SEPTEMBER 26.1

      Yesterday, my father and I visited the O'Hara Cemetery, just north of the village of Madoc. My ancestors on dad's side are mostly buried in the older part of the cemetery, near other stone relics that were once legible gravestones, but are now difficult, if not impossible, to read. I had packed a brush, water, paper, crayons, chalk, and a camera. In the end, the chalk technique worked best on stones with raised writing, while the paper/crayon etching method worked best on writing that is indented. I felt like an explorer.
      We discovered several interesting things, including  my great-great grandparents's burial place, albeit not the marker, and my great-grandfather's actual stone, his name barely legible. In fact, I pulled several limestone markers out of the earth, eager to discover names. I have a genuine reverence for these people, my predecessors, but to be there with my father was also profound. I think he found the experience a validation, of sorts. A confirmation of family history, of roots, of blood.      
       Unfortunately, much can only be imagined, and while my imagination was racing with images of hardship and fortitude, I would love their actual stories. Hence, the importance of markers - they say that we were here once, too, and our lives held narratives that shaped and affected the lives of our children. Some essence of them, genetically and spiritually, is who we are. Perhaps, even, some of their stories. I just have to find them.

SEPTEMBER 24.1

         I know. Another photo of a sunflower. I like the bee in the middle of this one, the depth of the yellow, the contrast of textures, its affinity with sunlight. It's another glorious September morning, in terms of light and blue sky, but it was a frosty night. There's a fire on in both stoves this morning and it's necessary. I am always surprised at the sudden shift of the seasons - how one day it's summer and then not. The leaves shift, too, ever so imperceptibly. I study the maple tree in the front yard - in a few weeks, it will be sunflower yellow, but for now it is a summer holdout, green and glorious.
         We drove along the highway from Ottawa on Sunday; there are already frequent blasts/bursts of crimson and orange, and in low lying places, blood-red maples reach out of rock and swamp. Autumn is a rally before the end, I think, and it's lovely in its resolve not to be forgotten.

SEPTEMBER 19.1

        I've been spending my extra time doing extra things, such as taking cold, soggy sheets off tomato and basil plants, or stirring tomato sauce (the aroma fills the house with redness), or just foraging through the garden for sneaky zucchini and peas and cucumbers that survived the FIRST FROST.
       Yesterday, I found several yellow zucchini - they have been prolific this season - but decided to leave the ones that have grown to gargantuan sizes. Now that the leaves are withering, they are suddenly. . .  but wait, I have just been interrupted by a loud thump at the window. A partridge, perhaps? They often hit our windows in the fall; they are flying into the light or hopped up on fermented wild grapes. Yup, it left an imprint but was not severely damaged - or worse. Here is what 'worse' looks like:

      This one's in the freezer. Featherless and gutless. I'm not a bird fan, but it's a beautiful bird. Or maybe, it's just that nature's a beautiful thing but we get so caught up in our unnatural, daily lives, that we forget to listen and look. In fact, I feel as if I am just learning to listen and look. I'm enjoying the light these fall mornings - almost fall mornings. I bask in its luminosity, want to fall into it, want to describe how it reveals so many small things. In fact, I think I'll go take some more sunflower pictures. Or maybe, I'll find the perfect tomato. Or a partridge in the apple tree (we don't have a pear tree). Hey, ho.

SEPTEMBER 11.1

            Mornings are lovely things, when there's a visible sunrise. As are moonrises, when there's a visible moon (spell check does not like the word 'moonrise').  This photo was taken by my significant other and I think it's rather good. There's a moon in the lake, or perhaps it's just the reflection of the moon on the lake, but then again, so much depends on one's point of view. Perspective and light.
     

SEPTEMBER 9.1

          Monday. Already, I am looking forward to Friday. It's a modern world work view, I think, this desire to get through the work week as fast as possible in order to luxuriate in TWO WHOLE days to do exciting or relaxing or pleasurable things. This past weekend, we spent a considerable amount of our free time harvesting things from the garden - beans, kale, swiss chard, peas, tomatoes (the tomatoes are an ongoing project for the next few weeks). Not exciting and certainly not relaxing, but gratifying in a way that is difficult to describe. Hey, ho, off to work I go - or I'd best get ready. Never been much of a Monday fan. (Forgot to mention the cabbages which are awe-inspiring. Truly.)

SEPTEMBER 6.1

Wordless, today.

SEPTEMBER 5.1

             This morning I took the camera out to the garden and shot photos of sunflowers staring into the sun. They are yellow and red bursts of colour on stems that are taller than I am. They look into the light and move their heads from east to west as the sun moves across the sky. Hence, the word 'sun'flowers although a more apt term would be sun'followers'. I'm a sun follower, too. I love the light this morning. I am surrounded by blue sky and something Septemberish about the way leaves have suddenly curled themselves into hues that are yellow and amber. Enough said.

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THUS, BLOGGING BEGINS.

SEPTEMBER 4. 1.  

            I'm a wanna be writer who is going to try blogging. Are the two synonymous? I suspect that the difference is that I could write on paper, or a computer, and never show anyone what I've written whereas the concept of blogging, I think, suggests making one's babbling accessible to a more public audience. Thus, the concept of audience alters what I write. Maybe. Or maybe not. It's comforting to realize that there is still lots of stuff to figure out. 

SEPTEMBER 4.2

A photo that I like:

               This is me. I'm in my red kayak on a remote lake. It's dusk. We're camping on that island behind my head. Actually, that's not exactly how I think about that island - it's more like it's a place inside my head, inside my sense of self. I called the photo album of this camping trip "Falling off the Map". This lake is a sanctuary; it's the lake I dream about all winter. It's solitude and loons and drifting and fishing. I am not alone in this place - Hugh took the photo and I believe that he feels the same way about being 'alone together' on this particular lake. 

            One morning, a couple of summers ago, he took some amazing pictures of a young bull moose (I'll post one now).