a tree worth hugging...

"I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree."* Yes, it's true. I'm a tree hugger. I've always felt a deep affinity for anything with branches. But there's a special place in my heart reserved for one particular spruce – the heroic tree that saved my family's home.

It was a sticky-hot afternoon in the summer of 1985. My three young sons and I were picking peas in our farm garden when a fierce and unexpected storm blew in across the fields. We ran for the house with rain pelting our backs. Wind ripped the door from my hands as we struggled to get inside, and then slammed the door behind us with an angry gust. We stood gasping and dripping in the middle of the room as the storm raged around us, rattling windows and battering the shingles until our little house trembled like leaves on an aspen. When the first flash of lightning split the suddenly dark sky, the answering boom of thunder seemed ominously close.

Photo by Brandon Morgan via Unsplash

The kids were frightened and so was I – I've never liked thunderstorms and this one was a doozie. But I pasted on what I hoped was a brave face, gathered them close, and told them not to worry, we would keep each other safe. I had barely formed the words when a flash of dazzling blue light and a massive BANG-crack assaulted our senses. The air around us seemed to sizzle, our ears popped, and the hairs on our arms prickled to attention. In one surreal moment, the plastic thermostat casing flew off the wall and struck my eldest son in the forehead. A trickle of blood leaked from his wound as we stood there, trembling and holding each other tight. A final gust of wind rattled the windows and the storm roared away as quickly as it had arrived.

After a quick head check and a Band-Aid for number one son, the four of us ventured outside. Instead of the usual after-storm freshness, the sharp tang of burnt wood filled the air. Lightning had found the highest point on the farm: one of three mature spruce trees in the yard. That poor tree was split from top to bottom. Wisps of smoke rose from the jagged scar and charred wood chips littered the lawn. Electricity had run to ground through the tree's roots, jumped to the plumbing that crossed the yard from well to house, burned out the water pump in the basement, and then surged through the electrical system to launch the freaky flying thermostat.

We'd had a close call. I'll always be grateful to that majestic spruce for taking the hit, because the second highest point on the farm – mere feet away from the tree – was the chimney on the roof of our beautiful little house.

Harrington House in Box Grove, Ontario circa 1990
Painting by Jorge Nascimento

I don't have a photo of my heroic spruce to share but I hope you'll enjoy this slideshow of other trees I've loved. Click on the player to start/advance the show.

 

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*Poem fragment from Trees by Joyce Kilmer.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

  

photos of 2015

Since retiring from The Day Job in May of 2015, I've tried to make a habit of carrying my camera wherever I go. As you might imagine, this has resulted in an ever-expanding photo library and plenty of story inspiration. Over the holidays, I took some time to look through all those images of people, places and beautiful things, and chose a few favourites to share. (Click to enlarge.)

Apple blossoms at Colonel Samuel Smith Park on Lake Ontario in Toronto. I love the way the focus "pops" on this one. And the colours of spring!

This male Mallard duck, kept a close eye on me as he paddled. I realized later that his mate was sleeping nearby, perfectly camouflaged by beach pebbles. I can't help but smile when I see those little orange feet and the reflected sparkle of sun-warmed water on his breast.  

Old man turtle found a sunny spot to lounge by the pond in the conservatory at Centennial Park in Toronto. Just look at that smug expression. Turtles play an important part in Rock Solid, so I'm a real sucker for a guy in a handsome shell.

This gorgeous blue heron was fishing in the Grand River in Cambridge, Ontario while I lunched with a friend at a riverside restaurant. He did eventually catch a little fish and gobble it down. Not far away, this fisher woman kept him company. She didn't seem to be having much luck, though. 

No filters on this photo - that's exactly how the river looked. Fast water and lots of reflection. I love the effect!

Lake Ontario at the Village of Wellington in Prince Edward County. A storm blew through the night before and remnant winds and waves made walking a bit wild. My favourite beach weather!

Purple mystery flowers. That's not botanical, it really is a mystery. If anyone can identify this lovely plant, please let me know in the comments. Not native to my part of the world, this was taken in the tropical house at Toronto's Centennial Park Conservatory. UPDATE, January 8, 2016: Thanks to blog visitor Bec and Facebook commenter Ian who identified this lovely plant as Duranta Sapphire Showers.

