LOCAL TREASURES

 

                   

Finding Local Treasures

I went on a bicycle ride the other day. I had no particular route in mind and no particular area in which I needed to be. I just needed to be outside, in the fresh air, to see, feel, hear and smell the beauty of Spring. It was 20 degrees Celsius.

When I got to Osprey Village in Pitt Meadows, I sat on a bench along the river’s edge. The Fraser River is an arterial passage that flows from the Rocky Mountains in eastern British Columbia, north and west to the City of Prince George, before meandouring south, through many, many villages and towns, to its delta at the Pacific Ocean, a few kilometers from where I was sitting. It is the longest river in British Columbia.

The mighty Fraser was the fur trade route and an ideal base for forts when conquering or claiming land was prevalent. It provides easy transportation for mill logs, work for tugboat, beachcomber and barge operators, fish for fishers and sustenance for our Indigenous communities along the 1400 km route. It has been designated a Canadian Heritage River. I only seem to remember all of that when I sit there and ponder.

As I turn to look at whatever is happening behind me, I see a steady stream of people flow into a multipurpose building. I decide to lock up my bicycle and have a look.

Turns out there is a new exhibition in the Pitt Meadows Art Gallery on the main floor. It’s free so I go inside.

Local Pitt Meadows artist Liz Boulton is proudly sharing her vast array of artistic mediums: water colours, acrylics, clay work, and fabric pieces. 

Her imagination springs from her life experiences, her pride in creativity from imagination, curiosity and moments that have shaped her life. Her work is incredible and her passion is very real. You can easily see it and feel it by just being in that room, but it was especially powerful during my conversation with her that day. This is a very worthwhile field trip for one and all, and it runs until June 21.

As I leave the building and wander over to the seasonal ice cream parlour, I look back at the Fraser and remember when my youthful years had no interest in knowing things like that. Clearly my brain carried the information forward for me to appreciate  now. 

The same can be said about art. It just wasn’t “my thing” in my younger years as I wandered through the Louvre, the Rijks, the Prado and the Uffizi. I just wanted to be on a beach! When I studied art history in university, that all changed. 

As they say, life is all about living. There is a time and place for everything, eventually … for some of us discoveries come later when all the other things are no longer pulling or pushing! Finding them right here close to home is even more appealing.

MOTHERING ON

 

MOTHERING DAY 2026

I woke up this morning to the sweet sound of birds chirping and the sun shining in the clear blue sky above. It’s Sunday. It’s Mothers’ Day.

Since I don’t have a mother anymore and since I am not a mother, what kind of day is this for me? It’s a day like any other so make the best of it in the spirit in which it was intended — remember how mom would want my day to be.

I sprung out of bed and decided to do two indoor things my mom was really good at — laundry and floor washing, and then venture out to do some things that she used to do a lot of in her younger days — cycle to do errands and to explore. I am good at the latter but not the former; but, trying to do well is better than not making an effort, especially on this sacred day.

So with the laundry hanging out to dry on my homemade clothesline, and all the bare floors in the house smelling of fresh Pinesol, I venture off on my Cannondale bicycle. My water bottle is full, my toolkit in place, some sunscreen and bandaids packed, and with my thick, heavy, 560 page Margaret Atwood Memoir in a saddlebag, off I go.

Along the way I see a sign directing me to a Lions’ Club Mothers’ Day pancake breakfast. The scent of bacon draws me in. I enquire about take out. They oblige. I’m given a plate to fill. A volunteer server piles on the scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, pancakes, and fruit compote, and various fresh fruits on a separate plate. I carry it outside to a picnic table, and gobble the food down as I watch children enjoy the playground. I was a child once. Loved the teeter totter. Why isn’t there a teeter totter here, I wondered.  Oh well maybe it’s a danger nowadays? There seems to be a lot of danger in our world nowadays. I often hear that cycling is dangerous too. Good grief, but I digress.

With stomach full and more adventures to find, I remount my bicycle and head to Osprey Village in the community of Pitt Meadows. The welcoming to the Village is the most beautifully designed and decorated roundabout garden, with long wooden benches, memorial plaques and waste containers inaccessible to wildlife and indestructible by the types of people who find joy in recking property that is not theirs. This is an incredibly clean and peaceful place to read, and today includes completing the 500+ pages of Margaret Atwood’s Memoirs.

