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Monday’s bliss

Another stunning hot day dawns – summer redux. Yesterday I went to pick a dead leaf from the black-eyed Susans, and discovered a praying mantis, long and crumpled green in perfect camouflage. Later, Shari and I found him – her? – upside down, munching on an ant. The spider on the front door has spent three days hanging motionless, but this morning the web is vacant. But then, she vacated once before and reappeared. I figure she went out for take-out. These days are a butterflyfest – giant Monarchs sipping from the buddleia, flapping their geometric wings, what pleasure they give.

Okay okay, make me shut up about the garden.
I had a wonderful time on Saturday night at Shari and Julia’s concert at C’est What? Unfortunately, the house was very small, not surprising considering all that was going on in Toronto that night, including the Buskerfest, thousands of people watching shows on the street right outside door. My, that woman sings and composes beautifully. And her daughter, at 20, is an accomplished musician already; she provides not only harmonies but plays violin, harmonica, squeezebox, piano, flute and guitar. And probably more. They both do, so they switched back and forth through the show. Virtuosos!
But the best bit of concert was here at home, when I asked Shari to play “Fear of flying.” It was the show-stopper when she toured with Pied Pumkin in the 70’s. I stood in a crowd of hundreds of hippies in the Kootenays, weeping at her soaring voice and Joe Mock’s gorgeous song.”Everything we do/Is just another trying/ Some never lose/ the fear of flying…”
Yesterday, 35 years later, she sang it just for me.
They left this morning for Montreal, for one last gig and to set Julia up for her next year at McGill, and then Shari is off to the States to meet up with Mike and his mother. Mike is the son Shari gave up for adoption when she was barely 16 and whom she just refound a few years ago – a joyful and welcome reunion on both sides. Recently, Shari and Mike’s adoptive mother searched for Mike’s father and found him, so he is in close contact with both his birth parents. Shari has written several haunting songs about him, and he has played percussion with her and his new sister Julia in concert. And Shari has not only a new-found son, but a daughter-in-law and a grandchild. What a story!
And now – some quiet days to get a lot of work done, before teaching starts and fall displays her wares. I called my friend Patsy in despair about writing yesterday and got her usual invaluable advice. Once again, I was trying to do too much, cramming too much in. Divide the story in two, she said, and suddenly – it all made sense! There’s that story and this story, they do not belong together, and separating them has made all the difference. Thank you, my dear friend.
Beautiful long end-of-summer days, work flowing and a garden full of happy bugs and birds – what more could a woman want?



2 Responses to “Monday’s bliss”

  1. Norma Dvorsky says:

    Beth, There I was reading, catching up with you, and then suddenly a seismic shift & I was transported… Pied Pumpkin?! Shari!? Kootenays, hippies, Joe Mock. Their singing, that song. What can I say… me too, me too. What a divine reminder of things past and apparently present.

  2. Beth says:

    So, Norma, we might have met in a previous incarnation. Not a surprise. The community of artists in Canada is small and deeply interconnected. I was part of a music-drama group called the Valhallaluia Rangers, named after the Valhalla Mountain Range. We were pretty crazy.

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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Chris Walks
This blog evolves. It once was about travels. Now it’s a reason to be at the keyboard that I value.

Theresa Kishkan
Theresa Kishkan is a writer living on the Sechelt Peninsula on the west coast of Canada.

I walk on. With my feet, and in my mind as well.

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Wherever you’ve come from, wherever you’re going, consider this space a place for reflection and pause.


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