Nature Stories – Barbara Heagy

The Solar Eclipse – A Celestial Wonder

Photo by Bill Adam, Guelph, ON

“We are all finally settled in with our folding chairs and blankets, ready to view this celestial wonder that I’ve been looking forward to with anticipation for months. As I put on my special solar eclipse glasses for the first time, I can see that it has already begun. Without my glasses, the sun is a dazzling orb that cannot be viewed with the naked eye. With the glasses on, the sun looks like a golden ball with a small black nibble taken out of it.

I sit and just enjoy the whole experience which is going to take about 2 ½ hours from beginning to end, checking the moon’s progress intermittently as it gobbles up the sun slowly over the next hour or so. Each time I look, a big and bigger bite is eaten out of the sun. Meanwhile, I chat with the friends and family around me (there are 22 of us, children and adults), enjoy the children’s giggles and antics as they run and play in the green grassy field surrounding us, munch on a few snacks and relish the clear blue sky and tall trees around me.

I marvel at how lucky we are to have clear skies above us, as for the whole day leading up to the eclipse, the sky was thick with clouds that threatened rain. Just before 2 p.m. they began to dissipate and big and bigger patches of blue began to surround us leaving the sun high and fully visible in the sky. I text my daughters, brother, sister and niece who are spread throughout Ontario in Cobourg, Bancroft, Vaughn, Toronto, and Oro Station north of Barrie. All of them are looking at thick cloud cover and even, at times, rain. None of them are getting a satisfactory eclipse experience. What a miracle we have been granted!

The countdown begins . . . twenty minutes to totality . . . ten minutes . . . four minutes . . . two minutes . . . and my excitement is building. The sun is disappearing from the sky looking like a shrinking golden crescent as the black ball of the moon creeps across its surface. Soon it begins to look like a round toenail in the sky. The shadows around us are darkening and lengthening. It’s as if a dimmer switch is being slowly turned down. Like an exhaled breath, the temperature drops and I can feel the chill in the air. The sky is slowly darkening, the street lights are turning on and a flock of seagulls flies over us looking for their nightly roost. The air around us is strange, not like anything I have ever experienced. This is not a typical dusk. The colour is odd, muted, heavy, dark. It’s actually an eerie feeling, other-worldly, and I feel a little uneasy.

As the sliver of light shrinks, I can see beads of light flickering on the edges of the crescent. Scientists say it is the diminishing sunlight bounding off the valleys of the moon. These beads are called Bailey’s Beads, named after the scientist Francis Bailey who first documented them in 1836.

We are seconds away from totality when the moon will be completely covering the sun’s light. Everyone around me is getting excited and whoops and hollers of delight are being called out. People’s arms are shooting into the air, children are jumping, the whole park becomes energized and active. Ooo’s and ahhhh’s surround me as the view through my glasses goes completely black. We are in totality. Twilight is upon us.

Enveloped in complete darkness, I lower my glasses and look at the cosmic wonder in front of me high in the sky. It’s now safe to look at it with the naked eye. I see a black ball surrounded by a thin glimmering halo of light, a golden corona. Oh!! What a sight. The sky is black enough to see the stars and planets glowing as if it is nighttime. I can’t hold back my reaction of awe and wonder and I feel like a small child standing in front of a new world. It’s as if a portal to the universe has opened up before me and it invites me in to marvel at its uniqueness. For 1 minute and 18 seconds I can look at it unaided, without special glasses. I sit in amazement, held, suspended in its magic, unable to stop watching that giant black ball in the sky.

The moon is on the move, however, and thin shots of light begin to appear as the sun moves out of totality and begins the return to its normal view. Just before I slip my eclipse glasses back on, a shot of light flashes out at about 2 o’clock on the surface of the black orb and the edge of the golden circle. The diamond ring effect! It flashes and then, once again, with a full explosion of light, it does it again. It’s a golden ring with a large twinkling diamond on it that suddenly catches a direct beam of light that sends beams of sparkling rays shooting out into space.

As I watch, the sun continues its return. The dusk begins to disappear, daylight builds, the world is becoming normal again. But I know, I will never be the same. I was granted a front row seat to a celestial wonder that won’t happen in my area again for over one hundred years. I am truly blessed.

Cottage Morning, Waterhouse Lake

I have just returned from the most restful, relaxing vacation I have ever had in my entire life. We had nine lovely days at my brother Peter’s and his wife Sharon’s lakeside home in Bancroft while they vacationed in Italy. Thank you, Peter and Sharon. Here’s a story I wrote in remembrance of our quiet days of peace and rejuvenation.

Cottage Morning, Waterhouse Lake by Barbara Heagy

They wake me. Their calls are wavering across the lake. I open my eyes and raise the window blind. I see them. They have arrived once again with daybreak. Normally, their eerie calls are short-lived, wild wails, mournful modulations, but this morning they have something more to say. Their talk continues and I get up and go out to see what all the commotion is about.

Five adult loons splash about on the water, dive and recover, hoot to each other, and flash their wings with a tail rattle that sprays droplets into the morning mist. One of them begins to run across the surface, churning up circles of water, wings flapping, as it prepares for takeoff with a running start. Then up, up into the sky, it circles the lake and lands once again with a smooth coasting splash to join the others.

