While it is February, one can taste the full joys of anticipation. Spring stands at the gate with her finger on the latch. ~ Patience Strong
Winifred Emma May (1907 – 1990) was a poet from the United Kingdom, best known for her work under the pen name Patience Strong. Her poems were usually short, simple and imbued with sentimentality, the beauty of nature and inner strength. – Wikipedia
When I found the above quote to accompany today’s photo, I couldn’t help but smile at the author’s pen name. “Patience Strong” is what some of us need to get through the cold and icy month of February. 🙂
This cool photo of Perry’s Point was snapped last week on Monday, November 5th by Paul’s cousin, Winston Perry. He took it from a small plane and gave me permission to share. Check out the sand and the seaweed around the coastline.
That’s my house in the foreground, closest to the end of the point, the blue one with the shed and a little blue outhouse to the far left. A large portion of Newtown is shown in the background.
The sunshine that day makes the house colour look lighter from that angle, but if you click on my Facebook link below, you’ll see its true colour. Laundry and all! That photo was taken by Winston’s brother and our neighbour, Wayne Perry.
I recently discovered Wandering Canadians travel and adventure blog and am now a follower.
Who are the Wandering Canadians?
“We’re a couple of Canadians who enjoy hiking, camping, cross-country skiing, diving, and spending as much time outdoors as we can. We hope our stories can help as you plan for your adventures. Thanks for reading.” –L & K
I was thrilled to come across their post from July where they describe their 10-day trip to the island portion of my own province, Newfoundland and Labrador.
The photography is stunning too. But please don’t take my word for it, click on the highlighted post below and see for yourself.
Cats, even the cutest of kittens, have a killer instinct. It’s an inherited and hard-wired behavior put into practice by the time a kitten is barely a month old. Mother cats will teach their kittens to hunt by example using trilling and other sounds to indicate the type of prey brought to the den. When kittens are about four weeks old, she brings dead prey to teach identification of prey species and later live prey to teach how to catch and kill. Kittens soon learn to swat, pounce and scoop with their claws extended. They learn to bring the prey home to share as their mother did for them and to play with the prey.
As adults, cats will bring humans (mother substitutes) their bounty as a shared offering. Depending on what’s available, it could be an actual mouse carcass or perhaps a toy mouse in your shoe.*
Sometimes we sit lamenting as memory traces back The old familiar landmarks that we miss from off our track. They’ve built the railway stations where our feet were wont to skate, They motor over footpaths where our lovers used to wait. But there’s one left still – dear old Signal Hill.*
I’ve always loved Signal Hill. That’s probably why I incorporated into a couple of scenes in my debut novel, Calmer Girls.
Overlooking St. John’s Harbour and the Atlantic Ocean, it is the capital city’s most popular tourist attraction.
I take the time every summer to pay a visit, and this past July was no exception. Here are a few shots from that gorgeously sunny and breezy day – then again, as any tourist can attest, it’s always quite breezy atop this hill!
In the distant past, Signal Hill has been the setting for victorious battle, the location for Marconi’s monumental establishment of wireless telegraph communication, and a signalling station for approaching ships.
Today it is a National Historic Site under Parks Canada.
The best thing I like about Signal Hill?
The views, of course!
If you look closely at some of my pics, you can see the trail around the hill.
This is not a hiking trail for the faint of heart.
Thanks for taking a look at my throwback to July and one of the best-loved sites my province has to offer.
*Poem by Lydia Chancey, Book of Newfoundland, 1937
I wrote the following in September of 1994. It was a time of great transition for me.
I wanted to express my readiness for the next chapter, and my anticipation of what good things might come my way. When I wrote it, I had no way of knowing I would be meeting my future (and now present) husband later in that same month.
To me, these heartfelt words of my younger self are still fresh and very much alive. They have no expiry date.
The September sun falls warm upon my face
as I blink back a lonely tear.
But to be alone isn’t so bad.
A decade of fragile dreams, dashed,
had prepared me for this season of solitude.
Hadn’t you known it was inevitable,
poor battered heart?
The gulf I see ahead is blue, unknown,
and strangely comforting.
I knew I would face it someday.
As surely as I had faced the impossible gulf
of a love that could no longer support us,
like a ropework bridge – frayed, rotted,
stretching into a sadder tomorrow.
No, it couldn’t be trusted to help us across.
I finally accepted its condition and turned away.
The summer of change has passed,
and an autumn of new beginnings beckons.
A crisp welcome breeze blows
the last stray doubts from my mind.
I watch a dry russet leaf skitter and dance
to a uniquely different song, of a September that holds
the inviting promise of a life not ending,