Places Outstanding

PLACES OUTSTANDING been there, felt that... copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON, 2016

Down to the Beach

You smell it Long before sight The crest in the street Leads assuredly To lazy turquoise And tanning lotion Memories of happy kids And dunes for a frolic

Castles and canals Slurping and sculpted The applause sound Of uncountable waves Ending on gravel With a hiss of Mission accomplished Then receding graciously And back out again Toward the States This has none Of the City's clamour Imperious signage Or vague faces This has the vitality Of enjoyed life And nature's awe Our happy membership “Having a good day?

Sure glad those clouds Passed.�

Footlongs and fries Sizzle for the selling Two elders in lawn chairs

Together and silent Feet in the sand Accepting Fresh air and quick sounds Facing the mystery Blue above and in Liquid transit Taking them back.

Into the Cedars I enter the cedar stand With muffled footfall.

The Bay wind Traveling at my side Did not make it into the canopy.

Decomposition of years beneath.

Carpeted mosaic, Dead-fall, granite, root-fingers, lichens.

Gnarled, ruddy sentries In light-green camouflage, Note my arrival.

Guarding the Past.

Guarding the Present.

Guarding the Peace.

Guarding the Plan.

A barking raven-my herald.

Doubtless, chipmunks and White-tail freeze in their fashion, Wondering if I mean harm.

Temperature drops a few degrees.

Shades are drawn.

Hospitable host, though shy.

Quietly checking out my manners.

I sense I must stand still,

Waiting.

Honouring timeless laws Of territory.

As if to be waved in.

Frozen moment.

(Excepting only the Carpenter ant dragging Moth five-times-his-size Along a fallen trunk.)

Some Conductor flips his baton.

Green-noise musical score resumes.

I am in.

Perhaps given the tour.

Nuthatch sidles around a trunk To give me a peek.

Above, though hidden, That clarion white-throated Summer sound: “Chee-chee-chee-CanadaCanada-Canada.�

All around me traces, Evidences Of the continuing symphony.

Rabbit pellets.

Fox-fur snagged on a branch.

Tree-trunk porcupine lacerations.

Persistent flies Around remnants of a red squirrel Mishap.

Somewhere out there The bright relentless sun, Open Bay, lapping.

Sparkles in the marsh grass At the sandy shore.

My Evinrude.

In here, community, concord, calm.

Occasionally, a burst of brilliance Overhead.

As if Sun-God Attempts invasion through the roof.

But the assault diffuses Through lacy green And settles disarmed,

Muted member of the carpet-floor.

How much more, noble red-man Would have studied, Sensed, smelled, heard: He, in suit of two-year doeskin.

He, in feather, clam-shell breastplate.

He, the sum of many travels.

He, apprised of cedar-house rules.

He, the watcher of its ways.

This is his, and theirs.

I love it.

And seek adoption.

If only for the weekend.

Cavendish Sands Several summers ago Hilary and I enjoyed a trip to Prince Edward Island, the smallest of Canadian provinces and perhaps the quaintest. It had come about as a consequence of an inherited gift and we were long overdue for a holiday. All planning of the itinerary was left to my wife and she did a fabulous job. There was much excitement leading up to the flight as we had consumed the excellent travel literature available from this province.

Visions of sandy beaches, exceptional golf courses, lobster-fests, fiddle-fests, endless fields of potatoes and white wheat, Green Gables fairy-tale farm and acreage, Charlottetown centre of Confederation conferences, beautiful theatres, tiny red and white lighthouses and the nine-mile bridge recently joining the island to the mainland.

We were stunned to learn that the capital city had a population in the thirty-something thousands! But not a thing was missed in the mix - lush parks, excellent restaurants, maritime boutiques near the harbour, exquisite homes facing the interior bay, galleries, centre for performing arts.

From the city we went north to Brackley Beach adjacent to the breath-taking Park on the north shore. Our little cabin accommodation came complete with auto access to the Park. I was surprised to have Hilary wake me at 4:30 A.M. with the plan of going to the east end of the beach for sun-rise. Great idea! We watched the scurrying swarms of piping plovers at the surf. These are a species peculiar to the area. After sun-up we passed a marshy inlet with no less than sixteen Great Blue Herons fishing. No wonder the drive was named the Blue Heron Route.

The next day after a satisfying "Mom and Pop Shop" breakfast complete with neighbouring horse stables, we headed for the home of Anne of Green Gables, Canadian heroine penned by Lucy Maud Montgomery and known world-wide. This was near Cavendish. The interpretive museum in the farm did the typically excellent film representation one has come to expect from the National Film Board of Canada, handling story, place, persona and time-setting with equal success. (We also were impressed with the films at The Citadel Fortress in Halifax Harbour.)

