Beachy Keen

I know this sentiment is not original and, in fact, The Saggitarian over at More Canterbury Tales used it the other day as the title of her blog, but I swear I'd already Photoshopped this little postcard together before I saw her posting. As she pointed out in my comment box, "great minds think alike" and our mutual brilliance is well-attested, at least in our own minds.







"C" is here on a visit and the sun is shining for once this summer, so it's off to the beach!







We find a nice place to plunk ourselves down behind the dune.







Nothing to do but admire the view.





[Gentle Viewers, here's your chance to compare and contrast and decide which you prefer, moody black and white or bubblegum technicolour with Dolby surround-sound. The beach pictures here, with the boat (above) and the dogs (below) have black and white versions in an earlier post (see July 29). Shall we take a vote? Of course, it would help if I actually took good pictures but try to overlook that little detail! For a more informed debate over the b&w vs. colour dilemma, see today's posting at The Magic Lantern Show].






Here's the colour version of Fifi and Florence's arrival at the beach.

*
The sun is beginning to set, the temperature cooling, and our tummies beginning to grumble for some real food, so it's time to pack up and head out. Some more good photo ops on the way, though, so don't bail on me yet...

One of the pleasures of this beach is its diner on the pier. We usually have an annual "feed" of fried clams and scallops, served up with an overabundance of soggy fries and a hint of coleslaw on the side, all washed down with a cold beer. Tonight we refrained, though were tempted by this large gentleman's plate of lobsters.

Even bikers dig the beach...or greasy fried seafood.

A fingernail moon pokes through the sky.

Dusk is settling in. Time for us to hit the highway for the long drive home, spurred on by the promise of spaghetti with a quick homemade marinara sauce (in keeping with the marine theme), and a well chilled bottle of white. I don't foresee there being any leftovers.

Beached

We went to the beach and I plunked myself down in the sand and took a good look about me to see what I could see...Someone was having a nap while a seagull snuck up on him...

a fishing boat bobbed on the horizon...

a small white blob, perhaps named Bob, ventured out into the water while a seagull amused himself by making footprints in the sand (see them?)...

and then Fifi and Florence arrived for an evening frolic at the shore, anxious to get out there in the water where Bruno was already chasing a stick.

Averillage

Every evening I go for an hour-long stroll around the village back streets.

I amble past the fields and admire the varied fence-posts (look hard, you can just see one). Sometimes there are cows in the field, sometimes Canada Geese, tonight only the tall grasses, etching their patterns against the sky.

The bullrushes, or cattails, are coming into full bloom. Apparently a flour can be made from them, but who'd want to try?

There are varied wildflowers in the ditches and fields. I aways think these are chicory because of their colour, but I believe I am corrected every year when I blithely announce that the chicory is out. I'm not good at naming things...I prefer to simply appreciate their mystery. Makes for fewer names to be frustrated about forgetting, too.

But come along, we have a lot further to go yet...

Sheets over a flower bed.

A weathered shed being held up by a forgotten ladder. I love old sheds and barns, the more derelict the better. This one is in good shape, by my standards, but starting to get a nice little sag going on (aren't we all!).

Our neighbour, who has a Christmas tree farm, always seems to have a tractor or two for sale parked at the bottom of his driveway. Makes for a colourfully accented lawn decoration.


P is tantalizing the neighbours and passers-by with his fine collection of bricks that he has left casually lying down by the sidewalk. We have had a few enquiries as to their availabilty. Defninitely a hot commodity, but he just rumbles, "They're mine, mine, all mine!".

*

And so,my dears, we've come to the end of tonight's ramble. Thanks for joining me.

Song Saturday

Here's a retro shot. One of my 2nd year art school courses was photography. I had a 35 mm Konica and took black and white pictures only. I had the whole kit & caboodle to develop my film. It was a tricky business of mixing the right ratio of chemicals, winding the unexposed film onto a spindle, fitting it all into a magic canister, and shaking it all up for a specified amount of seconds. This was done while shut away in a pitch black chamber the size of a broom closet. Not my favourite part of the process, being slightly claustrophobic. I must have been particularly anxious on the day I developed this film as it came out exceedingly grainy. Given the subject of the picture, though, I thought the (unintentional) effect added to the atmosphere.