I stretch out on the warm bench and feel the sun shine its rays on my body like a warm, cosy fleece blanket, and I start to read.  Her book reveals so much about Margaret the person, the daughter, girlfriend, “other woman”, mother, step mother, and wife. She’s an adventurer, environmentalist, birder, canoeist, educator, writer, poet, essayist and, best of all, she’s a true Canadian literary pioneer and  giant who proudly defines a writing style that is unique to herself.  She had faith in herself early on, worked hard and never gave up in her (motherly) efforts to clear a path for herself and other eager, determined Canadian creative thinkers. Her journey, and theirs, continue to move forward, and followers are catching on.

I close the book with only 25 more pages to read when I go to bed tonight, and travel on to the Village square. It’s a popular place, especially busy on weekends, sunny weekends, with cyclists and walkers sitting with an ice cream or coffee, before or after enjoying the new exhibit at the Art Gallery, before or after meditating along the river’s edge, before or after parking their cars at no charge. 

I find an unoccupied bench. Sit for a few moments to people watch. Lock up my bicycle, explore the Art Gallery exhibit, and walk to the ice cream parlour for a rum and raisin cone. This is definitely how my mom would have wanted my day to be: pleasant, peaceful and perfect, and so it actually was. Thanks mom, I feel your pride in me!

FRIENDSHIPS — wrinkles in time!

 

The Evolution of Eva

I seem to start friendships in the most unlikely of circumstances.

Sometime around maybe the 1980s, I met Eva. She was the roommate of the president of the Burnaby Federal Liberal Association. She had zero interest in the political scene. But, we did hold our meetings in their rec room. She made it clear that it was ok to use the rec room, but we had to enter and exit from the basement door. We had to be quiet and only use the upstairs bathroom in emergencies. Yes she was that strict and often that grumpy.

At the time the seventeen year old me was rambunctious and sometimes disobedient.  In the case of Eva, I was curious. I eventually ventured upstairs to say hello. Hello is about all I got back because she was intently watching a serious documentary on her black and white tv. She clearly had no desire to interact. Her behaviour intensified my determination to crack her shell. Crack her shell I did.

Eva was a fulltime biophysicist professor at Simon Fraser University. She came to Canada from Germany  in her twenties, completed many, many classes and degree programs to earn her stripes as a world class researcher and professor. She was brilliant in the world of academia, but flat in social skills. For some reason I did not want to walk away because her demeanor intrigued me. 

Eventually she did ask me to come fully into her living room on those political meeting nights. Eventually she told me about the atrocities she experienced under Hitler. Eventually she offered me a glass of champagne even though I was still under age. She told me she admired my boldness in my attempts to draw her out of her very serious demeanour and dissipate her very unsocial manners. I told her I was curious about different personalities and talking to an intellectual felt beneficial to my efforts to break away from being seen as rambunctious and without a hope in hell of making my life’s journey amazing.

From then on, every visit became a cerebrally strained exercise in looking beyond the obvious, dissecting topics to the nth degree, and bringing those pieces back together with a very different outcome. 

Even though my time with her, usually at the tail end of a political meeting, resulted in my having a fast pulsing brain and often a very stressed headache, that’s when I learned how to debate for or against any topic. That’s when I started to write really good essays and grant applications. That’s when I was able to see a future for me to turn heads, to look around corners and beyond the obvious, and to move forward with confidence. I guess you could say Eva was somewhat of a mentor to me.

Fast forward several decades —  Eva is now in her 90s and living in a swank care facility. She has no family but has the most phenomenal of neighbours. He secured her spot at the new home where she will spend her last years. He has undertaken the onerous task of meticulously going through her massive amounts of academic dissertations, hundreds of scientific books, significant amounts of clothing, toilet paper, paper towels, office supplies, LPs, 45s and CDs, and every single drivers license and passport she has ever had.

The guy is amazing. He even set aside a box of stuff he thought I would appreciate, and that’s where my motivation to write this story began.

When I arrived at the house I saw the box sitting on a chair in the kitchen. It was full of Dutch things from Delft blue items to pewter caldrons, some ceramics, and a beautifully hand drawn scene of a neighbourhood in Utrecht. It’s labeled authentic, numbered and signed by the artist. I will treasure it.

In addition to all of the above, I will also treasure something else. On the kitchen table there was a copy of one of my earliest self published collections of short stories and poetry entitled Wrinkles and Rhymes. My jaw dropped as my hands picked it up carefully and my eyes looked at the date — 1996.   

