I believe I left off two weeks ago, in my bubble story, with the fact that I was finally on my way home from Calgary, courtesy of my dear friend Herald Kane, overseer of my eyeball surgery journey, with all its tricky twists and turns. The edict from the Mitchell Eye Centre, on leaving there, was that I was not to ride in the passenger seat in case there was an incident with an airbag. Really? Well, I can tell you that riding head down with my face planted in that foam doughnut, in the back seat of his Nissan was pretty damn uncomfortable. When you are able to see ahead while travelling you mentally and physically adjust to the small nuances of a rocking car. But when you can’t see, you don’t know what is coming at any given moment. It is kind of like getting thrown around in a stagecoach. It didn’t help that Herald was used to driving in Los Angeles traffic so weaving in and out is normal.

“The bubble is trying to keep me from writing about the bubble”

I am, right now, experiencing a phenomenon that most of you mercifully will never have to endure. I have a gas bubble in my right eye that has been there since April 26th and it is shrinking, ever so slowly, in size. It is driving me nuts but I am eternally grateful that it is there.  I must add that it is pretty damn awkward and frustrating trying to type while being obstructed this way.

Last weekend our community acknowledged our amazing volunteers and the dedication they display by  being there for the causes that help keep things running around here. The occasion was the annual municipally sponsored volunteer dinner  and at that event the one and only Anita Ferguson was called up to the stage for the volunteer of the year award. You just don’t get any better than Anita when it comes to commitment to community.  There are so many that are pitching in but it is becoming tougher and tougher as interest in volunteerism is waning. People burn out and interest groups are always looking for new blood. 

Ever since I was a youngster I have had a fascination with caves. It has never left me and I find myself inevitably drawn to any dark shadow or interesting feature of any depth in a rock face. I guess that is why I didn’t “bat” an eye when I went to work 2 1/2  miles underground  in the Vicary Mine while in college. Spelunking is probably a in-bred after effect of my coal mining family history.

The following is a reprinting of a profoundly interesting submittal to the now defunct Elk Valley Miner in 2011.  The introduction below the title of the article says. 

“Compiled and written by Harold Travis (S.S.M . CP).”

The Ukrainian bandura is more than an instrument. For generations, travelling kobzari carried history in song. Russian imperial restrictions and Soviet repression sought to silence them. Today, the bandura’s revival has become another note in Ukraine’s resilience.