A favourite album of mine during this time was by Jeff Beck. It's one of the few records I still have stashed up in the attic (but am too lazy to go to the top of the house right now to check the title). This tune isn't on the album but it's suitably short for a blog posting and one that I really like. I thought this picture would go well with the song's title, "Drown in my own Tears."

Times Squared

When I went to NYC I was very excited to give my regards to Broadway.

The spectacle lures one like a distant oasis. The throngs plod along at a camel's pace.




Finally arriving at the Casbah, one can only stop & gape, snap pictures & ruminate.



So many choices, so little cash!




Let's just sit awhile on the red stairs and contemplate Herald Square.

*

Since I was a little kid I've been a big fan of musical theatre. In the summer my grandparents would take me to see "Theatre Under the Stars" (fondly known as Tuts) in Vancouver's Stanley Park. The show would get under way at dusk and the mosquitoes would come out as the sun went down. When the night air grew chill, we'd spread plaid blankets over our knees without missing a beat of the music or a line of dialogue. It was magic time! There were usually two Broadway musicals presented each summer and we'd always see at least one of them. I had no trouble staying awake after my bedtime, right up until we drove past the illuminated dancing fountain at the park's entrance--the perfect ending to an enchanted evening (and, yes, I did see South Pacific there).

When West Side Story came out as a movie I was absolutely gaga over it. I had the program, the album, I knew all the songs by heart, I could do a mean version of the dance routines in my living room when no one was around. I couldn't make up my mind whether I wanted to marry the leader of the Sharks or the Jets when I grew up. When I was a teenager, Tuts put on West Side Story and I auditioned for it. I was a very good dancer, but a bit too chubby and a little too young so I didn't make the cut.

But I did finally get to New York City and I did see a Broadway show, albeit Ionesco, starring Susan Sarandon, Geoffrey Rush, Andrea Martin and...the girl from 6 Feet Under... in "Exit the King." It was every bit as thrilling and exciting as anticipated. Although a revival of West Side Story was playing, I opted not to see it. A case of having "been there, done that, and bought everything but the T-shirt."

In case you were wondering, I never married George Chakiris or Russ Tamblyn.

I was here!

Feet of Clay

How to preserve a hero.

*

Okay, so I might as well level with you. This isn't a real person, and the photo below isn't actually of a former Village People...they are mannequins! Sorry for trying to pull the wool (or plastic bag) over your eyes!

*

The odd thing is, C and I were just breezing along the street in NYC's financial district, trying to evade the invading hordes of Quebec tourists, when we stumbled into this odd assortment of dummies--ones that weren't moving or talking. As their get-ups were completely unrelated to each other there was no discernible rhyme or reason for them to be assembled together. We must have just missed some sort of photo shoot, but of what and why? Maybe it was a really low budget film and they couldn't even afford extras so they just raided Macy's old disused props from the 1970's. Perhaps it was just a normal sort of happening on the streets of the Big Apple. The mangy lot were being all bundled up and whisked off in carts by a very efficient and speedy crew: I had just enough time to snap a few pictures before they disappeared back to the mysterious place from whence they came. I think it makes for a pretty good illustration of the word "cryptic" (as in Tales From the Crypt).

Celebrity Spotlight

Spotted in New York City last May--

A dude from the Village People!

So gratifying to learn that he has found gainful employment. It would have been a shame to let the costume go to waste. I wonder what's happened to the other guys.

The Hit or Miss Parade

The village street was thronged with excited spectators as the floats rolled past.

The always impressive motorcade.

A village house on Main Street all decked out for the celebrations.

The village I live in has an annual summer event called Steeves Days. It's named after a large German family who settled in the area after the Acadians were booted out by the British. "Steeves" is an anglicized version of "Steiff" as in those wonderful stuffed bears. Not to insinuate that German people resemble stuffed bears! The week-long event is kicked off by a modest parade down Main Street--modest being the key word here. As I am not of German descent and do not attend any of the several Baptist churches in the area, I am not much part of the community in which I live, in spite of the fact that we have been here for 16years. As a consequence, I am usually not in the loop of the goings-on of village life. It happened again this morning, as I was languorously sipping my second cup of Italian roast organic coffee and nibbling at a piece of strawberry shortcake for breakfast, I heard what I first thought was the sound of an extremely large and aggressive band of mosquitoes that had followed us home from Harvey Hall (see post below). I quickly divined, however, that it was more likely a hired gang of bag-pipers who were leading the Steeves Day Parade down the main drag. It was the perfect opportunity for me to rush out and get some pictures to post on my blog to illustrate the charms of village life but by the time I'd hot-footed it the 2 blocks to the parade, it was all but over and starting to rain.

