annerenoufvisualart - 2021

'Crossing (Solo Passage)'

24" x 24" mixed media on canvas 2019

'Earth Prayer #2'

24" x 24' mixed media on canvas  2016

'Earth's Rhythm'

40" x 48" mixed media on canvas 2019

'Float 2 (Fugitive Water)'

33" x 33" mixed media on canvas 2017

'Threshold'

24" x 24" mixed media on canvas 2019

'Unfolding'

30" x 36" mixed media on canvas 2018

'Pulling myself up through the dawn...'

30" x 24" mixed media on canvas 2018

'...Climbing out into the light'

30" x 24" mixed media on canvas 2018

'Lie Up and Survive (3)'

24" x 24" mixed media on canvas 2019

'Unearthed 5'

24" x 24" mixed media on canvas 2019

'And the river bleeds my song'

24' x 72" mixed media on canvas 2018

'Underlying'

48" x 40" mixed media on canvas 2020

'Unearthed 6'

24" x 24" mixed media on canvas 2019

'Toward Trinity Lake'

72" x 96" mixed media on canvas 2016

'Treeline 5'

36' x 12" mixed media on canvas 2019

'Unravelling'

36" x 40" mixed media on canvas 2018

'Three Days Out'

36" x 48" mixed media on canvas 2016

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'

Trinity Lake - Epilogue

Epilogue

“Things we lose have a way of

coming back to us in the end,

if not always in the way we expect.”

 

 

-       J K Rowling

 

 

On the morning after the last day of my 

nine day solo canoe trip, 

I lower the treetop kitchen and pack up 

all of the gear.

Then I tackle the tent site.

Bud spends an hour at water's edge, 

deconstructing the raft, transporting the

cedar lengths into the woods, 

gathering up the fine cord.

All that has been my home 

for a week and a half 

disappears.

Apart from flattened and trodden 

ground, cleared trail and 

well used fireplace,

it is as if I hadn’t been here at all.

Like the last day of camp.

 

We each solo a canoe away from 

my bay, each with half of the gear. 

We meander close to the shore.

It is still and calm, though a bit cooler.

We stop for a cup of coffee at 

‘The Cabin”, 

as is our habit, and in spite of having 

already breakfasted, 

are lured by the 

bacon, egg and hash-brown smell 

into having the full fry-up.

 

I notice a couple enter, 

and make for a sunny table in the corner.

I try not to do the ‘Haliburton Stare’,

that moment when everyone in a small 

country eatery looks up to see who it is.

As they turn, I see that it is 

Joan and Harvey,

Joan and Harvey of the dock visit, 

the excellent coffee, the pre-cliff part 

of my pilgrimage,

Only four days ago.

They settle in at their table 

and Bud and I wander over.

I introduce Bud and we have 

a good chat, exchange numbers.

Harvey fixes me with a gimlet eye. 

“Not sure you were straight with 

us the other day,” 

he says with a hint of a grin.

“Saw you battle your way across 

the lake in that wind.”

I manage to laugh, and stammer out 

that I’d been on something of 

a mission, and that all had gone well.

He reaches up to touch my cheek, 

a gesture so like my father 

would have done, 

I feel a lump tighten in my throat.

We promise to drop by their cottage 

in the next couple of weeks. 

There is some repair work that they’d

 like Bud’s advice about.

 

Four weeks later, 

we celebrate a not quite typical, 

not quite traditional, 

very happy Thanksgiving.

We have weekend guests from afar,

arriving on Friday evening  – 

Ginny and Margie, 

bringing a fantastic array 

of vegetarian foods, the makings 

of a Sunday feast.

 

And Meg and Elle, also with 

Thanksgiving offerings –

three dozen Montreal bagels, 

cream cheese, lox, veggie platter, 

wines, and a package of Montreal 

smoked meat for Bud.

My doctor brother Dennis 

and his wife Lula pop in on Saturday on 

their way to Algonquin.

