Bulgar and Feta Casserole
half a cup raw bulgar
half a cup boiling water
1 tbls. olive oil
1 sm. onion diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp. cumin, pinch of herb de province, s&p
half green pepper diced
1 cup chick peas
2 tomatoes diced
1 cup crumbled feta
Pour boiling water over bulgar in a small bowl and cover with a plate. Leave for 15 mins.
Heat olive oil in frying pan. Add onion, garlic, seasonings. cook slowly for 5 mins. Add green pepper. Cook 5 mins. Add bulgar, chick peas, tomatoes, feta.
Stir well.
Cover and let sit in firepit (away from direct flame) for 30 mins.
Uncover and heat gently 5 mins.
*
Supper.
I get to work on the fire, food prep, and, feeling the heat go out of the day, bundle myself into my hoodie, leggings and wool socks. All is still dry, an orange sun showing for a moment through the cloud.
As the casserole bakes, I sketch out some plans for my large canvas. Before coming, I had a rough idea of what I wanted to do, but this has changed somewhat by being here.
I have brought a good assortment of materials with me. On an impulse, and before the tacking is completed, I dig out a jar of acrylic gel medium and some of my large photographic tree imagery on paper. I have photographed the trees of Trinity Lake many times, as a way of studying light and shadow, colour and texture. I have, (before this trip), played around with some of these images, cropping, enlarging.
I have a desire to make use of these images now, thus creating the work in this place.
About this place.
I apply a series of these to the large canvas, feeling daring, and knowing that I can always paint over the photo imagery if it doesn't work as an idea. Always, my way of working is experimental.
(And, as always, I have an 'escape route', if necessary.)
But I need to try.
I begin to feel the itch of excitement.
The excitement of creating a new work.
With this and the cooking done, I sit and relax, stuffing a heaping spoonful of casserole into a pita half, and squeezing on some sriracha sauce.
All is still.
I have one more bulgar stuffed pita, stow leftovers, wash dishes, and finish tacking the four corners of the canvas to the stretcher frame. I wrap my stretched canvas in a tarp and bungy it to a couple of small trees in a grove about fifty feet from my site,where it won't get blown about, should it rain in the night. It is now nearly too dark to see.
I climb into bed, and although all is calm and I am content, I feel a discomfiting prickle of sadness. I picture in my mind Flint's Pointer. My Flint's Pointer, that is. The sad underwater beckoning to follow the outstretched arm, the pointing torn-away piece of gunwale.
Beckoning to follow what?
Halfway through my night's sleep, the wind kicks up. I hear a distant rumble, followed by a flash.
For a long time, this is all that happens, seemingly far far away.
And then the rain starts.
First, a series of big single drops. Then, an insistent drumming on the tarp.
I bury my head in my sleeping bag.
*
Saturday July 27 1967.
I arrived at camp.
I had spent nearly ten weeks treating my left leg as if it were made of eggshells.
But miracle of miracles, I was now allowed to start putting a little weight on it.
So, I was to return to camp for the last four weeks, and allowed some mobility by being given a pair of crutches. I was greeted by Willie and Mrs. D., to whom I owed a massive debt of thanks, they being the ones who agreed to take me on. I was to sleep in 'the hospital', a large cabin, half of which housed a four bed infirmary, and the other half, accommodation for the camp nurse, kitchen staff, and arts and crafts instructor.
Not being able to participate in sports, I was to spend my days in the newly added arts and crafts facility, adjacent to the canoe shed.
And adjacent to Ginny.
Dennis and I had had our twelfth birthday, for me, during my incarceration at the cottage. My parents had given me an art box filled with drawing materials, pads of paper, markers, watercolour paints and brushes.
I had, not being able to do much else, spent many hours looking out on the lake, drawing.
And now with the arts and crafts instructor as my daily companion, I began what would turn out to be the earliest inklings of my future life in the arts.
I settled into my digs in the hospital cabin, assisted by Mary Jo. The elder Denton daughter, in her final year of nursing, was camp nurse that summer. We unpacked my things, made up the bed, and arranged my bedside books, flashlight, Rembrandt drawing, sketchpad and pencils. I liked Mary Jo, though she'd never had a whole lot to do with the campers. She could be a bit 'no-nonsense', (like her father, I suppose), but I was so unbelievably happy to be there, I was willing to abide by any rules.
I had stretched out on the bed to give it a try when Chip and Jessie walked in. A minute later, Ginny arrived at the door. A terrible shyness came over me, as I had imagined this reunion so often. But it was over in a moment. Ginny, grinning, bent over to give me a massive hug, and after that, all became normal.
It was, (except for my leg), as if I had never left.
My parents, all of this time, had been in conversation with Willie and Mrs. D.
As they were off the next day to Jersey, contact numbers had to be made known, and arrangements made to phone camp regularly and keep on top of the situation.
