Fairy Houses

Visiting my grands always opens new experiences. 

Going anywhere with two boys involves negotiations since Mom’s plans and Grandma’s wishes (those anticipated adult-driven activities) are not always amenable to the intense plans and mindsets, the tight razor-sharp focus and tenacious schemes, the dreams of the day’s arrangement and the emotional tenor of what would make the 7-year-old and his brother happy. Of course, the older brother attempts to direct us all, since he walks forward with head erect and a wider, faster step than his brother and mother and grandma.

After two games of bowling (haven't for a few years, and my game showed it), we drove to the library by Columbus’ Park of Roses. My request was to tour the park and, maybe, walk by the river. We never got to the river. Other magic opened to us.

One of the roses spangled with
sun and water.

Roses and the first Fairy House

 The library and community center in Clintonville are backed by property that opens up to sports' fields and an  incredible rose garden. It had been several years since I had the chance to walk into the garden; so after our library visit, Shane led us up the stairs from the parking lot and down the path to the pergola that opened to the formal garden. A fountain was at its center, but other paths and rows of flowers extended in other directions.

The boys scrambled up and down

the decorative folly placed between

the fountain and the heritage garden

at the Whetstone Park of Roses.

It was a day of sun and glory. The roses held crystal remnants from being recently watered. Bees and dragon flies added sparkle to the air, and we passed through the rows of blooms toward the heritage rose garden. There was a folly to climb so one had a clear view of the formal garden's design. The boys raced up and down and up and down the steps until it was time to retrace our steps, but we were not leaving, yet.

"There is a fairy house to find," said Beth as she scrolled through an app on her phone. "The clue is 'north of the names.'"

While the boys were looking through acorns and sticks and other places they would be likely to hide fairies, Beth explained the Columbus project to me. Various artists had created miniature tree houses. She had heard about  it, but she wasn't quite certain what the experience of hunting would entail or if the boys would be interested.  We found the "Fairy Village" suspended above our heads. It was camouflaged by the patches of light that lit and shadowed it. 

There were actually three gourd houses and a twig construction connected by a bridge for very, very small feet. The charming "village" floated in the breeze. The boys were enchanted. The little one was quite disappointed that the fairies were not home. He wanted to see at least one. 

That began our plan for the next day. Beth had found the map and clues for the fairy-house hunt, "Find Me in the Park" sponsored by Columbus Parks and Recreation. The 4 1/2 year-old was excited to tour park playgrounds that circled the city, but the grumpy 7-year-old had to be coaxed and promised surprises along the way. He wasn't certain anything would be totally interesting if it did not include trading Pokemon cards.

The Fairy Village by artist Cynthia J. Bryden 

Path Finding on Cobblestones and in the Rain

Looking at the maps

To prepare for our trip to Montreal, I began looking at the weather, time for travel, and selection of roads.

Marian (teal) and Kate (light blue) after Mass
while the bells of Notre Dame filled the air.

Kindly watching over the three of us, Jon downloaded the updated maps of U.S. and Canada and went with me to AAA for a map. When technology fails, paper maps are our security. I have found them especially helpful for the sense of space, getting my bearings, positioning myself realistically in the world.

The modern manner of prepping for a trip or any travel into the unknown is, usually, to first Google or Mapquest the destination. I have gotten so used to double checking directions, that I rarely go to a new location without a print-out. This is also a change in personal communication; detailed notes a friend might write out regarding the landmarks to watch for and hazards to avoid are no longer part of a conversation. Sometimes, I miss those, but if you have Garmin or iPhone you will never be lost, right?

Driving through Toronto, we completely trusted Garmin's directions and Marian's instincts. The small insert on the map's paper presentation of the city only allowed us the general security that we were still traveling north-east. The small one-way streets were frustrating, but we persevered in getting where we wanted to go.  Lunch at Off the Hook was marvelous, a reward for the snarl of festival traffic on a summer Saturday.  Technology got us there.  Coming home from Canada, I unfolded the map to provide us alternate routes back to the states, even if the choices took us out of our way.  We were ready for relaxed scenery.

The difference between the digital and paper maps also projects my society's sense of independence, and it separates us from personal connections and communicating one-on-one with a more knowledgeable traveler.      
                      "Seeking after that sweet golden clime 

                       Where the travellers journey is done."  -Wm Blake

Rushing past beauty.

