adventure and that was exactly what I was hoping for.

PS: I didn’t feel like I wanted to ask them for a photo, so that’s why there isn’t one.