I was relieved when they left, though it sounds awful to say out loud. I couldn't help feeling that something was going to go wrong at the last second.
But all, mercifully, went according to plan.
I embraced my new routine.
My days began with Mary Jo. I was with my cabin mates at mealtimes,
With this and the cooking done, I sit and relax, stuffing a heaping spoonful of casserole into a pita half, and squeezing on some sriracha sauce.
All is still.
I have one more bulgar stuffed pita, stow leftovers, wash dishes, and finish tacking the four corners of the canvas to the stretcher frame. I wrap my stretched canvas in a tarp and bungy it to a couple of small trees in a grove about fifty feet from my site,where it won't get blown about, should it rain in the night. It is now nearly too dark to see.
I climb into bed, and although all is calm and I am content, I feel a discomfiting prickle of sadness. I picture in my mind Flint's Pointer. My Flint's Pointer, that is. The sad underwater beckoning to follow the outstretched arm, the pointing torn-away piece of gunwale.
Beckoning to follow what?
Halfway through my night's sleep, the wind kicks up. I hear a distant rumble, followed by a flash.
For a long time, this is all that happens, seemingly far far away.
And then the rain starts.
First, a series of big single drops. Then, an insistent drumming on the tarp.
I bury my head in my sleeping bag.
*
Saturday July 27 1967.
I arrived at camp.
I had spent nearly ten weeks treating my left leg as if it were made of eggshells.
But miracle of miracles, I was now allowed to start putting a little weight on it.
So, I was to return to camp for the last four weeks, and allowed some mobility by being given a pair of crutches. I was greeted by Willie and Mrs. D., to whom I owed a massive debt of thanks, they being the ones who agreed to take me on. I was to sleep in 'the hospital', a large cabin, half of which housed a four bed infirmary, and the other half, accommodation for the camp nurse, kitchen staff, and arts and crafts instructor.
Not being able to participate in sports, I was to spend my days in the newly added arts and crafts facility, adjacent to the canoe shed.
And adjacent to Ginny.
Dennis and I had had our twelfth birthday, for me, during my incarceration at the cottage. My parents had given me an art box filled with drawing materials, pads of paper, markers, watercolour paints and brushes.
I had, not being able to do much else, spent many hours looking out on the lake, drawing.
And now with the arts and crafts instructor as my daily companion, I began what would turn out to be the earliest inklings of my future life in the arts.
I settled into my digs in the hospital cabin, assisted by Mary Jo. The elder Denton daughter, in her final year of nursing, was camp nurse that summer. We unpacked my things, made up the bed, and arranged my bedside books, flashlight, Rembrandt drawing, sketchpad and pencils. I liked Mary Jo, though she'd never had a whole lot to do with the campers. She could be a bit 'no-nonsense', (like her father, I suppose), but I was so unbelievably happy to be there, I was willing to abide by any rules.
I had stretched out on the bed to give it a try when Chip and Jessie walked in. A minute later, Ginny arrived at the door. A terrible shyness came over me, as I had imagined this reunion so often. But it was over in a moment. Ginny, grinning, bent over to give me a massive hug, and after that, all became normal.
It was, (except for my leg), as if I had never left.
My parents, all of this time, had been in conversation with Willie and Mrs. D.
As they were off the next day to Jersey, contact numbers had to be made known, and arrangements made to phone camp regularly and keep on top of the situation.
I was relieved when they left, though it sounds awful to say out loud. I couldn't help feeling that something was going to go wrong at the last second.
But all, mercifully, went according to plan.
I embraced my new routine.
My days began with Mary Jo. I was with my cabin mates at mealtimes,
in the craft room during morning and afternoon activities.
The evenings I spent in solo activity, but surprisingly I began to look forward to this time. It was my quiet time, (having virtually gone to bed), my time to read, write, draw, and think. I was missing the evening activities, but somehow didn't mind. In the warm artificial light of my cozy corner of the hospital cabin, I stretched out atop my bed, enveloped in the woody scent of a sun-warmed cabin,
The evenings I spent in solo activity, but surprisingly I began to look forward to this time. It was my quiet time, (having virtually gone to bed), my time to read, write, draw, and think. I was missing the evening activities, but somehow didn't mind. In the warm artificial light of my cozy corner of the hospital cabin, I stretched out atop my bed, enveloped in the woody scent of a sun-warmed cabin,
a scent so lovely, it nearly breaks my heart to remember it now.
I became a fixture in the new arts and crafts room, due to my limited mobility.
As the weeks rapidly progressed, I began to feel the prickle again, the prickle of sadness, of wanting to stay here forever. It began the week before leaving, and though my days were filled with happiness, my sad thoughts haunted me in the wee hours of the night. I would lie on my back, silent tears rolling onto the pillow. I was terrified that if I sniffled, someone would hear me and, assuming I was in pain, ask questions.
It was my private grief.
I became a fixture in the new arts and crafts room, due to my limited mobility.
The A+C instructor was a lovely Ojibwa woman, Aki, who lived on the Curve Lake First Nation. She was probably ten years older than me, but we became good friends that summer.
She generously provided me with a craft table of my own, for my many ongoing art projects and paintings.
She had a huge selection of First Nation symbolic imagery and, being a gifted story teller, brought these images of
trees, plants, animals,
roots, rocks, stars,
water, sun and moon,
to life in a way that was previously unknown to me.
That imagery made the natural world, specifically the beauty of Trinity Lake,
make sense.
As the weeks rapidly progressed, I began to feel the prickle again, the prickle of sadness, of wanting to stay here forever. It began the week before leaving, and though my days were filled with happiness, my sad thoughts haunted me in the wee hours of the night. I would lie on my back, silent tears rolling onto the pillow. I was terrified that if I sniffled, someone would hear me and, assuming I was in pain, ask questions.
It was my private grief.
I wanted to share it with no one.
That last week, after Ginny had returned from The Loop, (a trip I had resigned myself to having to miss), I managed to share my daily routine between Aki and Ginny.
That last week, after Ginny had returned from The Loop, (a trip I had resigned myself to having to miss), I managed to share my daily routine between Aki and Ginny.
My walking with crutches had progressed a great deal, and I had been given permission to help in the canoe shed with the end-of-camp sorting, tidying, tallying of equipment and damage reports.
I had always had a sense of a strong spiritual quality within Ginny.
I had always had a sense of a strong spiritual quality within Ginny.
But I saw her, with new eyes that week.
She had not, since the previous summer, replaced the tiny cross and chain which she had always worn, and fiddled with whenever she was thinking. I wondered why, but it seemed so deeply personal, I didn't ask.
That week, she exuded a calming sense of peace.
As if she were anticipating something blissful, every small task, change in weather, visit from a camper, seemed like something to be eternally grateful for. Her beautific attitude seemed to influence one and all. She looked hard into each person she conversed with, as if she needed to remember every detail.
As Ginny and I worked one afternoon, I watched her reach into the depths of a dark corner to retrieve some long forgotten life jackets, ropes and tarps. When she sat down to sort through these, the north light from a small window fell across her face. She had stopped what she was doing to gaze out and was so still for so long, I thought she had gone to sleep.
My voice wobbled as it all came out. I tried to hide it, to brush away the flow of tears. My nose ran continually, and I wiped it with the sleeves of my ragged red hoodie until they became sodden.
Ginny said nothing. Gently handing me her bandana, she listened to my outpouring heart.
When I had exhausted my grief, she took my hands in hers,
As if she'd never see us again.
As Ginny and I worked one afternoon, I watched her reach into the depths of a dark corner to retrieve some long forgotten life jackets, ropes and tarps. When she sat down to sort through these, the north light from a small window fell across her face. She had stopped what she was doing to gaze out and was so still for so long, I thought she had gone to sleep.
I walked toward her, but stopped, so moved by her look of total rapture that at that moment I felt my heart breaking.
She came out of it, turned, tilted her head to one side,
and said,
"I think you're sad, and I'm wondering if it's something you want to talk about."
Out poured all of my 12-year-old angst.
The last week of camp. My longing to stay here. I didn't want it to end.
I loved being with her, and Aki. I wanted to live here.
Everything was awkward, the unpleasant changes in my body, the animosity I felt toward my mother, my boy-like tendencies.
It had gotten so that I couldn't bear to hear that heartbreaking camp song, 'Hmm, I Want To Linger'.
My voice wobbled as it all came out. I tried to hide it, to brush away the flow of tears. My nose ran continually, and I wiped it with the sleeves of my ragged red hoodie until they became sodden.
Ginny said nothing. Gently handing me her bandana, she listened to my outpouring heart.
When I had exhausted my grief, she took my hands in hers,
her long, elegant, freckled fingers entwining with my grubby nail-bitten ones.
She told me that she saw in me something wonderful, that I was a beautiful soul.
She told me that I needed to hang on to my feelings, not to make myself sad, but to use them to create something wonderful.
And so, in the days that followed, after the outpouring of my heart, an outpouring of another kind.
Ginny (and not my mother), was the one who I turned to when I had to face facts that the changes in my body were real, changes leaving no doubt that I was female, changes so clearly evident.
It was Ginny who talked to me, answered my questions, who witnessed my passage.
She told me that she saw in me something wonderful, that I was a beautiful soul.
She told me that I needed to hang on to my feelings, not to make myself sad, but to use them to create something wonderful.
And so, in the days that followed, after the outpouring of my heart, an outpouring of another kind.
Ginny (and not my mother), was the one who I turned to when I had to face facts that the changes in my body were real, changes leaving no doubt that I was female, changes so clearly evident.
It was Ginny who talked to me, answered my questions, who witnessed my passage.
No comments:
Post a Comment