Loving a landscape

This is my first small painting of Bear River which sold almost before it was dry. I don't
have a larger image of the picture because
I forgot to photograph it properly before it
went into a show last fall, and that was that.
Flora Doehler allowed me to paint images from
her wonderful photos of Bear River and I did
two takes on this image.

Right now Flora is enduring the hardships of
gardening in the country, and still staying
joyful about her decision, despite, the bugs,
weeds and other problems.

I sat on top of our ladder pruning our cherry tree today. It has a
horrendous fungus, but produces bushel after bushel of sour cherries
for pies and maybe this year cherry liqueur made according to a recipe
in Joanne Harris's Five Quarters of the Orange.

It is hot here, and not at all pruning weather, but like Radio Noon's,
Ed Lawrence on CBC says, prune when you've got the
pruning sheers in your hands. It's really time to take it easy.

Have a quit-working-and-dance night.

For the love of cherries

Our little cherry tree planted in a space
between the garage and the neighbour's
fence, which is too small for the poor
thing, has been the source of great joy
and more than one painting.

Here I played with branches with
not yet ripe green cherries, in a
crystal jug against a cherry red ground.
It's more detailed than I thought it was
going to be. Outside right now the
cherries are exactly like this on the tree.
Thunder ripples through the sky, and
the cat is asking me to shut down
my computer.

In a few weeks we will have so many
cherries that both Steven and our neighbour
Gill will make as many pies as our
families can eat, and then ---poof it's
all over and the birds and squirrels
who can stand sour cherries harvest the rest.



Have a crystal clear day tomorrow.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

At this time of year I wish I could quote poetry like my mother.
I think she has a photographic memory, and can still quote
from almost all of the poetry she ever learned, or that made
an impression on her. What sends me hunting for a suitable
poet is wonder that I can't express myself in paint. For instance I have no idea how to paint my beautiful cherry tree. I think the tree may be about 10 years old, and it has given us so much pleasure. It was our first tree and technically we planted it in the wrong place . It's squeezed between our
garage and the neighbour's fence, in a space about six feet wide,
but it's undaunted by all that. Every year since we bought it, it's
produced more cherries than we can handle, and some of the
most delicious memories of early summer. I love picking
the lush fruit with the juice running down my arms, the wonderful
look of the silver colander full of cherries, and the pies.
Steven's bakes amazing sour cherry pies with perfect
latticed toppings.

In late June, early July we pick, and now our neighbours pick
the fruit, until we can't possibly stand to pick anymore, and
then we freeze quantities, try and figure out how to make sauce,
give some away, get out our pitters and pit. The sound of the pits
hitting the bowl is always cause for laughter.

Even in winter, covered with snow, the tree is beautiful.

Here is one of the poems by A.E. Housman that my mother
loved when I was a child:

A. E. Housman (1859–1936). A Shropshire Lad. 1896.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, 5 Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, 10 About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

Have a poetic day!
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