~ my niece Jordan, age four ~

“Ice Cream. It has its own mythology, dating back to Nero. The biggest sundae ever made was 12 feet high. Marilyn Powell celebrates the lure and lore of ice cream."

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This is an entry thrown up quickly; I have to get into town this afternoon.

Might as well throw in my last photo taken in Kelowna in early April. Here is where we went for a walk and a picnic:

I was a little worried about Saturday the 27th, which was exactly one year after Mom left us. Sometimes when I think I am taking things in stride, my body lets me know that I’m not. Like when I turned 40. No problem, right? So what? Why do some people get so excited about it? I certainly wasn’t, except for the pleasant anticipation of a small gathering some girlfriends had planned to celebrate the occasion with me. So what did my body do to make me miss my own party? It hit me with every barrel it could. I came down with a terrible cold, a migraine, and a painful period all at once, and spent a miserable day trying to escape it all by sleeping.

And then there’s what happened after hearing Mom’s cancer prognosis. You remember ... I’m “handling” it with aplomb, like a pro, as best as can be expected (or so I think), until my eyes swell shut and hives break out on my arms. What misery that was.

But Saturday went all right. I thought about Mom many times, but never for long. There was no time to dwell on the unwelcome anniversary and I was almost glad of that.

***

My little great-nephew is a beautiful baby. And if you know me (my mother’s daughter, apparently), you know I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true. I visited his parents at the Yorkton Hospital a couple times and had the pleasure of holding and talking to Babycakes. He’s a doll.

But it’s good to be home. I’ve been out walking in the constant drizzle with the hound, who makes me laugh out loud as she bounces off the shore, splashes into the water and paddles earnestly after the mallard ducks and Canada geese that smugly swim just out of her reach. That’s her head poking out of the water there in the centre of the picture. You’d think she’d give up after a while, but no.

***

I put this small memorial in the local paper:

The eyes be hid, what care ye?
The hands be not, what care ye?
The love hath stepped from earth.
What think ye love shall lose?
Heart that stoppeth beating
Ne’er stoppeth love.