Cowichan Valley Arts Cafe Christmas Greetings

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all!

A Winter Skate

watercolour by Donna Hogan

Vancouver Island Seal Lions

Vancouver Island Simple Abundance

This is a photo of some kelp I saw up at Tofino last month. I saw
Sarah's quote in her book "Simple Abundance" and thought it fit very nicely.

I wrote and asked her if I could use her quote and she graciously agreed-nice huh?
You never know until you try!

Merry Christmas!

…… Susan Miller aka "Beach Hauntress"

Charles Van Gorkom, on Vancouver Island

After 43 years up north in the Smithers area, we have moved to Chemainus to spend the last years of our lives. I am a bootmaker/poet.

hikingbootshandcrafted.com and my poetry blog is www.rainforestsoul.blogspot.com. My graphic arts are in remission, Never-the-less, I have joined the Cowichan Valley Arts Council. I am impressed with the world-class quality of all the arts in this valley!

My first time living on the Island, I have written a poem giving my first impressions, and if you deem it worthy, I would like to post it on the cafe blog.

Impressions Of Vancouver Island

Rough unfinished wood,
rain forests mantled with thick green moss
encircled by the Pacific.

Art hanging everywhere,
world class crafts on shelves tucked
into every crook in the narrow roads,
murmuring voices of sea and wind,
Live acoustic guitar,
smells of coffee and baking
in coffee shops with live music,
on an island world to itself
seceeded from the mainland
more than a hundred years ago.

Who knew?
No one could be told who
would care anywhere,
so the secret government
by acclamation went unspoken,
unelected, undefined by declarations,
orations and constitutions,
defended by the isolation,
the winters with no tourists,
and expense of ferry trips
off island.

Unheralded, but accepted,
since it has been mutually agreed
a casual association with the rest of Canada
can be advantageous for secret trade.

~ Charles Van Gorkom, bootmaker/poet


Other poetry shared by Charles in the Cafe includes:

• New Year
• Life Is Art In Cowichan Bay
• Skate Board Dancer
• Where Mushroom Shepherds Dwell

I cannot thank you enough Charles for your poetry contributions to the Cafe. These shared moments  on nature and the nature of things always fascinate me.
Ron Greenaway

West Coast Solitude

West Coast Solitude
Masa paper on canvas by Judi Pedder

Doors, poetry by Rojan Zét

Late evening, calling done, supper
cold, music stopped, silent house,
I open Door to dark night.

Moon stands in half, black between trees,
Car's sound moves east, Light marks positions,
Dark whispers, "Come." Air wraps cold arms
around me, carries me down Ladder, sets
my feet on Ground.

Deer rustles up Bank, Trail gathers me and
I am blinded moving only my feet toward the
water, only my feet, my feet moving toward
Water, across Pavement, touching Sand, and
Light's sharp glance stabbing off a wave
almost fells me. Stumbling, I move along
Beach to the shelter of walls under Dock and
to the leaf-hidden stair of fifty-seven steps.

The silent habitations of neighbours pass by
marking each pace's distance from my own not
paying attention, letting nature find a course
for me. Only one outcry from behind some wall
and I am at mailboxes where I stop to pick fennel
and maybe think of her once, then back up Ladder
to where the fridge hums and I stand stripping
seeds from small branches, collecting them in
an empty film canister behind closed doors.


Rojan Zét

Judi Pedder, painter

Profile of an Artist

Judi Pedder takes inspiration from scenes witnessed while traveling in Canada and England. They reflect her strong connection to earth and its natural beauty, and her need for wide open peaceful spaces. Born under the sign of Pisces, she has a particular affinity for beaches, the ocean and smaller bodies of water, which frequently appear in her work.

House plants and gardening offer a closer and intimate perspective of nature's wonders. Her flowers are never shown in formal arrangements - she prefers the 'before picking' state and frequently starts with the main subject, adding/growing the leaves and buds as she sees where they are needed. Many of her 'flower portraits' have evolved from various garden and studio tours as well as from her own garden.

She works in watercolours and finds pure joy in the flow of water plus pigment - "there's no other medium that can do what watercolour does best - if you are brave enough to let it! The variety in my work often comes from my intent, my choice of support, or paper, for that particular piece.

My work on Masa paper is acknowledged, widely recognized and always brings questions, hence the recent production of my DVD “Preparing and Painting on Masa Paper” - a complete step-by-step workshop with 3 paintings shown from drawing to signature. It is available on line, from my gallery/studio in Comox, or by mail."

Judi began her formal art training with a scholarship to the Ipswich School of Art, England, studying a diverse range of subjects. She moved to Canada in 1966 where family and employment took precedence over pure art pursuits until the 1990s when Judi decided to indulge her admiration of watercolours by studying with several accomplished instructors. Her work has been exhibited since 1995 and hangs in Johannesburg, Chicago, Budapest, Calgary, Albuquerque & many Ontario & BC cities.

Judi Pedder arrived in Comox on Vancouver Island on May 1, 2006 where she set up a gallery/studio for the dual purposes of painting and conducting classes or workshops.

Contact:
317 Torrence Road, Comox, BC V9M 1A6
Phone: 250-339-7081
Email: judipedder@shaw.ca

See more information and artwork by Judi Pedder at: www.judipedder.com

Moderators note:

Judi has given permission to publish some pictures of her art work on the the Cowichan Valley Arts Café.

To date this includes:

• Cox Bay Tofino
• West Coast Solitude
• Lake District Memory
• Grace
  

51 Jokes (in Four Minutes)

Juniper Islet, by Yvonne MacKenzie

the cure for sadness

is to embrace all existence

like the beloved


at Juniper Islet the heart cries out in delirium

oh my love

as frosted lips gently brush the forehead

sea wind loosening the clasp of winter’s wrap

and slipping back the hood so the land can kiss your eyes


at Juniper Islet

cedar limbs shiver in the crystalline silence

shrugging powder-white robes

onto a pillow of emerald moss


the scriven track of geese on a snowbound log

is the first stanza of a poem taking flight

an invitation

to open your arms

and join the dance of earth and sky


skirts of light sweeping over the waves

revolving in the stateroom of the soul

pulling you closer to center

Donna Hogan, Out of Africa

Out of Africa
watercolour by Donna Hogan

Cara McCandless, Singer, Songwriter

Profile of an Artist

Here's the Story…

Cara's musical beginnings were in her family's kitchen on cold winter nights in Southern Manitoba. With a group of musicians jamming late into the night warmed by a woodstove and by the sound of music. Those beginning's lead her to British Columbia's Cowichan Valley for inspiration and to be closer to her family. Cara is the daughter of charismatic Celtic Tenor and banjo player Chuck McCandless who raised Cara on bluegrass, traditional Celtic, folk, blues, and rock & roll. Cara's ear was being exercised even before she began walking. Cara played clarinet in concert band from grade 3 to grade 12 all the while following her Father from town to town, show to show, festival to festival, slowly getting a feel for her future. It wasn't until after graduating high school that Cara picked up a guitar and soon after wrote her first song, which has lead to a repertoire of 70 plus original songs. Cara's folk/grunge style is deep and edgy so don't let her bubble gum looks fool you. Cara will reach into your soul and the lyrics she sings will invite you into hers. Cara's self-taught guitar style is unique and combines flawlessly with her "sultry-soul thick voice" -Monday Magazine, Victoria. Cara's original compositions are true stories penned through life's experiences and accompanied with musicality that creates a picture in the listener's mind.

