Saturday, September 30, 2017

Burnaby Rain

When I first came to the West Coast as an adult, I stayed in Burnaby.  The magnificent hues of rich green foliage, shrubs and grass amazed me.  Canada’s rain forest.
Today I remembered that as I heard the heavy rain falling on my roof. I pushed the button that extended the awnings on my home and a deluge of water poured off. It had  been trapped in the folds.
I turned on the electric fire feeling the warmth challenging the chill. I'd left the outside door open with only the screen door to keep the cat and dog from escaping.  I lit a lavender incense stick enjoying the rich fragrance as it joined the heat.
Then I brewed some Sambucca tea and  poured the rich exotic elixir into an elegant grey and white tea cup . I added a dab of honey and savoured the fragrance as I swallowed the sensuous creation.   It reminded me England, the time I lived there,  My latest memory was of Ireland. I always think of Britain when I have tea.
I was putting pictures up that I’d previously had up in my office, before it closed. Cherished photos, etchings, paintings and engravings.  So many memories.  Oxford, Singapore, Saipan, Scotland, Ireland, St. Petersburg, Mexico, the SV GIRI.  I couldn’t decide. How high, where. Holding the St. George engraving my friend George came to mind.  I had to sit. Each picture holds a favoured memory.  I found I couldn’t even decide the placement of the cross I’d brought back from Rome.  Jesus.
I thought how I’d once imagined myself this old, smoking a pipe, drinking Irish whiskey, sitting in an old house with a fireplace and writing desk, looking out on a forest scene and lake or sea. Now I’m lightening up, giving stuff away. I don’t even smoke or drink anymore.  I’d rather wear a skirt than sport a moustache or beard.  I especially like a cup of tea.
So often the rain was an enemy at sea, obscuring vision, making the deck treacherous, my glasses fogged, the north Pacific seas in winter,  rain  freezing on the rigging.  I didn’t like it either motorcycling year round , squinting into the face hurting sleet praying my tires would maintain their grip, hoping the distracted signal impaired Vancouver drivers would see me.
Here in Burnaby the plants thrive and literally sing in the rain.  They are alll a glow with new found wonder. This is their time. This is their season.  I can’t pout in face of such celebration.
However, I can’t say it sounds like pitter patter. Heavier.  Like an invasion of Lilliputian paratroopers.  I fear for my roof.  The water seeks to get in everywhere.  The soldiers who’d been to Afghan told me the sand was like that.  Invasive.  I’ve always associated sand with vacations.  I first met this Burnaby rain on vacation.  I imagine that’s why I like it so much better than Vancouver rain and work rain.  So often I ‘ve fought the rain to get to work.
Here I can sit in the warmth of my home looking out my window at the magnificent forest sipping my delicious tea as I thank God for all the wonders of sights and sound, and smell and taste. I am especially thankful for this weekend.   I am  waiting for my friend. She’ll help me hang things.  She’s wise that way.
And luscious like the foliage.  And tasteful as the honeyed tea.
We have dinner and a movie planned.  After hanging memories.
She reminded me to get the pop corn and I did.
What a wonderful way to enjoy a Burnaby rain.
Indoors, curled up on the couch together, with the dog and the cat.

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