The Flight of an Angry Bumble Bee….

I disturbed these little guys today…
The bottom of our raised beds are lined with a layer of old wood, which is where, I think, they live.

It is amazing how everyday, regardless of how young or old we may be, we learn something new.

Today, I learned that we have a plethora of bumble bees living in our raised vegetable bed and that they are not at all excited about the fact that I want to start preparations for next year’s harvest.

The food
And they will come…

This season, fall prep took on a new meaning when momma bee chased me all the way from the garden to my door. Last week a friend of mine stepped on ground nest of bees, so I’m feeling the need to respect the wish of a bee.

I gave them some fruit as a piece offering. Not sure it was appreciated.
It’s hard to see, the swarm of a bee!
They are guarding my shovel.

Not sure how I’m going to finish this task?

The Colours of Late Summer

A plentiful bounty

There are not too many things that I find more rewarding then refilling my canning pantry that has been emptied during the previous year.


Cooking, is not on my list of favourite things to do, but I do love to harvest and prepare the foods for meal preparation. Especially when this activity includes family and friends.

The largest onions!
Hot and spicy!
With more vitamin C
than and orange.
The colours of late summer!

Although I semi enjoy gardening, these are not the fruits of my labour, but bounty purchased at my favourite Farmers Market, Harris Farms.

French Frys…..

A little bowls of french frys……
There he sits
With his frys
As I
Contently, stare
Into his eyes.

I swipe a fry.
He does not know
Where I sit
Or where
I go.

We all have our niche.
Maybe, we have discovered a ditch!
Or maybe, on a broom, we have seen

Or prehaps
Those are my thoughts
Are my thoughts
My thoughts
I think.

I am putting to bed,
The thoughts in my head.
As they will keep
As I slumber
To sleep.

As I walk through this forest
All alone.

Maria Tuttle
A gigantic bag of french frys!

The Tree Museum…take one

Faces in the forest

In the midst of our great Canadian landscape, amongst the trees, and the lakes, and the rocks, we discovered The Tree Museum.

A well marked trail.

Just follow the little blue arrows, and the little blue signs. After a kilometer, or two, and you will happen upon the entrance to the Tree Museum.

Nature at it’s best

Before the entrance, God has his work on display.

Light and shadows
Entrance to The Tree Museum

A mailbox contains a guest book. We left our names among the rest of the worldly travelers who have discovered this beautiful retreat into the wilderness.

Metal meets rocks and trees
Above the metal, rock on rocks.
Keeper of the forest..
A home away from home. Complete with a fireplace and natural air conditioning.
The list of contributing artists.

Having just recently recovered from a bout of covid19, I started this outing a little overconfident in my level of fitness and endurance, so we are leaving the rest of tour for a different day.

We have so much more to explore!

The beauty that surrounded us.

Works of Art

The birds, and the bees, and the flowers, and the trees!

In the little town of Craighurst, we came upon a plethora of artsy little trees.

Such a wonderful venture for someone to undertake! Each work of art was created, on metal, by a local artists.

All pieces are located in and around the main intersection of this small country spot.

Summer time, and the livin’ is easy. In winter too, and autumn, we just love you!
Spring, summer, winter, and fall!
Farm livin’ is the life for me!
Loving life!
Earlier times.
A wise old once said ‘Who, Who?’
Listening to the song of the Loon.

This last one, though, is the one I love the best. Created by my favourite artist, it stands proudly in the middle of a farmer’s field. Down the road from where we live.

Tall, strong, and magnificent!

This D18, 1941, Martin Guitar

D18, 1941, Martin Guitar

This, D18 1941 Martin, guitar was recently discovered resting in the basement of an old house in Toronto.

The prevailing story is that, 50 years ago, it’s guitarist would open for acts in Massey Hall. Prehaps even for the Everly Brothers, the storyteller says.

When brought up and out of that old dark basement, the case was is serious decay. The body of the guitar was floating with strands of sky blue/turquoise/grey mold. The keys had all changed colour.

A local musician picked up this dear old instrument. He lovely had it fully restored. Renewed, in a golden shade of brown, this light as a feather guitar now dawns a set of light strings and musically rings.

Bluegrass music flows from those strings, as the quitarist sings his funky tunes.

Whether or not this oral history is 100% accurate is truly irrelevant, as the story keeps our musical history alive and strong.

The world is full of interesting and fascinating stories. We need to stop and listen, and sometimes right them down.

Thank you, Mark, you brightening my day with this one. The rebirth of a D18, 1941, Martin Guitar.

Summer Time

Hydrangeas, Yarrow, and Milkweed
Just a little bit of sunshine 
Just a little bit of rain
Lots and lots of love
And our garden
Is happy again.
Whites and blues
Their faces are blooming 
Their stems tall and straight
Swaying with the breeze
In our little piece of Eden
Doing as they please.
Lilies in red and shades of white.
If people could be flowers
Instead of ivory towers
What a peaceful place
Our world would be.
Boxes of daisy’s

Beyond the Music


Finding wisdom in hoola hoops, tattoos, bare feet, nail polish in multiple hues, and in powerful words.

I met a very chatty ten year old who delighted in comparing the colours of the nail polish we were wearing on our fingers and on our toes. She reflected on the numerous hues of mauve that adorned her finger nails, and on the pinks and oranges on her toes.

I met a beautiful, little four year old amidst an array of hoola hoops. She taught me, with very clear and concise instruction the step by step way to twirl hoola hoops on my arms. She taught me how to twirl a hoola hoop around my waist. With great wisdom she advised me that if I was afraid that the hoola hoop might hit me in the eye, that I should just close them.

Hoola hoops

We met Barefoot Sue, a grandma who has been walking barefoot for the past twelve years. Through the forests, through ice and snow, into restaurants and supermarkets, anywhere but on hot coals and fire, to connect with the earth to enhance happiness, health and strength. She is a keeper of the water. I am a keeper of the tree.

I noticed a tattoo on the back of a beautiful woman. To me, this tattoo represents power, wisdom, confidence, and strength and sisterhood.

So beautiful!

My deepest interaction of the weekend was meeting indigenous artist, poet and painter, Paul Shilling, Chippewas of Rama First Nations. As I read his poetry and purchased a piece of his art, he shared a very different finger nail story.

And still, I read the very powerfully words that he has written. Words that begin with, “I accept your apology. Your apology made me cry from somewhere deep inside for my mother and father, sisters and brothers, and for my children. “

O Canada 🇨🇦

‘O Canada ‘

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

Feeling patriotic this Canada Day long weekend?

Needing a boost, or wanting to extend that feeling?

Then travel to King’s Wharf Theatre in the pretty little town of Penetanguishene, located on the southeasterly tip of Geogian Bay in the traditional and Treaty territory of the Anishinabek, the Huron-Wendat and the Haudenosaullce.

Enjoy the show, Sorry, I’m Canadian!

You will laugh until you cry. Your heart will burst, and grow with pride!

Enjoy the show with good friends and the experience will be even better!

Proud to be Canadian!

June Flowers

Who is the poet of the flower?
The answer changes by the hour.
Petals of
and of white,
and of pink.
The scent of  the flower,
Cause the poet to think.
The stem,
The stalk,
Where in
The flower's beauty

In sand, and soil,
And rock.
God's paint brush 
With grace and ease.

Beauty, found and sought.