***

SONG SATURDAY

As I proposed this idea last week, to post a tune on Saturdays, here's this week's offering. I thought I'd keep with the bent banjo theme. Harry Manx is a recent favourite of mine:

African Banjo

Did you know that the banjo actually originated in West Africa? It first arrived on North American shores on the slave ships in the 1800's. That's what banjo plucker extraordinaire, Jayme Stone told us last night at the concert in Harvey Hall.

The show was a remarkable event, and not least of all was the combination of instruments: percussion (including calabash--a huge gourd), stand-up bass (played by a suitably tall, moustachioed fellow), banjo (like you've never heard before) and kora (wondrous to behold and to hear). Remarkable were the acoustics in this backwoods former church, Harvey Hall, that has been converted into a summer concert venue. Remarkable was the presence of a musician from Mali, Mansa Sissoko. Remarkable that the audience did not stone the Mali musician for speaking in French only: this is Albert County where, until very recently, Francophones feared to tread, such was the English-Acadian mistrust and hatred of each other. But a young faction of Acadians had actually ventured in from the city to experience this concert and they added a wonderfully exuberant groove to the whole shindig. By encore time they were up at the front of the stage dancing their hearts out. (I was standing up on a bench at the side of the room movin' and groovin' myself.)

It was a full house. The concerts are always packed with people of all ages, though there seems to be a preponderance of grey-haired individuals. It was fun to watch the older gents in their check shirts bobbing in time with the music. I always wonder, though, about those people at rousing concerts who sit absolutely motionless. I used to be a dancer and just cannot stay still for the life of me. The woman next to me was one of those stock-stillists. But when the band invited the audience to clap along, she gamely joined in. And then I realized why she, and probably others like her, do not groove to the music. They have no rhythm! I mean, she could not stay on the beat to clap her hands. It was as if a whole new concept was presented to her every time it came around to go clap-clap. It was a revelation to me (in spite of my experience of trying to teach an adult beginners' jazz dance class at one point in my past life).

Another appealing aspect of the summer concerts at Harvey Hall are the treats available at intermission. Homebaked brownies, matrimonial squares, Nanaimo bars, peanut butter cookies, oatmeal cookies, etc. etc. I always grab the biggest brownie I can find. Payment is by contribution on the honour system.

After intermission, things were a bit warm (all that sugar) so the side door was opened. Did I mention that the hall is located in the middle of a marsh? As the wind died down, the mosquitoes stirred up a breeze of their own as they rushed in through the open door. Soon the woman who couldn't clap in time to the beat of the music was joined by other audience members clapping and slapping in weird syncopated times, as they did battle with the voracious mosquitoes (all that sugar).

As my mother would say, a good time was had by all.

Including the mosquitoes.

Harvey Hall (image courtesy of the Hall's hosts, Isaac & Blewitt website)

Bagshead Revisited

A conceptual crafts display in Central Park with anonymous vendors

(I didn't buy anything)

Heads Up!

Stag party honoree or dishonoured mate?

Q. What do Frida &t he Medusa have in common?

A. Untamed hair follicles.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Rolling Stones!!!

*

And speaking of the Stone Ages...

There are so many day-themed blogs out there, like Mumbling Monday, Titillating Tuesday, Woolens Wednesday, ThimbleThursday, Freakshow Friday that I thought I'd propose one of my own. Song Saturday. Yup, simple as that. If you want to play along, just post a tune on your blog every Saturday. No sign up fees, no weekly dues, no accounting for tastes. Here's my first random offering.

The Horror!

Head crafted entirely from felt

This gruesome head on a spike was part of a window display I saw in NY on one of our night time ramblings. It is horrific, macabre, and yet somehow playful. Rather like a bat.

Some people profess to liking bats and praise their worth in terms of keeping the mosquito population from taking over the world. I say there's bug spray for that. I don't believe in Heaven and Hell, but if I did, I know which Afterlife Country bats would hail from, as exemplified by the term "like a bat out of hell." It is absolutely wrong that rodents should be able to fly! Especially ones that don't see well, as in "blind as a bat." "Oh, but they won't fly into you--they have sonar, " the batophiles exclaim. Perhaps so, but it seems to only kick in once the winged mouse has flown directly at you and pulled up at the very last second before impact.