Turn up your speakers, click "Play" and listen to "No Escape" by Cara McCandless

So Far in the Biz…

Cara has toured Western Canada as a backup singer for "YellowbellY" and has fine-tuned her stage presence since her first show 20 years ago. In 2000 Cara was a winner of 100.3 The Q's radio contest, "Rocktoria" that enabled her to record three songs with a producer and gain radio airplay to a "pop" audience. Staying true to her roots, Cara has returned to folk music and is back where she belongs. Cara is currently playing bass with "The McCandless Family Band" and is waiting the release of their debut recording "Up Yer Glass" which is due out in late 2010.


What's on the Horizon…

Cara is going to continue to perform and gain exposure for the release of her own debut album "In the Sun" coming soon in 2011. Cara plans to tour Folk Festivals across Canada and with those experiences Cara will continue to write songs of loss, love, and longing. "Cara's Beth Orton/ Natalie Merchant style is as radio ready as it is challenging."-Mike Devlin, Times Colonist, Victoria.

Learn more about Cara McCandless and listen to more of her great tunes at www.reverbnation.com/caramccandlessinfo

Contact: caramccandless@hotmail.com

Guardians of the North, by Susan Christensen

Panic in the air.
Did you hear that?
What do you mean, Don't be silly?
Hey! Why're you slapping at Me?
Ohhh, God! Run! Get in the truck!
For heaven's sake! It's only a few
Black fly bites! Ooow!

What's that thundering?
Look! On the horizon, over there!
It's caribou.
Stampeding...
Running for their lives!
What a God-forsaken land.
Not fit for man nor beast!

No. A pristine wilderness
Untouched by man.
A delicately balanced ecosystem.
Guarded from despoiling
by God's
     tiniest
       warriors.

~ By Susan Christensen

Micki Findlay, Vancouver Island photographer

Profile of an Artist

Micki Findlay is an award-winning, freestyle 'photo-artist' who has a passion for the arts which include the theater, music and computer graphics. She was to discover, later on in life, that she possessed a love for photography after receiving a digital
camera from her husband as a gift.

With a keen eye for artistic detail, and putting her graphic art skills to work, she lovingly pours hours into her craft to perfect it, while bringing a contemporary, unique, artsy feel to her images. She has a knack for bringing her images 'to life' with her post-processing techniques and use of vibrant colours.

Photography runs in her family…her mother was, at one time, the official photographer for the Canadian Armed Forces. Micki recalls having to pose for hundreds of photos until her jaw hurt from smiling.
Her late and great Aunt Ella had been a professional black & white photographer, back when colour film had not yet been developed, so to speak.

Micki feels very blessed in life, appreciating the talents God has given her and the magnificent beauty in the world He created. She believes it a privilege to capture some of that beauty and to share it with others for their enjoyment. Living on breathtaking Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, she is never at a loss for inspiration.



Micki is known as 'The Singing Photographer' due to her ongoing involvement in music. At six years old she was performing and competing in music festivals as a vocalist and pianist and continued to do so throughout her teen years. At 17 years of age, she was chosen to compete at the BC Finals where she won first place two years consecutively. She was then chosen to represent Canada in various competitions throughout the British Isles with The Royal Conservatory Choir from Victoria, BC.

She runs her own singing telegram business called 'Tickleberry Telegrams'.

Micki is co-creator in an online shop called A2Sea Creations. It features unique, beach-inspired treasures, handcrafted on the west coast of Vancouver Island, BC.

Meander, poetry by Rojan Zét

Like a flower
right in the middle
your figure appeared
carrying out trash...
a good sign I thought
and so appropriate.
One quick word left
me there centered to
continue with a sigh
on my rocky circuit
leaving at your waiting
threshold for someone
a foil-wrapped delivery
silently unfolding.

Rojan Zét

Donna Hogan, friends

Friends
Watercolour by Donna Hogan

Donna Hogan, watercolours

Donna Hogan is on the road again. She loves the road and the road loves her back.

On the road again, it's great

Her continuing contributions to the Café site include:

• Out of Africa
• Home is where the heart is
• friends
• Lighthouse
• A Winter Skate
• Flower Basket

I don’t know if you were looking

poetry by Manuel Erickson

I don’t know if you were looking:

You’d put me in a carriage

and pushed it to St. Clair and Oakwood

Did you see me look up

at the lady wearing a beret

in the bright red-green-white Sweet Caporal ad

painted on the drugstore’s brick wall?

She sparkled in the sun and smiled

I giggled

I thought she was you

People appeared. They

leaned under the carriage hood, cooing

I smelled their smoke and heard your voice

Street cars clanged their bells at car drivers

I jiggled as you pushed the carriage

over cracks in the sidewalk

I felt warm and wet and it took a long time

to get home

Rock Balancing on Vancouver Island

photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

"Rock balancing is an art, discipline, or hobby depending upon the intent of the practitioner in which rocks are balanced on top of one another in various positions; these scenes may then be photographed."
~ wikipedia

...leprechauns show thyselves

Fools Rush In, poetry by Yvonne MacKenzie

gathered in solemn assembly
the celestial chorus are busy shining halos
and rehearsing their mission

meanwhile
god whistles a happy tune
and the fool comes yipping round her heels
panting with glee

unlike the measured tread of angels
fools rush in to the arms of the beloved
turning cartwheels through the mud
and jumping off the dock with their clothes on

guided by joy
the fool steps from the boat
and glides across the waves
with no thought of separation from source

joined to all creation
she dances on the edge of the abyss
the vastness of her love
entangled with the limbs of the sky

her heart heeds the instinct of birds
soaring upward through the clouds
never doubting for an instant
God’s will for wings


Yvonne MacKenzie

Ride Vancouver Island

Digital collage by Ron Greenaway inspired by the poem of Rojan Zét titled "Tomato".

"Ride this flow", digital collage by Ron Greenaway

Tomato, poetry by Rojan Zét

Through watered eyes soaring, my
jacket billowed roaring to clouds
behind Pre-voh with glances quick
and wondering, perfumed sound thundering.
Airbrush tresses round me flowing,
wind has found me, weaves the going
and the coming swift below me.

Black tar-zipped lines evaporate;
pavement fur, oaks, undulate. Spokes
winding over pebble squeals and
shots from pipes decelerating,
staccato nails around a curving track
tangent to the Queen's circle attack
speed ascending, the road bending.

Clutchless fastshift, loud and snorting,
red and gleaming chrome sun sporting lake
and island gliding by, heart in my
outstretched hand, leather on the fly,
ready now, completely mine wanting to
go, take me higher, off the stand,
and ride this flow, anytime.



Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island Bunny

You can run but you can't hide.

photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

Mary Donlan

Profile of an Artist

SeedBed 18

SeedBed 17

Mary Donlan is a painter based in Campbell River on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.

She was born in Grimsby, Ontario and earned a B.F.A. at the University of Western Ontario where she studied under Patterson Ewen. Mary lived in London for 20 years where she was a member of the artist-run Forest City Gallery. While living in London she was introduced to the work of many terrific local artists. She moved to Vancouver Island in 2007 where she started the SeedBed series which is an ongoing body of art.

Mary paints in the tradition of abstract expressionism with a collage aesthetic. Mary is developing her painterly vocabulary is based on the plant world – forests and garden are her favourite places.

The intention of Mary's work is to express the creative process. “In my paintings I aim for the effect of layered images, fragments, occurrences. I see the process of layering, merging, shaping and synthesizing as simulating the creative process.”

For more information and to see more of Mary's art please visit Mary Donlan's website at : www.marydonlan.ca

Seedbed Collage 12

Ro Jan Z8, Beachcomber

Profile of an Artist

A Turtle Islander, most comfortable near salt water, raised on Lulu Island, formed by coastlines.... The snaking shore leads me on, ever onward, to the sound of white noise, surf, a pounding in my ears - tinnitis some call it, but after a while you get used to it and listen to the differences in its pitch, its frequency, its tone, and imagine the encoded signals, communications from another dimension - secret messages. Along the way there are findings, curiosities to discover. Ideas slide across sand and patterns emerge. The substitionary principle appears and shape-shifting begins. Dark shadows flit across the periphery of my vision. Then it becomes harder to determine the bad from the good, the right from the wrong, true from false, and slowly the trust-informed child becomes the bewildered skeptic, careful and reclusive. Recursion. What is it we can believe? Who is it we can trust? The weather changes. Rolling mist separates us from clear sky and puts me in a damp fog. The fire smoke rises into a falling rain seeking the elusive glass ball.

There are metal ones too, found half-way up the west coast of Vancouver Island near Cougar Annie's outpost where I caressed the cheeks of enormous glazed rocks, wept at the suffering evident in their gashed and shattered sides, and kissed them. I joined their private celebration, one white man and a black bear crashing their party but could I really feel uninvited to find myself at this gathering? No, I felt welcome, privileged and humbled to be allowed entry to such a grand ballroom, in such exclusive company, led by Nature herself and no other human contact except the jettisoned remnants of hemispheric sea-traffic under the foreshore trees beneath the bluest skies, in the clearest air - walking on land built by rain and drifting wood, to join the dance with these stones.

Most people don't know I have operated cranes, lived in a cave under the road in Gibraltar, sailed an ice-covered 87' ketch in the north Atlantic, graduated with an English degree from one of Canada's top universities without taking a Shakespeare course, written a skit in Pin-Yin Mandarin, and worked up and down the BC coast as a lightkeeper. Actually there's an awful lot people don't know, and many who don't care so it all works out in the end. We live, we die, someone else lives and dies. There's the sea, here's the shore, a perfect fit, there's no money involved. We just walk over it all and find what we look for, with no reason to continue when our innocence is finally and completely lost. Fractals. Ah, but what is this life? What is life for, for me, for you? That my dear, is the question. And then to live it well, this is something we humans have yet to learn, yet to discover, yet to find, yet to search for. It may be something we have simply lost. Some of us have begun looking, finding our balance, and keep hoping....

Are You In My Tribe?
The tribe I belong to is based in mutuality, reciprocity, and equilateral co-operation. It is a shared potluck group meant for all, not just for the rich or for the poor, for the fat or for the skinny, and recognizes that one person's time is not worth more or less than another's, it does not require weekend retreats for money beyond costs. This tribe is line-of-sight - within touching distance - it values respect, sensitivity, understanding, and justice, freely given from one to another without need for profit, and is based on willing exchange of experience and knowledge. The people of this tribe are connected to mother earth with the understanding that physical health relates to harmony with the natural world, that spiritual health relates to harmony with the universe, and that emotional health relates to harmony with the self and others. Each member is respected for their work in bringing community a little closer to such a reality. Are you in? Pattern recognition.

Rojan is a Cowichan Valley resident and believes poetry has the ability to reveal significant truth. As a visual artist, Rojan embraces the deliberation poetic thinking brings to a subject including text as a medium but feels the art really lies in the thinking, in the reflection, perhaps even more so than in the writing about it. As such, text becomes data, and writing - nothing more than observations for a theory, as though we are the sensors for Spirit beyond ourselves, antennae as it were - articulating and identifying sensory input for a universal cognition. Evidence.

No longer at one of the Pillars of Hercules in a cave under a road, or isolated at some remote coastal outpost contemplating the potential offered by cereal-box promises, this passive observer remains pre-occupied with the state of being, and of being Human, realizing the rise of another potential - the successful Human Inadequate (imposed failure of authentic self-actualization for increasing numbers of social stake-holders). In his struggling with form and content, Rojan has produced six chapbooks of poems, short stories, and personal essays, and is always at work on another text, presentation, image, or song while making music in efforts at preserving sanity in a broken world gradually realizing who the bad guys really are, and it's not who they want you to think. Rojan's words and images can be found at www dot rojan dot freeservers dot com.

Two Contrasting Poems

1

and look across the gap

© 2007 Manuel Erickson

I don't want to remember the Kinsol:


I want to walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,

hear its creaks in the wind.

I want to stand in the middle,

listen to the rumble of Koksilah's rapids below;


I want to know the cuff-linked

architects who designed it,

the bearded, rough workers who built it,

the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;


I don't want to look at

a mere replacement:

smaller, narrower, less sturdy

and know that it severs me

from my history, culture, tradition:

no replacement can "be" the Kinsol Trestle.


I want to walk on the Kinsol

like the hikers from near and far

who gather at each unapproachable end—

and look across the gap.


2

closing the gap

© 2011 Manuel Erickson

I don't need to remember the Kinsol:


I can walk on its curve, smell its wood beams,

hear its creaks in the wind.

When I stand in the middle

I hear the sweet music of Koksilah's rapids below;


in my imagination I know the cuff-linked

architects who designed it,

the bearded, rough workers who built it,

the stripe-hatted train crews who drove smoky locies across it;


for this is no mere replacement:

though narrower, it is not less sturdy;

this trestle joins me

to my history, culture, tradition:

this is the Kinsol Trestle.


I walked on the Kinsol with a crowd of thousands,

joined hikers and bikers from near and far

gathered at each closed-in gap,

shared smiles, laughter, chatter and happiness

as we walked from one end to the other.

Gone Fishin' , poetry by Rojan Zét

You can wait 'til it's too late for visits. Light a candle by your bed and
watch how the light flickers. Think of times you've been together,
maybe times you shared a beer.

When I'd visit he would always have a word of cheer for me, take my
hand, and grip it warmly, though it might have been a year or more
since last we'd hugged each other.