The small Victorian home, Lovers' Lane, Tool Sheds and Livery Building were just as my wife had imagined. I could hear this collective sigh issuing from all the women visitors as they recalled all the lazy, romantic summer readings which had made Anne and her circle, friends for life. I saw the movie. I missed the books. But they were certainly in the household and shared happily by Hilary and Lauren.

That evening we came back to Cavendish Beach to await sunset. A large and diverse crowd of visitors relaxed with cameras at the ready, but concern developed as a heavy cloud bank appeared to be rolling in from the Ocean.

Would we get the sunset's glory? Would it be lost to the fog? Turned out that we got the best of both - rich orange farewell beneath a mysterious roof of mist. I remember chatting in this process with two tall Irish twin sisters in their sixties, one a widow living in Australia, the other married and hosting a wedding in the Maritimes.

Oh yes, they had both been raised on the stories of red-headed, ambitious, adventurous Anne of the Island.

Castle Living With the atmosphere of Glencoe weighing heavily on our Protestant consciences, Hilary and I drove north and east toward Fort William with the intention of stopping at Glengarry Castle near Invergarry for a stay.

My parents had alerted me to this opportunity. "A real castle, Doug, with the old stained beams, tapestries, stags heads on the wall, sword and shield regalia, the sense of tartan in everything." We couldn't resist the opportunity, and were met happily by the owner's black and white Scotch Terriers in the parking lot.

Beautiful room assigned with fascinating highland art on the walls and a large window overlooking a pasture of grazing cattle. Dinner, we were told, would be served at the ringing of the bell at 5:30. Nothing Holiday Innish about this! Beautiful dining room. Plaid everywhere. Dazzling white ironed and pleated table-cloths. A specific menu with "tonight's offerings". Courtesy and good cheer abounding. Tables were all small and intimate, but toward the end our waitress invited us into the Desert Parlour for tea and treats. Now this is where the Scots excel: cakes, jams, tarts, shortbread, squares. (Only in a Mennonite buffet decades later did I see its equal.)

We were seated in a lounge atmosphere and struck up a conversation with a couple slightly older than ourselves.

The husband was a London taxi-cab owner-driver. He fascinated us with stories of the intense "cabby" training and metropolitan whirl of the Great City. Not a bad living. Even owned a boat and sailed the North Sea to Scandinavia.

Hours passed. Many cordial laughs. (We would see them again at the top of Edinburgh Castle.)

At a nearby sofa were two widow women (spinsters?), elderly, trim and straight out of a "Miss Marple" mystery movie. Their conversation obviously had to do with other naturalist-type wanderings which they had shared. (The following morning as we left we saw them hunched over like walking-sticks with elaborate cameras taking close-up shots of meadow flowers.) They encouraged us to detour slightly north-west toward the Isle of Skye and to visit Eileen Donan Castle.

We were curious and did as instructed, passing through a merry-go-round of changing weather and no less than five rainbows before reaching the little fairy-tale island structure. What a delight! Majestic photo in any travel literature which I have ever seen thereafter on Scotland. Sitting at the head of a narrow inlet in from the Atlantic, having more the appearance of a Norwegian fjord.

Eileen Donan

Ottawa Once had a five-day visit with Hilary to our nation's capital. A beautiful city with an infrastructure overtaxed by the flow of humanity. Parking problems. One-way street confusion. Constant construction bottlenecks.

But there is so much that is pleasing to the eye. A city overlook two hundred feet high from the gothic Peace Tower of the Centre Block of Parliament. A lean over the rail, viewing the cruise boats on the Rideau Canal. A hushed pause before A. Y. Jackson, Monet, Constable or Caravaggio at the National Art Gallery. An unforgettable walk through our history and regions at the Canada Hall,

Third Floor of the Museum of Civilization. An uphill drive through the greenery and puffing cyclists in Gatineau Park.

A relaxed and informative tour through the profiles and purposes of our Governors General at stately Rideau Hall.

Stunning multi-media displays on ocean life, birds, dinosaurs and pre-historic mammals at the Museum of Nature.

Hilary had her fill of shopping. I had my fill of interpreting street maps and pleading for mercy from seasoned local motorists. We ate too much- steak (Luxe), lobster and crab (Big Daddy's Oyster Bar), Jewish Deli (Dunn's Deli - a very pleasant waiter named Aristotle).

We were also blessed by the considerate nature of some of the locals. A hotel desk clerk who told us that we had left our interior car lights on in the parking garage. A cleaning lady with a genuine smile and thorough technique (Cartier Suites Hotel- Cooper at Elgin Streets). A city By-Law enforcement officer on a bicycle who saved us from a parking ticket, in interpreting very confusing signage. Helpful pedestrians pointing the way. Admissions clerks at the various exhibits offering practical tips for our schedule ("see this for sure - skip that").

