Old houses hold so many stories, so many secrets, so many tall tales. No one knows them all, except for the house itself. If walls could talk, I would sit there all day and just listen.

To the stories about the original builders of the home. The excitement they felt when they first moved in. Stories of the births and the deaths, the weddings and the birthday parties that must have taken place within those walls.

The different sales that happened. Old families moving out and new families moving in. And then, somewhere down the line, for reasons unknown to those passing by, the old people moved out but no one moved in.

And the house began to weather and wane. The grasses grew taller and the trees began moving in.

I wonder what the house would say now. Is it sad, is it lonely? Or perhaps quiet and content? A big part of me wants to restore the house to it’s former beauty, giving it more stories to hide within it’s walls.

But today I cannot do that. So I will just preserve it with pictures.

My earliest memories of mixing colours was when I was playing on a pile of weathered stumps with a cousin of mine. We had gathered flowers and grasses, squished them, and painted their juices onto the pieces of dried wood.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot about art. For a long, long time.

Immersing myself in art came back as a form of therapy. Dipping a brush in that day’s colour of choice, and feeling the brush move along the canvas.

Then, I took an art class at a local art gallery with my youngest daughter, a high school student at the time. Our instruction, during an outdoor class, asked us to sit and spend 15 minutes looking at the bay in front of us and watch as the different colours appeared.

I thought to myself, ‘I can do this. I need to do this.’ Our basement is now full of canvases. Some I will keep. Some I will paint over.

My father used to tell us stories about how he loved to draw. How he would take pieces of charcoal from the wood stove and draw on whatever canvas availed itself.

As I watch my little granddaughter diligently working on her canvas, I visualize her grandfather working on his.

Last Friday, when pulling into a gas station to pump some gas, I thought it might be interesting to see what happened if I said ‘yes’ to the attendant’s sales pitches instead of my usual ‘no thanks.’ It was kind of fun, actually, as she added item after item to her list list as I said yes instead of no.

So in addition to a full tank of gas, I now have a nice, clean car. And because, for some strange reason, my back window was partially open, half of my back seat has been shampooed and rinsed as well. And by buying two car washes, instead of one, I earned a bonus of 100 Air Miles.

Also, a part of my purchase included two lottery tickets. Because I am not in the habit of purchasing lottery tickets, it took me a half hour to figure out how to play the different games. Much to my surprise, and disappointment, I didn’t win anything. Not a nickel, not a dime, not a quarter!

Two bottles of diet coke were the next items on the list. One was an excellent addition to my lunch. The other is in the fridge.

Then came the chocolate. Very hard to resist. But because they might tip the scales, in a negative way, at my next WW meeting, I will gift them to my loving husband who has not gained an ounce since our wedding day.

I was a fun experience. Will I do it again. I don’t thinks so.

But I am, now, 116 Air Miles closer to earning a free trip to visit the kids!

When I was in fourth grade, my teacher believed that all of the girls should know how to knit.

I’m not sure where the needles came from, but the yarn was from an old, rusty orange sweater that my mother gave me to unravel. With my dutifully, unraveled yarn, I somehow gained the skills needed to knit a tiny pair of socks for my soon to be born, baby brother. How I managed to knit a pair of socks, using four needles, at that young of an age still blows me away.

The socks however, made from the re-purposed yarn, were not suitable for my baby brother’s feet. And therefore, they gracefully adorned the tender tootsies of my favourite baby doll.

I have been knitting ever since; sweaters, scarfs, blankets and baby outfits and numerous other things.

The colour, rusty orange, continues to hold a special place in my heart.

I love doing different things for my family for Christmas. So I thought ‘Why not socks for Christmas!’ Two years in the making, they are finally done!

What’s that saying, ‘Warm Feet, Warm Heart?’

A fluffy baked potato, smothered in butter, sour cream, chili, baked beans, vegan chili, shredded cheese and green onion. A perfect luncheon for a beautiful fall day. Great company, great food (all foods were donated), all for a great cause.