The Gossips - public Art enhanced
by Kate and Marian's engagement.

In the Great Lakes' region, beautiful summer weather is enjoyed by chance. A vacation might be a great success in glowing sunshine, or a soggy, chilly experience. Marian, Kate and I had the attitude that rain (so long as we were not driving through Toronto) was merely heavy atmosphere. It should not detour our plans too much. We all had raincoats AND umbrellas.  Both were needed during the heavy rain of our first full day in Montreal.  The rain, however, was warm and there was no real wind to speak of. The streets had deep curbs that allowed for the wash from the downpours to by jumped.  The cobblestone streets in Old Town allowed for run-off, and the gray skies did not dampen the carillon ringing from Notre Dame after Sunday Mass. My pictures had a few drops for effect, and the statues did not suffer from the washing.

Selfies are the new travelogue.

From Mount Royal, Kate takes a selfie with Montreal in the
background. Yes, Marian photobombs.

I was surprised that the girls relied on their phones for the photos. I was the unusual tourist with camera and notepad, anachronistic behavior in 2015! It truly does not matter how one records the trip itself, the ability to review the experience is enriched as I choose which pictures to print, which to place on this blog, which to add to a literature lesson.

I did use my phone for some pictures, and I have been known to rely on the phone for Facebook connections, but I have yet to find something better than a good camera and my notes.  There is more than one point of view, and more than one type of journey that was experienced.

Church and chapel in Montreal

Travel Companions & Expectations

When Marian first started outlining the days of travel and sightseeing, she anticipated our arrival times, some special restaurants and shops. I saw that we were arriving on Saturday evening I quietly asked, "where will we go to Mass on Sunday?" Conversation paused. Obviously, I was not on the French cuisine website.

“Leave it to Mom to think of church," my daughter snickered. "I am sure, in Montréal, we can find a suitable church." 

"Of course we can, it is Montréal,” Our conversation switched to the various neighborhoods and their charms.

Moden "Venus" statues
at Musee des Beaux Arts

A few hours later, she emailed me a link to the Basilica of Notre Dame. She was actually excited about making it the beginning of our walking tour of Vieux Montréal. It was an historic charmer by Place d’ Armes, and it would be the perfect place to start our walk about. As it was, the buckets of rain that descended on Montreal Saturday and Sunday changed our plans. We spent Sunday safely under the roof of Musee des Beaux Arts. There was a 5 p.m. Mass at the Basilica we could catch before supper.

Street parking was available, and we only had to pay for an hour since after 6 was free. With raincoats AND umbrellas, we sloshed up the steps to the one gate that was open. The attendants were turning tourists away, since only those going to Mass were to enter. For this hour, the Basilica was only a house of worship.

Basilica of Notre Dame in Montréal

The church was dimly lit, and we sat in a side pew by the pulpit. I was enthralled by the blue light that highlighted the art and details in the sanctuary. Since everything was lowly lit, the atmosphere was quiet and felt comfortingly secure. I am grateful that the celebrant and readers presented the prayers in carefully enunciated French, but I got lost early on, whereas Marian and Kate were able to follow.

 

Painting of Marguerite Bourgeoys
teaching children, in Basilica
of Notre Dame in Montreal

We noticed the side we were on contained pictures and stained glass celebrating Jeanne Mance and Marguerite Bourgeoys.

If I am honest with myself, my trip to Montréal began in elementary school with the Sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame. They were a Canadian order who had traveled the great distance to the farmland of Highland Heights, Ohio to start a new school in a new parish, St. Paschal Baylon. My brother would be in the first class to complete all eight years of elementary school at St. Paschal’s; I would be in the second. I had far more interest in the stories about the Mohawk maiden Kateri Tekakwitha than of the missionary Marguerite Bourgeoys, but eight years of the sisters in pointed starched headgear had left an impression on me. When I discovered I would be in proximity of the Sisters’ first church in the new world, one that had a museum and an archeological dig progressing underneath, I moved it to the top of my bucket list. Dare I say my daughters were not on the same page I was? That was fine. We could split up when the time came, and we did.