Sometimes I would show him pictures of the places where I'd been and
sitting on the bed he'd wonder, "how's your Mom," or, "how's your
brother." Always he would be so grateful for the smallest little thing and
thank me, thank you, thanks for coming when we finished visiting.

I thought I saw the candle flicker just before I fell asleep, then dreamed
that it was he who travelled while I slept and breathed so deep. He went
before me gap-toothed, and hollow faced, this man with twinkle in his
eyes, for whom I'd smuggled garlic sausage and raw onion.

There he was out on the ocean,
gently rocking on the sea,
sunlight sparkled while he dallied
on his boat just big enough for three.
I heard a strike, the line went zing,
he hooked a big one, let it run,
and stood to see it flashing golden
in the evening's setting sun.
He played with it and when about
a half an hour or so had passed,
he brought that fish up to the boat,
gaffed it in and made a cast again
and soon another fish lay thumping
on the floor but still he stood
and when the third fish found its mates
there wishing for the deep blue sea, he
folded up his rod and said, "If someone
asks just tell them God and I've
gone fishin'."

Late that night I tossed and turned. While I'd slept the flame had
burned to cold and dark. There was no doubt - in early morning light
I saw - the flick'ring candl'd flickered out.


Rojan Zét

An Alien’s Brief Introduction to Earth

© 2011 Manuel Erickson

MY PLANET'S NAME IS EARTH. It is a misnomer because seventy per cent of it is covered by water, so it should have been called Water. But it doesn’t really matter, because it’s not as important as other features, attributes and the activities of its dominant species, the bi-pedal human race. But let’s start at the beginning.

Earth is in our Sun’s habitable zone, unlike other planets in our solar system. We live on the third planet from our middle-aged, yellow Sun. The first planet is too hot for life because it is very close to the Sun; the second is covered in impenetrable clouds that admit very little sunlight and has a runaway greenhouse effect resulting in a global mean temperature of about 460 degrees Celcius; the fourth is rather cold with a thin atmosphere that has very little oxygen. All the others and their moons are far too cold for life, though some of the moons might have simple life forms. There are four gas giants that probably have no life and a ninth planet that is too small, too cold and too far away from the sun to support life.

My planet is very beautiful, especially as seen from fairly close up, from no farther away than Earth’s moon (mean distance 384,000 kilometres). The moon is our sole natural satellite and is considered to be rather large for a planet as small as Earth. Scientists suspect that the moon is an offspring of Earth, caused by a glancing blow imparted by a rather large, perhaps planetary, object far back in time—at least four billion years ago. They think that the resulting debris accreted and solidified as it orbited Earth, becoming the moon.

When viewed from space, Earth appears to be a mix of colours, especially white, blue, green and brown. The white is mostly swirling clouds—the swirl is caused by the coriolis effect which has opposite reactions in the northern and southern hemispheres; the blue is the oceans; the green is vegetation; and the brown is land without vegetation—deserts. Some of our astronauts, flying hundreds of kilometres above Earth and looking down on her, have reported that they wept because of her sheer beauty.

Earth is nearly spherical; she is slightly flattened at her poles. She rotates on her axis once in a bit less than twenty-four hours (by our clocks). The axis is tilted approximately twenty-three degrees, creating four seasons in most places on the surface of Earth. It completes a single orbit of our medium-sized Sun approximately every 365 of these 24-hour periods we call “days.” We call a single orbit of the Sun a “year.”

The poles are the coldest places on my planet. The north pole has no land mass around it, but the south pole has a continent we call Antarctica. Both poles have a substantial amount of ice, but it is melting at an increasing rate, thanks to human activities that produce “greenhouse gases” such as carbon dioxide, a trapper of heat. Our planet is slowly warming, and most climate scientists think that all of the ice in the Arctic (the northern-most region) and the Antarctic will have melted in another ninety years or so. A rather large island, called Greenland, also in the north, is covered with a layer of ice that has been thinning somewhat rapidly over the past few decades; its melt-waters run into the ocean. The scientists are concerned that all this melting will cause sea levels to rise, resulting in the loss of coastal areas, the inundation of seaside cities and the culling of millions of our people.

Climate has changed many times in Earth’s geologic history, say the scientists. This time, however, it appears to be mainly the result of human activities such as the burning of fossil fuels: coal and oil. These fuels provide the motive power for electricity plants around the world, but they are considered “dirty” fuels. Nuclear energy is also used for this purpose; while it is cleaner, it is known to be dangerous because of radiation. Many people are against it.

The biggest problem for Earth’s dominant species (humans) is the environment, spurred by our faulty economic and political systems. These systems praise the cutting of forests that acted as heat sinks when they were alive, the mining and burning of dirty fuels (coal, oil), the manufacture of goods that are bad for the environment (plastics, a derivative of oil) and overpopulation (this last supported by some of our religions). They have resulted in a hole in our ozone layer, bad air and water, degradation of lands around the world, five graveyards of discarded plastics that are floating in gigantic gyres in the North and South Pacific, North and South Atlantic and the Indian Oceans, sickness (especially in the poorer areas of the globe), ignorance and poor education. Our faulty systems support the aggrandizement of wealth and power.

Our poor treatment of Earth’s environment appears to be having a deleterious effect on weather patterns. Storms seem to be more severe and more frequent than before, flooding areas that have not usually suffered from floods as often, and causing droughts in other areas that have lasted for up to ten of our years. Hurricanes are more frequent and more dangerous—an example is the one we call Katrina that occurred at the city of New Orleans on the Gulf of Mexico in the United States, Earth’s wealthiest country. Floods have happened in eastern and western Canada; there has been a very long drought in Australia; and earthquakes have become more numerous, especially in Haiti, Japan and New Zealand. The most recent earthquakes were in Japan where damage was caused to a nuclear power reactor that resulted in its being shut down, and in New Zealand where a large city was virtually destroyed. Volcanoes, too, have been far more active than in the past one hundred years, though that might not be related to our bad treatment of the environment.

Our weather scientists have warned for many years that weather will change and become more severe if we don’t alter our treatment of the life-giving environment.

Some people are actively engaged in reducing environmental problems through education and action, but this is equal to the effect of a mote of dust on a galaxy. These people know that marine life tries to eat the plastics and birds also mistake it for food; they are trying to mitigate the disaster, but without much success. Slowly, Earth is losing its natural life because of the careless and ignorant throwaway habits of her dominant species.

From where has this garbage originated? The answer is complicated, but in general, it comes from corporations that manufacture it. Plastic comes in many forms: bottles, containers of every size and shape, sheets… These things are cheaper to make from plastics than from metals. The problem arises when the materials inside the containers are used up because most people simply throw the containers away. While there are recycling programs, there are not enough of them and they are not under-pinned by stringent laws. Such under-pinning would recognize the emergency caused by our throwaway society by making it illegal not to recycle and re-use these things.

It must stop because we are in danger of asphyxiating ourselves and, ultimately, of causing global epidemics of illnesses due to loss of food sources through the continuing despoliation of our only home in the universe.

