'Weather Diary' at Eighteen

Weather Diary 

Eighteen years ago, in the Spring of 2006,

I had the opportunity to travel to 

Ocracoke Island off the coast of North Carolina,

 to live and work at my art.

(This ‘Artist Residency’ was actually a 

50th birthday gift from my husband Doug Brown, 

the only one who knew of my desire to become a 

hermit in order to produce some new work.)

I wanted to focus on drawing, using materials I

 hadn't used in a while -

primarily oil pastels, watercolour pencils, chalks and

 graphite.

I set off on my month-long pilgrimage with these 

materials and lots of drawing surfaces.

It is a seventeen hour drive from Peterborough 

Ontario to Ocracoke NC.

 I was to live in a cottage, (sight unseen), in 

Ocracoke Village,

 just me and our three-year-old black lab, Chester.

It wasn't long before I fell into the rhythm of island life. 

I wanted solitude so as to work without distraction. 

Yes, I had that.

And I wanted the sea.

Whatever was happening with regard to my artwork

 and the weather, 

each day included a long ramble on the glorious 

Ocracoke Island beach, the wide open 

Atlantic-facing expanse of bliss. 

This daily beach walk led to the creation of a 

series of works entitled 'Weather Diary', 

one-a-day drawings infused by the sea, sand, 

dunes and wild moody skies - the elements -

 that found their way into me.

You can view the art,

and read about my 'Weather Diary' pilgrimage

 here:

 www.annerenouf.blogspot.ca

 

Old Country Church

 The windows were flung open. 

On that particularly warm Spring morning, our old country church in rural Peterborough County was jam-packed, every seat taken, and lined with more folks at the back.  

After three years of Covid, of closures, of minimal attendance, this little church had come back to life, paradoxically while marking the death, the send-off and burial, of someone who has seen our rural community through nearly one hundred years - through depression, war, flood, drought and plague, from the inside and from the outside of those very windows of our old country church.

We gathered in celebration of that long life, that of our eldest member, a person so much a part of our little church that it was hard to imagine the space without him.

The service was beautiful. 

There were of course tears and laughter, stories and memories. I listened to it all, and couldn't help thinking back to when I first attended that church shortly after I moved to Peterborough Ontario more than twenty-five years ago. (Yes, I am a 'newbie', having only attended for a mere quarter-century.) This elder was then in his seventies, and was, I recall, warm and welcoming. I remember his handshake, his big farmer's grip, in spite of being lean and small in stature.

All those years ago, it was a daunting task to try to sort out relationships. It took a month of Sundays to connect the dots - partners, siblings, kids, extended families. But gradually, I began to remember the names of each person in my new church family. 

Twenty-five+ years after I first stepped into that warm loving space, our regular Sunday gatherings are small. Even I, (in my comparatively short time there), have seen the attendance diminish - the Sunday School members have grown up, the young mothers and fathers all working full time, the oldest amongst us have passed on. And perhaps the early service on Sunday morning is more of a draw for the elderly. Yes, elderly.  And a small bunch of us at that. 

Small, but mighty. 

We are, in every sense, a community. On the practical side, we pitch in with upkeep and maintenance - with cleaning, re-painting, refurbishing, recycling. We host fund-raisers and coffee hours, potlucks and pancake breakfasts. We care for those in need, we tackle social justice issues, we mark each other's special events, bring floral offerings from our gardens. We struggle with finances.

And we suffer together through meetings and meetings and meetings. 

We bond through prayer and song. We are called and we answer. We are again and again uplifted and inspired and occasionally we are challenged. Challenged to rethink how something may have always been done, and being open to change. 

Perhaps that 'change' signifies that we are alive.

                                                                                *

It's Winter now, and while no less welcoming, those church windows are tightly closed against the cold. Sunday morning, and voices are raised in song - a rousing hymn, well known, belted out, (or at least as spirited a rendition as not-quite-twenty people can make), perhaps faintly audible outside the window. Here, a chickadee has landed, perched on a branch, still, peering in. A tiny thing of beauty, but no less important in the great scheme of things. Then it flits away, (as chickadees do) - head darting left, then right, a tiny flutter. And gone.

So like us, a small loving community in an old country church. A tiny thing of beauty in this big old world. And no less important in the great scheme of things. 

But not gone. Not just yet. 

Canoe Trip

The first thing.