We live in a quasi-rural setting. Ok, we live in the sticks. While we have all that lovely bucolic stuff going on around us, we also have the more disagreeable sh*t as well. Bats, for example. Those recent 3 weeks while Pierre was away, my terror would set in around dusk--the dreaded batting hour. I took the precaution of turning on the porch lights and several lamps around the ground floor of the house (energy-saving light bulbs--we do our bit to save the planet). Each time I let the cat in or out the back door, I spoke loudly to her, peered through the screen, and booted her. I spent a happily bat-free 3 weeks and heaved a sigh of relief once the Batman had returned.

In case there are some batty innocents out there, I will explain the correct procedure to adopt should a bat get into your house. Upon first sighting, scream as loudly as you possibly can, pull the back of your shirt up over your head, and run from the room yelling "NO NO NO NO NO!" until reaching the safety of your bedroom. Barricade yourself in, with blankets stuffed along the bottom of the door and all the lights on. Having now sounded the alert, you can wait for someone else to deal with the thing.

Last night I was peacefully sleeping, only to be awoken by the hall light shining through the bottom space of the bedroom door. I then heard a series of odd bumps and random thumps coming from downstairs. I listened for a bit, fearing that Pierre had finally gone completely nuts and was doing spectacularly nutty things. But then it dawned on me: "There's a bat in the house!"

Usually with some clever dance manoeuvres and dexterous use of a window screen or blanket, Pierre is successful of herding the critter back into the great mosquito-ridden night sky. Last night, however, the all clear was not given. The bat eluded the Batman and went into hiding.

Consequently, I am hereby alerting you that if you hear a blood-curdling scream emanating from Canada's eastern seaboard tonight you will understand that it is merely the Madlynne, sounding the bat alarm. Oh, the horror, the horror!

The King's Head

The former king, who set the stage for the King of Pop?

Spotted in NYC, May 2009

*

Elvis impersonation is still pretty popular, I guess. Still plenty of fans. I used to be amused to see the larger, older version of Elvis, out with his chubby family, shopping at a discount department store in Vancouver in the 1970's. Out shopping in his full white satin regalia. If you've got it, wear it, I suppose. A girl friend of mine once got a gig as a back-up singer for an Elvis impersonator. Part of her job was to hand out scarves, with which he'd wiped his sweaty brow, to audience members, who were all very excited to receive them. At least she got a trip to the Phillippines out of the deal.

*

I wonder if we'll be treated to glimpses of "Michael Jackson" riding the bus and shopping the bargain bins for underwear now.

Shrine On!

I had a wonderful surprise in the mail today! Due to my sprained ankle (yes, yes, I know I've milked the subject dry) I haven't made it to the post office of late to clean out the usual build up of dust from my mail box. Yesterday, however, I was befuddled to find a "final warning!" card there to pick up a parcel that had, apparently, been awaiting me for several days. As the postal clerks had gone home, I had to wait until this morning to collect my mystery mail. I was completely surprised and utterly delighted to find that my friend over at Driftwood & Turtles had sent me the book, Shrines, Images of Italian Worship by Steven Rothfeld.

The dust jacket tells us, "Created by average people as an expression of religious devotion, the shrines appear along ordinary roads in villages and cities, in the fields of farmers, and in the yards of simple cottages and homes."

*

THANK YOU SO VERY VERY MUCH, KIBBY!

*

The Drifter knew I'd love the book because I'd gathered a few images of my own on my trip to Calabria a while back. Here's a taste of what I saw:

(Photo taken in Tropea, May 2007. I am especially fond of the little electric candle that's been rigged up inside.)

*

(Photo taken in Tropea, May 2007. At this shrine, I was tickled by the lingering presence of a Christmas garland draped over the padlocked Madonna).

*

Throughout my trip, I was enchanted by the many and varied shrines embedded in the walls of palazzos, popping up in the middle of roadways, jumping out from shadowed nooks and beside hidden doorways. They embodied the simplicity, sincerity, and oftimes full-blown tackiness of genuine folk art.

*

(Photo taken in Pizzo, 2007)

Shrine to Our Lady of the Dish Towel (?)

*

On a sadder note, the publication of Mr. Rothfeld's book pretty much eradicates my fantasy of getting an arts grant from the Canada Council to roam about Italy gathering photos of folksy shrines. It's been done, they'll tell me.