I snapped several photos of this handsome Ring-billed Gull at Long Branch Park in Toronto. I like the movement in this shot and call it "on patrol". He seems to be marching to his own drummer.

No collection of favourites would be complete without a portrait of himself, Sam the Cat. Here, he's intently focussed on something only he can see. Fierce concentration. (Spooky.)

Lake Ontario on a sunny winter day. I marvel at how swans, ducks and other water fowl seem so unruffled by cold. This photo captured a drop of water just as it fell from the swan's beak. Elegant profile.

Back to Centennial Park Conservatory for this last image from 2015. The Christmas flower show featured spectacular displays of poinsettias but my eye was drawn to this glorious candy cane amaryllis.

My photo goals for 2016 are (1) to seek the unusual and (2) to cultivate patience. The patience part will, I hope, result in a few more successful bird photos. Thus far, I've been mostly foiled by their tendency to watch me point and focus, then flit away (laughing) just as I click the shutter. Maybe I'll have more luck if I pick my spot and settle in quietly to wait and watch. Well... worth a try.

Wishing you a 2016 full of beautiful things.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

  

flower power...

Turn the clock back nine months to February 27th, 2015. Here in Toronto, it was beginning to feel as if winter would never end. Temperatures hovered around minus 25 Celsius, snow and slush lined the roads, sidewalks were slick with ice. At home, Samcat had settled into hibernation mode atop his favourite radiator, and I was battling a gloom-inducing case of SAD.

That last Friday of February dawned clear and (no surprise) bitingly cold. But the sky was a crisp, cloudless blue and the sun shone brightly for the first time in more than a week. Being a red-blooded Canadian woman, I seized the opportunity, bundled up in parka and boots, and went shopping. Shoes? Books? No. I hit the local garden centre. When it comes to fighting the February blahs, there's nothing like a touch of the tropics and, as my mother always said, if you can't go south, go for fresh flowers and hothouse humidity.

I browsed for a while, not really intending to buy, until I encountered the orchid display – a glorious riot of purple, white, and yellow blooms – with (bonus!) everything on sale. The choice was easy: a sunny yellow Moth Orchid (Phalaenopsis), sporting a bright pink centre that reminded me of a funny, smiling face. I hurried the little Phal home, double-wrapped in a paper cone as protection from the cold. With luck, it would last through March, maybe even into April, a cheerful presence on my dining room table. 

In fact, the hardy little orchid held its blooms until the end of May. After so many months of pleasure, I couldn't bring myself to dispose of it, so when the last bloom dropped, I found a place for the pot on a table out on the balcony and… well, pretty much forgot about it.

Once upon a time, I had a kitchen with two enormous, west-facing windows, each with the kind of broad sill perfect for coaxing all sorts of plants to bloom, or bloom again. Those sunny window sills are the one thing I really miss in my condo. There's simply no good spot for growing a houseplant that wants a lot of light. So, if I can't give it away, a plant past its bloom will eventually wind up sad and spindly in the green bin. (Fact: Nobody wants an orchid past its bloom.) But I'm SO glad I didn't hurry to bin this one. Just look at what greeted me on August 1st!

Three weeks later, by August 19th, my little Phal pal had produced a total of seven lovely flowers on a sturdy new branch off the original spike. I'm equally glad I didn't hurry to trim that spike.

Super Phal is back indoors now, and still going strong. This next photo was taken less than a week ago on November 19th. I won't be a bit surprised if some of the blooms last through Christmas – but no matter when the final flower drops, this little beauty isn't going anywhere. Not even if I have to build a special shelf to hold it. 

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington 

  

little house of horrors...

Last month on one of my afternoon rambles I ventured into the conservatory at Centennial Park in Etobicoke. It's one of my favourite Toronto destinations, especially on gloomy days when I can imagine myself lost in some lush, tropical jungle complete with towering palms, exotic birds, and colourful fish.

The glasshouse has three distinct sections. In the central and largest room live the tropical palms and pomegranates, banana trees, orchids, hibiscus, and myriad other visitors from warmer climes, including Angel, the resident Australian Cockatoo.