Lula is Middle Eastern and a fantastic 

cook, and they gift us with some of 

her delicacies.

Elle is fascinated that Dennis and I 

are twins, so I unearth a photo album of 

our summers on Trinity Lake, 

when we were small, and Dennis and I 

actually looked alike.

This prompts a lot of laughter.

Elle, the album open on her lap, 

on the sofa between Ginny and Bud.

Trinity Lake in the '50's.

My father reading on the deck.

My mother at her desk, turning to 

look at the photographer.

Their five children, all under ten, 

lined up on the shore in khaki shorts, 

bare feet and chests.

And later,

Ginny and me at camp 

the first year I knew her.

Bud and me

in a canoe in our early twenties. 

Trinity Lake.

                                                                      *

After we see Dennis and Lula 

on their way, 

we plan a road trip for Sunday morning -

Bud, me, Meg, Elle, Ginny, Margie.

Three canoes, (truck, trailer, car), 

6 paddles, 6  PFDs, 3 bailers, 

and a large picnic lunch.

We plan to head to the public landing 

near the old camp.

And do a bit of exploring.

Bud sterns with Meg in the bow.

I paddle with Margie.

Elle, with my old camp paddle,

in the bow of Ginny's canoe.

We spend a glorious four hours on 

Trinity Lake.

We paddle slowly by the old camp, 

now cottages, 

with a few people about, it being 

Thanksgiving weekend. 

We picnic on tiny Blueberry Island.

Baguette, cheeses, sausage rolls, 

lettuce, cherry tomatoes, fruit.

Lemonade and light beer.

Local butter tarts.

                                                                          *

Bud, Meg and Margie, deep in 

conversation,

nibble at the picnic remains.

Ginny and I sit on a rocky outcrop 

looking out over Trinity Lake 

toward the old camp.

As it's October, 

we are in bulky sweaters, 

the tiny island scattered with leaves. 

We watch Elle, rubber-booted, playing in

 the shallows,

my camp paddle within her reach.

The old camp, now cottages, but still 

so familiar.

Still the same land.

Land where I feel a deep sense of 

belonging.

I think of Wren.

Thankfully, something which is no longer

painful to do.

For a fleeting moment, I think of Wren 

and the old days at camp,

laughing hysterically (but silently) as we 

negotiate the ink black

midnight Camp Trident trails, 

avoiding the oncoming train of Willie's 

spotlight, 

and feeling nothing but our own light of 

ecstatic intense love. 

I watch Elle playing on the pebbled shore.

Wren's granddaughter.

The paddle, I will give to her.

It will be the paddle she uses to learn to 

stern a canoe.

And eventually 

to canoe trip in this very place. 

For now, it holds a long straight line of 

tiny stones collected from the shore, 

shaped and rounded smooth 

by the waters of Trinity Lake.

                                                      *

Trinity Lake - Day 9 - Evening

 

Bud’s Dinner

Steak

Baked potatoes

Caesar Salad

Vin Rouge

 

 

So Bud arrives at my site, 

saying that seeing it was such a beautiful 

day he thought I may wish to stay

one more night.

 

I am ecstatic.

We stow his (quite large) backpack of 

supper makings in the treetop kitchen, 

then return to the water’s edge, strip, 

and spend a glorious hour, floating, 

treading water, and talking.

After a meal of cheese, crackers, 

trail mix, and a bag of fresh crudités, 

which he has gifted to me,

(the best gift after nine days), 

we take my cedar stretcher frame  

out into the water. 

Bud gathers up the unused cedar poles 

and lays them across it, lashing them 

to the frame with some of my fine 

strong rope, and creates the best sort of 

impromptu raft.

 

Like two eleven-year-olds, we play on 

this, paddling it out into the lake.

At one point, Bud heads for shore and 

retrieves two still quite cool bottles of 

Steamwhistle from the bow of his canoe.

And swims them out to the raft.

