We embarked on our walk at 5:30 in the morning, BEFORE coffee, to beat the heat. It was cool (13C) and beautiful. Later in the day, it was 27C so good call on our parts. Also very easy to socially distance when there is nobody else on the sidewalks!
These beautiful photos were taken early in the morning on Friday, July 10 after a very stormy night. Whitemud Creek Ravine looks absolutely magical. Thanks bro-in-law!
Sunday: We’re having another fantastically rainy July, preceded by a rainy June, but today, around noon, it was gorgeous. Walked with Tom in and around Glenora/Ravine Drive/Valleyview. We had to wait all morning for the skies to clear, but somehow we found a pocket of sun and avoided the ever present rainstorms. It was still very, very humid. About 15,000 steps.
Can’t remember the temperature, but it was about 20C
Gorgeous walk early yesterday morning (June 20). One of Tom’s marathon walks (2 1/2 hours/16,000+ steps) starting in Glenora. Even at 8 in the morning it was hot. We managed to find some shade along the way.
And man, the poplar trees are popl’in seed all over the place.
My sisters used to say I took them on ‘killer walks’ but I have to say, Tom has really taken it to a whole new murderous level. He does these walks every day, even on a -25C winter day. I have a lot of stamina, but when you’re outside for almost three hours, if the heat doesn’t get you, your feet will. Or my feet will. I think I need new running shoes.
On a sad note, the Glenora fountain in Alexander Circle and all the other City of Edmonton fountains are not running this summer. I assume this is the result of a destroyed economy thanks to the UCP/Kenney cuts and Covid shutdowns. I know there are other more pressing priorities, but I truly believe that natural beauty (if you can include fountains as ‘natural’) help keep the blood pressure down. Every time I go by an waterless fountain, I am reminded that the city is struggling. I mean, when has it ever shut off the fountains?
Yeah, I know, not a walking post, but a journey nonetheless. It’s Father’s Day, and I thought I would post the eulogy I gave at my dad’s funeral in 2008. I had a ‘challenging’ childhood, and not gonna lie, he was one of the challenges, but he was also – in so many ways – one of the saving graces.
October 24, 2008:
I’m Donna…Dad’s fifth child and contrary to what my sister Sharon just said, I’m the favourite.
I think we now have a pretty clear picture of what kind of man Hugh McKinnon was, the paths of his life, the people he loved and who loved him. But just to add to that, I wanted to stand up today for my father and tell everyone how grateful I am he was my father. Not because he was perfect, because he wasn’t, and not because I turned out perfect, because I didn’t. My dad was a good father. Sometimes a great father. Occasionally a challenging father…but always, always funny.
Like so many men of his generation, he had to quit school at a young age to help support his family, but this is not the story he told. If you asked him about school, he would say that grade nine was the best three years of his life. No surprise that education and good marks were at a high premium in our house. It was dad who looked over our report cards…dad who helped us with our homework. He even helped me with math, a hopeless task if ever there was.
And he loved to read, even in the middle of the day. We both loved John Steinbeck and I remember walking in on him one day as he lay stretched out in his Lazy Boy, a copy of Travels with Charley in his hand and tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. It was the second or third time he’d read the story. When he told me he really enjoyed a book I’d bought him for his birthday or Christmas, I never felt so complimented. On one memorable occasion he even quoted Shakespeare to me. It was an Autumn morning, many years ago. I was returning from an all-night party. Disheveled, my head pounding, two juice glasses holding my contact lenses in my hands. As I stumbled up the walk, dad took one look at me, put down the rake, and said, “O death, where is thy sting?” Thanks dad.
Despite his lack of formal education, my father had a real flair for the English language. He could string a set of expletives together that could drop you to your knees in awe. A way of expressing himself that left his daughters bent over in laughter, and our mother shaking her head. “Oh Hugh…” she would say. He also had an encyclopedia of dadisms, most of which I can’t repeat here. Sayings that we grew up with that are now part of our family lexicon.
A winter day wasn’t just chilly, it was ‘colder than the day young Charlotte froze’.
A stale fruitcake? “Harder than the back of God’s head”.
And so on…anything to make us laugh.
Like all McKinnons, he could be moody, but as we all knew, it was mostly bark…not bite. Underneath that occasionally gruff exterior was a big-hearted, sensitive man. A man who on his first and last hunting trip had a deer in his sites but couldn’t pull the trigger. A man who cried when we had to put down our family dog Happy. A man who drove countless Brownies to countless bake sales. A man who enjoyed nothing better than to nap with his cat. A man who loved Christmas and Thanksgiving and any occasion that would bring his family together.
Some of my happiest memories from childhood are the yearly trips to Jasper in the summer. Mom and dad in the front seat of the car, smoking and listening to John Denver, the dog draped around my mother’s neck, us girls in the back, no seat belts, legs hanging out the windows. Once we disembarked from the good ship Buick and unpacked, inevitably my dad would pull up a lawn chair beside the cabin, pop open a beer, and say, “I wonder what the poor people are doing today?”
I think this was his way of saying happiness is in the simplest things.
When we visited Athabasca Falls, which we did every year, he would hold my hand so tight my fingers still throb whenever I visit the Falls. To be truthful, even if I’m about to step off a curb I feel my father’s hand gripping mine.
Dad and my stepmum Shirley loved to go their granddaughter’s games and practices. I’m sure dad would have gone to his daughter’s games and practices if any of us had been interested in – or any good at – sports. My dad taught me many things but how to throw a ball was not one of them.
He did however, drive me to my art lessons and was always happy to look at my latest masterpieces. He loved all my drawings but was particularly proud of my illustration of Alfred E Newman from Mad Magazine. He often showed this one to people. I think he instinctively knew that comedy was the highest of art forms. If you’ve had a chance to look at some of the photographs we’ve brought today you’ll see a picture of my dad at the Smithsonian shaking hands with George W Bush. Obviously, this is a fake picture, but I remember he expressed disappointment that the fake Bill Cosby was not available that day. I don’t really recall what music my dad liked, but I know Bill Cosby’s comedy albums had frequent spins on the console stereo in our living room. Even as a kid, I had Cosby’s routines memorized. We all did.
One of my favourite memories of Dad is a trip my sister Sandra and I took in 1998 to Arizona to visit our snowbird parents in their natural winter habitat. I distinctly remember getting off the plane in Phoenix and being overwhelmed by the sheer number of deeply tanned, knee-socked older people in blinding white running shoes and shorts walking toward me. I moved to hug several men I thought were my father before I found my real dad…beaming as brightly as his shoes. Sandra and I laughed the whole time we were down there. In particular, we were greatly amused by the comedy routine on display in their living room each night, which usually began around 9:30. Dad would be sitting in his chair, Shirley on the couch. Both of them nodding off.
A few moments later…
“Hugh…you’re falling asleep!”
“You’re falling asleep. Are you wearing your hearing aids?”
And so it would continue for another hour until one of them finally gave in and went to bed, followed closely by the other.
When we visited the Grand Canyon, I remember standing several feet behind the railing, admiring the view, and dad came up behind me and said, “You’re standing too close.”
My hand immediately started to throb.
About a week ago, when my dad was intubated and heavily sedated and not really focusing on anything or anybody, Joanne and I walked into the room and started chatting with him. After a moment or two, I said we should probably identify ourselves since he wasn’t wearing his hearing aids. In fact, he didn’t like wearing them at all and would often leave them on the dresser in his bedroom, ‘listening for prowlers’ as he told Shirley.
“Dad…it’s Joanne, the smart one.”
I replied, “No dad, she’s the tall one. I’m the smart one.”
He smiled. His smile. His very particular, very recognizable dad grin. Joanne and I looked at each other and laughed. We didn’t know at the time this was to be our last communication with him, he died on October 17, but now it seems fitting that it would be a smile. This is how I will remember my father.
With love, with appreciation, and always, always with a laugh.
[Addendum: I’ve uploaded better photos from a June 29 walk.]
Very often, after my work day is over, I walk over to Glenora to ‘pick up’ Tom and then we walk back to my place. It’s a relatively short walk, about 25 minutes, but I can make it longer by walking via Mackinnon Ravine, or finding different ways to get to where I’m going.
Today, I wandered around the old provincial museum grounds, which I haven’t been to in many years, and I’m not sure I ever walked around the perimeter, at least not unless I had aged relatives with me.
It’s such a beautiful piece of land, right above the river valley. I really like the new museum downtown but this location is unbeatable, and full of childhood memories. It’s possible the old museum will be torn down, and the grounds will no longer be accessible to the public. Who knows?
Walk while you can, and if you have a moment, sign the petition to save this beautiful piece of Edmonton’s history.
From the petition site, a little more about the museum (by June Acorn):
Built in 1965, the Alberta Provincial Museum Building on 102 Avenue and 129th Street in Edmonton stands as a true gem of modernist yet historic Alberta architecture. This beautiful structure is adorned by fossil-rich Tyndall Limestone from the Red River Formation, extensive marble interiors and exquisite brass fittings. The South face of the build has reproductions of the First Nations hieroglyphs of Writing-On-Stone Provincial park carved into the walls. The building is a cherished place for generations of Albertans and the site of many wonderful memories of learning and discovery. The grounds of the building are already a beautiful green space and the new building stands in elegant relation to the also historic Government House.