Lucia Frangione

Talking with the Eagle Cliff Beach babes. They are true blue Bowen locals with unobstructed views. They bring their own lawn chairs and vodka coolers onto the end of the dock. They know how to prop an umbrella up just so between the wooden slats. They are prepared to hang out all day under the sun and watch the children paw at floating logs and fish for mud sharks. I am particularly fond of D. She’s probably in her mid sixties, rocking a floral one piece with a skirt. She always dips in the ocean with her water noodle wrapped…

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It’s a quarter to four in the morning and my head is whirling with private matters I won’t write about, so my blog has been empty while my heart has been full. Big shifts are happening: children finishing their school years and entering into the wider world of high school. My husband and I rethinking our priorities about where and what we call home. A couple of “wow” moments – and not the good “wow” – to talk through with two of my dear ones. A sudden death of one of the prominent loved patriarchs in the family. The impossible…

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I think of Anita in May, because when the rhodos start to pop and the lilacs wave their frilly fronds and the tulips are standing at attention, she exclaims, usually with both hands up in delighted exasperation at the excess, “Vancouver is so slutty, slutty gorgeous, look at THAT just LOOK AT THAT!” I love Anita and I love her love of flowers. I carted home a bunch of snap dragons marigolds and petunias in the back of my mini over to the island and found it to be a strangely erotic experience. The fecundity of the blossoms, the leather…

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The ferry pulls into Snug Cove on this grey and drizzly fresh day. Jupiter has been raucous as Joan Jett all night and now, this morning, he is half lidded, spent from his thundering, eyeliner all smokey and smudged, casually vaping huge flamboyant puffs of white over the mountains. I have a deep clutching love for home; I’ve been away three days. I have a little love pack for my bunnies of apple and cilantro, missing their little fuzzy faces, the nagging fear of predators always gnawing away at the back of my mind since the mink slaughtered our hens….

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On our way back home from Easter at Grammy’s we stop in the small dry town of Merritt to fill our tank with gas. Across the boulevard is a teenaged boy up on the top of a dirty snowbank of a bluff, the highway bound traffic buzzing underneath him. He is wearing an old blue lumberjacket and baggy jeans. In front of him is a huge 80s style boom box. He is dancing to music we can’t hear over the rush of trucks and cars. All by himself. He is rocking out. He is foot loose. He is jumping around…

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The house is so quiet on Bowen, I could go out into the night and listen to daffodils unfurl. Yesterday I took my dog for his last forest walk, short but green. On our way home, despite the fact he was very unsteady on his feet…he took a sharp left and booted it down into a gutter to get his paws cooled with black mud and lick at the spring run off gurgling over the stones and moss. I’ve never been through this before. Having to be the one to say when. The day before, he had a bad spell…

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I’m doing a show at the Flame tonight and this is the story I’m going to tell, it’s from way back August 17, 2013:   Today I need to rely on the generosity of others. That’s a rare thing in our society: worshippers of the God of independence and I am an avid disciple. It always surprises me who comes to the rescue. Last week it was the affable lanky and lovely Jeff Gladstone and today it is a tag team of Russell Wallace and Colleen Winton’s boys, Sayer and Gower: handsome well spoken young men who will do the…

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We have twelve chickens and one handsome white and black rooster called Hubert. Our boy named the rooster. I’m not sure what all the breeds are but we definitely have Leghorns, Plymouth Rocks, Australorps and a lone puffy headed single minded black feathered Araucana who lays blue green eggs. She was the first I named: Beulah. My Fellow’s favourites are the large confident Rhode Island reds. They are burly good natured birds who lay the large dark brown eggs, sometimes double yolkers. My daughter has named one of them Shirley (because she was the first to surely produce eggs for us)…

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I’m in the Chilliwack leisure centre at a Caribbean themed cafe called the Java Hut, complete with a grass hut roof. It smells like coffee, thai chicken soup and chlorine. There is a Christian music radio station blaring from the speaker and in-between songs of praise and pleas for redemption, a woman with a cultured soothing voice sums up the song’s message with a suggestion to think of people as though they were children, “it will help you forgive them”. I hate unsolicited advice as much as I hate pat answers for life’s complications. Let the song speak for itself….

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