 

When I am too cold to stay in the water 

any longer, 

we get a good cooking fire going and, 

bundle up in hoodies, trackpants, 

red wool socks.

Later, he pours me a cup of wine, 

and proceeds to single-handedly 

concoct dinner.

 

It just doesn’t get any better than this.

 

 

         

 

 

                                                *

 

 

 

 

“I love you not only for what you are,

but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not only for what you have 

made of yourself,

but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me you bring 

out;

I love you for putting your hand in my

heaped up heart

and passing over all the foolish weak 

things

that you can’t help dimly seeing there

and for drawing out into the light all the 

beautiful belongings

that no one else has looked quite far 

enough to find.

 

I love you because you are helping me 

to make

out of the lumber of my life not a tavern 

but a temple;

out of the works of my every day

not a reproach but a song.

I love you because you have done

more than any creed could have done 

to make me good,

and more than any fate to make me happy.”

 

- from the writings of the Jewish poet,

Martin Buber

 

 

 

 

                                   

 

                                                     *

 

 

 

 

 

August , 2014

 

On a windy late-August morning, a day 

with clouds scuttling across the sky like 

banners, a dark blue Ford rental car 

pulled up at our door.

I could see the slightly apprehensive 

look on the driver’s face even 

from the kitchen window.

She took a minute to organize things

 then stepped out,

her long-legged seven-year-old 

climbing out of the back.

 

We were outside before they needed to 

figure out which door to go to.

 

Bud went to Meg, took her hands in his, 

had a long moment of eye contact and 

grinned like a new father.

It was a meeting with only a moment of 

awkwardness. 

As he described later, as soon as they 

were face to face, 

he could see himself in her.

 

She was very like Wren, with Bud’s 

colouring and facial features, but her

manner, the way she moved,

her expressions, were Wren.

I felt the unstoppable tears 

and laughingly hugged her.

 

The child, Elle, was unbelievably like 

Ginny.

 

As the visit progressed, we told Elle 

about 'Aunt Ginny’, and about her

 unknown Windsor great-grandparents.

Elle was keen on drawing, 

and I hauled out markers and paper.

She showed interest in my studio, 

in my paints and brushes, handling them 

carefully. 

I suggested that next time she visited 

perhaps she could paint. 

Her response was to turn to her mother

and say:“Can we come back here again?”

 

I was stunned by how comfortably Meg 

and Bud chatted.

While Elle and I drew, Bud took Meg 

outside to see the canoe shed and 

his latest canoe refurbishment. 

When they returned, 

we had a buffet lunch.

 

We had a gift for Elle, but waited for 

the right moment, not wanting to 

overwhelm anyone. 

She unwrapped it carefully, 

and gasped in delight when she saw 

a mini watercolour set which folded out

to reveal paints, brush, a small water 

container and a wee pad of paper. 

She examined them all, 

then replaced everything and 

closed it up again, 

at least six times.

 

We talked about Wren.

 

While Elle was busy drawing, Meg told us 

about her illness, but also about her work, 

her success as an editor and publisher, 

her marriage to David.

She was keen to know about her mother 

when we knew her. I heard myself describe 

the Wren I first knew and loved - 

about camp, canoe trips, 

a mutual love of Trinity Lake.

I thought this would be difficult for Bud, 

but looking directly at Meg, he added:

 

“Trinity Lake was wilderness back then.

The three of us did the Loop in ’74, 

a pretty rugged route.

Your mother was a star on a canoe trip…

a much better canoeist than me.”

 

They left mid afternoon, heading for an 

overnight in Ottawa before returning to 

Montreal. 

We made a tentative plan to have them 

come and stay with us for the 

Thanksgiving weekend, 

with the hope that Ginny and Margie 

would come as well.

 

As they were leaving, Elle spotted our 

collection of paddles, 

hanging in the hallway. 

She gently touched the smallest one, 

pointing out to her mother 

the burnt initials. 