The scent of the place

Heady tree pitch, split bark
Cedar and pine's unspoken prayers
Airborne intoxicating remembered
Pungent earth and ripple
Shoot up soft moisture
I am eleven, and at camp on this rocky shore
On Lake-of-Bays for the first time - 1966

Left (to my delight)
Left and free
Free to feel the Canadian Shield press against me
Earthbound                  
Precambrian rock - folding faulting shifting, scraping bare
Exposed rock now sun baked and smooth
A tactile solid mass tilted lakeward

Murmuring waters wait as
I pick my way down
Slanting summer warmth
And slowly slip toward shore
Stone and jagged edges
(As it's not all smooth)
Then, water

The lake and nervous waiting
Swim test, a thrash done mostly on my back
With eyes tight shut and guided by the sound of a rowboat companion
Shouting encouraging reminders of the prize - 

Canoe Trip! Freedom!                                                     

Fresh water fish and algae scent, liquid silk and distant bird sound 

again and again
(So achingly beautiful as to break one's heart)
On!

Like the row of sleek red cedar strip canoes (close enough to touch)
Wrapped and shiver in musty towel, dripping hair, teeth chattering breath
The victors stay on the dock to learn waterfront rules
What is expected of us to canoe
Then we pick our way up the rock once more
To the girl's side and pine scented cabin                                  
And warm dry hoodie redolent of home bundled in the bedding
          
Canoe lessons (and many missteps)
Cedar baked scent and glare
A wash of lake slapping the keel
Balancing
In the bow seat facing the stern, and slowly slowly gliding into its rhythm
I paddle the canoe and unfurl
My first solo passage    
                                    
                                                           

And then, canoe trip (no longer earthbound)
Canvas packs lashed to gunwales and wannigan
Three times three setting off up the lake
Toward Blueberry Island and beyond
Pin prick then out of sight, we shed our shirts
We paddle away from camp routine - from competition and swimming lessons
And boys

And into our own world of
Whispered paddling chants
Campfire meals and skinny-dip laughter, rock and birch bark
Spruce gummed and charcoaled hands
Sunburn and scrape
Pine needle smoke (a high incomprehensible unless tried)
To sleep under stars

We are eleven
Bare chests - soft skin and downy legs
Ready to climb the exposed cliff
Only to hover
Wanting to leap but screaming doubt
Dangling
Waiting for a sign    


The morning's soft holy light
Dew and chill
Damp cotton and spicy earth
I solo out while the rest still sleep
Drift soundlessly into the mist
And out of sight
On


And with stunning clarity I am there
On that lake and in the canoe in the dew scented morning
Aching old knees press hard into cedar ribs
In calloused veined hands, a paddle, the smell of pitch
I am old woman and I am eleven
I am memory - balancing - in the clear first light, prodded then hushed,
I turn to look back


The scent of the place
The last thing.     

    

- Anne Renouf

Summer 2020                                

Foghorn Lives

 Foghorn Lives!

Out here at the ranch, our favourite goose of all time, 

a goose commonly referred to as 'Foghorn',

returned to our pond every Spring for ten years, maybe twelve,

or more. 

Epic.

He had an exceptionally broad buff-coloured breast, 

with a distinct scar-like marking on one side, 

(perhaps an old war wound), 

making him instantly recognisable.

Foghorn had the swagger of a Texas rancher.

He'd land near the pond in early Spring, 

still ice and snow covered,

shake himself out as if to say,

 "Whoa, what a flight!".

Legs wide apart, wings back, he'd sway to the centre of the grassy patch  

and announce (in full foghorn mode), 

"WE'RE BACK".

He and Mrs. F were part of the family, at least for a few weeks. They came, scouted the territory, laid eggs, raised young'uns, (at least the ones not eaten for breakfast by the snapping turtles), 

and before you knew it, had departed.

That last time, Foghorn and the little missus were moving kind of slow.

She tended to stay put while he flew off on scouting missions.

No goslings materialized.

They hung around until well into early Summer.

Finally they both managed to become airborne - only just clearing the poplars at the top of the field,

then swung north-west against the evening light, and

were gone.

***

Enter

'Son of Foghorn'.

You may wonder how I know that he was in fact
                         Foghorn's son, not just any old gander, (they all being rather alike). 
When he first appeared, it was evident that he had not just his father's looks, but more his way, 
and though smaller, was similar in nature.
He gave the impression of knowing his way around, cocky-like, like perhaps he had been here before.
He is like his father, a little bit of that Foghorn swagger,
 and every so often demonstrated the old man's theatrical flair.