The dominant species on my planet is not united; that is, it has not organized itself into a unitary, global government. This situation diminishes the species, making it very difficult to deal with our major problem, the environment, on a global basis. As a result, the planet is politically divided into separate pieces that we call countries, each having its own territory. This statement is not entirely accurate, however, because many countries have several nations contained within them. As an example, the United States, Canada, Russia and many other countries have several nations living inside them, most of whom have decided to be a part of that country.

Sometimes, an ethnic group will decide to form its own country, or nation-state. This happened in Germany more than one hundred years ago. When it occurs, a period of “ethnic cleansing” takes place in which those who are not ethnically related to the dominant ethnicity are forced to leave for other countries. This can, and does, happen even in small countries: in 1948, Israel forced Arabs out of their homes in which they had lived for generations. These people became refugees in nearby countries and in areas close to Israel. They are now called Palestinians because the land Israel occupies was once known as Palestine. It has been a throbbing, festering political and ethnic sore since 1948.

Another small country where this happened is Yugoslavia. It contained several ethnicities that broke into separate nation-states, each with its own ethnic group.

While Earth is a lovely, serene-looking planet, astronauts who have experienced profound emotions while viewing her from space have remarked that, from orbit, one cannot see the artificial national boundaries. From above, all the land, all the oceans seem to form a continuous, unified whole: no boundaries, no revolving gyres. We humans need to replicate that idea in our form of planetary organization.

Can you help?

Dominic Fetherston

Profile of an Artist

The House of All Sorts (Emily in the Attic) 2011 acrylic

Katrina In the Village 2011 acrylic

Dave Brubeck acrylic

I had an early introduction to the production and the sales of my art. When I was 8 or 9 years old, I spent time under the stairs to the basement of our house in my “art studio” drawing cartoons of characters I had imagined. Then I would go door-to-door to my neighbors in Saskatoon, trying to sell my “one-of-a-kind, affordable art.” As a child, it was exciting to be capable of earning anything, even if it was only a penny or two for one of my scribblings. In 1967 a penny was enough to buy a double piece of bubble gum or a few chewy candies, so it all seemed like a pretty great deal to me; I was having fun and getting paid to do it.

This month, I am turning 53, and I realize I am basically doing the same thing I did when I was 9, although, I’ve stopped going door to door. But I still make time to play with my art and to allow my ideas to churn and formulate, and because playing is such fun, I’m pretty much involved in that.

Over the years, I have had the opportunity to teach many individuals and groups and I’ve facilitated a wide range of arts and counselling classes. It is getting kind of hackneyed to say that I enjoy working with and learning from others, but I like living my life searching for more information, additional techniques and education, and the balance of taking in and putting out, makes what I do mostly fun and very fulfilling.

I am a BC born, Saskatchewan and BC educated painter and mixed media artist. I was diagnosed with glaucoma when I was a young man, and I’ve undergone multiple eye surgeries in Canada and in Mexico. Information about my journey to Mexico to find competent, safe and sane health care is on my website. I’m a married father of one and step-father of four who enjoys my time in my basement studio that I lovingly refer to as “Caution Studio” on southern Vancouver Island at Esquimalt, BC.

My website: cautionstudio.ca

The Filigree of Cedar

Photograph by Rojan Zét

The Karma of Stones, poetry by Yvonne MacKenzie

you were so frightened

so I said

look, it's part of the mystery you already know

the filigree of cedar in the forest depth

sublime in damask light


the abandon of finches in the birdbath

flicking golden droplets upwards

the flash of stars in the night sky

igniting a passion for travel


you'll feel empty

but not lacking in essence

like you've come home to yourself

and the freedom of not wanting


leaving no-one behind

you'll be the air we breathe

the refreshment of rain in the garden


the question of karma will vex you no more

the things you gathered, the burden of regret

will seem like odds and sods

you want to shake

from your pocket


you'll see yourself in every gleaming sea washed stone

and rejoice

knowing one day

a child will reach down with wonder

and add you to his treasure



~ Yvonne MacKenzie

Vancouver Island Tribal Journey

Traditions (Tribal Journey), 2008 digital photography by Julie Nygaard

This picture was taken in Cowichan Bay, B.C.

See and read much more about Julie Nygaard at By Brush And Pen.

It's Art

This is a hand drawn stop motion animation to the song It's Art.

Turn up your speakers and click play. It's a cute video.

Recipe, poetry by Rojan Zét

Learn measure weigh pour, weigh again and measure more,
wash dry break fix, finally all is in the mix, sauté
skewer toast grill, taste boil turn and fill, cook
smoke baste sizzle, fry burn roast drizzle, wine
chocolate, shall we dine, almost ready looks divine,
eye-beams holding circumspect hands together pause, reflect,
music playing lights down low, you and I in candle-glow
creating making food together, snug and safe in stormy weather.

Finally nothing left to show but kitchen clean and
silent; belches offered long ago just memories
growing distant. What now? This vista here arrayed
seems empty somehow as displayed. Come back,
return that happy moment where and when, we want it
not to go away somehow to stay. I will, right here
below your feet, but while we're living, you must eat.

So take your shopping list to town, seek and purchase,
write it down, carry home your bagged goods proudly
and ignore all those who speak too loudly. Buy just what
you think you need, good meat, good bread, food good
to feed the ones you love and care about. Keep love
alive, don't do without, and when you're done with
careful looking, start to do some carefree cooking.

Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island Boy & His Dog

Photo by Ron Greenaway

Vancouver Island leprechauns

Walking on the beach once again I stumbled across more beach art by those elusive leprechauns.

leprechaun ( ) n. One of a race of elves in Irish folklore who can reveal hidden treasure to those who catch them.

photo by Susan Miller, hauntress Rathtrevor Beach Parksville

First to Vancouver

© 2001, 2004 Manuel Erickson

Victoria Day, May 23, 1887

"Ma! Ma!"

Mary Flowers roused herself from slumber, opened her eyes and raised her head from the pillow she had propped against the top of her seat. She heard a rhythmic clickety-click, and struggled to comprehend it, her brows furrowing. "Yes, Evelyn," she said, the sleep having not yet left her throat. "What is it, dear?"

Twelve-year-old Evelyn Flowers stared out the passenger coach. She jumped up and down on her seat until a quick glance at her mother forced her into stillness. She looked out the window. A large smile played across her smooth, round face, which the window reflected back to her. She craned her head upwards, then lowered it, trying to absorb the scenery as it slipped past her window. Her blond curls bounced and shook with each sudden movement of her head.

"We're here, Ma! We're here!"

For the first time since her daughter had awakened her, Mary shifted her eyes from the child to the passing scene outside. She became fully conscious of the clicks of the wheels. They sounded farther apart, as if the train were slowing down.