Sistema was founded way back in 1939, by a man named Jose Antonio Abreu. His vision “music has to be recognized as an agent of social development in the highest sense because it transmits the highest values – solidarity, harmony, mutual compassion – with the ability to unite an entire community and express sublime feelings.”

Sistema Huronia began in 2013. It’s vision; to instill a strong sense of community, self-respect, and mutual support in our children through the pursuit of musical excellence in order to prepare them for a better tomorrow.

On a more personal note, this day provided a first for me. Donating a crock pot of baked beans provided me with the opportunity to discover how to make baked beans from scratch. My husband didn’t say that they were as good as the baked beans his dad made, but he didn’t say they weren’t either. So I’m counting it at a win-win all around. and I was also provided with an idea for next years Halloween costume!

It’s been a couple of decades since the waters of Georgian Bay have submerged the shores of Wasaga and other area beaches. This summer the waters have been high and today the road is the beach.

I remember, years ago, dancing on the sandy floors of the Dardanella and the infamous Windjammer, to the tunes of Ram and the Mighty Pope, with my two cousins. The three of us walking in with identical ID. The waters were high and the sand was everywhere.

Since then the beaches have cycled through the highs and lows of the Bay several times, bringing pleasure or panic depending on your want.

When we were children we would run through the strawberry field, to the large sand dune carved into the side of a small hill. We would spend hours summer tobogganing, building tunnels and enjoying the sun.

Years later, my husband would bring a couple truck loads of this sand to our home, building a large sand dune for our children. They had made it clear that they would prefer a sand dune over a traditional sand box. The sand dune also served as a cushion should anyone fall from the tree house built in the tree shading the play area.

The kids have grown up, first the tree house fell down and then the tree itself succumbed to old age. The sand remains and has become a feature in my shade garden turned sunny spot. Still my favourite spot. The sand brings back so many happy memories.

The last time I was in Bala was a few years ago, when my eldest sister and I went to see the Canadian band, Crowbar, at The Kee to Bala.

Their most popular song ‘Oh, What a Feeling’ was inducted into the Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame in 2011.

Today, we traveled to Bala for the 35 Annual Cranberry Festival.

‘Oh, What a Feeling, What a Rush’, traveling north on hwy 400, during the peak of Ontario’s beautiful autumn season.

The colours are absolutely stunning this year and that shiny, red cranberry added just a little bit more.

Being a little older then on my last trip, ‘What a Rush’, this time around, was when we donned pairs of hip waders and did the Cranberry Plunge!

We moved to our Little Piece of Eden just over 38 years ago.

Then, our only trees were those that outlined the perimeter of our hectare of land. Plus a majestic white oak that still stands proudly near the entrance of our lane, and the walnut tree directly behind our house. Since then the tree population has risen to well over 200, some we planted and others that planted themselves.

Flower gardens dot the property, mostly perennials native to this area. We do have some non-native, invasive species, but when it come to our native, poison ivy, invasive species, I hope the periwinkle wins out. One tiny vegetable garden sits quietly at the edge of the lawn, waiting patiently for me to retire so that it can grow.

Thoughts of leaving our oasis have been very few and far between, thoughts that vanish more quickly than they appear.

A couple of years ago, I watched a CBC documentary about a teenage photographer whose goal it was to give a face to those experiencing homelessness. A large part of her inspiration came from her mom’s journey. At age three her mother was a homeless child wandering the streets of Calcutta, India. From there she moved to an orphanage run by Mother Teresa, at age 5 was adopted by a couple that lived in a small town not far from my home.

A quote from Bruce Rivers, Executive Director of Covenant House in Toronto says it best. “Amazing photography. It’s said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and that expression is exactly suited to describe Leah’s work. She poignantly captures the depth and humanity of the individual that she beholds in front of her lens.”

Last Saturday night, while enjoying the Collingwood Art Crawl, we came upon Leah and her work in the town’s Anglican Church. Her portraits hung on the walls and both volumes of her books were available to browse or purchase. Her work, in black and white, held a continuous flow of people captive.

It’s almost impossible to go through life without crossing paths with someone who is experiencing homelessness.

The next time you pass someone on the street, give a nod, a smile, a hello. That seemingly small gesture might just save a person’s life.