Enid Petherick: Artist and Observer of the Wilds
with Ralph van Drielen: Poet and Siamese Twin of Enid

February 12/01

Company and more company! The first people since October 31 walked in Saturday with a pack full of fresh fruit. We enjoyed the afternoon together in the sunshine on the back deck.

Today (Monday) two foresters came by snowmobile to discuss with Ralph some cutblocks being planned for the mountain slope behind us. Before leaving, Ralph brought them to my studio – the walls of which are jammed with the winter’s sketches and partially-finished canvases. It can be overwhelming to walk into the clutter of a studio where many things are in progress, but one fellow’s gaze cut through the chaos – “I like that!” He was looking at a charcoal sketch of the full moon flooding through trees on a mountain slope – the daylight view of which he had faced as he discussed forestry on the back deck. So my midnight meanderings have not been in vein. I feel rejuvenated.

February 9/01

The moon is full like a grapefruit about to burst. The white orb rises over the Redburn, Travels over Red Indian, traverses the sky – over the studio skylight, over the bedroom skylight, dips down into the trees on Willowbank and falls below the ridge. Early morning, clear, cold and still.

No need for lights at bedtime. I wonder about the shadows – how deep? At what angle? I go to the studio – check the balcony – a black and white landscape – long, long shadows from the East as the moon rises. I return to bed.

I sleep fitfully. I get up to see the moon’s position, to find it beaming through the branches of a tall fir tree – a halo around the moon – the edges of the branches have a soft glow.

Sometime…I awake looking into a spotlight. A few crystals on the skylight sparkle like diamonds as the moon beats through. Behind the ice crystals another layer of diamonds – the stars.

Much later the spotlight is gone from overhead, but a light shines in from the west balcony. I get up to look. The moon is setting behind the trees to the west of the house.  The shadows are long and follow the curve of the hill down to our back deck. I go to the studio to look east. I am amazed. I have never seen this before. The moon hits straight onto the cliffs of Red Indian and glows off the rock with its thin layer of snow. The sky, the trees, the river, everything is black. The mountain rises in isolation in a sea of black.

For four nights I have been up and making the rounds – window to window – to remember – the look, the feel, the mood. I prepare paper to make spontaneous charcoal sketches. Sleep.

February 4/01

A bird jauntily perched on the top of a fir tree and flipped its tail to the sky in a very robin-like gesture. I ran and returned with binoculars only to see it disappear.

Yesterday Ralph carried wood to the house in preparation for a sauna, and very soon returned to the house with a jubilant, “Guess what I saw? A robin!” Every year the robins return to nest in a small tree by the wellhouse. He was sure he had heard the refrain: “This is it! This is it!” as it sang in the treetop.

Earlier that morning in anticipation of the sauna, I had been hoping for one last good snowstorm – with big heavy fluffy flakes that would pile up quickly into a deep blanket. The only kind of snow I can persuade myself to jump into when my body gets much heated by the sauna. The kind of snow that sticks in clumps and burns like fire as it dribbles and melts down one’s skin. It hasn’t happened this year, we have received dry icy little pellets that after a day’s fall lay on the ground like a thin layer of sugar.

But with the arrival of our robin I wanted the snow GONE. I began to worry. It’s too early. The ground is still covered with at least ten inches.

This morning I watched a dusting of snow spray on to the ground under the nearest tree. Then tree by tree dipped and curved as they were swayed by wind currents. Two different temperatures colliding. Uh-oh. What kind of weather change? It is now afternoon. Soft, fluffy snow fell fleetingly (2 inches). The weather has turned colder. Not surprising – there is a full moon this week.

I hope our early bird has read the signals and has flown to a warmer area temporarily. We will be waiting its return.  

January 22/01

Ralph discovered a grouse hole beside the ski trail. To make a cozy den, grouse fly straight into a snow bank and cover themselves with snow. I was dubious when Ralph first pointed this out. “Looks like a hole from a ski pole to me.” He reached in – dug around and came out with a handful of frozen turds. Ok, proof enough!

Wild roses from bushes beside the chicken  barn have been supplying a banquet for the grouse and we hope the attraction will hold through the mating and nesting season.

January 15/01

“You must have had a good a day…” A comment, not a question. Looking over the railing which separates my studio from the open stairwell, I follow Ralph’s gaze… and settle on blue and crimson splashes on the white wall below! Uh…oh…um…

I think back over the afternoon – one of those days when the right brain takes over and the left brain switches off. On “animatic” reflex. A splash of crimson here – dash of blue there – push in, pull out – cool dawn, warm up. A great sense of release and of things falling into place where they should.

“Yes, I did have a good day.” I can paint the wall white anytime!

January 9/01

Lunch on the back deck today. Beautiful and bright (2 degrees C) with the sun beating in from the South and reflecting heat from the north wall. A hairy woodpecker entertains us – searching for lunch as it bobs around the trunk of the nearest fir tree, then attacking ants in a fresh-cut  log in the woodshed.

January 4/01

I wonder …”is it the deep wine purple color, or the flavor, or the associations that I most like?” …as I stir a pot of soup rich with beets from our root cellar. I think back to my first taste of borscht in Toronto where our elderly Ukrainian landlady periodically presented me with gifts of thick beet soup – or a most amazing sour kraut salad zesty with great jewels of red and green peppers.

Some years later when we taught our daughters by correspondence we began a cookbook illustrated with the girls’ interpretations of the recipes. Borscht was the initial inspiration. This expanded to various batters and mixes being represented in a series of imaginative and colorful drawings.

I have never been able to match the taste of those first gifts, but when January rolls around. Borscht soup is still satisfying and comforting. I am reminded of the richness and fulfillment of summer past and I anticipate the promise of the summer to come.

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