I will spare you the details, but I will say it was a time for sharing lots of memories, many of which - for me - were of mom's love of the intertidal zone and the region just beyond the reach of a low tide. This love was easily passed on to me, and has been coming out in my polymer clay work over the last couple of years.
Anyway, to give you an idea of the magic of Spruce Islan... er... Spruland, I wanted to share a poem my sister, Laura, wrote...
by Laura West
The clear haunting cry of the loon
From the front cove
The chattering of red squirrel
After hiding bits of food in the tree branches
The gentle lapping of the water at high tide
The snap of a sail as the wind shifts
The rocking of the bell buoy
Ringing day and night, piercing the mind
The laughter after dinner
All sounds of Spruland
The wipe out of white fog
Golden red glow in the sky at sunset and dawn
Bright green moss next to red brown spruce needles
Bright blue skies cluttered with puffy white clouds flying on the wind
Pale pink of the underside of birch bark
The amazing yellow of wet seaweed at low tide
All colors in Spruland
The moisture of fog, getting into everything
The drying cold of a northwest wind
The stickiness on your skin left from salt water
The heat on your skin in the sun of a “scorcher”
The itch of mosquito bites
The smoothness of rocks washed by the sea
All sensations in Spruland
Spruland is dreamt into existence by the memory of all these things and more.
Memories pounding on the shore
I will leave this post as is, and not attempt to add more right now. I just want to let Spruland and memories of my mom sit for a while.