Evelyn perceived a second reflection in the window glass: Mary had stood up and, balancing herself against the vibrations of the coach, gingerly transferred herself to Evelyn's place and peered out the window. Since it was a warm spring day, Mary had opened the window before her nap. Rich scents entered the coach, filling it with a mix of the heady fragrances of blossoming trees and flowers. At first only tall trees could be seen. The train had almost stopped when a small wooden clapboard building came into view. A painted sign hanging from the edge of the roof clearly identified the station. Mary smiled.

"Evelyn, dear…"

"Yes, Ma?" Evelyn answered, her face pressed into the window.

"Did you think we'd arrived at Vancouver?"

Evelyn turned quickly and glanced at Mary. Her gaze was between consternation and surprise.

Mary put her hand on Evelyn's shoulder, leaned toward her ear and said softly, almost whispering, "Read the sign on the station roof."

Evelyn did so and took in air. She turned again to her mother, her face wrinkled in disappointment.

"It's all right, darling," she said. "In your excitement, you simply forgot we had to stop in Port Moody. We'll be on our way again, soon."

The conductor approached their seats and said, "We've stopped in Port Moody to change engines, Mrs. Flowers. We'll be off again in ten minutes."

"Thank you," Mary said, nodding to him.

"How far is Vancouver from here, Ma?"

Mary sat beside Evelyn again. "They said it was only twelve miles along the new track, dear, so it won't be too long, now."

"Oh, I hope so!" said Evelyn. "I want to see Vancouver, and I want to see Pa!"

"So do I, Evelyn," Mary said softly.

True to the conductor's word, in ten minutes Evelyn and Mary felt a slight tug from the front of the train, and the whistle sounded. Then they heard the chuffing sound that had become so familiar to them during their trip across the continent. The train accelerated. The next stop, they were certain, would be the last.

"Ma," said Evelyn, "I love riding the train!"

"Yes, dear, I know. I like it, too."

"I mean, all the new things I've seen, all the new places, and even how it was spring in Toronto when we left, but still winter in Winnipeg. And the mountains! Oh Ma--the mountains are so beautiful, especially with the snow! I didn't know they were so high. Then when we got here, suddenly it was spring again."

Evelyn smiled and again turned her attention to the passing scene outside her window.

"Those are new and wondrous things to me, too, Evelyn. After all, I've never before travelled across Canada."

"And this train!" said Evelyn, turning to her mother. "The conductor wouldn't let me visit the engine, but I saw all the wood they carry and he showed me where the water goes and where they put mail and our baggage and how they made lunches and--Ma, while you were having a nap last evening, the porter even showed me how to make a seat into a bed, and I did one myself!"

"Did you, dear? Well, I'm glad you've seen all these things. It has certainly been an adventure for us, and you are an adventurous person."

"Thank you, Ma." Evelyn paused. Then, "Ma, we're part of history."

Mary smiled and gave Evelyn a light hug.

"I mean, we're passengers on the first train across Canada. That's--that's special. Even the conductor said so."

"Most definitely, dear."

Mary did not carry a timepiece, but she thought that about twenty minutes had passed when the clickety-clicks of the wheels once again started getting farther apart. She knew they would be at the Vancouver terminus shortly.

They peered out of Evelyn's window, looking for their first glimpse of Vancouver. The faces of mother and daughter reflected in the glass and were so close to each other that a portrait photographer might have placed them that way.

The train slowed once more and only tall trees could be seen. Evelyn looked at her mother, a question on her face. "Don't worry, Evelyn. You'll see Vancouver by-and-by." Evelyn turned back.

As Evelyn gazed, the scene began to change. The trees were fewer, and eventually there were none. A large berm blocked her view where she thought the city lay, so she spun around to look out the other side. A wide body of water filled the glass.

Mary turned as well. The slowly moving train passed a small building, then another. They spied what looked like a boat dock. A tall holly tree stood near it; small birds flitted into and out of the holly. At that point the tracks curved to the right. In a few seconds, the train glided past some buildings as it approached their destination. Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, but the berm still prevented her from seeing a view, so she turned back. Several freight cars, some with their side doors agape, sat on a trestle built onto the water.

Suddenly the scene was blocked by a low, peaked building. "That looks like a big garage," said Evelyn.

"It could be a shed of some kind, but it's too large for that. You could be right, dear." She looked out Evelyn's window, but saw only hills. The train slowed more, then stopped completely.

As their coach was not far from the locomotive, they heard steam escaping. To Evelyn it sounded like her cat hissing its displeasure. She had given it to her best friend before leaving Toronto. They gazed at the scene outside the train.

"Ma," Evelyn said, not taking her eyes from the scene, "all the trees! They were so big in Port Moody! But here there's just big, brown hills with no grass. Where are the big firs and cedars that my books said are here in Vancouver? And I can't see Vancouver, Ma." She turned to look at her mother, then gasped as she saw what was outside the opposite window.

Evelyn almost did not hear her mother's response. She felt Mary take her hand and pull her close. She heard her say, softly, "Perhaps Vancouver's behind those hills, but at last we're here, Evelyn." Then, a sigh. "It's been a long journey." Mary smiled and kissed Evelyn's forehead. "Welcome to your new home, dear."

"Ma, look out the other window," said Evelyn.

A large crowd had gathered on the pier next to the railroad tracks. Most of the men were attired in suits and derbies, the few women, in bright blouses and dresses with colourful, flamboyant hats. A low murmur of conversation reached their ears. The crowd stood, facing what looked like a shed.

Again the conductor stood beside their seats. Mary looked up and Evelyn heard him say, "Sorry to disturb you and your daughter, ma'am, but we've reached Vancouver terminus. Everyone gets off here." He smiled, touched a finger to his cap and moved on.

Mary straightened her light-blue cotton dress, suitable apparel for a warm Pacific day in May about which her husband, Ben, had advised her in a letter. Evelyn searched the crowd for her father as Mary opened the curtain of the luggage bin above her seat and took down two suitcases, giving the smaller one to Evelyn. Her mother took a deep breath, then said, "All right, Evelyn, let's go and see Vancouver and your pa."

"Oh, yes!" said Evelyn.

Mary opened the compartment door and they stepped through.

They made their way to the car's exit where they found the door already opened to the outside. Mary went first, the conductor giving her a steadying hand. Evelyn jumped from the last step to the platform.

"Ma'am," said the conductor, "you might want to know that the large body of water you see is called Coal Harbour and the road just there goes into town. It's called Howe Street."

"Why, thank you," said Mary. It's very thoughtful of you to orient us, and I'll be sure to remember." The conductor smiled again and touched his cap.

They found themselves amidst the large crowd that they had seen from the train. It wasn't boisterous; those who spoke did so quietly, with grace. Mary turned to her daughter. "Stay close to me, Evelyn."

"Yes, Ma." Then, "Ma, why are there so many people here?" Before Mary could reply, Evelyn answered her own question. "Oh, I know! We were on the very first passenger train across Canada, and they're here to welcome it."

Mary smiled at her daughter. "That's right, dear." Evelyn's eyes sparkled, and again she started jumping up and down.

"These people know our train is historic!"

"Right again, Evelyn. And what is the name of our train?"

"The Pacific Express."

"Perfect."

Evelyn stopped jumping. "Ma, do you think they'll keep our train?"

Mary looked at her precocious and inquisitive daughter. "Yes, I do, dear. At least the engine. I think it will be kept for a very long time." She looked around, then said, "I do think there will be a speech. I think we should hear it."

As Mary put the suitcases down, the sun was momentarily blocked by someone's shadow. A soft, baritone voice said, "Mary! Evelyn!"

They looked at him. Mary mouthed, "Ben!" and Evelyn almost shouted, "Pa!"

Evelyn grabbed her father around the midriff, laying her head on his lower chest. Mary and Ben stared at each other. Finally, Ben said, "Let's pretend we're alone…"

Evelyn stepped away; he opened his arms and Mary fell into his embrace. Apart for six weeks, their kisses were soft and sensuous, until they remembered their daughter standing beside them.

"I'm so glad to see you!" they said in unison, and laughed. Mary separated herself and straightened her dress. Ben bent and kissed Evelyn on the forehead; she threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking off his top hat in a plethora of kisses. She let go only when Ben straightened.

Evelyn wore a wide, happy grin. Her father was dressed in a light-brown suit that matched his hat. His clean-shaven, smiling face was a delight for her to see again.

"My dear Evelyn," said Ben. "Did you like the train ride across Canada?"

"Oh yes, Pa! There were so many wonderful things to see…"

A male voice boomed and the crowd turned to face the low, shed-like building. "Ladies and gentlemen!" the voice cried through a megaphone. "I am William Gregory, master of ceremonies, and I have the great honour to introduce the premier of British Columbia, the Honourable Alexander Davie!" As polite applause filled the air, Mr. Gregory handed the megaphone to another man and stepped aside.

"Well," said Ben, smiling, "it seems we're going to get a speech. Would you like to hear it, Mary, or would you prefer to go to the hotel and rest?"

"We are tired, of course, but let's hear it. After all, it's not every day they can welcome the first train to cross Canada." She turned to their daughter. "If you want, you may sit on your suitcase, Evelyn."

"Yes, Ma."

Premier Davie was clad in a pinstripe suit and top hat. He scratched his neatly trimmed, black goatée, a contrast with most of the men present who sported long, bushy moustaches.

The Premier raised the megaphone and began to speak. Evelyn understood the Premier's main point that the train on which she and her mother had travelled heralded the extension of trade and development across Canada, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.

Mercifully, because the family wanted to be together, the Premier's speech was short. The master of ceremonies took back the megaphone, thanked the Premier and introduced the mayor of the city, Alex MacLean. The mayor wore a simple business suit but no hat and, unlike Davie and most of the men, was entirely clean-shaven. After another short round of applause, he explained how the train that had just arrived, pulled by the Canadian Pacific Railway's newest locomotive, Number 374, proved the practicality of a rail line across Canada.

"This engine," he said, waving his other hand above his head, "along with Number 371 and many others that pulled these cars from Toronto, will soon be bringing hundreds -- nay, thousands! -- of new migrants here to the garden that is Vancouver. The men who built Number 374 just last year in Montreal, together with those who drove her, will live in our hearts forever!"

The audience applauded politely. The mayor handed the megaphone back to Mr. Gregory and stepped aside. The crowd started to disperse.

Mary reached for her suitcase, but Ben stopped her, taking it himself. Then he grasped Evelyn's. "My carriage is just around that corner, my dears," he said, pointing with his head. "We'll be at the Alhambra Hotel in a few moments. Places are close by in this new city."

Ben had been transferred to Vancouver early in April and was looking for suitable lodgings for his family. The great fire had occurred the previous year and the city was still being rebuilt; accommodation was in very short supply. He had telegraphed his reservation to the Alhambra before leaving Toronto for Port Moody, the old CPR terminus. Once in Port Moody, he had reached Vancouver by boat.

As they approached the hotel, Evelyn's natural curiosity overcame her weariness. "Oh Pa, look at all the chimneys! Why are there so many?"

"Each room has its own stove or fireplace, Evelyn," Ben answered. "Ours has a fireplace, but we won't need it just now."

"The hotel is big…"

"Yes. Just as big as those in Toronto. See? It has two storeys."

"And so many windows!"

"Each room has a large window so you can see into the street."

"Pa, where's our room? In the front or the back?"

Ben chuckled. "Don't worry, Evelyn. You'll be able to see into the street."

Ben steered the horse near to the front door, got down from the carriage and tied the reins to the hitching post. To Evelyn, the horse's soft neigh sounded like a satisfied sigh. Ben helped Evelyn and Mary alight.

He retrieved their suitcases from the back of the carriage and they entered the front door, built into a corner of the building. A bell tinkled. Immediately, a balding, middle-aged man with a fringe of pepper hair and a dark moustache appeared from behind another door.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Flowers. I see you have collected your family." Evelyn thought his voice was too high for a man.

"That's correct, Charles. May I present my wife, Mary, and my daughter, Evelyn."

"How do you do, ma'am, and Evelyn." Charles spoke directly to Evelyn. "I'll bet you had a wonderful trip on the first train to cross Canada, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir," said Evelyn. "I saw so many new things!"

"How do you feel to be part of Canadian history?"

"Oh sir! It feels wonderful."

The three adults chuckled. "I'm glad, Evelyn," said Charles. He turned his attention to Mary and Ben. "Well, I'll help you with your suitcases."

"Thank you, Charles," said Ben. To Mary and Evelyn, he said, "Our room is on the second floor."

They followed Charles up the stairs, Ben going last. At the top, Charles turned left and stopped in front of the first door. Ben produced his key and opened it. "Do you have a second key for Mrs. Flowers, Charles?"

"Yes, of course, sir. I'll have it ready at the counter when you stop by again." He put the suitcases just inside the door and turned to go, then stopped. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. Dinner will be at six o'clock, unless you desire to dine out, of course."

"Thank you, Charles." He put a hand into a pocket and withdrew some change, giving it to Charles.

Again Charles turned. He had reached the stairs when he stopped and faced the Flowers. "Oh sir! I almost forgot. While you were at the train Mr. Chandler came by and said he has a house to offer you and your lovely family."

Ben didn't reply. Evelyn looked at him. Ben's eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly and he appeared stunned. He hadn't expected to find a house for several months, yet, because of the previous year's fire. Mary put her hand on his shoulder.

"W-well!" he said. "Well, this is indeed our lucky day. Thank you, Charles, thank you!"

"You're welcome, sir," and he continued down the stairs.

After the family had entered the room and Ben had closed the door, he said, "I've already seen Mr. Chandler's house. I think we should be very happy there." Mary smiled. Evelyn felt glad that she and her mother and father would soon have a house in which to live, just as they did in Toronto.

"You both look tired," said Ben. "Why not have a short sleep, then we'll go down for dinner and Evelyn can tell me all about the train trip. Afterwards, if you feel up to it, perhaps we'll go for a walk around town and go by Mr. Chandler's house. Let's see," he added, pulling his watch from his waistcoat, "it's almost half past four o'clock. Rest until nearly six, then we'll go for dinner downstairs."

