roses of summer
When I go for a walk this time of year, I visit our rosebush and I think of how rosebushes have been a part of my life:
- the little bush beside our road at the lake, delicate pink double roses and small rosehips… my husband loves this little bush and is always very careful not to cut it when he trims the lane…
- the huge rosehips on the rose bush (Rosa rugosa Thunb.) at Castalia Beach on Grand Manan Island, rigor in the harshest conditions; once I tried to bring a slip of the bush home in a banana peel (to keep the moisture) but, although it lived and grew, it only survived a few seasons…
- a tunnel of rosebushes and huge rosehips next to a parking lot where we stopped in Matane, Quebec on our trip to Gaspé a decade ago…
- a pair of long-gone rosebushes at my Mom’s old home place – when she and my Aunt were little girls, they called the rosebushes Mrs. Pears and Mrs. Rhodes and would visit them with their doll carriages to collect the red rosehips.
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fragments from a walk
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brambles and bedstraw
insect frass and dew
the petals of a wild rose
a rosehip
a red gall
swollen as a nose with crying
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Nuphar and Nymphaea
lily leaves a plate
offering yellow to the sun
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familiar trees
suddenly grown tall
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© Jane Tims 2008
string for Zoë
Our cat Zoë’s niche includes a ‘string’.
I often say our Zoë is ‘telepathetic‘. She will sit and stare me down until I understand what she wants. Sometimes she wants food. Sometimes she wants fresh water, or an ice cube (yes, an ice cube). Sometimes she wants to play, with her string. Her trust that we will figure out what she wants is pitiful.
The string is not a special toy. Any long thin peice of string will do. A shoelace or a length of thread are all the same to Zoë.
Zoë can be an acrobat when her string is part of the action. She will stalk the string and pounce on it. She will walk upright on her back legs to reach it. Sometimes she just wants to look at it.
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telepathetic
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Zoë thinks she is telepathic
sits intently, stares at me
narrow pupils on pale green eyes
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I run the list
water, cat food, litter
such simple needs
but no thought resonates
with telepathic tremble
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string
the word vibrates
as if plucked on a guitar
Zoë blinks her eyes
looks over her shoulder, utter longing
ten inch shoelace, knot at one end
pathetic on the hearth
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black pupils open round
frank pathway to brain
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© Jane Tims 2010
© Jane Tims 2011
in the branches of the White Pine
- the White Pine is the larger tree to the left of the road
The most frequent denizens of the pine are a pair of Bohemian Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus). They prefer berries for food and so are in their ideal habitat. Our property must look like a big dinner plate to them, with its orderly presentation of wild strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, hawthorn and winterberry.
Another bird who stops to rest in the pine is the American Goldfinch (Carduelis tristis), also known as the Thistle bird. These are seed-eating birds who fly across the fields in a distinctive pattern of loops. They are also one of the most common birds at our winter bird feeder.
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building homes
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we fly kites
to learn the field and sky
set copper whirligigs to spin
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yellow flirt crosses blue
per-chick-or-ree
potato-chip potato-chip potato-chip
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we build our cabin
with 2 by 4s, boards and trusses
woodscrews and spiral nails
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firm framework
woven grass and birch
bark rim and spider silk
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you fill walls with fiberglass
I quilt curtains for windows
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goldfinch waits while his female tucks
her nest with thistledown
tufts of cattail, puffs of dandelion
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© Jane Tims 2011
Briar Island Rock #4
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jointed ruler
(Wreck of the Trafalgar, 1817)
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the ship is broken on rocks
and we leave in fog
I hold my brother’s hand
we stumble up the shore
in a yellow room of fog
it stumbles with us
they set the baggage down
together, folded
we wait
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my step-father
pats my mother’s hand
leaves to talk with the Captain
the ship is lost
I look up at my mother
she watches him go, her lips move
she says we will lie in green pastures
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I look for grass but only see
black rock and grinning fog
lanterns and men calling
my brother sniffs a little
in my pocket I clutch my father’s jointed ruler
he was a carpenter, would have fixed the hole
the mate says
there’s no going back to her now
we stay where we are
folded in a yellow room
luggage at our feet
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the walls move
the ruler opens
I see the ship
black hull held high
on dark and pointed rock
against the early morning sky
white waves beyond
the ruler closes
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pink and yellow mix, and the room
is the color of pumpkin
the ruler opens and I know
the black shore has bristles
I heard the mate call it
Briar Island
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the rock I stand on tips a bit
I step down
the rock is wet and grey
five sides
a funny-looking stone
fits with other stones
strange puzzle
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I take my ruler
help it to unfold
I measure the rock
I make it jiggle and my brother smiles
a little smile
the ruler folds, unfolds, the room expands
I see my step-father’s uneven walk
across uneven stones
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Copyright 2011, Jane Tims
Briar Island Rock #3
In my garden there is a black pentagonal rock set into the ground. The rock is black basalt, and future people may wonder how such a rock ended up in a setting of glacial moraines, far from other volcanic surface formations.
