The gentle arc on which we glide. P. Ferguson image…Short Day Ago…
There is no time like this time…
…when writings fall from walls…when the walk up the shorter hill is longer by every footstep yard…where words unspoken are best heard than hidden. And I, as families gather, am just a traveller who spends time here and there. There are no blue-sky pictures today just old wise and wizened sometime strangers who find hope (and hopelessness) with each cool beat of life. This day a leaf cascades with water finding sons of daughters in the dew…the daughters of sons amidst the heather.
The rains fall soft upon your fields. P. Ferguson image. Short Days ago…
One life’s helping hand for the many…with each breath and after…they remain here…amongst each birdsong call. To hear of one so travelled…who stopped as someone’s angel…who found happiness just in the finding. I belong here more than ever as voices once known well ring true…their hand has done their angel guidance atop this wildwood hilltop.
When families gather…Morris, Gordie, Nathan and Sharon Dougan.
There is not one place that I call home that isn’t every field, window, and wall. Though the writing has fallen we find words in the harvest of place and experience. This home…that home…elder and younger…how letting go became both strategy and disabler…reaping our words from the flail…built walls tumble as water finds a course amongst bramble and crevice of the hillside. The gentle arc on which we glide…this day to the next…angel hands among us to find our way home.
Across fields of memory towards mountains and big sky. P. Ferguson image, July 2021.
Act One, Scene One
The morning brings the quivering roar of Odin’s son, shattering the gray-blue lopt. From heights nearer their realm falls a dancing delicacy…regn…eager droplets of moisture welcomed by persons of this much burnt earth. Thunder…terror and darkness for some but to this heart a signal to join with Panserbjørn chariot…eager to feed…water is life.
Family memorial to Captain Richard Arthur Henderson. Buried Villers Station Cemetery, France. P. Ferguson image, July 2021.
This one moment’s atmospheric event remains with me throughout my day. A propensity for continual searching, track and wordsmiths, to speak to this day and the one before…when a journey made to little mountains brings me again to elder acquaintances who have heard my footsteps before. Between the stone evidence of earthbound memories the ever holding grasses screech for dancing delicacy….regn.
Family marker commemorating Private George Allan Evans. Commemorated Vimy Memorial, France. P. Ferguson image, July 2021.
When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain? When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won. There will be ere the set of sun. (Act 1 Scene 1. The three witches of Macbeth. William Shakespeare).
Independent Order of Odd Fellows Memorial. Dedicated 11 July 1920. P. Ferguson image, July 2021.
Happening upon some clever words spoken by the three rhyming style sisters I venture through the construct. Chaos, war, battlefield, today we have the first sound of thunder…the deep need of regn to eclipse the riders of the apocalypse…conquest, war, famine and death. And for one day on a little mountain…a Great War, though over but still present, speaks from stone, as footsteps fall away between the languish of grasses in desperate need to feel the regn.
Family marker commemorating Private Orville Hubert Boucher. Commemorated Vimy Memorial, France. P. Ferguson image, July 2021.
All images at Chilliwack Cemeteries 30 July 2021. Between 9:45 AM – 10:00 AM Temperature ~35°
Buffalo friend…one of a kind. Strength and unity in self and herds. Upholder of the right. P. Ferguson image, June 2021.
One Buffalo More
Once – short days ago there was a pickup truck fitted with bells and whistles as creature comforts are required for any long haul. This is the nature of driving across Canada through all seasons.
However, with this one truck was the growing clutter of ornaments, pins and amusements that filled the dash and visor of long driving days. Mostly they were buffalos (correct term Bison…but not here). Perhaps reminders of the range…the prairie…certainly fun…and perhaps so too recollections of the buffalo centerpiece worn for many years, Maintiens le Droit.
They were small and medium…not too large (as I recall) and when we rolled, our buffalo friends shared the journey in the great banter of the time. Perhaps it was a way of home running alongside the truck as the landscape changed. Laughter, humour, …the way of things…until one day…11 June 2021…we became one buffalo less.
A week to the day had passed and as I wandered through Sidney in pursuit of blueberry strudel (my buffalo friend would have enjoyed these too) I happened upon a small china Wade buffalo – just like one (of several – I seem to recall a herd) from my friends’ truck. And so it was to be that Wayne (my buffalo’s name) has returned to the range…one buffalo more.
To my dear friend Wayne Cline…may the road rise up to meet you… P. Ferguson image, June 2021.
Go away somewhere all bright and new. P. Ferguson image, May 2021.
In Search of Wildflowers
It’s the set piece to the day…a little wander…a little goodness…happiness, smiles and laughter with friends. As the goodly blend of Americano satisfies and the lemon blueberry crumbles towards oblivion – slightly above the din of machines and banter of snacking folk…are familiar chords…familiar expression…
Sail away. Thistle and powdered wings. P. Ferguson image, Gallipoli, June 2012.
My ears, unable to distinguish the poet’s voice from the murmurings of mechanical and inflectional clamourings, requires technology to capture the refrain, while sparrows bounce between crumbles. I walk towards the jukebox as verse and chorus rise to my recognition providing thoughts for my later day. I am in search of wildflowers…let your heart be your guide.
You belong in a boat out at sea. P. Ferguson image, Malta, March 2011.
The trail is good, a way to sail from thought to thought, petal to petal as I follow elevations and contours, amidst the gnarled bend of branches with soft green beards of lichen, leaf, and creeper. I am not an only one here this day. One wonders what others see amongst the stone and trees, the flora and fauna of the trail. Some perch to laughter, to watch, to love, to chatter, to look above – you belong somewhere you feel free.
You belong somewhere you feel free. P. Ferguson image, Tabraxia, Malta, March 2011.
Here amidst the colour a line or three for one. Within my thoughts the voice of a heartbreaker, walks upon my trail. One voice to another…laughter, love, watchful…I have found my wildflowers – while sparrows bounce between crumbles.
Wildflowers Thomas Earl Petty
You belong among the wildflowers You belong in a boat out at sea Sail away, kill off the hours You belong somewhere you feel free
Run away, find you a lover Go away somewhere all bright and new I have seen no other Who compares with you
You belong among the wildflowers You belong in a boat out at sea You belong with your love on your arm You belong somewhere you feel free
Run away, go find a lover Run away, let your heart be your guide You deserve the deepest of cover You belong in that home by and by
You belong among the wildflowers You belong somewhere close to me Far away from your trouble and worries You belong somewhere you feel free You belong somewhere you feel free
Thanks Mr. Petty for 1:42 Wildflowers. P. Ferguson image, May 2021.
The bronze rabbit and the iron horse. Do you know your purpose? P. Ferguson image, April 2021.
Time for the Trail
…and the bronze rabbit asked the iron horse, “Do you remember what you are?” No said the rusted monument, “That for which I was made is now long aged and the words no longer spoken nor the knowledge to understand my markings read…”
…and the iron horse asked the bronze rabbit “Do you know your purpose?” To which the bronze rabbit responded, “All I know is I am of the family Long Ears. If I am one of their kind or in remembrance of them all I do not know”. The passage of time claims so many things.
One by one monuments have passed from our memories. Old works more appreciated for art than purpose…because who was there now to know? The bronze rabbit and the iron horse so near to one and other…and of different eras…one knowing something of itself but for the other all of its kind no longer of this plain. Time claims its representations piece by piece.
On all of our many roads we pass by – that which once was known and – that which all purpose is known. A bit of time perhaps…to walk our trails with shorter footsteps…to develop an acute sense of place…to savor time with a forgotten creation…standing before the only representation of their kind. Who were these identities? What was their spoken word? But it was still to be that as time passed the bronze rabbit no longer remembered its family Long Ears and the Iron Horse’s rust fragmented into the ground.
Who will be our champions to remember us? Methinks it is time for the trail…to find my own rabbits and horses.
Footfall towards Mill Road, near Thiepval, Somme, France P. Ferguson image, April 2007
I’m Only Going Over Jordan I’m Only Going Over Home
Measured as the amount of foot traffic in a given area, or as my interested understanding prefers…the footstep and footsteps [of this road]. Each step across home, wilderness, and open space…the sounds – gentle or trudging, demure or obvious, searching and hopeful…cautious and hopeful. These are the steps we take on our obligations and desires, or on our footloose whimsical or conscious tessellated paths of interest and exploration. With each footfall new existence…the chance to see.
The footfall of soldier statues. The Response, Canadian National War Memorial, Ottawa P. Ferguson image, August 2005
This day the virtual auditions continue. I steadily regenerate through song and track, one recording follows another…some play mere seconds, others stop at intermittent intervals, at the chorus, the bridge…the end…I am done…judge and juror we remain hopeful. All are worthy yet who shares today’s thoughts with me? How is it that I feel these sounds…these voices…these thoughts? Today’s talent (in random order) – Tom Petty, Duane Allman, Jimi Hendrix, Jesca Hoop, Kris Kristofferson, Steve and Lilly Winwood, Velvet Revolver, Willie Nelson, Lyle Lovett, John Prine, James Gang, Yo-Yo Ma and James Taylor.
