Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Well, there is something screwy going on today - the blog doesn't recognize my end of line enters so the poem is just one lump. I'll maybe try again later.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Figured out how to download photos with my new computer. This one downloads directly from the memory card and it's not difficult, but I obviously did something wrong the first time I tried because nothing ended up on the computer. Oh, well, at least I didn't accidentally delete anything. End result, I can now share the photos of my new cat (or at least he was when I took the picture) Yoda and the unexpected visitor in my front yard one snowy day.

This is Yoda, trying to decide if the thing in my hand makes it okay for him to jump on the table. It didn't, but he had to try!

A wintery snooze.

Part of the harbour in the background.

He really was a gorgeous buck.

This I think was the real attraction - LUNCH!

The Mower to the Glow-Worms

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light The nightingale does sit so late

And studying all the summer night,

Her matchless songs does meditate;

Ye country comets, that portend

No war, nor prince's funeral.

Shining unto no higher end

Than to presage the grasses'fall;

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame

To wandering mowers shows the way,

That in the night have lost their aim,

And after foolish fires do stray;

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,

Since Juliana here is come,

For she my mind hath so displaced

That I shall never find my home.

Andrew Marvell

1621 - 1678

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Another sunny day! Love it!

Think this will be a reading afternoon - I've been stitching and my left thumb hurts from holding the fabric. I've started Sue Grafton's alphabet series and I've done A, B, C and D so I'll start "E is for Evidence" and see how far I get. I may fall asleep if I get to comfortable - woke up at 1:55 this morning and could not get back to sleep no matter what.

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets
The wond'ring neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

Oliver Goldsmith
1730 - 1774

Friday, March 25, 2011

Well, we've had several lovely sunny days - very springlike except for the 1 degree nights! That's not a serious complaint though - sunshine makes Rupert one of the most gorgeous places on earth.

The Garden of Love

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

William Blake
1757 - 1827

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Well, the new tank is in and working properly, but the water is too hot! Garry will be back down again this weekend to finish some bits and pieces and he'll turn it down for me then.

My boss at Sisters is going away for 2 weeks, but it doesn't impact me too much. I will work my normal week days, this Saturday, which was mine anyway, and next Saturday, which would have been hers, and then she'll work 2 Saturdays in a row. With that and Easter being the 4th weekend in April, I'll have 3 weekends in a row free. HOORAY!!! I will use one of them to do my income tax. It's trickier this year because of all the medical stuff so it'll take me more than the couple of hours one evening.

For A' That and A' That

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp--
The man's the gowd for a' that!

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray, and a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine--
A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men, for a' that!

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that--
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might--
Gude faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,--
As come it will for a' that,--
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree an' a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that--
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.

Robert Burns
1759 - 1796

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Well, we've had several sunny days in a row now, so everybody is feeling very spring-y. And it is officially spring today after all.

My hot water tank has started leaking, so my landlord found a new one yesterday and will be installing it this afternoon. I'm so pleased it didn't burst - drips are so much easier to deal with.

The Clod and the Pebble

"Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sang a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

William Blake
1757 - 1827

Friday, March 18, 2011

I'm having one of my "everything aches" days, so not too much will be happening. I HAVE to grocery shop today, so Denise is going to pick me up after work. I'll take a couple of Tylenol about an hour before she gets here so I'll be fairly mobile. I really hate these days - they remind me I'm getting old (VBG) and I get frustrated when I can't pick something up or hold on to it for very long.

Breathes There the Man with Soul So Dead

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott
1771 - 1832

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Well, the snow is gone except for the odd pile where the rain hasn't gotten to it, it's wet, windy and above zero. Now THIS is Prince Rupert! LOL

Stitched some more on the project I was having trouble with and got the head, arm and part of the robe done. Now I'm working on the wings which is more of the Glissengloss thread but I'm using shorter lengths and it's working up nicely. I like watching progress.

When We Two Parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:--
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

Lord Byron
1788 - 1824

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Well, got in some stitching time yesterday, but spent as much time frogging (ripping out) as I did stitching, so I ended up only finishing the halo. Not a great accomplishment for 2 hours of stitch time!


The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little Prig";
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."

Ralph Waldo Emerson
1803 - 18882

Friday, March 4, 2011

Well, it was more snow yesterday and a lot of it. Yuck! It was that wretched stuff that turns icy when you put pressure on it. I had to walk up the hill to my place as Michelle could not drive the ice alley and I took a tumble and went down hard. Thanks to the depth of snow and my heavy winter jacket, no serious damage, but I am sore today and I have some world class bruises! The really embarassing part was I had to crawl to the top of the hill as I could not get traction for my feet to stand up - that's how slippery it was. Very hard on one's dignity not to mention being cold and wet when I finally got inside. However, I turned on the electric blanket and crawled into bed. Was nice and toasty in no time and the cats were in heaven!

When I went to check for mail this morning, there was MORE snow coming down. Very light, but still snow! It's supposed to snow/rain this weekend and then freeze. It's just a mess everywhere. Thank goodness I don't have anything that HAS to be done requiring me to go out.


Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

Ralph Waldo Emerson
1803 - 1882

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Weigh day yesterday and I'm up again by 3 pounds. Which to me makes no sense - I was more careful with what I ate than even in January. Frustrating.

It's still so cold - and we had more snow yesterday. And this is supposed to last until the weekend at least. This is most un-Rupertlike weather - at least for the years that I've lived here. It certainly makes getting up and down my hill very interesting, to say the least.

Old Ironsides

Ay, tear her battered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the seas!

O, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

Oliver Wendell Holmes
1809 - 1894