First Cokinos Residence

Still having problems with my camera, but here is the house where George Cokinos was born--then and now at 919 11th NE- right around the corner from the where the candy shop was on H Street.
(We're still looking for the historical plaque.)
On the right: Pota, Peter and their children, Catherine and George probably sometime in 1918. Below is the house today.

I Saw Bellas on My Ride Today

I left my house at 8am. I rode up and along Skyline, down Pinehurst into Moraga. There was ice on the ground. I sang as loud as I could through Canyon because I thought it would keep me warm. I sang some Beetles tunes. The ice was slippery. The canyon was beautiful.
I stopped in Orinda for Peets. I warmed my hands and feet with my coffee.
I rode the 3 Bears and around and then up Wildcat along to the ridge. I figured the climbing would keep me warm. I didn't see very many riders out there. I kept riding because I thought those bears would warm me up.
I saw a man riding his bike, wearing a balaclava with a jacket and shorts on and I laughed out loud at him when I rode past. I followed another man on a single speed for a while. He had a nice smooth pedal stroke and nice legs.
I could smell the smoke from the fireplaces, the bacon and eggs and toasts from breakfasts. I rode 60 hilly stiff cold miles because I thought they would all warm me up. All those miles, like a warm wool coat. I can fool myself like that sometimes. I was pretending I lived in Alaska.
When I was almost done and limping along on Skyline and fizzling out like a burnt up old candle, I heard happy voices from up ahead. Talking and laughing and then around the corner I saw them Bellas.
Marscat yelled LAUREN! And I saw Ippoc behind her and she said there's Lauren!
And I waved hard and smiled and yelled HI! And then I went home and took a nice long hot shower.

Christmas Reading

I've decided to make a Christmas reading list.Here are the books on the list:1. Christmas with Rosamunde Pilcher2. The Best Christmas Pageant Ever-Barbara Johnson3. An Irish Country Christmas-Patrick Taylor4. I Saw Three Ships-Elizabeth Goudge5. The Christmas Mouse-Miss Read6. The Sister of the Angels-Elizabeth Goudge
Does anyone have another good Christmas book to recommend? I'm hoping to have lots of time for reading in front of the fire!

Gray day swallows

Flighty flibbertigibbets.

Victoria

My riding last weekend wasn't exclusively limited to the Alpine Classic, although that was by far the most exciting part. I swallowed some pride one afternoon, and rode the rail trail between Wangaratta and Bright just for something different. It was quite a pleasant ride when I had time to spare, if a little warmer than I would have liked. There was one minor climb over Taylor's Gap, but overall the difficulty was virtually non-existent.

For all that, however, I was glad to return to Bright, three years after my previous visit. This really is a charming little town nestled among some of the most beautiful terrain in the entire country. On this occasion I was fortunate enough to score a campsite right by the creek, after having some company on the way in from Wangaratta. We ended up splitting the cost of a campsite, which was big enough for two tents anyway, and saving some money along the way.

The ride back to Wangaratta followed essentially the same route, again in temperatures of 37 degrees C. There were a few sights to take in along the way, although my main concern was making the 1.30pm train connection to get back to Melbourne at a reasonable hour. As it was, that idea was thwarted by a train delay because of a medical emergency at Seymour. It did leave me enough time to walk across to Lygon Street and gorge myself on pasta and gelati, so I really have no reason to complain.


All in all it was a satisfying weekend. I ended up with a total of around 385km in three days, including the big ride. As I said in a previous post, I may even consider doing it all again next year.

A PASSALONG PLANT FROM MY FATHER

Under his tall and tough exterior, my dad was a flowering shrub kind of guy. A few years after his return from World War II, he and mom bought an empty one-acre lot out in “the sticks” to the southwest of Chicago, where they built the only home they’d ever own. The yard tree behind my father’s childhood bungalow on the South side was an Ailanthus, often called Tree of Heaven. If you’re a movie fan, you know it as A Tree that Grows in Brooklyn. Dad planted a seedling from Grandma’s Tree of Heaven on the treeless acre, along with other species recommended for ‘fast shade’, like Silver Maples & Honey Locust. Some grew, some died, and over time my parents added young Spruces and Junipers, Yews, a Sycamore, a Saucer Magnolia, various Ashes, a Catalpa, Pears, an Apple whip and Bur Oaks.
Dad planted the front and sides of the lot with flowering shrubs: Lilacs, Snowball Viburnum, Forsythias, Weigelas, Annabelle Hydrangeas, Honeysuckles, Rose-of-Sharon, Bridal Wreath Spiraea, and my favorite fragrant Mockorange, cloned from a plant that his mother brought to Chicago from her family’s Michigan farm. When we moved from Illinois to Texas nearly seven years ago, I hand-carried a 6” seedling, a descendent of the original plant. It spent six years in containers, growing to 20 inches in height, and in February the little heirloom was finally planted in a special new garden, an area that is still being renovated. I was happy to see its fragrant white flowers appear in June. One of my songs is called “Everybody Needs A Secret Garden”, and now Dad’s Mockorange blooms in mine.

The tempestuous morn - the disappearing castle

According to Matthew Arnold's poem, 'Thrysis', the tempestuous morn is meant to happen in early June. Our June this year has been tempestuous all the way through. Looking back at last year's posts I discover that June was drenched then as well - see Tempestuous morn in Stobo.
So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,
Before the roses and the longest day -
When garden-walks and all the grassy floor
With blossoms red and white of fallen May
And chestnut-flowers are strewn -
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze;
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!
In the city centre there is less evidence of strewn blossom, although plenty of volleying rain and tossing breeze. I wonder if Matthew Arnold would have worked in a disappearing castle, Scott Monument and clock tower of the Balmoral Hotel to his poem?





Excuse the blurry shot below, but the tossing breeze was pretty brisk at that point. This was the only piper braving the rain, on a deserted Royal Mile.





The flood defences along the Water of Leith have themselves been flooded. Below, the construction work at Canonmills on a calm day.





After yet more rain: