Fallen Leaves

Fallen Leaves, originally uploaded by susanvg.

I just read Anne Michael's latest book, The Winter Vault. It deals a lot with memory and place. Interesting ideas to mull over and I like her way of writing - very poetic.

On a rainy day, I brought my spouse to St. Donat to see the house and grounds where I spent my summers and weekends from the mid-50s to 1986. I wanted him to peek into my memories. For me the place had layers - with ghosts and visions of years past. I saw not only what was there that day, but also the people and events I lived with and through here. Even the house, renovated and expanded since my parents sold it, I saw as it was. Many of the people who populated that life are now gone - they too are memories.

I have not gone often since the house was sold. And when I do, I go when I know no one will be there. I need to feel that I am not tresspassing. It's hard to go back, to see a place that was home and no longer is, to stare at the view across the lake as a stranger. But every so often I need to look again at the place that is still so much part of who I am.

June 18/10: Croatian Memories

June 18/10: Croatian Memories, originally uploaded by susanvg.

Objects carry memories. Some we can access, others not. This piece of pottery carries the touch of its maker whom I will never know. It carries the approval of the person who chose it to sell. And it brings with it the memories of where it was bought. After taking this photograph, the memories of its purchase led us to revisit of our time in Zadar on the Dalmatian coast of Croatia. First with words, we recalled where we bought it, trying to picture the old part of the town and what we saw there. Then through photographs we renewed our memories, once again wandering the streets, looking out over the Adriatic Sea, breathing the fresh sea breezes and dining on the succulent catch of the day.

Day 185: Taste Carries Memories

Day 185: Taste Carries Memories, originally uploaded by susanvg.

We went to a Thai restaurant and shared a couple of appetizers - one of which was satay. I took a taste and memories of Indonesian rijsttafel were triggered. My late husband's family spent many years in Indonesia and, although he left as a very young child, he still had his memories of elaborate rijsttafels being served. After we were married, he decided to attempt to prepare one for family and friends. A rijsttafel is a banquet - based around rice with many dishes.

I remember one rijsttafel, in particular. His parents were staying with us - cooking became a family affair. In those days you could not get tinned coconut milk. We would pour boiling water over dessicated coconut, let it sit and then pour it through a sieve to capture the liquid. I can still see my late father-in-law, squeezing the coconut with his hands to get as much of the liquid out.

And my mother-in-law taught me how to make rice in a bed. Our stove, having only the usual 4 burners, was not big enough to cook the number of dishes we were making (satay, Indonesian meatballs, hot spiced eggs, fried spiced beans, curried beef....). We started cooking the rice in a very large pot. Once it came to a boil, my mother-in-law wrapped the pot in blankets and tucked it into bed - it cooked itself to perfection.

Food is such an important part of our lives. It carries the memories of events, occasions and places. A taste can make us travel through time and space.

Day 163: Columbine

Day 163: Columbine, originally uploaded by susanvg.

How does a flower become a favourite? Sometimes it is its incredible complexity - certainly that is one reason I love columbines. There is so much to look at and examine when you view the flower. However, to me, the way a flower becomes a favourite is often because of the stories attached to it.

Growing up, we had a country place and my mother loved her garden. I can still picture the patch of lupins near the front door. The soil in the area is sandy, so the garden had to be nurtured, with good soil added regularly. In the back of the house there was a row of monarda whose bright red colour attracted hummingbirds. I have never had much success with either of those flowers. Right near the house, my mother had several columbines.

Now, I usually left the gardening to my mother; in those days, I didn't know a weed from a prized plant. I learned the hard way. One summer, I wanted to try my luck at planting a few vegetables. My mother was so delighted with my interest in gardening that she agreed immediately. So my new husband and I looked to see where the sun might help produce a good crop and we dug and planted. To my mother's horror, we had dug up some of her columbines. Our vegetables did not thrive, but, fortunately, we had not pulled all the columbines and they did thrive.

Long after that, when I was planting my own garden at the home I am in now, I planted columbines - and they flourish and spread. Each time I stop to admire them, I think of my mother and that is why they are special favourites of mine. Their beauty and complexity bring back memories of her - and the beauty of her character that always shone with love for those near to her.

Day 58: Make a Fire

Day 58: Make a Fire, originally uploaded by susanvg.

This equipment stands by my fireplace, and, as with everything, it carries memories and stories. The fireplace tools were made by an iron worker in the village near my parents' country place. Hand crafted, they carry his signature in metal. Memories and legacies are carried in many ways. The bellows are close to sixty years old, having coaxed many a fire into life at the cottage. We had a large stone fireplace and on winter nights would burn very large logs. At times, the heat near the fireplace pushed us back, but the kitchen, being far back was always chilly, to my mother's chagrin. When we would arrive on a Friday evening, the first task was to build the fire. My brother and I would carry the smaller pieces of wood up from the basement on a wooden ladder; my father hauled the logs that seemed like whole tree trunks to me. As the heat in the house had been turned down all week, the bedrooms were cold, so my father would warm a metal grate in the fire and then run to our bedrooms and slide it between the sheets, making crawling into bed more bearable. I remember it taking a long time before the bed really felt warm. When the house was sold, I brought the bellows with me. The metal nose falls out easily; the leather straps wore away long ago. But they can still pump air and fan the coals in my fireplace bringing the warmth of those memories to life.

Day 46: Going Back in Time

Day 46: Going Back in Time, originally uploaded by susanvg.

Another loss - another funeral - this time a former neighbour. This is our old house. We lived across the street from her for nine years. After the funeral my adult children and I went back to her house and back in time to our old neighbourhood. My children spoke of things seeming smaller seen from the perspective of their current height. For me, it was going back to memories of their early childhood, of the people who lived on the street and, of course of the wonderful woman whose laugh and smile lit up the neighbourhood. She faced a number of hardships, not the least of which was caring for a husband who became chronically ill shortly after their daughter was born. Yet she bustled through life, filling it with books, films, bridge games, travel and most of all friendships. Her enthusiasm for learning, for exploring, for wondering was infectious.

We house memories, closed up in our minds. Some of them transform into changes in ourselves, as we learn and try to live up to the people we wish to emulate. Clairette was one such positive example and one I followed as I learned to journey through life with my children after my husband's untimely death at age 36. She helped me laugh and she made me see that a full life was still possible.

Day 36: Each Scarf a Memory

Day 36: Each Scarf a Memory, originally uploaded by susanvg.

Today I needed some colour - so here are the scarves in my drawer. Each has a story - a memory of its past. They come from people, some now gone, represent places where they were bought and some were owned by others before. When I put on a scarf I am adding not only the colour of the fabric to my outfit, but all the memories and connections woven into it.

Today I lost a dear friend. My story is woven with the many memories of music played together, concerts shared and many lively conversations. She added much colour to the fabric of my life.