TBT - Two Years Ago...

 

🌈 On a Saturday morning two years ago, (perhaps for the fourth or fifth time in my life), this senior drove to the Peterborough Public Library, to help to remind people of the importance of acceptance.

It is always comforting to see that I am not alone in this. I immediately met a friend, (also a senior), and we spent the rest of our time holding each end of a 'Pride' banner. There were dozens of pro-library folks in attendance, brightly robed in rainbow colours, all there to cheer on Betty Baker, our local story-time performer.

I say "cheer on", but due to the group of protesters assembled, at times it felt more like we were there to create a protective barrier.

I was definitely one of the oldest there, old enough (I mused) to remember a much more tolerant and compassionate acceptance of all gender stripes, when I was Betty Baker's age, (fifty years ago), when 'Drag' conjured up images of Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in 'Some Like It Hot' - good fun and clever performances.

What happened?

At the library, this time, things were a lot less tolerant. We could feel an uneasiness, a volatility, as the protesters moved among the supporters, and conversations became heated. Several times the police, who usually watch from a distance, moved in to defuse the pushing and shoving.

We library supporters were called unpleasant things. The angry teenager that I spoke to appeared to just want to be, well, angry. We heard "leave the kids alone", "drag shows are not for kids", "radical gender ideology is a lie", "boys are boys and girls are girls", "you should be ashamed of yourselves", and repeatedly, references to grooming and child abuse. The protesters' messages, perpetuating dangerous myths and disinformation, made it all feel a bit unsafe. And if it felt unsafe to these Pride-flag-waving seniors, what about members of the 2SLGBTQIA+ community - drag performers, trans youth, gay couples?

Here are the facts:

•Drag Story Time is for families with small children.

•The books that Betty reads have themes of friendship, emotions, differences, inclusion, respect, kindness.

•Betty Baker is a kind, soft-spoken, beautiful human being.

So, I will go again and again and again, if needed. I'll wear the t-shirt and wave the flag, because I want to celebrate a diverse and inclusive Peterborough, where differences are respected, where kindness rules, and where kids are allowed to hear stories that reflect that.

A 'Good King Wenceslas' Walk-in-the-Woods

Sunday January 26, 2025

A rather ‘Good King Wenceslas’ 

trudge this morning. 

 

A bit of ‘bitter weather’ for sure, 

being winter in Canada. 

Not ‘on The Feast of Stephen’, but the feast of St Paula Romana , 

according to my book of saints, 

(January 26, 347-404).

The snow, ‘deep and crisp and even’, 

and a good six or eight inches of it in the woods. 

And we were, in a sense, ‘gathering winter fuel’, 

as we scouted out a number of standing dead elms, 

and pocketed some birchbark. 

And we certainly walked ‘where the snow lay dinted’ 

as we followed the four-wheeler tracks from a few days ago.

And, 

we did ‘find blessing‘...

Sunday morning Angel Tree.

Canoe

                           

2024 was the year of the canoe in these parts.

It began as an idea for a sixteenth birthday gift for number-one-grandson Jack, and idea leapt into action in the middle of the summer, roughly four months before the big day.

Let me just say, right off the bat, that this was all Doug. 

He did insist, (repeatedly), that we would build it together, but from the downing of cedars in our woods, running them through the sawmill, cutting them into strips, routing many many sixteen-foot-long strips, building the strong-back, etc. etc., it was all Doug. 

I suppose I was useful in the conceptual process and the encouragement department. Occasionally I was asked to read a passage from the manual to "see what I thought". And in the later stages, there were a number of times when four hands were needed, (though these are undocumented as I was also official photographer).

I would describe the process as slow and methodical, but also deeply satisfying. 

Meditative. Spiritual.

Repetitive, rhythmic and quiet, working at the edge of the woods with the chickadees and red squirrels, sometimes within arms reach, going about, as they do, the business of surviving.

I thought, more than once, that it was strangely akin to the process of art-making. 

Akin to it, not only creatively but also in timeline, if I'm thinking of one of my large works. 

As most of my works on canvas include canoe imagery, this gave me an odd sensation. 

This canoe was real.

Tangible.

Different, yes, yet oddly similar, even as far as using many of the same materials - wood, cloth, varnish.

On a cold and windy late November morning, we drove a few miles east to the Ouse River, to give her a test run.  She behaved as she should - light, balanced, nice to handle - the icy waters of the Ouse staying firmly, wonderfully, thankfully outside of the canoe.

It is a thing of beauty, this treasure. 

Built with Doug's own two (and occasionally four) hands, it has now been handed on to Jack.

With love.

Anne Renouf

          

D'où Viens-tu Bergère

 

"D'où viens-tu bergère?"

Where are you from?  Where are you going?

This lovely old nativity scene came with my parents from the U.K. 

when they immigrated to Canada in 1951,

with my two eldest brothers, 

Andrew, 3 and Simon 1.

It was constructed by the daughter of their dear friends and neighbours Godfrey and Hildegard Koenig,

a young teenager named Hildy.

I don't know enough about how or when the Koenigs arrived in the U.K.

except that they were Austrian, and given the timing, I imagine that they came just before or during the Second World War.

The crèche is comprised of 

paper figures mounted onto wooden shapes cut with a jigsaw. It would have been a lot of fiddly work.

Fiddly work that has held up for some time, at least most of it. A few of the minor characters have been lost along the way. It has moved a fair distance.

I have calculated that it has been assembled by someone in my family for

seventy-five Christmases, 

and has travelled from:

Taplow, England

to 

Toronto, Ontario

to

 Auckland, New Zealand

to

Don Mills, Ontario

to 

Peterborough County, Ontario.

"Where do you come from, shepherdess, where do you come from? 
I come from the stable, I have just been walking there;
I have seen a miracle happen this evening."

❆

D'où Viens-tu Bergère

D’où viens-tu, bergère, d’où viens-tu? (bis) —Je viens de l’étable, de m’y promener; J’ai vu un miracle ce soir arriver.	Where do you come from, shepherdess, where do you come from? (twice) —I come from the stable, I have just been walking there; I have seen a miracle happen this evening.
Qu’as-tu vu, bergère, qu’as-tu vu? (bis) —J’ai vu dans la crèche un petit enfant Sur la paille fraîche mis bien tendrement.	What did you see, shepherdess, what did you see? —I saw in the manger a little child Placed very tenderly on the fresh straw.
Rien de plus, bergère, rien de plus? (bis) —Saint Joseph, son père, Saint Jean, son parrain, Saint’-Marie sa mère, qui l’aime si bien.	Nothing more, shepherdess, nothing more? —St Joseph, his father, St John, his godfather, St Mary his mother, who loves him so well.
Rien de plus, bergère, rien de plus? (bis) —´Y a le bœuf et l’âne qui sont par devant Et de leur haleine réchauffent l’enfant.	Nothing more, shepherdess, nothing more? —There’s the ox and the ass who are in front And who warm the child with their breath.
Rien de plus, bergère, rien de plus? (bis) —´Y a trois petits anges descendus du ciel, Chantant les louanges du Père éternel. *traditional French Carol	Nothing more, shepherdess, nothing more? —There are three little angels come down from heaven, Singing the praises of the eternal Father.

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.