There was also my one sunrise walk from hotel to Parliament along Elgin Street (only fifteen minutes distant).

Watching the morning begin for students, civil servants, office staff, street construction workers, tourist facilitators, restauranteurs, shopkeepers and homeless persons. Everywhere the fascinating mix of English and French languages. I had the "Hill" almost to myself for about forty minutes before the big clock boomed out Seven A. M. Walked around the building overlooking the river, seagulls squawking. Noted the life-sized statues of Baldwin and Lafontaine, of Macdonald, Queen Elizabeth horseback, Diefenbaker, Borden. In one corner at the front the statue of early twentieth century Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier looked eastward toward the sunrise, the future and the country's capability. All backlit by dawning colour for my photographic delight.

Our last stop for Rideau Hall was followed by my roaming the fence at twenty four Susex Drive for a better shot of the Prime Minister's residence. No confrontation with official security, in spite of my wife's teasing (this being the day before the tenth anniversary of the American 9/11 horror). In the drive back downtown along the river, we imagined the start to the Prime Minister's day and his thoughts at that very spot, while being chauffeured and considering stategies, policy and perhaps mayhem in the coming "day at the office", or on the floor of that green room of conflict and table rapping.

I thank Hilary for some very adept planning and budgeting of this power-packed few days. We had fun. Our minds and our tastes were stretched. We have more memories now...together.

Stratford Ships of State

On the courtly banks of Avon, With the theatre in view, And the audience-in-waiting, And the picnics, not a few.

We come yearly to remember Where our marriage troth was set, To rehearse that night of magic When these hearts were firmly knit.

Now the play had been the reason For our trip from out-of-town; But the ring was in my suit-coat, And my Queen in gorgeous gown.

And the dinner was delightful, And the promenade stream-side.

‘Cross the bridge out to the island.

Would she come back o’er my bride?

She had surely seen it coming.

And the question popped with ease.

And the snap-shot still reflects Her glowing face, so quick to please.

And the swans sailed past the island With their canvas spread in state, And their lowered necks, acknowledged, “Yet another finds his mate.”

Then the fanfare called the audience

To the dimming lights, the play.

But the Main Event was ours, not theirs,

By Avon, that fair day!

Note: Forty-two years ago. Magical! Hilary and I often return to Stratford. The play that night was entitled "She Stoops to Conquer" (Oliver Goldsmith). Can't remember much about it. Other things on our minds. Thank God for my wife.

Duke and Duchess Watching a movie this evening about English aristocracy, Hilary and I were reminded of our holiday trip to England and Scotland the year before our daughter was born.

A dream come true to avid students of English literature, art, history and Scottish culture. Lovers of the current monarchy. Lovers of theatre, old architecture, darts, shepherd's pie. Seashores, cathedrals, heather covered hills. The list goes on.

But almost in the same breath this evening, the two of us blurted out "Blenheim Palace". This is the home of the Dukes of Marlborough (pronounced "Mollbra"), the family of Sir Winston Churchill.

The night before we had lodged in Oxford, drizzling wet, gray ancient buildings. Too tired and late to sight-see. But we had a delightful conversation in a common room with a foreign exchange student, a girl form the east, who simply needed some companionship and a few smiles as she adjusted to the big English centre of learning.

Our little stints at UWO in London, Ontario seemed small by comparison.

Back at our room we were delighted to see that BBC One featured a nature documentary on the Scottish Highlands and a dramatic presentation on the Battle of Britain entitled "Churchill and the Generals". We were being primed for what lay ahead.

To our pleasant surprise we were up early the next morning. The sun was shining. After a hearty British breakfast of fruit, bacon, eggs, kippers and "stiff" toast we were down the road to the palace, arriving long before visitors' hours.

Parking the car we decided to wander the beautiful landscaped grounds in the forefront, complete with man-made lake, swooping stone bridge, wood lot, sculptured shrubs and lush lakeside pathways. Suddenly we noticed two on horseback coming from the far end of the lake toward us as we stood on the bridge.

They appeared to be in their young forties, handsome, dressed smartly in riding attire. They gave us warm smiles

and a ready "good mowning". The unspoken comment was that it was pleasant to meet in this uncommon, private, quiet part of the day.

I can still visualize my wife, back towards me, hands in her trench-coat pockets, watching the two riders progress up the cinder roadway toward the impressive columned palace.

Then it dawned on us! Who would have liberty to ride these beautiful grounds during the off-hours? The Duke and Duchess. Once inside the palace we saw the portraits confirming our supposition.

Now the ironic part is that in former years Hilary's family had nick-named her "the Duchess" and my high school basketball chums had nicknamed me "Duke".

There you have it! The Duke and Duchess drop in on the Duke and Duchess.