I got into the habit last Spring, of scattering scratch grain along the edge of their wandering territory, the green space by the pond. They would make their way to the spot, walking slowly and carefully, then he would keep lookout while she ate. 

Very gentlemanly. 

When they first arrived this year, (and I let out a whoop of delight), he turned toward the house,

stretched his neck to its full length and peered toward that old scratch grain spot. 

So, no doubt.

 It's him.

We're happy to see Son of Foghorn again, of course, 

but we do miss the old boy.

Still, life goes on, (especially if you are a Canada Goose), and as I speak, the nesting process is underway.

Just think, more little Foghorns.

And it is kind of comforting to know,

(at least, out here at the ranch), that,

one way or another,

Foghorn lives. 

 

 

 

Peterborough Public Library, January, 2023  (That's me on the far left.)

CELEBRATE   YOUR   FABULOUS   PUBLIC   LIBRARY! *

*(So says the sign I will carry in support of children’s programming at the Peterborough Public Library.)

 Here in the City of Peterborough and Peterborough County, we celebrate a public library reminding us again and again of the importance of acceptance. 

We are once again approaching a Saturday morning children's program,

'Drag Story Time', where a local teenager, (a university student studying Performance Art), will be entertaining families with young kids by reading stories and singing songs with the aid of a sweet puppet character. The story time programs, (with themes of happiness, emotions, friendship, diversity, inclusion and respect), encourage literacy, promote acceptance and celebrate differences.

 

The storyteller is our own Betty Baker, kind and gentle, with a perpetual smile -

 a little bit Mary Poppins, a little bit Mrs. Doubtfire, a little bit Julia Child.

Betty Baker's story time events have been hugely successful, happy,

important community events. 

 

That is, in spite of what happens outside of the library.

 

Enter a small group of naysayers.

This group has been gathering outside of the library before and during Drag Story Time, armed with signs, (some with bible quotes, some heavy with misinformation), to stand against the insanity, (as I heard it called), of “letting kids be part of a drag show”, and attempting to normalize what they perceive to be the “lie of a radical gender ideology”. The protester’s messages perpetuate dangerous myths and disinformation with regard to drag, trans, 2SLGBTQ+ members of our community and communities across Canada. 

 

Perhaps it is too much to wish for change to occur in the mindset of the protesters, whose anti-2SLGBTQ+ words and actions make it unsafe for

drag performers, for trans youth, for gay couples in our community. 

But we can outnumber them, showing the library to be a safe, accepting place for all, in the heart of a loving community.

 

I will be present at the Peterborough Public Library in support of Betty Baker, in support of the programming, in support of those arriving to attend Drag Story Time, in support of the kids who need to hear that it’s okay to be different, and in support of those compelled to turn out in celebration of our diverse community, 

and our FABULOUS library.

 -     Anne Renouf

  

 

DRAG STORY TIME

with Betty Baker

Peterborough Public Library

Saturday May 6 2023   10:15 a.m.

 

 

The Scent of Tea

The scent of tea

in the
still dark winter
morning
every day’s start
of my own
conjuring

a ritual

boil water
slowly pour
over a small porous pouch
that’s been lifted from 
a decorative tin
then placed in a
warm wide china 
cup
while dim morning light
reveals curls of
scented steam

my teacup waits

as the prosaic coffee
is spooned stirred plunged
poured sugared milked 
delivered

and then

I return to it
elbows on the counter
my hands
gently fluttering through
the scented vapour
sending it farther into the air

a breath

afloat
I
like a small boat 
slowly passing a tropical island
catch the spicy waft in the air
of a memory
another time and place
a morning prayer.

- Anne Renouf

At the edge of the cold and dark Canadian Winter

 

Six years ago,

I co-facilitated a series of art workshops with 

Syrian refugees 

and other new Canadians at the 

Art Gallery of Peterborough. 

To say that it was a wonderful experience 

would be putting it lightly. 

We communicated not through language, 

but through paint and clay and pencil and ink, 

through laughter and tears. 

We built bridges (literally) and explored the 

concept of ‘home’. 

We made collaborative posters and banners, 

with colours and images and words from 

many cultures. 

We ‘heard’, through drawings, 

the struggle and terror and instability 

that brought our new friends to 

Peterborough Ontario

at the edge of the cold and dark 

Canadian winter.

Somehow, despite the weather, 

that studio was always filled 

with colour and music, with light and love.