Palms and Tropicals

Goldfish in the Pond

Phalaenopsis Orchids

Angel the Cockatoo - Official Greeter

To the north, is an ever-changing garden room where visitors are treated to whimsical displays celebrating the changing seasons.

Easter Egg Tree

Spring Blooms

Christmas Pageant

The southern house is home to a glorious desert habitat, teeming with other-worldly silhouettes; strange beings armed with threatening spines and thorns. Unexpected blooms surprise and delight – everything from tiny, perfect petals on prickly Euphorbia splendens, to flashy spikes of crimson and yellow on the giant Aloe vera.

A Prickly Situation

Euphorbia splendens (Crown of Thorns)

Aloe vera in bloom

But on that cloudy August afternoon, I encountered something very peculiar indeed among the cacti and succulents… a tangle of lumps and bumps spreading tentacle-like, stretching ever closer to the door as if plotting escape. And from the tip of one of those tentacles sprouted two long, smooth stalks with massive flower buds – so heavy they couldn't stand erect. I swear they seemed to grow even larger while I stared in fascination. I even began to imagine they were staring right back at me like Audrey II, that infamous person-eater in Little Shop of Horrors. Could this little monster be Audrey III?

Is it just me, or can you imagine those puckery lines as a mouth?

I'm almost certain I saw the largest bloom shudder ever so slightly as I inched closer to aim my camera. It seemed to swell, like a pale, fleshy balloon. (It couldn't be breathing, could it?) Thankfully, Audrey didn't object to being photographed and I escaped unscathed into the tropical house where I tried but failed to find someone who might answer my questions about the sinister plant. My imagination took over. What if, just like the hapless victims in Little Shop, the missing greenhouse staff had all been devoured by the very thing consigned to their care?

Safely home, I searched the web for some hint of what the creepy creeping cactus might be. No luck. I would have to go back. And so, armed with my camera (to document potential horrors), and wearing running shoes (just in case), I returned the next morning to investigate.

The doors to the hothouse were closed when I arrived. I peered through the window. No sign of human life. When I eased the door open and stepped through, I found Audrey III still lounging on her brick wall.

She looked almost regal, I thought, but quite a lot puffier than she'd been the day before. That's when I noticed another of her kind peeking out from behind a rock. Closer inspection revealed another… and another. Audrey had a posse. I backed slowly away.

Rounding a corner in the tropical house I happened upon a lanky man in dusty blue overalls, grooming the Phalaenopsis. I was in luck. I'd found one of the conservatory's horticulturalists. He brushed wisps of fine, sandy hair away from his face as he stooped to peer at Audrey III's image on my camera display. 

"Ah!" he said, in a softly accented voice. "Stapelia. He sounded it out, "Sta-pee-lee-ahh. Come, I tell you." And he led me back to the hothouse to examine Audrey again. 

"You come tomorrow," he said, pointing at the largest of Audrey's flower buds. "This bloom will open. See how it…" He paused to think and made an extravagant gesture with both hands. "It looks inflated, yes? And here" he pointed at the lines I'd imagined as Audrey's mouth, "see how she starts to darken and pucker? You come again tomorrow."

Not only a mouth. Now Audrey III seems to be forming eyes!

When I thanked him for his time, the man pinched his nose and grinned. "It will be kind of… stinky."

Suddenly, the light dawned. Audrey III might not be a person-eater, but there was definitely something uniquely horrible about her. Stapelia gigantea (toad plant or carrion plant) is a cunning trickster. It needs lots and lots of flies to ensure pollination and attracts them by emitting a foul, rotting corpse smell. Stinky indeed! I vowed to return the next day to witness Audrey in all her putrid, full-blooming glory.

Day Three: Audrey curls her lip, ready to bloom.

Day Four: Stapelia gigantea

Stapelia, aka toad plant or carrion plant in full, stinky bloom. 

In fact, I returned three times before Audrey's bloom opened wide. I guess she was waiting for a perfect sunny day to make her début. Lanky-man was right. Stinky! The neighbourhood flies were much impressed. I decided against a return visit. If Audrey makes that much stink on her own, imagine the stench when her friends join the fly-baiting fun!

stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

Wordless Wednesday #4