The Auld Kirk

Another stop on our Doors Open tour on Saturday was The Auld Kirk, just outside Almonte. We've noticed it for three years now and always been curious, but it's never been open, so it was definitely on our must-see list.



As you can see, both the church and the setting are picturesque and attractive, and I suppose the name is somewhat enticing too. Since, according to the plaque above, the church has been pretty well unused since 1864, someone or many someones deserve an awful lot of credit for maintaining the place so well.



We were surprised at how tiny and plain the sanctuary was, but considering its Presbyterian (Church of Scotland) roots, I guess we shouldn't have been. The building is unheated in winter, so it's very hard to keep paint on the walls. That's Cuppa sitting in the pew trying to get a feel for the place and probably being exceedingly glad that she can visit it briefly in this day and age rather than have to attend dour services a century and a half ago. I tend to experience a bleak sadness just thinking about it.



The adjoining cemetery is quite large and has, obviously, served the area more effectively than the church itself. This photo certainly doesn't capture all of it, but I think you can see the markers receding into the distance.



Tidbits

• The Auld Kirk is an example of Gothic Revival architecture.
• The church originally served an area called Leckies Corners, which is long gone and began its decline after woolen mills came to nearby Almonte circa 1860.
  
• The land for the church and cemetery were purchased for the grand sum of 3 pounds, 2 shillings and sixpence in 1833.
• After the church was closed in the early1860's, it fell into disrepair but was partially restored after World War I by community members who wished to honour their pioneer ancestors.
• The building material is something called rubblestone and was brought from a farm several concessions over.
• These days, there is generally one service per year to honour the memory of those buried in the cemetery.
  

The Naismith House

Saturday was Ontario's Doors Open Day. While it is theoretically a province-wide event, I have only been aware of it since we moved here to Eastern Ontario. It's pretty well what it sounds like; historically interesting places are encouraged open their doors to the public. Today, we enjoyed and appreciated being admitted to a number of private residences.

We spent several very enjoyable hours in and near Almonte (pronounced Almont, with a silent e). While we were able to pass through several fascinating open doors, the one which I will describe here is of almost universal interest because it is the childhood home of the Canadian man who invented the game of basketball. However, I don't know if we are fortunate or unfortunate that he devised the game while living in the USA. While we lose the main bragging rights, basketball would likely have fizzled had it truly been brainwaved in little, old Almonte, and then there would have been nothing to brag about at all.



This (above) is the historical plaque that we found at the front of the property which you will see in the following photo. Apparently Naismith was born in this house (see below), but his parents sold it to his uncle and moved elsewhere. However, they died of typhoid shortly thereafter, so James and his two siblings moved back under the care of their uncle. Naismith continued to live here until he left for University of McGill at the age of twenty-three.

This view of the house and front yard is what we see now, 153 years after it was built, but it's authentic. Even the verandah, which had been lost to the ravages of time, was recently and faithfully restored from old photographs. While there has been an addition out back, from the front the house now looks almost exactly like it did all those years ago.



Autumn is moving in on us very quickly now. This last photo is a view from the back of the house. The hay has been mowed and the trees beyond are turning colour.



(The sketchy outline of the rest of the story is on the plaque shown in the first photo, but, in brief, Naismith moved to Massachusetts after graduating, and it was there that he developed a game which could be played indoors in winter with very little equipment.)

Foto Friday

Nikki Dee hasn't been well this week, and she hit a very low point of crankiness and irritability yesterday. So, it's good (for her) that I have a slew of good pictures proving that we've had happier times.

Such as when she became my personal trainer.



And oral hygenist.



Not to mention my comforter over a bad hair day life.



She reminded me to stop and smell the roses feel the leaves before they go away for the winter.



And to let my imagination soar.



I guess it wasn't such a bad week after all.



And I guess I'll forgive her for the horror that was yesterday.

Ceremony Photos

I finally have made the time to update my Wedding Ceremony set. While there are many parts of the weekend yet to be attended to, I think that's it for the ceremony, at least until I receive the one other batch that I am expecting.