Inside was a handwritten note on pink paper on which Eva had inscribed a personal note. It was very appreciative and complimentary. She never got around to sending that note to me. As a few tears descended down my cheeks,I think I might have understood why — she was never comfortable in expressing personal thoughts or feelings, but she really wanted to be sure I knew what hers were. As to why she never mailed the note to me, perhaps it was her wish to be sure I knew later.

As the readers of this story might deduce, Eva is no longer with us — at least not the Eva I once knew and loved to be around. Her memories are no longer with her, and when I see her I don’t really think she realizes who I am. 

I do plan to visit her at her new “home” next week. I will bring Wrinkles and Rhymes with me, and her note, and see if they trigger some level of recognition. Either way it doesn’t really matter. We had a connection. It was a connection that inspired me and drove me forward, and although her voice never told me how proud she was of me, the personal handwritten note truly says it all. 

With my glass of champagne in hand, the champagne she left behind in her fridge, I raise a glass to her and thank her from the entirety of my very happy heart. ♥️ 

A LIBERAL IS A LIBERAL IS A LIBERAL

MORE MONTREAL MEMORIES

It has been a few decades since I have attended a federal Liberal Party convention. Returning to that opportunity in early Spring 2026, has been the most exciting and reinvigorating experience of my year so far. What took me so long?

To make that long story short, let me just say being physically present in a federal Liberal milieu, be it a meeting, event or occasion, was strictly prohibited when I worked as a provincial political employee. It was seen to be politically damaging — enough said. Silence and secrecy was the price I had to pay to retain the greatest and best job I had ever had, that being the greatest and best job I had ever dreamed of having. Happily I was not a lone wolf Liberal; the few other colleagues and I kept our silence as a pack.

Retirement has brought many positives to my life and the ultimate of freedom summarizes that truth very nicely. I proudly attended the 2026 Federal Liberal Party Convention in Montreal! I proudly told everyone, including naysaying acquaintances — even most of them were supportive. I embraced the feedback.

On departure day, I jumped out of bed at the sound of a Céline Dion tune. Showered, dressed, gathered my things and off I drove to the  Vancouver International Airport. I smiled from ear to ear every moment of the 45 minute drive. I easily found a parking spot in Long Term Parking. The mini SkyTrain was there to drive me to the terminal. I pranced through the NEXUS line of security, with an extra jump in my step,  found my departure gate with a Starbucks flat white in hand. I was ready to go.

At the Montreal Airport, I easily found the highly recommended best and cheapest way to get to downtown. It is called Express Bus 747. Everyone there knows about it. Everyone there knows where to find it. Everyone there highly recommends it. It costs a mere $11.75 and there’s a fresh clean bus every ten minutes. The ride is usually 35-45 minutes and all drivers know exactly which of the seven downtown stops is best for whatever hotel you have booked. It’s impressive. It’s amazing. It’s Montreal!

I arrived deliberately a day early because that’s just who I am. I like to get to where I need to be, acclimatize , orientate myself, know the route I need to walk to get to the Palais des Congrès for 9:00 registration. I enjoyed a relaxing Italian meal in the hotel restaurant with like minded company. I read the convention materials, turned off the light and slept very well.

The three block walk took me through some very familiar territory since I had been to Montreal frequently in my younger days. My mind quickly realized a lot had changed — more buildings, many more buildings. Iconic brasseries and churches were mixed in with the new. Fewer shopping shops but many more eateries. I still felt the magic of French Canadian culture — the language, the music, the support of the arts, the fashion and the grace of the proud people who live there. It felt great to be back.

At the Convention, I was one of 4400 delegates. I did not expect to see many familiar faces because western Canada does not have much support for federal Liberal ideals or policies. It is just one of those truths about people who fear politics or see politics as a game of some sort — a game of liars and cheaters, coming and going, talking through both sides of their mouths and just saying whatever you want to hear. It is quite a sad statement, but I have lived it for over 50 years. So many people fear the unknown and just prefer to be negative or critical about everything they don’t understand. They prefer to either be silent or jump on the loudest bandwagon, supporting the candidate with the nicest hair style, funniest sox or the most people attending rallies. Understanding policies means little or nothing. Asking them about the political spectrum draws blank looks. This has always been perplexing to me. But I digress.

