Cabin Fever

 Yep, I've got it.

A full blown case of Cabin Fever...

There's various names for it all over, but in the Yukon that's what it's called.

During the Gold Rush of 1898 the Sourdoughs (they were the Southerners who came seeking the gold) weren't used to a Yukon winter, where the temperature can go to 40 below or more for weeks on end, and back then there was no entertainment, other than the dance halls... and if you were out on your claim, twenty or thirty miles out of town, looking at a dog team for transportation, well, by the end of February you had Cabin Fever.

You're restless, fidgety, cranky, and nothing can please you whatsoever, until you're ready to put your own self in the corner and come-out-when-you've-thought-about-it...

winter's gotta go and where the heck is Spring anyway????

a little retail therapy can sometimes help....

when we were in the city for one day of tests, we stopped off at the mall afterward to run a few errands...

Marc wanted coffee but I secretly wanted to to peruse the dish section at the Bay

so I fobbed him off with some excuse or other and a plan to meet at Starbucks when I was finished...

In my browsing I found this - a lovely, perfectly grey-blue cake pedestal with brown edges and a raised detail, the outward curves perfectly matching the shape of my every day dishes 

and it was 30% off!

as I came around the corner, headed straight for the checkout I came face to face with you know who...

busted!

"Whatta ya have there Missy" he says

so, clutching the box a little closer to me chest, I started with, 

"It's the perfect colour, and it will go perfectly with my dishes" and finished up with "and it's 30% off!"

  

he shook his head, looked it over and said,

"what will you do with it?"

and with wide-eyed seriousness I replied,

"put cupcakes on it"

a long pause, a little sigh and then....

"well, bring your treasure and let's get out of here then"

and so it followed me home

And No Drums Beat

Remembrance Day

A day originally created to remember the "War To End All Wars".

Seems we've had a few of those kind of wars.

History 12 spewed all sorts of and dates and names and numbers pertaining to offensives and battles and casualties. Numbers meant nothing really - when you live in a territory of less than 25,000 people how do you quantify 6,000,000 people? Or 20,000,000? Even the best imagination can't take you there.

But there we went in June of 2011. Some of you may remember this post I wrote of our visit to Omaha Beach...

 We went to many war cemeteries on our trip, but when we went to Omaha we were overwhelmed.

As we walked through the parking lot toward the Visitor Centre we passed a man and a woman who looked to be in their 60s - she was crying and he was trying to console her. Marc and I looked at each other and realized the images we had seen of Omaha on television over the years might just have been pretty accurate - a place for tears.

And it was.

I said it was the saddest place I had ever been and up until a few days later, that was the truth.

Then I went to a place sadder still.

This is a German cemetery, Neuville-St Vaast, near Arras, France.

This cemetery has more than 44,000 graves, four men per cross, their names etched on each side, back and front. The crosses are dark grey in colour, simple in design and the grass grows long and shaggy underfoot.

A stark contrast to the bright white of the crosses at Omaha, where the brilliant blue of the sea is a backdrop, and the whole of it is so meticulously maintained.

Neuville-St Vaast is a cemetery of World War 1, and is only tended by volunteers, of which there are not many.

It is truly a grave yard.

 As far as we could see, the grey crosses marched across the landscape, seemingly unending, in all directions. 

We didn't arrive there purposefully; we came upon it by happenstance and once realizing what it was, we stopped.

We were the only people there and judging by appearances, it was not a place often visited.

Some would say it fitting, given they were the aggressors, and ultimately, the defeated. 

I saw it differently.

When I was young I was full of righteous thoughts about wars; winners, and losers, about people thinking for themselves, and what it means to blindly follow ideals and beliefs without question.

The older me wonders about a world that existed before my time. When WW1 happened, WW2 hadn't yet. Duh.

But what I mean is, it's easy for us to look back, with all of history's experience, to say this was right, or that was wrong. It must have been a different thing to live it, without foreshadow's knowledge. 

I can't imagine what it would be like to send a child to war. 

Or a husband, or father, or wife or mother. I can't imagine what it would be like if they didn't come home, if their resting place was half a world away.

This post isn't about whether or not a war should have been fought, but rather, what it means when a country sends it's people to fight.

As a nation, and as people, we decide what we believe in, what we stand for, what we fight for and what we would die for. And that is true for all nations, and all people the world over. And we can decide that better for ourselves now, than any of our predecessors could - they were often bound up by duty and honour...

What I am struggling with is that the men that lie in this cemetery fought on behalf of their country, rightly, or wrongly, doing their duty as good citizens did.

And no drums beat for them.

And the flowers are all gone.

Memory Lane Monday

Bonjour!

Donna at Brynwood Needleworks said we have until Monday June 6 to link up for Memory Lane Mondays and that's when I decided to do this post after all.

 I say after all, because I had thought perhaps I was posting about war too much - but, after reading her post, I thought perhaps I should - especially because her Memory post references Memorial Day...

June 6 is an important day in world history - June 6, 1944.

D Day

We have spent the last few days reflecting heavily on Operation Overlord, the "Debarquement" and it has been a sad reflection indeed. But also a proud one.

We have seen Juno Beach, Utah and Pointe du Hoc...

Today we went to Omaha.

A diplomat from the British Foreign Office once told me Juno Beach (the Canadian landing site in Normandy) was a peaceful place, where the memorial and the beach connect, and the town of Courseilles-Sur-Mer is steps away. 

An unassuming place, where the way to the beach is as you would have found it even before the war, and the museum rises out of the dunes just behind it, respectful, very Canadian. He was right.

He said Omaha is sad.

The cemetery is on the beachhead, high above the sand and crashing surf. 

It is the most meticulously cared for cemetery and memorial I have ever seen, and it is by far the saddest.

We came up the stairs from the Information Centre, turned the corner and stopped - everyone did. That first sight of the crosses is overwhelming, staggering.

You've just spent the past sixty minutes reading plaques and watching movies, all telling tales of heroism and sacrifice, brotherhood and patriotism, and you are feeling full of pride and glory and victory.

And reality comes at you swiftly, cutting you down, you fall to your knees and suddenly you can't catch your breath.

So many.

Row upon row upon row of white crosses, and when you think you must surely be coming to the end you realize you are but half way.

The rows of white crosses continue still.

I'm not sure how long we walked among the rows, looking at the names here and there, turning at this point, walking that way, in a daze, with no rhyme or reason to our meandering. 

But then Omaha defies rhyme and reason.

He was right again.

Sorrow and pride are big emotions, the biggest really. And they fill that cemetery to bursting, all 172 acres of it.

The cemetery at Omaha Beach is among the most beautiful; the men and women that were laid to rest there fought for freedom, certainly, but they also fought for more than that.

They fought for a world where people could live without fear, and in their fight they showed us that great things can be achieved by many, 

by a few,

and sometimes even by one.

We Will Remember.