Brush By Brush

I notice this house almost daily. It's one of those fine old Victorian types of houses that linger here and there.



To their credit, the owners have resisted siding it.

To my dismay, they are also taking forever to paint the thing. You see, this is our fourth September here, and there was scaffolding up in that very first September. It came down sometime before winter, but it was up the following summer and the next and this one just past as well. Oh they do make progress, but it's rather slow going, and I think I've only ever seen someone painting just once. It seems to me that it will take at least another summer or two before they're done. By then, it will probably be time to start all over.

I wonder if there will ever be a summer without scaffolding. Perhaps I'll miss it when it's gone.

It's all okay and not my business, but it's just something that strikes me as a bit unusual, so I thought I would share the photo and explanation with you.

And it makes for an easy blog.

And easy is good.

A Few Photos

In order to break my silence of the last few days, I'll post a few photos today. The first two are from a weekend walk at the nearby Mill of Kintail. The third is of the river in town and was taken last week.

I called this first picture Ancient Guardian on my Flickr site. Both Cuppa and I noticed that it looked something a crocodile head when we walked past, but I think it looks more mythological in the photo. You might want to see this one larger. Just click on it, and it will open in a new window (as will the next two).



The next photo was taken not too far away from the previous one. It is Indian River that you see.



The original of the next photo is quite large. I usually downsize photos that I upload directly to Blogger, but I forgot this time. However, it is more effective viewed large. While this is more or less true for all photos, it is more than less true for this one (all in this post in fact) where I have tried to render a bit of painting effect. Anyway, as I said before it is of our local river, looking west (more or less).

The Mystery of Memory

I am struck again (I say again because I know I posted something along this line once before) at the oddity of memory or of my memory at any rate. When I was at the jam the other night, I recognized many faces and could just about place where I seen every one. Don, on my left, I have seen at several jams, two workshops, and talked to briefly in the downstairs washroom about two years ago. I even recall what we said. To him though, I looked only vaguely familiar. On the other hand, he seems to remember every tune he's ever played.

There was the guitar player two down of my right; I have only seen himonce but I can tell you where I saw him, in what chair he was sitting, and what tune I requested when he asked. The guy to his right, I sat next to but one at a workshop in Almonte last June, and the lady to his right, I saw once at the same jam as the guitar player. I know it was on or near Robbie Burns Day because I remember her referring to it and leading in some Scottish pieces in homage. And so on. To all of these people, however, I looked only vaguely familiar. On the other hand, you may have noted that I didn't refer to any save one by name even though we went around the circle to introduce ourselves. However, while I don't do names very well, I'd be almost willing to wager that many of them will be able to call me by name if we meet again soon.

I don't know what it is with me and names, but I simply don't retain them very well. Just the other day, for example, Cuppa mentioned the name of the street just one over from us, and I immediately thought she was referring to the the one up from us. I feel kind of dumb when I do that ... and maybe I am. You'd think one should know the neighbouring streets after all because I do turn onto that one daily as it connects to mine.

My odd memory patterns also turn up a lot when watching television. We've watched countless mysteries, and while they do tend to blur and run together, I'll frequently begin to remember incidents and sometimes be able to predict them. This is while Cuppa is almost willing to swear that she's never seen it before. On the other hand she has a great memory for anecdotes or tidbits of information such as you should RICE a sprain, whatever the heck that means. Meanwhile, I sometimes do well with numbers. For example, I might be able to pick up a cookbook and go directly to the correct page (at least if I've looked at it somewhat recently).

I suppose it's down to learning styles. Some are visual learners while other brains respond to different stimuli. I still find it all remarkable, however.

Whatever the whys and wherefores, I still feel extraordinarily dumb when the name of the neighbouring street eludes me.

Sweatshirts and Margarine

I couldn't hack it last night and got up after an hour or so to put on a sweatshirt. It was so flippin cold that I had to do something. I am tempted to turn the furnace on for tonight. The day will be fine because it will warm up nicely while the sun shines, but the temperatures will probably plummet again when darkness falls.

In a typical year we try to last until near the end of October before we relent and turn the furnace on. Ideally, we'd like to make it until November first, but we never do. So, what in tarnation is going on to make me consider starting the furnace in the middle of September?

Just this: last night our house went down to 14°C (57°F) or colder because that's what our thermostat registered at almost eight o'clock after the sun was already up and supposedly beginning its work. Brrr.

So out came the sweatshirt last night because we still have only one flimsy, summer-weight blanket on the bed. And this morning found me searching the fridge for margarine. While I'm a butter sort of guy, I do prefer something that actually spreads on my toast on cold mornings as opposed to the butter which turns into a hard brick. And I said to Cuppa while we chattered our teeth at each other that this seems like mid-October weather rather than mid-September. Let's hope that we catch a bit of a break in the next month. Autumn is supposed to be a pleasant and enjoyable season after all.

Bedtime Reading

I just wrote a note in the front of our Lord of the Rings book: "Finished September 17, 2008." Which completes the started it entry made on October 28, 2007 and blogged about at the time.

We read together most nights, but it took longer this time, partly because my voice was out of commission for almost a month back in April and partly because we just went slower. But once again, it almost stunning what you can accomplish in small increments. When I wrote about it last year, I titled the post 1036 — as in that's how many pages were remaining after the first night of reading. And here we are all done, just by doing a little bit on a regular basis.

We figure that was our fourth or fifth time through LOTR, but we've also read many other books over the years: several if not all of the Dune books, James Herriot's series, Philip Gulley's books, Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables series, and who knows what else.

Last night we began Bart Ehrman's Misquoting Jesus: The Story Behind Who Changed the Bible and Why. It's non-fiction obviously and sounds dry, but I've read it myself and quite enjoyed it. To me, it's both a readable and eminently sensible book about the scriptures. I read part of the introduction to Cuppa last night, and she thoroughly enjoyed it, but we'll see how it goes when we get into the actual text.

Does anyone else have any candidates to nominate for good bedtime reading aloud? Nice comfy stories are preferred because one doesn't want to get hooked on a whodunit and the like when one just reads in brief snatches before lights out.

I Done Did It

I stood at the door peering in and just about deciding not to go in. But when Bruce came along heartily encouraging me to enter, of course I went in for that's what I had come to do — go through that door. Except that I hadn't expected it to be that particular door.

Three years ago we moved to this area; shortly after we attended a Celtic Jam Session in a nearby hamlet. That, in turn, nurtured the idea that I had shoved way back into the deep recesses of my brain, the idea of trying to learn how to play the fiddle. I had taken a few violin lessons as a kid, about forty-five years back. And I had kept the violin in the attic for all of those years. Well, it didn't do well in the attic, so sent it off to Goodwill before we moved here.

It had not really been a burning desire to try to play the instrument again; I hadn't gotten very far the first time after all, and then life intervened. But to some extent, I guess I had always felt that I had some unfinished business that I just might get around to attending to someday if the wind blew right. So, moving to this crazy area with its crazy fiddlers and such and then going to that Celtic Jam kind of set the tiny gears of my tiny brain in motion.

That was three years ago, and so two years ago, I rented an instrument and purchased a How To Play the Violin book, and I began to fiddle around — so to speak. And then I took some lessons, all with the knowledge that it was rather too late to become any good at the thing but that just maybe I might be able to participate in a jam session someday — a session like the one that I had attended and enjoyed so much.

So, I've plugged away for two years, mostly on my own, mostly in the basement not too close to the cat's delicate ears — to say nothing of Cuppa's. My teacher says that you really teach yourself, and her job is just to offer a bit of guidance and direction every now and then, but that it's really up to me. And so I've been pretty diligent down in the basement. I even joined a fiddling orchestra last September and played in the Christmas Concert but left it in May. The leaving was for various reasons, one being distance and the other being the concept — basically I didn't want to play for others. I wanted to play with others. There's a difference.