From the moment I opened the glass doors to the Palais des Congrès on each of the three day Conference, I felt at home. Greeted, welcomed, offered coffee, tea or water. People were friendly, kind, helpful. The agenda was packed with options. Special guests like Mrs. Fox Carney, Rick Hansen, Olympic athletes, scholars, & entertainers, delivered inspirational speeches. New policy recommendations were discussed, debated and voted on. Federal Ministers were grouped in panel style to discuss their goals and objectives, successes and failures. Delegates were all given plenty of opportunities to ask questions. 

I met people from all across the country. 

At registration I met ‘Jacques from Yukon’ — as soon as I saw him I remembered meeting him decades ago at a Liberal Convention in Western Canada. He introduces himself in that way to everyone — it is hard to forget someone like that.

In the security line up, I met two ladies who live in Coquitlam! What are the chances? They are long time Liberals originally from Northern BC carrying the Liberal banner wherever they go. We exchanged contact information.

In the hotel elevator on Day 2, I met Shamus from Halifax. A dapper dresser, happy man. He is the author of the Liberal policy resolution to promote better trade with places other than our neighbours to the south.  He offered me a seat in his UBER ride. I accepted. I saw him a few more times that day and the next.

One evening in the hotel dining room, I met Peggy and Liz. They hailed from a small constituency on the north section of the Greater Toronto Area. It has been consistently Conservative forever, but Peggy and Liz have never swayed. They feel more sure than ever that next time the political map will show something very different. I yearn for that feeling too, and I share their optimism.

And then there is Gary. He is a guy I have known for over 30 years. I met him in Victoria. He was a new Member of the Legislative Assembly in the year when the BC Liberal Party (now defunct) won 17 seats. I was called to work there to help the caucus get organized. Gary is a true Liberal and never looked elsewhere. We have kept in touch over the years, and made a point of connecting at the Conference. He is principled and believes in balance, and being with people like that is very rewarding.

People like the ones I have met are not populists. They do not jump from party to party, depending on where the grass seems greener. They are not bandwagon jumpers. They are people who are in touch with their feelings about the country in which we live. They understand that as a diverse country with different geography, cultures, generations, history, and different strengths and weaknesses, a middle of the road approach to governance makes the most sense. We are all in this country together and together we need to figure out balanced solutions — not too right wing, not too left wing, but a balance much like an evenly weighed teeter totter. The Liberals are the middle of the political spectrum, the middle of that teeter totter. 

It has been a long sometimes difficult road for the Liberal members across the country, especially those of us in British Columbia. Conferences like this one and a new fresh Leader with a proven track record on effective problem solving, negotiations and decision making, leaves us all with a renewed sense of optimism in our wonderfully diverse country proudly called CANADA.

Acknowledging

 

ARE TIMES A-changing?

Well tonight we in British Columbia, Canada are taking a bold step forward in moving forward our clocks for one last time. Like usual when a change is implemented, there is a surge of negativity which, sadly, seems to be the norm in modern society. It takes a heck of a lot of patience to tolerate negativity; but, with the backbone and determination of progressive thinkers, eventually the naysayers go back into their knolls until something else new comes along.

When it comes to change, I am an optimistic — albeit a cautious optimist. I once had high hopes that Canadians from coast to coast to coast would eventually embrace French-English bilingualism. It did not happen in most of western Canada but it sure feels good to be one who did and does. As a solo, I learned a lot and that’s a plus.

I once had high hopes that the political tide of my chosen political party would rise from the ashes. That was more than 40 years ago. It was a very long haul and massive change to come from zero wins to substantial wins. Then that too changed, and we are now bewitched with no pegs on the provincial political board once again. I learned a lot about people from that changing experience and that’s a plus.

So now this weekend we are supposed to be acknowledging International Women’s Day. I do acknowledge the day. I am a woman and when I compare what is now with what was then, times have changed for some, but progress continues to be slow. In fact progress is not even steady and often times it seems like a solo struggle to keep that light shining in civilized society— even that word “civilized” is an oxymoron when it comes to defining this topic. 

I think the purpose of declaring March 8 as International Women’s Day was to bring civility to society. When it comes to the lives of women and girls, generally, the realist side of me fails to feel civility. The movement started in the early 20th Century! We are now at 2026. Placate comes to mind. Tokenism. Crumbs. It’s best to soar solo like the eagle, rise from the ashes, change course, pave your own road because the intended international goal frightens the very people, locally, provincially and nationally, who can do something about it, with you or for you.

But I digress, or do I? My backbone and determination says: It’s time to change TIMES again, for one last time.