You may not be getting anything out of this. No matter. It is for us. Thanksgiving is both a delight and a tonic. We remember that beautiful time. Four days after our fifth anniversary, which was September 21st, Battle of Britain Day, 1979.

Shortly thereafter, ten months to be precise, little Lauren arrived.

Temagami Laker Hard to tell where Copper-tone rock- face ends And lake surface begins.

Mirror image.

Late afternoon sun Bathing all in rust.

Trolling this Finger-arm of the lake These twenty-five minutes.

The boy is intent.

Line out a good Seventy feet, And thirty feet beneath.

Trusty Rapala Doing its lazy wiggle.

Noticed a gull Plopping to surface.

Feasting on small-fry.

Same gull,

Moments ago, Other end of the slip.

Something beneath, Frightening up a school Of little ones.

Perhaps a pattern?

Will the hunter Again harvest The far end?

“Doug, let’s quietly Pull in line, And scoot down Hundred and fifty yards.

See if He comes back.”

Springbok delicately Traverses the fluid face.

Fresh wind pleasant On eyes and cheeks.

“This should be right.

Don’t cast. Drop And play out some Hundred and twenty feet.”

Trolling motor Reduced to childish chug.

Overhead, blue heron Bats out his strange Anti-flight.

Waiting.

Croaking sounds from tree-line Suggest heron's nest.

Fish-line quivers where Wave ringlets mar Sun-trail of gold.

“Still, Doug. Wait.

Don’t spook him.

You’ll know when The real tug hits.”

Rod tip jerks To something lordly!

“He’s yours Son. No slack.

Now enjoy the play.

We called his game!”

Note: This was a memorable afternoon’s prize from Lake Temagami shared with my Dad (Jack Blair) years ago.

Georgian The rock has left a gap And a crack and a niche And some lichen for nutrition That my tendrils barely reach.

And the sun draws out my best Ere it sets into the west.

The wind has left its mark Since the day my green arose And it pushed my every upreach To an odd and eastering pose.

And the sudden lightning crack Took a neighbour at my back.

The waves have measured time As their force invades the shore And they crash and ebb a rhythm Heard a million times before.

And the white gulls ride the spray ‘Til they float at end of day.

And so this little isle I command as epochs pass.

First the beaver, then the hunter Then the paler face at last.

And so few, my tales have heard.

Just the rock and wind and bird.

And of course, Niagara Falls...

Alfalfa in the Blue I took to roads The country roads A job was pending Up a ways.

A bridge to help The farmers' days And men baked in the sun.

The windows down

The truck ran smooth The breeze was thick With fresh mown hay.

And cattle lounged Along my way.

And mustard gold begun.

Then came Fifth Line And turn I did To see a patchwork Table-set.

Including rich Blue-violet.

Alfalfa blooms fine-spun.

The sight so strange To urban eyes A yield so fragile In the the winds.

The Artist strokes And then rescinds His showing for just one.

At Home with some True Friends

Jody Squallace and Anthony Gomez

We started out arguing on an internet Writers' Forum and ended up treasuring each other's thoughts in poems and otherwise. At a distance we washed each other's feet and encouraged and provoked, Anthony and I did...And then came the wonderful visit to Moncks Corner S. C., thanks to a birthday gift from my family (May 2016). We laughed, prayed, dined, listened to the birds, shun-piked and stood quietly before vistas of woodlot, sanctuary, lake and sea.

Mary of Maligne Lake

Left Pennsylvania And college ways for Rocky Mountain flowers And your first husband The Good Doctor Lake Louise railhead Eyes, pen and notebook Fixed on Alberta soils Widowed But other trips to come Many with Mollie And the mystery Of a turquoise lake Unspoiled stuff Of Indian maps Happy raft tours Camping out Undeterred by grizzly Wolf or isolation Thrilled by vastness Freshness, design Of God’s handiwork Alpen mists and rumblings Sketching, surveying Savouring Later Billy’s mate Wilderness woman of Maligne.

(Mary Schaffer @1908)

(they found no sign of man, “just masses of flowers, the lap-lap of the waters on the shore, the occasional reverberating roar of an avalanche and our own voices stilled by a nameless Presence.�)

Maligne Lake is a short distance east and south of Jasper Alberta. We enjoyed the forest drive and boat cruise immensely.

Life at the River If I had the chance to show you If you'd sit still long enough I would take you to the River Lovely diamond in the rough I would have you hear the cardinals See the mallards skimming down And the Monarch, gossamer pilot At the outskirts of our town There the Angus cattle lowing And the hissing wind-swept corn There the sparkle on the millpond Hiding heron in the morn' And you'd sense Creator's passion And His new art brushed each day As the clouds sailed slowly over And you'd bend the knee and pray "Thank you Father for your power And your purpose in this art Long it captured all my senses But today you have my heart."