"That would be fine, dear," said Mary. "Evelyn, do you want to rest?"

Evelyn yawned. "Yes, Ma. But may I ask Pa something first?"

"What is it, Evelyn?" said Ben.

"Well, is Mr. Chandler's house near the railway?"

"As a matter of fact, it is. Why did you want to know?"

Evelyn sat in a chair and looked at her father. "Pa, I want to see all the trains as they come and go. And I hope Engine 374 will visit here often. I want to talk to the driver."

"Why, Evelyn?" asked Mary. Her skirt rustled as she sat in another chair.

Evelyn took a deep breath and said, "It's because I want to know how they felt to be the first to drive a train to Vancouver. It can only happen once, you know. If I can talk to them, then I can write it down. Ma, Pa, I'm going to be a writer and write about things that happen first, especially historical things!"

Mary and Ben both stared wide-eyed at their precocious daughter. Ben said softly, "You are growing up fast, Evelyn." He sat quietly for a moment, then said, "Your ambition to become a writer is laudable, my dear, and I think you should follow your heart. Mary?"

"I think so, too. But Evelyn, you should know that if you start something, you have to finish it. Do you understand?"

Evelyn jumped off her chair. "Oh yes, Ma! Yes, Pa!" She ran to them, giving each a hug. "Thank you!"

Mary and Ben looked at each other. Simultaneously, happy smiles broke out on their faces and their eyes sparkled.

*

Victoria Day, May 21, 2001

A crowd of several hundred stood in front of The Roundhouse Community Centre in downtown Vancouver. The refurbished Engine Number 374, formerly of the Canadian Pacific Railway, stood beside the milling crowd. It glistened black with gold lettering in the bright afternoon sun, festooned with the flags of Canada and British Columbia. Members of the 374 Station Society had brought her outside from her home of thick, unbreakable glass attached to The Roundhouse, once a locomotive repair shop. Puffs of steam escaped from ports near the drive wheels: a simulation of a locomotive that is ready to roll.

A tall, pepper-haired woman stood in front of a microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "I am Laura McDiarmid, Chair of the Vancouver Parks Board. As you know, the Parks Board and the Vancouver Central Lions Club supported the 374 Station Society while they restored historic Engine 374 which stands before you here in front of its fabulous new glass home. There was one person, however, whose vision was so clear and who pushed and shoved more than anyone else to get this project started and finished so that Vancouverites could enjoy this historical artifact. This person knows more about Engine 374 than anyone else.

"Please welcome the prime mover of the restoration, Evelyn Atkinson."

The crowd applauded politely as a petite lady dressed in Victorian period costume approached the microphone and adjusted it to her height. "Thank you for that kind introduction, Laura." Holding up a sheaf of paper, she addressed the audience directly. "I prepared a little speech for this afternoon, but I would prefer to speak extemporaneously. Wel-l, perhaps I'll refer to my notes a bit.

"Before anyone asks my age, I would like to explain that I am named after my grandmother, Evelyn Flowers, who travelled across Canada with her mother in 1887. The engine that pulled that first transcontinental train from Port Moody was the one that stands in front of you, Number 374.

"Most of you already know that this historic engine came to Vancouver just eighteen months after Donald Smith drove the last spike at Craigellachie.

"Usually, a locomotive is scrapped after twenty or thirty years of service. This happened to C.P.R. Engine Number 371 and many more. She and other locomotives brought that same train all the way across the continent to Port Moody, which had been the western terminus of the C.P.R. until the last twelve miles of the line were completed to Vancouver in 1887. Port Moody, of course, is actually on salt water, so Number 371 was the first engine to complete the haul of a scheduled train across Canada from sea-to-sea. That honour belongs to her." Evelyn paused and looked at her notes.

"Unfortunately for us, Number 371 was scrapped in October 1915, just thirty years old. Number 374, however, was completely rebuilt in September 1914, giving it another thirty years of service. She was retired in July 1945, and the C.P.R. donated her to the City of Vancouver.

"The rebuild was very important. It made 374 into an almost-new locomotive, giving her a larger boiler, re-positioning the steam dome, and fitting 63-inch driving wheels in place of the original 69-inch wheels. Still, historians consider as valid the link between the 1914 rebuild and the original engine that had been built in Montreal by Canadian Pacific in 1886." Again she paused, shuffling a sheet to the back.

"Some have suggested that Number 374 should be made operational, but the refinements of 1914 mean that is impossible because too much of the 1886 engine had to be replaced. It would be easier to construct a full-size replica, though at great cost. And it wouldn't be the same, now, would it?"

Evelyn waited for the murmurs to subside.

"Furthermore, when she was retired in 1945, the Canadian Pacific Railway's shops in Montreal made Engine 374 look ‘old.' So they removed some 1914 technology which made her permanently inoperative. After delivery back to Vancouver, she was placed on a short track in the open at Kitsilano Beach, where she stayed until 1983.

"Now, I'm sure you can imagine what happened to old Number 374 over those 38 years. Sightseers climbed on her, birds dropped their ‘business' on her, and sun, wind and rain beat at her. She was vandalized and neglected. She was badly rusted and dangerous. In 1983 she was no longer good to look at.

"So I felt personally pleased that the Friends of 374, an organization I helped to form, raised the funds to start a cosmetic restoration. Twenty thousand people from all walks of life bought heritage bricks at twenty dollars each, and the donors' names were inscribed on them. The bricks are now embedded in the floor of this pavilion and are a memorial to these wonderful supporters. They made it possible to remove dear old Number 374 from Kitsilano and place her in a warehouse on Granville Island. Then in 1985, members of the West Coast Railway Association and the Canadian Railroad Historical Association started the restoration.

"You are probably asking yourselves why I was so pleased about this. Well, as it happens, my grandmother, Evelyn Flowers, then aged twelve, travelled with her mother, Mary, on the very train that Engine 374 brought to Vancouver from Port Moody. So I feel a profound personal bond with this engine, a piece of 19th Century machinery that I regard as a work of art because of her direct connection to my family."

Evelyn stopped, shuffled more pages to the back, read a few lines to herself, and continued.

"I now wish to address one last subject: making Engine 374 operable. My friends, I'm sure you can appreciate that no one would like this to happen more than I. It would be as if I could, in a way, touch my grandmother…" Evelyn paused and lowered her head. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, then tucked it away after dabbing at an eye. "But as I said a few minutes ago, it would mean replacing most of what you see here before you. It just wouldn't be the same. I feel that having this locomotive in its hybrid 1914 form, so very close to the original 1886 machine, is really what is important to me.

"I am grateful that we have today an example of 1880s technology modernized to 1914. Engine 374 is of great historical significance to Vancouver and to Canada, as she is the locomotive that actually linked Canada's two ocean seaboards."

Evelyn looked at the gleaming locomotive, then stepped away from the microphone. Applause followed her as she walked back inside The Roundhouse.


© 2001, 2004 Manuel Erickson