*

*

Maybe instead I'll try pitching the idea of collecting pictures of graveyard statuary and bathtub Madonnas from PEI!

(Seen above: Our Leaning Lady)

***

Back Door Flora, Fauna, & Misadventures

Some back door sights from the past week or so, though the sunshine is presently missing in action.

Swing time

June Doe

Back Door Caller

The moth was clinging to the back door screen last night just before I left for the airport at midnight to fetch Pierre. I don't know the symbolism of moths...are they harbingers of being drawn to one's unfortunate fate? On my Nervous Nellie style drive to the airport, I was temporarily dazzled by the bright lights of a car dealership and got confused about the freeway exit...was it leading to the dealership or the airport??? As I sailed right past it, I realized it led to both; I'd missed it and was now speeding along to Nova Scotia--another province altogether! Thanks to a previous lost experience I once shared with Kibby (en route to our Hookers Anonymous meeting, but that's another story) I had learned to quell my panic, practice the Art of Acceptance, and trust that I would somehow, sometime, hopefully before running out of gas, be able to find another exit that would head back in the right direction. After creeping along in the pitch black while cars and trucks whizzed by me, my heart thumping louder than a boombox bass, I eventually found my way onto a narrow, winding country road that held out the promise of wending its way towards the vicinity of the airport. Gradually, I began to recognize some landmarks and found the former entrance of the old airport--only to discover that it had no access whatsoever to the new terminal. So near and yet so far! I was tempted to climb the fence and run across the fields and tarmac but was hindered by my sprained ankle. Instead, I kept stalwartly driving on, without too badly hyperventilating, and discovered a sideroad that took me directly to the new airport's parking lot. I pulled in with a good 5 minutes to gather myself together before Pierre came strolling out of the arrivals area.

"Any trouble getting here?"

Happy Canada Day, Eh?

Rat-a-tat-tat & hooty-hoot-toot! A little fanfare, please!

(Even though the French lost the war with Britain on the Plains of Abraham, they left behind some swell poutine! We love ya, Québec!)

*

(Photo in La Forteresse de Louisbourg, Cape Breton, Aug.2007)

From sea...

*

(Photo Prince Edward Island, August 2006)

...to shining sea!

Please note the Canadian flag (hence the red & white theme).

*

(Photo on ferry to Vancouver Island, June 2008)

Today is our national holiday. As a holiday, it doesn't mean much if one is not employed. As a rah-rah-rah, siss-boom-bah nationalistic big deal...well, there will be fireworks shooting all across the country, weather permitting. Even in the humble little village where I reside, there will be a respectable display of fireworks let off in the ball park (is it ever used for anything else? I've never noticed) at 10 pm, weather permitting. Aye, there's the rub! It's pretty damp in most areas of Canada today. Even in our capital where they give off a mighty impressive big bang of sparkly effects in the night sky. I experienced one such spectacle live and in person there a few years ago but was even more awed by the tremendous lightning storm earlier in the day. It wiped out all the planned entertainment, drenched the revellers, and chased them with lightning bolts, thunder claps, and torrential rain into the normally staid lobby of the Chateau Laurier where they dripped all over the furnishings. I know this because I had had the good sense to shelter there before the skies opened their flood gates and the wind blew away the fun.

Traditionally I head down to our local fireworks but will have to forego it this time due to my still wonky ankle. Sometimes the weather is too wet or too windy and the show is postponed for a day or two. Slightly anti-climactic (or should that be "anti-climatic"?) But tonight I have other cause for celebration. Pierre is coming back from a 3-week stint on the west coast at my mother's place in Vancouver and I'll be fetching him at the airport here on the east coast just after midnight. This time last year the scene was reversed and I was sitting in the kitchen of my mother's house waiting for him to arrive out there. Yes, it's true--I do suffer from Bi-coastal Personality Disorder but that's what makes me truly Canadian.

*

(To see another of my quintessentially Canadian photos, go over to the Blogger Friends' Photo Club and enjoy the other entries while you're there. My fellow Canuck, Mountain Mamma is doing a great job of hostessing the site.)

This bizarrely patriotic video cracks me up. Close to the beginning of it, you'll see some big rocky things on a beach (they look like giant turds but are referred to as "flower pots"). They're situated about a 15 minute drive from where I live. That's why they're famous.