The rock comes from the rocky shore of Briar Island in Nova Scotia. On this shore, in July, 1817, my great-great grandfather came to Canada by way of the wreck of the ship Trafalgar.
In August 1993, my Dad led our family on a pilgrimage to Briar Island, to see Gull Rock where the ship went aground. Our troupe included my Mom and Dad, my two brothers, my sister and me, with our respective families. There we could see the rugged rocks where William first set foot in Canada. Among those on the shore were four Williams of other generations, my Dad, my older brother, my younger brother (whose name, my Dad pointed out is the French version of William) and my nephew.
The pilgrimage had an amusing side. We all gazed out to sea and retold the story of the shipwreck. We all turned and had our photograph taken in the dazzling sun. And when we later talked about our trip, no one could agree on what we had seen. Some saw a black rock in the distance. Some saw a small island. Some saw a low rocky shoal of rocks extending into the sea. In any case, I know we saw more than seven year old William did in 1817 as he stumbled onto the shore in thick fog and in the small hours of the morning.
The shore there is a pavement of columnar basaltic rock, emerging from the earth in slim five-sided columns. This pattern develops when thick lava cools, resulting in a fracture network and the creation of perpendicular columns.
example of columnar basalt (from Wikipedia)
One of those rocks I pried loose and it now sits, embedded in my garden, a memorial to young William.
My next post will be a poem and drawing about the shipwreck.
this rock has endured the decades since the shipwreck of the Trafalgar... it was there when the ship was stranded on the rocks...there when William and his brother came ashore... a witness to my family history
© Jane Tims 2011
Briar Island Rock #2 ‘the shipwreck’
How did your family first come to the country where you now live?
In my last post, I introduced the story of my great-great grandfather, William, who arrived in Canada, when he was about seven years old, by shipwreck.
William and his mother, brother and step-father took the schooner Trafalger. It was a 3-masted square-sterned ship with two decks, 96 feet long and 25 feet wide. The family embarked from Hull, England for Canada on May 31, 1817.
The ship was headed for Saint John in New Brunswick, but became lost in thick fog and was shipwrecked off Brier Island, on the Nova Scotia side of the Bay of Fundy. In a letter reported in the Hull Advertiser, the Captain of the Trafalgar gave a detailed account of what happened:
I am sorry to inform you of the loss of the Trafalgar, on the 25 July, about half-past eight o’clock in the evening, upon Brier’ s Island, in the Bay of Fundy, about 60 miles below St. John’ s [Saint John, New Brunswick]. I had been running up all the day, it being very thick could not see anything; at seven p.m. I hove the ship to, with her head to the Westward, thinking we were well over to the Westward, sounding in 40 fathoms; the tide running very strong, and before we could see the land, we heard the surf against the rocks; got sail upon the ship, but being too close the strong tide set us upon the rocks; it being high water when we got on, run out a kedge to heave her off, but all to no use. At low water, the ship was dry all round, amongst the rugged rocks, which went through her in different parts; the ship having as much water in the inside as there was on the outside at high water. The passengers were all safe landed that were brought out, and got all their baggage on shore. We are saving all the stores that we can, but they must be taken up to St John’ s to be sold, as there are no people on Briers Island to purchase anything.
– ‘Letter from Captain J. Welburn to H. Cochrane, July 30, 1817. Saint John, New Brunswick’, Hull Advertiser, September 27, 1817.
The shipwreck was also reported in the New Brunswick Courier:
Shipwreck! – On Friday evening last, about half-past eight o’clock, the ship Trafalgar, Capt. Welburn, went ashore on Briar Island in a very thick fog – the ship will be a total wreck; chief part of the materials saved – The Trafalgar was from Hull bound to this port, and from hence to Quebec, and had 159 passengers, which together with the crew were all saved.
– ‘Shipwreck’, Marine Journal, New Brunswick Courier, Volume 7, No. 325, Saint John, New Brunswick, August 2,1817.
The ship’s passenger list is available at The Ships List (http://www.theshipslist.com/ships/passengerlists/trafalgar1817.htm). It lists the heads of the various families on board.
One of the saved passengers was my great-great grandfather, William, a child of about seven years. William’s father, also named William, had been a carpenter and was killed by lightning while working on a building. His mother married for a second time, and sold her first husband’s tools to get her second husband out of the army.
It would have been hard for them after the shipwreck, but there was a small community of people living on Briar Island – it had been inhabited by fishermen since 1769, and by Loyalists after 1783. After the shipwreck, William’s family eventually settled in Digby County, Nova Scotia.
Tomorrow, I will tell the story of my own family’s pilgrimage to Briar Island in 1993.
'luggage, landed on the shore' (detail of a larger drawing by Jane Tims, 2011)
© Jane Tims 2011
Briar Island Rock #1
One of the rock features already along the path in our front yard is a pentagonal chunk of black basalt. Over the next three posts, I will tell you the story of what it represents and how it came to be in our yard.
The story begins with my study of our family history and genealogy. Of course, being interested in genealogy means you will always have something to do.
As you go back in time, more and more people become part of your life story. By the time you go back only three generations (your great-grandparents), you have 8 grandparents to research. If you include your great-great grandparents, you have 16, and so on. By the time you get to eight generations, you’ll have 256 people to call your own. At 14 generations you have 16,384 grandparents! Think of how many people had to meet and procreate just to make you!
The sad thing is, you will never know most of these people by name, let alone by their many stories.
One of my great-great grandparents would have quite a story to tell. My great-great grandfather, William, came to Canada from England when he was about seven years old, with his mother, step-father, and brother. The ship they travelled on, the Trafalgar, was shipwrecked off Briar Island, Nova Scotia on July 25, 1817.
In my next post, I will tell the story of the shipwreck.
© Jane Tims 2011
a nest in November
On Saturday, we drove to the lake to gather boughs of fir and pine for our Christmas decorations. While we were there, we poked around in the thicket. We found a few bird nests, still intact, easily seen now the trees and alders are free of leaves.
The first nest was cup-shaped, made of tightly woven grasses and weeds. Nests of songbirds are not easy to identify since they are similar in size and construction materials. If this little nest survives the winter, perhaps I can watch who uses it next spring.
The second nest probably belonged to a Robin. It was high in a tamarack tree, welded firmly to the branches. Robins often return to the same area and sometimes use the nest of the previous summer, so I’ll be watching this nest too.
The last nest we saw was a beautiful little hanging basket covered with birch bark and woven with grasses. It appeared to be frail but it was very sturdy and stubbornly clung to the bough in spite of its exposure in the November wind. I think it is the most delightful sight I have ever seen.
A biologist with the New Brunswick Department of Natural Resources was able to identify this nest from my photo. The nest probably belonged to a red-eyed vireo, one of our common songbirds. I have never seen this bird at our lake property, but we hear it all summer, endlessly asking its question and giving an answer.
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Red-eyed Vireo
(Vireo olivaceous)
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drab little
olivaceous outlaw
black masked
red eye
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can’t see you
can’t find you
can hear you
where’re you?
over there
where’re you?
nowhere
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in November
ghost-self flutters
in birch bark tatters
a basket in the alder
remnant of summer
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gone now
what’d ya do?
did an answer finally
come to you?
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© Jane Tims 2011
cave beneath the waterfall
In the cold weather, I think about the waterfalls we saw this summer. As the temperature gets lower, they succumb. First the water freezes at the edges, building up on the rocks and ledges. Then, gradually icicles build and the surface water freezes. By mid-winter, the waterfall will be a frozen cataract, a glass house of ice. Within the frozen falls are ice caverns and icicles, places where water runs and where water stands still, and places where the ice traps sunlight to shimmer and sparkle.
One of the waterfalls we visited this summer was Smith Falls (see ‘niche beneath waterfall’ under the category ‘waterways’, published October 21, 2011). At the base of the waterfall was a small cave. In winter, the entrance to this cave must be a crystalline curtain of icicles and glass.
Below, in my poem and drawing, I remember the cave and waterfall in summer.
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shelter
‘a small cave is hidden beneath the falls’
– trail guide
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sip of tea
candles lit in evening
a lap quilt tucked
relief from freshet
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cave, respite
beneath two newly reconciled
slabs of bedrock
or where vulnerable sediments finally fail
succumb to the reach of water
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spurt and shard
the brawl subsides
and damp recedes
pollen settles
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concentric rings
and space is made
to occupy
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© Jane Tims 2011
© Jane Tims 2011
jane 9 squirrels 1
Again, I am in competition with the squirrels (see ‘competing with the squirrels #1 and #2’, in the Category ‘competing for niche space’).
Christmas is coming and this year, I am decorating with natural elements. One of these is a ceramic bowl of large pine cones.
We have several large White Pine (Pinus Strobus L.) on our property and from time to time, they produce masses of beautiful pine cones, perfect for my decorations. White Pine are easy to remember in this area, since they have their needles in bundles of five. The cones are between 10 and 15 cm long and are a favourite food for squirrels.
My husband came in last weekend and announced there were lots of the big cones in the pine tree next to our lawn. “Watch for them to fall, and then you should hurry to collect them,” said my savvy husband (he remembers the sad tale of the ripening hazelnuts).
I waited a couple of days and then went scavenging. And now, I am supreme. I have gathered enough cones for our Christmas. I saw a few cones with the lower scales and seeds nibbled away, but I found plenty for me. My hands were sticky, true, but I was so happy. All I can say is, with an emphasis approaching smug, “CH-CH-Ch-chchchchch-ch.”
- just to show that the squirrels do have lots of pine nuts… these cones are about half eaten
in November
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we gather pine cones
snakes of lion’s paw
hawthorn
cedar boughs
and holly
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we walk the wild ways
pruners and scissors
baskets and stout cord
bind bunches
of branches
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balsam and cedar
blood berries
and evergreen
garlands of fir
rosehips and acorns, gilded
needles
and prickles
and thorns
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© Jane Tims 2011