The habit of my teachers at St. Paschal

The sisters who came to the new parish truly had to build their own space. They were housed in a standard-sized bungalow on the parish property in which they created a chapel in the basement. Their habit was flowing in a multitude of layers, but the headdress to which they pinned their veil was a topic of conversation. It looked like a church spire and increased each nun’s height by several inches.  They taught us numbers, prepositions, and prayers for a cause very dear to their heart – the canonization of the Blessed Marguerite Bourgeoys. When Marguerite Bourgeoys was canonized, her body was moved to a tomb under the side chapel’s altar in Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours Chapel on the site of the church she had worked to establish.

The tourist information informed that the little church at the eastern end of the Vieux Montréal walking tour also was showing an archeological dig under the church and offering access to climbing the tower.

St. Marguerite Bourgeoys & Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours

There was construction, the noise of power tools, and yellow barriers on the streets and sidewalks leading to the chapel. I wound my way to a sunny, cobblestoned side street and saw an open red door. The attendants by the front desk were dressed in pilgrim costumes. Yes, I could take pictures. They announced the English tour or the archeological site in a half hour. 

The side chapel with the tomb of
Saint Marguerite Bourgeoys

It was an old church; however, as with any space that has held people and prayers for so many years, there was a calm, active presence. The light was primarily from the windows. The “Sailors’ Lamps”were lit. The ornate unity of the basilica did not exist here. Here one felt as though you had entered an aunt’s house full of stories and points of decoration to illustrate the stories. How different it felt than my expectations. I did pray at the side chapel, but it wasn’t until I went underneath to the foundation of the original church that I felt the touch of Saint Marguerite.

We were not allowed to take pictures of the dig, which in the light provided would not have turned out well. The attendant, in pilgrim costume, used an iPad to lead us through the tour and embellish the visual scene around us. The foundation of the first church and some post holes of the surrounding fortifiécation fit under the 18^th century structure above us. As I looked at the tree trunk beams over my head, I marveled at the elemental start of this journey. I would continue to tour the whole museum, very much on my own on a very quiet Tuesday, through the crypt, the dioramas, and up the tower.

The harbor scene from the tower of
Notre Dame de Bon Secours.
The flag-topped tower is the leaping
point for the zip-line.

It was a journey through time. At the top landing, I looked over the harbor where people were zip-lining from a construction only slightly shorter that the platform where I stood on level with the angels. Modern activity and festival noises unfurled with the flags around the mock-caravels that looked like a child’s delight. It was good to stand there.

It was several days later, sitting at my own desk at home that the thought came to me - maybe, my former principal Mother Saint-Mark-of-Rome had also stood on that platform. One thing I am certain, before she embarked on her journey to Highland Heights, Ohio in the 1950s, the scene she viewed was very, very different.

Time and place. Neither seems far apart.

Permission to Enjoy Montreal

There were several places to purchase
herbs and other culinary plants.

With any trip, it is important to find some point of beginning, even if it is in medias res. So, I will allow the travel to Montreal, our settling into the apartment, and our first dinner for later – a different theme.  Instead, I will start when we truly felt the gracious permission to enter Canada and be welcomed to Montreal.  Welcome usually begins with food.

The first morning or our first full day in Montreal (June 28^th) found us looking for coffee and breakfast at the Marché Jean-Talon in the Little Italy neighborhood. Marian was our travel guide for most of the trip, and as we stated our wishes and preferences, she presented positive ratings and reviews and (most importantly) directions for restaurants and sites. Marian promised us incredible crepes, and we followed.

The Crêperie du Marché was
surrounded by picnic tables.

Marché Jean-Talon covered a generous block. The street spots were already filled so we used the underground parking and climbed the stairs toward the smell of coffee. The main opening to the shops was through a large marque that fronted a roofed area. The Crêperie du Marché was under this high roof and just a few feet from the open area of tented space and walkways. The side streets that banded this area presented side shops that framed the central farmers’ market. It had a totally different feel from Cleveland’s West Side Market and was far more open. The three main differences were the ring of shops that framed the market space, the many plant and herb displays, and the small entrepreneurs who had set up a little soap shop or macaroon display or other little hooded tables in the back aisles of the market. Freeness and accessibility presented a welcoming atmosphere, and it was charming to see a trio of artists set up sketchpads and watercolors before the grocer who had garlic hanging decoratively at the corners of his table.

The artists were totally focused
on their projects.

Marian had searched for gluten-free options, and the crêperie boasted buckwheat crêpes free of wheat. There were marvelous savory choices (egg-spinach-ham, or apple-bacon-maple, or whatever) with coffee that Marian wanted to box for home. Feeling content, since good food settles and grounds one after a 13-hour drive through cloudbursts and one-way streets, we went in search of cheese and strawberries of the texture and flavor special to Montreal.

There is something to the buzz of a bilingual atmosphere in which the children ask questions in French and the lady in charge of the handmade soaps switched between English answers for me and French greetings for everyone approaching the kiosk. I felt far more inadequate in Montreal that I did in Paris, since I truly had more times when it was necessary to speak French and make myself understood. Everyone at the Marché was able to assist me, or would defer to a more English-fluent helper, but at the gas station and at one of the bookshops I was quite on my own. Inadequate is not strong enough for how I felt (and I truly need to put forth more of an effort if I aspire to return), but everyone was so kind.   

We entered several of the shops
that framed the market space.

I had asked permission to photograph the artists, and I truly aspired to be a gracious guest in this marvelous city. A year ago, Lynn Gadus has asked if I had a bucket list of things I wanted to do. Since I had never truly thought of myself as needing a bucket list (won’t I live to be 110?), her question caught me unprepared to answer. I first answered, glibly with a negative; however, a few minutes later Montreal and several other places I had dreamed of visiting and actually searched for in picture books and catalogues seemed to pile before my eyes like the multitude of post-it notes that fame my computer.  Maybe it was remembering my 5^thGrade teacher, Mother St. Abercius who was of a Canadian order of nuns, maybe it was remembering Fr. Aimee Le Jeune who spoke of the basilica in Quebec, but something brought this city to the top of my bucket list.  I began expressing my desire, and when Marian proposed a few days excursion, I jumped at the chance.

Traveling entails more than asking permission to leave chores and responsibilities, more than accommodating traveling companions. I was aware of a need to ask for permission to blend my footsteps with the history that continues to live on this selected spot, the need to ask permission to blend my own breath with all that had made the ambient air rich with words, art, and commerce.  I asked permission for many things, and I was welcomed.

The Weeds Have It - or - A Shaky Truce

Garden thoughts in May, 2015

Mother's statue is dwarfed by chives and buttercups.

Once again my garden has taken control of itself, and I have only myself to blame. But, I do not feel in the least bit guilty about having let things go, really they went without my having the chance even to let them go. The ground covers that crept out of some ancient garden that was here before Jon and I took possession of this house and yard, have once again claimed dominance over any space not covered by chives. There is one coral bell that keeps true, and I am loath to move her, but this next cleaning will necessitate a good soaking to get the dandelions and other invasive species untangled from her roots. That is life’s way – to tangle thoughts and opinions. People get so close, sometimes, the roots get confused.

I think of Mary Oliver’s nature image: “ How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I think serenity is not something you just find in the world, like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.”

Coral bells from mother's garden.

No, there is no guilt. I have tried to impose my will on the garden for so many years, that I must admit to a shaky truce for which the comfrey and mint and all the other perennials have the principal negotiating positions. There have been those years where I have sat and meditated over my weeds, blessing them for the comfort they have given me. I have sought the buttercups and forget-me-nots for the little bright-me-ups I have taken to hospice.  And, I acquiesce any time that I have to work my garden is time I have borrowed from another chore, another excursion, another visit. If my garden tries to take care of itself when I am elsewhere, I can only be grateful.

When I finish grading the exams, I hope for 10 days of good weather before my summer commitments encroach upon garden time. I will try to tidy the space, so I can save the coral bells and ensure happy basil, spearmint, and forget-me-nots. I really don’t have to worry about the chives.

Forget-me-nots and grass and . . .

Once upon a time, when I was a nascent gardener who truly thought she could control her plot of earth, a friend told me to meditate by the side of my garden, asking my weeds to move to a specific space I had given them. She assured me this was a realistic approach to living successfully with my garden and the rest of nature, but then she moved to Phoenix. None of my other friends thought highly of her advice, but it is in the back of my mind as I approach a task of forking up the wild beauty that shadows my mother’s Mary statue.  If I asked nicely, would they comply?

Oliver, Mary. “Yes! No!” White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems. New York: Harcourt, Inc. 1994. 8. Print.