I guess you've figured out where this is heading, eh? Yup! Last night I got to the door of a local Celtic Jam Session ... and was about not to enter ... until Bruce came along almost shoved me through. The reason why I had demurred at the last moment was that they had moved the jam from the private back room of the local restaurant right into the dining room, and I had never wanted to try to play for an audience, particularly not on my first attempt. I know my limitations after all.

But, with Bruce's encouragement, I did enter. It was as I knew it would be. Many tunes were played that I didn't know, and even those that I was somewhat familiar with were played at a breakneck speed that left my fingers fumbling ineptly. But it was okay; I played some notes and nobody heard or cared about my myriad miscues. And when I couldn't play, which was much of the time, I listened and/or hummed and/or whistled, and it was all good.

When it came my turn to call the tune and play at my own preferred speed, I did. Of course, with my luck I picked a tune that few of them knew, and the first verse was, therefore, almost a solo. But I played on and got through it, and I have lived to recount the tale in this little space of mine on the world wide web. It's my story, or a chapter of my story, as I journey through this little life of mine, so I get to tell it as I wish and whether anyone else wishes to hear it or not. Which I just did.

And if you stuck around to read this anecdote to its conclusion, Thanks. It took a bit of courage to get as far as the door, and it took a bit of a encouraging shove to actually go through it, but I did and am a little glad and a little proud: proud that I have made the attempt, not of my playing ability — not that by any means.

PS: I happen to have a picture of the now famous Bruce. I took it at another jam that I attended (to watch) just over two years ago with camera in hand. He's the somewhat out of focus guy on the right.

Cuddling and Snuggling

While Grampa was fiddling in the boonies on Saturday (see previous post), little Nikki Dee and Daddy attended a music session for toddlers. They sent her home with a CD, so I popped it into the computer to have a listen.

And a certain precious girl, climbed onto my lap, lay her head on my chest, snuggled in, and listened with me ... and also watched the interesting light display generated by Windows Media Player. It was an Aw Shucks kind time that we shared as we cuddled together. We had an encore later when Cuppa was around to snap this picture.

Sharing the Stage

Let's say that Saturday was an odd one. Friends had told me of a wonderful fiddle workshop in a place called Tamworth, a little settlement almost two hours from here. So, of course, I decided to try it out, long drive and all. Cuppa and Thesha travelled with me, Cuppa because she hates to miss out on anything (in this case the drive), and Thesha to help get Cuppa around while I attended the event.

On the way there, Thesha tremulously queried from the back seat: "Are we taking this way home?" Because we were driving through an uninhabited, forested, winding road at that point. You see, although Southern Ontario is the most heavily settled part of Canada, there is a spur of the picturesque but largely unfarmable Canadian Shield that protrudes down through a part of it. This spur is sparsely inhabited, and that's where we were.

Replied I, "Well we can take road 15 home; it should be better." Well, it wasn't better. It was just as winding as the morning's road, only it was then dark as well. In fact, I think it was more winding and devoid of humanity as the forest creeped right up to the edge of the all-too-narrow road with no other cars on it.

The road was pretty narrow to begin with. One slip in the dark would have careened us into the forest. But then we saw a sign warning that it was about to become narrow(er). Which is when we began to laugh — but not hysterically. Of course not!

So that tells you something of the drive there and back: almost four hours in the car. In the meantime, I attended the workshops, and, while they were quite good, I'd hesitate to claim that they were worth that much effort and anxiety.

But at least I can say I shared the stage with one of Canada's best known fiddlers, Gordon Stobbe. At the end of the day we adjourned to the local hall — the upstairs of a small town legion hall — for a concert by the instructors. We students were offered our moment of glory by showing what we learned during the day. So, there we all are, or those who stayed, at the front of the hall. I've highlighted Gordon and I with arrows. All you can see of me is my chrome dome, but I have witnesses who will swear that it is my chrome dome.



So, I really have shared the stage with Gordon Stobbe.

As we were waiting for the official festivities to begin, some of the more advanced fiddlers had a bit of an impromptu jam session at the back of the hall. I thought that was cool (photo deliberately blurred).


Thesha and Cuppa waiting patiently and prettily.


The silly would-be fiddler and his wife.



While I don't suppose that I will make that trek again next year, I'm glad I made this one-time effort. It was a unique day that I appreciate experiencing.

A Brick and a Bouquet

First the brick: Just the other day I praised Dr Best for offering good and free sciatica information on the web. I cited two YouTube videos that contained good stuff and a free, downloadable booklet on his web site. Well, I am forced to withdraw my praise ... to some degree at least.

While the above is true, it seems that the really good stuff (supposedly) is only available to site members, and of course there is a fee involved — $19.95. Maybe it would be worth it, but I thought he was a guy just concerned with doing good things. Beyond the membership fee, he is also available for consults*, but I haven't got far enough to know what the rate is for that service (and I guess I never will). Apparently, he's no Dr Oz or Dr Roizen of realage.com.

As I said the other day, everyone has the right to earn a buck, but I had thought that I had discovered a genuinely altruistic guy, and I've been disappointed — not bitterly by any means, but at least mildly. It's not just the membership concept and fee that bothers me but the long, petal-strewn path to get me to the point where I'm willing and eager to part with the cash. Just be up front with me and can the drawn out courting dance. (* I have no issue with him charging for consults. And having said all of that, I still stand by my positive review in the previous post, particularly of the YouTube videos.)

But I did have a good experience with a very large company lately.

The bouquet: I recently purchased a new Logitech cordless, laser mouse. However, I soon suffered a nasty brain cramp and tried to pack my laptop into its carrying bag without removing the little USB receiver. And bent the thing well beyond reclamation in the process. So, I called Logitech, quite prepared to purchase a new receiver should they offer replacements for clods such as I. I had no expectation, just a hope. Lo and behold, weren't they happy to send me a replacement free of charge. I know it's just good business as they've solidified my support and garnered a tiny bit of good publicity in the process, but I'm quite pleased nevertheless.

UnFoto Friday

Since you've seen a myriad of wedding photos this week, I deem it prudent to skip Foto Friday in favour of an UnFoto Friday. Fear not, however, for you can count on me posting many many wedding photos in the days and weeks to come. Don't you feel better just knowing that?

As luck would have it after my sciatic adventures of Wednesday night, I already had a scheduled visit with my pedorthist yesterday, the purpose being to relieve me of a king's ransom and in the process to also relieve yet another condition common to some of us Less Young: a condition known as plantar fasciitis (heel spurs in the common speech). Be that as it may, the only relevant thing regarding my sciatic occurrence and, therefore this blog, was that he concurred with Ruth and others that it is, indeed, sciatica that I am experiencing. (Not that I would ever doubt Ruth, but it was comforting to have verification from a higher power — so to speak.)

But I have endured sciatica in my left leg for years (fear not, for it's generally under control), and this right side attack felt different. So I did what everyone would have done, only they would have done it much earlier because just about everyone on the planet is brighter than this writer, and did a Google search. Which led me to a few useless sites before I clicked on this YouTube entry (click or see below or take my word for it and move on down the page for even more more of my engaging narrative).



You have probably chosen to skip the video, but I have included it above as proof my my lucidity and because a recent scientific survey reported that there were at least five other computer users out there who suffer from sciatica. Or was that five tarillion? Regardless, there was Dr George Best describing the cause of sciatica and demonstrating appropriate remedial exercises. He described the Mackenzie method, which I know is reputable and endorsed because I have been using it with some success for about a decade and a half now. At the end of his video he mentioned another cause of sciatica, one not caused by disc ruptures etc. So, I opened his next video ...



... and found my condition (I think). Apparently these is a muscle deep in the buttocks called the piriformis that can also get tangled up (my words) with the sciatic nerve. In this clip he showed how to differentiate between the two causes, and so I deduced that my recent moanings and groanings were from piriformis sciatica rather than disc-induced sciatia. And he prescribed, if pescribed isn't too strong a word, remedial exercises. All of that takes place in this video.

I checked out his site, SciaticSelfCare.com from which I downloaded a free 49 page booklet. He just seems to be a well-intentioned doctor desirous of helping back suffers. So far I find no monetary motive, and that pleases me muchly. How wonderful to know that there are good, well-intentioned people around — not that good people don't need to earn a living too, but I think you know what I mean.

To come to the point: I did the exercises before retiring to bed, and I am pleased to report that I had a good sleep last night without too much back and leg trouble. Now, I'm not so naive as to think that a few stretches would relieve the condition that quickly; no, the attack probably wasn't that severe anyway. Nevertheless, it's comforting to have found a resource that may be of great help to me both now and in the future.

On Becoming Less Young

Becoming less young is a rather fascinating experience. I have to put it that way — less young — because I can't see it, or at least can't say it, as becoming old yet — not yet!

Although I am now over the sixty hump, and the idea of becoming less young isn't as novel, I still find myself wondering at the process that is inexorably occurring to me, the processes occurring within me.

Tonight, it's the right leg. It's five AM, and I've been up for hours and slept fitfully before then. The leg from rump to knee along the back is causing me grief and some fascination. For some time now, I've experienced soreness of the back legs, and although Celebrex has helped lately, it's not a total cure. I take it in the morning, and it has often seemed to wear off before the next morning.

But that's a nagging general soreness of an ache in both legs. Tonight, it was multiplied by five or maybe more in one leg only, and I don't know if it's the same thing or something different. Why one leg and not both? Why tonight when I can't think of a cause?

Three strong Tylenols and a hot bath have helped somewhat but only somewhat. It helps to be up doing too. Even though the pain is still there, one can work through it to some degree. But when you lie there in the stillness trying to find the unconsciousness of sleep, it's too loud and insistent on the nerves as it were.

So I got up. Had my Tylenols. Tried to rest in my Lazy Boy. Got up again. Went to the basement to find the portable heater to warm the bathroom because it's really cold tonight (what's up with that?). Came back upstairs to find that Sir Cat had gifted me with a puke. Cleaned it up. Ran the water. Found a dry towel in the closet. Explained to my Sweatheart that I was not really hosting a convention. Squirted eyedrops into my sleepy eyes so that I could read in the tub. Soaked. Towelled. Went to bed again. Got up again. Blogged.

My prose seems quite wonderful to me now but by morning it will probably read like Sir Cat's earlier offering. What's the old saying: Many are called; puke are chosen?

I don't know what's up with the leg. I have a big day planned for Saturday, have had for quite some time now. It involves a lot of driving followed by a lot of sitting followed by a lot of driving. Will I have to cancel because of this stupid leg thing? Should I call the doctor? Can she see me at short notice? Would she have a clue anyway. I mean it does seem rather bizarre. How should she know what it's all about?

But it is fascinating, this business of becoming less young. I have observed that almost everyone has symptoms of one sort or another. Compared to some, I'll take mine and be glad — except for the cat puke and the possible letdown looming on Saturday. It offered me a blog topic after all.

Ceremony Photos

So, let's meander through the rest of the ceremony, shall we?

The rabbi and the couple partake of the cup (wine).



Then the seven blessings are read. In this case, the rabbi read the first two and last two. I read the third in both Hebrew and English. Cuppa and Puff's Mom read the fourth and fifth blessings respectively.








Although the couple does not formally exchange vows, they do exchange rings.





Of course, they kiss after the ring exchange.



Then they each broke a wine glass.



Following the Jewish tradition, right after the ceremony the couple went off together for about ten or fifteen minutes. The second picture is an attempt to be arty. I know; I should leave it to the artists. You may have to view it large to get the effect.

Singing, Clapping and Dancing

If I recall correctly, there were three times when D played the guitar and sang, always encouraging the rest of us to join in. I have never witnessed such integration of music into a ceremony and found it to be quite wonderful.



Music leads to clapping and that's what the next four photos show from various distances, starting with the girls and moving back to take in the audience. The third picture is just a zoom of part of the one before it. When I looked closely at the whole photo, I found that all four of us — parents and grandparents — were engaging Nikki Dee as they clap as we often do this together. I, particularly, have a goofy look on my face.