D. B. B.  11   1966

Me: “That was my paddle when I was

 at camp.”

Elle: “What’s zipaya….?

Me: “zip adee doo dah.

It’s from a song. A happy song. 

It reminds me of someone I loved 

very much.

 

Elle: “Oh.”

And then,

        “What should I call you?”

 

Bud: “How about Bud and Beck?”

 

As they turned the corner on the 

laneway and were no longer

 in sight, me to a smiling Bud, 

saying the only thing left to say.

 

Wow.

Trinity Lake - Day 9 - Afternoon

 

Bud.

 

And there he was, far out on the lake 

in the soft morning light, 

approaching slowly.

 

I had had time to follow my newly cleared 

trail down to the canoe, 

flip it over, 

haul it into the water, 

climb in, and paddle over the 

still green water toward him.

When I was within about fifty feet,

I wondered what on earth I looked like.

I turned, dipped lake water over my face, 

rearranged my hair elastic, and turned back.

 

He smiled.

 

"You did it.”

"You look great."

"I am so much in love with you.”

 

 

 

                                     

                                       *

 

 

When I think of that final canoe trip 

with Wren,

Wren and Bud and me,

in some ways it feels like last year,

in some ways like someone else’s life 

altogether.

 

All of the markers in life since then,

large and small  –

 

births, deaths, weddings,

funerals, reunions, openings,

graduations, successes, failures –

 

make me see that time has passed.

All of the interests pursued,

the responsibilities taken, 

the friendships forged,

all adding up to the making of a life.

For the most part, a happy life.

 

And of course, too, throw in 

the occasional earth-shattering, 

life-changing event.

                                         *

 

 

 August, 2014 

 (One month earlier) 

As I sliced veggies for a stir-fry, 

I saw Bud drive in, 

get out of the truck, amble slowly

toward the house 

with something bulky.

He came in the kitchen door, 

his bare brown arms 

dropping an elastic tied bundle 

on the counter beside me.

 

“Mail.”

 

I wiped my hands, 

and removing the elastic,

sorted through the flyers, internet ads, 

newsletters. 

At the bottom of the pile, a long slim

envelope, 

somewhat damp from being pressed

against the bottom of 

a leaky rural mailbox.

 

“This one’s had a rough ride.”

“It’s for you, Mr. B. Ryder.”

 

Bud took it, looking at it quizzically.

 

He read it, facing toward the large 

south-facing window,

his back to me.

He was so still, the only movement as 

he shifted his weight from one leg

to the other.

 

He turned, handing me the letter.

 

“You might want to read this.”

 

 

  August 3, 2014

 

Dear Mr. Ryder,

 

I am writing to you with regard to my mother, 

who I think was an old friend of yours.

I am the daughter of Wren Sutherland,

(formerly Wren Millais).

I’m sorry to let you know that she died

of breast cancer 

two weeks ago. 

It was quite quick. She had been well for a 

couple of years after being in remission, 

but the cancer returned.

 

Before she died, my mother wanted me 

to know certain things from her past.

Let me preface this by saying that 

I have a good relationship with my father,

and can’t imagine being 

without him right now. 

But the truth is that my mother believes

that you are in fact my biological father. 

I was born May 19, 1975, 

and although she was married 

to my dad at that time, she told me that

the timing was such that she believes

that she was pregnant 

before having any relations with

my father.

 

I understand that, according to my mother, 

you are married to Diana Becquet. 

If this is something that you wish to keep 

private,

I totally understand and will do nothing 

to complicate things for you.

Having said that, I would love to meet 

you both. 

My mother said that the last time 

you saw each other had been difficult.

But I can tell from the way she spoke

that she loved you both.

 

I will be in Ontario the last week in August 

with my little girl, Elle. 

She is seven, and only knows that there are 

people in Ontario who she is related to.

Again, if this is too difficult, I understand.

I will include my contact information below.

 

Many thanks,

Meg Sutherland