Footfall leading to Cosy’s Bunker, Juno Beach, Normandy, France P. Ferguson image, September 2009
A few minutes and more – all in which a songwriter has, to hold our hearts. We have heard their passages as the ambiance of our productions and exhibitions, at our events, celebrations and passings. Their words, their music can be the sum of all things to a film…three minutes as summation to 90 minutes or more. Today who is it that I will choose as I recall my footfall?
Footfall. A Great War German’s soldier’s footprint atop a bunker P. Ferguson image, September 2006
With my words today and amidst all those of the auditioned virtual performers another reminder appears- one gentle voice above all others. A scene – a creek – a wood and other foot-fallers. Of quiet times in the field and of a solitary tree and cathedrals resonant of my paths…and oh how these reminders – what so I wanted to use…footfalls…searching and cautious, hopeful…a cathedral of the forest…one voice speaks to all… a poor wayfaring stranger.
Schofield stops on the edge of the clearing. Unsettled by the world before him. Unsure if these men are living or dead. If he is one of these ghosts. (1917. Script written by Sam Mendes and Krysty Wilson-Cairns, p. 97)
And like Schofield I close my eyes. Done.
Schofield and the Poor Wayfaring Stranger. 1917. Sam Mendes Director (2019).
Poor Wayfaring Stranger American Folk and Gospel, ca. early 19th Century Performed by Jos Slovick in the film 1917
I am a poor wayfaring stranger I’m travellin’ through this world with woe Yet there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger In that bright land to which I go I’m going there to see my father I’m going there no more to roam I’m only going over Jordan I’m only going over home I know dark clouds will gather round me I know my way is rough and steep But golden fields lie just before me Where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep I’m going home to see my mother And all my loved ones who’ve gone on I’m only going over Jordan I’m only going over home I am a poor wayfaring stranger I’m travellin’ through this world of woe Yet there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger In that bright land to which I go I’m going there to see my father I’m going there, no more to roam I’m only going over Jordan I’m only going over home
Between Rock and Russell – names marked Robertson, Robson, Ross,…clues to the clover? pp. 188-189. R. Ferguson image, February 2021.
I Count the Petals
There is a book that I have, a history of the Fourth Canadian Infantry Battalion…I think about it often…not so much for the printed words but for something fragile within.
Acquired many years ago as a ready reference it was not until the later evening whilst sifting through its pages that a collection of four-leaf clovers revealed themselves…Here amongst someone’s book…someone’s time amongst the finery of life. Perhaps times shared with another in the meadow, small conversation at hand, the kindness of hopeful love, together with the gentle calm of each other. Surely a spring day…I count the petals again and again.
The Records of the Fourth Canadian Infantry Battalion. A home to names and clover…memories in distant fields. R. Ferguson image, February 2021.
Some Nights Might Feel Cold and Dark
The day before Rosemary told me there is a song to hear, something important that would remind me of the things we will look back upon and smile. At the time I was hesitant in the moment…it’s something I must listen to…and still it’s the more to be done and the time apart to which I have become concerned and too focused upon. The night passes…the snow begins to melt…
It’s An Early Start
Chatter with Rosemary first thing in the morning…always good…I will enjoy today. After navigating the plowed lanes of snow-bound roads I patrol the aisles for foodstuffs. Having found the largest of Americanos I return to the car wondering will the one cleared parking spot be available to me when I return? It is meant to be carving my path into the clearing and after wrangling carrier bags laden with the day’s bounty into the pantry and cold storage…it comes.
Give it a chance…sit down and have a listen…Rosemary said I needed to hear this…and now several listens later…there is something I have heard…my four-leaf clovers…pennies though tarnished were once bright and shiny…the luck still remains…the hard roads are the ones worth choosing…starting over. And the marks in the book?…All soldier’s names of the 124th….all from 1916…names once known to one soldier…the reader of this book…the keeper of the petals. I count the petals again and again.
Starting Over, music and lyrics by Chris Stapleton. 2020.
Well the road rolls out like a welcome mat To a better place than the one we’re at And I ain’t got no kinda plan But I’ve had all of this town I can stand And I got friends out on the coast We can jump in the water and see what floats We’ve been saving for a rainy day Let’s beat the storm and be on our way
It don’t matter to me Wherever we are is where I wanna be And, honey, for once in our life Let’s take our chances and roll the dice I can be your lucky penny You can be my four-leaf clover Starting over
This might not be an easy time There’s rivers to cross and hills to climb Some days we might fall apart And some nights might feel cold and dark When nobody wins afraid of losing And the hard roads are the ones worth choosing Some day we’ll look back and smile And know it was worth every mile
It don’t matter to me Wherever we are is where I wanna be And, honey, for once in our life Let’s take our chances and roll the dice I can be your lucky penny You can be my four-leaf clover Starting over Starting over
It don’t matter to me Wherever we are is where I wanna be And, honey, for once in our life Let’s take our chances and roll the dice I can be your lucky penny You can be my four-leaf clover Starting over Starting over
Silence on my radio. P. Ferguson image, February 2021
Waiting…meandering through my thoughts…
…so much to do…so many places to roam. No gentle breeze or harsh wind to remind me of any motion. No way to go…the sound of strangers sends nothing to my mind…silence on my radio.