Good music tends to lead to dancing. This one was impromptu. What fun! Imagine being spontaneous at your own wedding!



More to come tomorrow.

Under the Chuppah

The Jewish wedding ceremony takes place under a canopy called a chuppah (don't say the 'c'). For their event the girls had their west coast friends sign their best wishes at the party following the civil ceremony. Puff's dad has passed away, so on top, Puff placed her father's prayer shawl.

The first photo shows the whole scene and part of the audience. One has to appreciate how green everything was so late in August. That was the beneficial side effect of having such a wet summer. Another great thing is that by the end of August the insects were not inclined to bother us very much; earlier in the summer, they could have and would have made it miserable. Notice that the families stand beside the couple rather than sit through the ceremony.



The next photo is a little closer than the first. The flouncy bride's family and friends are on the right actually closer to Althegal. Except for Nikki Dee who was being a very good girl in the front row, that's our whole but tiny clan under the chuppah and to the left. The two brothers-in-law, Puff's and Althegal's, are holding the chuppah with Puff's nephew helping out.



Moving in even closer, you can see me looking off into the trees. At times I needed to collect my emotional self by casting my glance to the glorious surroundings. Cuppa seems to be having a similar moment. It was a beautiful scene on a beautiful day with the Crowe River in the direction in which I am looking (except lower). If you look closely, you can see that the officiant is playing the guitar at this point as he did at several junctures during the ceremony. It was quite poignant.



And finally, for this post, a closer shot under the chuppah with the rabbi reading, the girls holding hands, and my son-in-law holding the chuppah. The funky footwear is more visible in this photo, but if you look back up at the other photos, you'll see it there too. We didn't all wear pink or green Converse sneakers, but I was keen to go with the flow.



(Note: all of these photos as well as those yesterday were taken by my BIL.)

Along the Green Aisle

Even the last four years have brought about a difference in photography. When Thesha got married, there were digital cameras, but they weren't quite as ubiquitous or so many megapixels. I perhaps have access to half the pictures taken at the wedding and feel swamped. Nevertheless, bit by bit I'll try to wade through them and post them here and there on the WWW. Primarily for family, I think some of you regulars may appreciate a quick look too. In almost all cases, and certainly in today's batch, the photos were taken by others. All of these, for example, are from my Bro-IL, Treebeard who has some amazing photos posted on his Flickr site.

Today, I 'll show you the walk down the aisle, the green aisle. In this first photo, you can see where the wedding party collected for the traditional walk. It shows the lawn, which we call Bridgesward (or Bridge Sward)because there is the relic of a bridge if you were to point the camera the other way. The rabbi (not officially one yet) is the first to make the walk.



At thirty second intervals the rest of us followed. This is Thesha, my oldest.



Both Cuppa and I walked Althegal. This was very emotional for me, and there are a number of photos of me looking to the ground, but I managed to lift my head for a this one. Get a load of the funky vest and bowtie, will ya? I think it's been fifty years or more since I last wore one of those. Don't Cuppa and Althegal look smashing?



At the end of the walk, we both got a hug from the girl. Cuppa is about to get hers in the next photo, and I managed a smile while waiting for mine.



Then Puff came, escorted by her mother and sister.



Here, the two brides greet and are about to hug and kiss before being officially joined.



I'll try to keep the photos coming fairly regularly now that I've started because I know that a number of folk are getting anxious to see them.

Foto Friday

Last weekend while at the cottage we stopped along The Old Mill Road near Apsley, Ontario for a few photos.



This is Eels Creek as viewed from near the road.



Cuppa: my focal point in life.



The other day, Nikki Dee brought Little Winnie the Pooh to me, so I grabbed big Winnie the Pooh, and we all snuggled together for quite some time. Probably the only person on the planet to appreciate my singing, she made me repeat the Winnie the Pooh song over and over and over again.



Then, when I decided to assume a back friendly position on the floor, Nikki Dee decided that her poor back could use a break too and that mine needed just a bit of extra pressure.