Where can I turn?
And in the seeking…the once heard words of one in contemplation…a speaker from afar. A younger representative clad in black seeking rejuvenation that their order might not fade away. Such words, such thoughts in search of the path. And after much contemplation what did this younger find? Not so much what they need be – but what they are within themselves. Thinking not outside the box but finding “their” relevance in the messages not beyond their walls. What once they were and can still be? Not outside the box….within…within. And yet, what is it they choose from their walls…that speaks to all lives within their pages and reach?
When the Wind Blows
Old ideas and thoughts come across the horizon to be here again with me this night. What once was, has remained all along…these old friends upon my inner tide. No longer drifting but lapping at the shoreline. There was a time…one chord to the next…the platter spins, the vinyl delivers. When the wind blows…I can see them all again…friends through the years…tunes of our time…memories of other days. I find my path…I am all I need be this day and the next…In the window there’s a face you know…flow Paul flow…
Moonlight Mile, Written by Mick Jagger, Keith Richards. With Mike Taylor, Bill Wyman, Charlie Watts, Jim Price, Paul Buckmaster (The Rolling Stones)
Mud on the trail…a field of the Ypres Salient, Belgium P. Ferguson image, September 2017
Pen and Key
The quiet suggests a slight hint of echo within my ears. They too…like all of self are searching, my mind races towards an endless sea of pages, facing not upwards but viewed from their edges. Within the constant turning only the blur of ideas. No story…no pictures…only endless notes posted haphazard to a mind board…these legs need to journey.
My eyes stumble time and time again…is this just more of the same? This observer of history’s reminders and remainders is stymied. Our constant companion the menace of the time lurks…no menace wanted here…and so the pages of my virtual book of ideas continue to flip. Surge no surge. Nothing anchors within…only the drag of a chain and flukes seeking a foundation.
I have watched Ted Talks (Andrew Stanton) about clues to a great story, chosen to watch John Carter (2012) and channeled Edgar Rice Burroughs; The 39 Steps (1935) but these are not the steps I seek; V for Vendetta (2005) – a menace here too…interesting but no path for my musings;…The Red Baron (2008) soaring but wanting; and The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943) – intriguing but mostly in its brief treatment of the Blitz.
I come to realize that my usual treasury of resources is not delivering…film, sound and soundtrack, the words of others…all require my own journeys to find connection, similar and dissimilar…joys of discovery. These legs need to journey…finding the places and things that bring all together…when resources are easier at hand and the pen and key become willing partners again. Still have I missed something…I still haven’t found what I am looking for and yet here I am…
Published this same day Pipes of War website, 16 January 2021
Amidst the snowfall a bit of colour for all. P. Ferguson image, December 2020.
…and so finally we have a different day.
After so much of the same…this day at long last is not the perpetual Groundhog Day with and without shadows. Today the sky streams white as the snow-white freckles dance from the sky to find our ground and heights about. Today is a good day.
Soon the snow turns to frozen fingers of frost. P. Ferguson image, December 2020.
As I watch the accumulation build I continue with a steady review of spy, hobbit and Christmas films. Finding the background (sometimes the foreground) in each…Guinness signs and EIIR portraits, cheeses and dishware, butterflies and rings, ties and quotations, umbrellas and pocket handkerchiefs. Yes today is a very good day.
Though usually one to grimace at the site of the falling white boundary of earth’s weather, today I do not mind, though tucked up well with comestibles and beverages, I have had to venture forth, asking how did I lose my fancy of these falling feathers of white, when toes seemed to freeze on the outdoor frozen rinks and waters of Dartmouth. Where hockey was played till the wee hours and yet again I won or lost the Stanley Cup.
Regardless I will have to find the image(s) that will bring this day forward. Let it snow…today is a fine day to feel the tickle of snowflakes upon my person…it’s a different day…a fine day for P.E. hot chocolate and….boots not oxfords.
A welcome cliche…winter is coming, but we have a different day!! P. Ferguson image, December 2020.