Again, the cacophony continues. Laughing, chortling, a breaking yodel of bird voices, they are a playful party, a mad choir in 5-part harmony. What are they about this morning? We have seen these five this week but never like this. Their song and play goes on for almost a half-hour. Such beauty to the eyes and ears as they romp about in the rising mist. Then, it seems the gathering is over. One by one they retreat to further shores and the lake is quiet once again.

But nature is not done celebrating. The flowers are full of morning dew, reaching, straining to catch the warming sun as it rises in the sky. Orange, red, yellow, pink petals call to the hummingbirds, “Breakfast time.” And they come from their tree-top nests hungry and ready for a new day. There are at least six of them. Although it is difficult to tell. They flash about, whirling and twirling doing aerial acrobatics that amaze and dumbfound as they juggle for space at the three feeders that my brother has erected for them. Extremely territorial, they claim their space boldly and unendingly. It is a dance as they gyrate, and do-si-do, spinning like little helicopters, zipping and zinging as they chase each other back and forth. They are blazing whirligigs, shimmering jewels with iridescent green feathers and ruby throats. Tirelessly they fly about all day long, entertaining and amusing us with their wondrous circus act.

I walk down to the dock, coffee in hand, and just sit. And watch. A small little head pops up just off-shore and I know that the local turtle is checking me out before it dives back down into the cool, deeper waters. This morning there are three of them, one much bigger than the others. The small ones are painted with hints of orange and yellow on the edges of their smooth green backs. The larger one might be a snapping turtle but he seems to mean me no harm. After all, this is his home and I am just a visitor. A quiet one at that.

My fishing pole is sitting on the dock, daring me to make a cast, see if you can catch a fish it says. Harold did. The first day, his third cast, he latched onto a rather large pike. He called out to me, “Bring the camera” and I ran down to the shore, barefoot and eager to see what he had on his line. “Wait, wait until I’m ready. Okay, bring it up.” Snap went the line, swinging like a wet noodle in the empty air. But “Look. He’s right there in the water.” We peeked over the edge of the dock to see a good two foot pike just sitting there in the shallow water, stunned perhaps, a lure still stuck in his mouth, unmoving. For a moment, I looked away, then back, and he was gone. That fish gave us hope. Where there’s one, there will be another. But although we fished every day at different times of the day, we never got another bite. I try again this morning, but to no avail. It’s fun and a challenge just to try; balance a rod in your hand, release the reel, swing your arm and line back, snap it forward and watch your lure soar over the surface and land with a plop in the water with a perfect aim, right where you wanted it to be. Turn the reel handle, the bail clicks, and the line returns smoothly, slowly back to you, cruising the underwater depths as you hope for that sudden yank and taut line that signals a fish has taken your bait. But not this morning and that’s okay.

I turn from the lake and head back up over the dock. A morning glimmer catches my eye. At the edge of the dock where the platform joins the walkway, I see a beautiful web, full of dew and glistening in the sun. I take a picture with my camera, mesmerized by its perfect symmetry and intricate patterns. I turn and then I see another. And another. And another. The shallows are full of shining spider webs, caught between grasses and weeds, woven wonders that thrill and delight. This one looks like a giant suspension bridge strung between thin reeds. That one looks like the glowing sail of a ship. There’s one that looks like a slingshot full of sticky strings ready to nab its prey. One of them connects grassy stalk after stalk with flowing, drooping, connecting lines, moving like interlocking tightropes that flow on and on above the water. Such beauty.

I chase the dragonflies hoping for a photo. They have their own agenda, gliding, bouncing off the surface of the lake, avoiding the sudden slurp as a fish rises hopeful for breakfast. Sometimes they land on the dock or the shoreline grasses. They allow me a quick glimpse into their transparent beauty, wings like clear stained glass windows, bodies of vibrant colours, red, green, turquoise.

I return to the patio and take a seat. I am learning to just sit and wait and watch. Nature will provide some quiet spectacle. This morning, it’s a little more than that. A flock of noisy grackles arrives in a burst of squawking birds, sharp calls, and flapping wings. There’s about thirty of them. They fly about from grass to trees, chasing each other, in zig-zag lines of chaos and clamour. They upset the other birds. The flickers in the tall spruce jump from branch to branch, piercing the air with their high-pitched squeal. This is their territory and they seem fearful of these invaders. The blue jay, guardian of the forest, calls out warnings in its ear-splitting scream. The grackles continue to chatter and chase, owning the space. I stand and move toward the lawn and they retreat to the next door neighbour’s grassy areas. The other birds slowly settle down.

I walk to the base of the flickers’ tree and there on the ground is a small gift, a bright yellow, brown and white feather, a wing feather perhaps, knocked loose in the fearful kerfuffle. A few more steps and I find another prize, a blue jay feather, indigo and black, tipped with a shot of white. I say a little prayer of gratitude for this morning performance where I was granted a free, front row seat.

I breathe and count my blessings, thankful for these moments of rest and relaxation full of nature’s quiet drama and wonders. I close my eyes and lean back. Time for another coffee. Perhaps in a few minutes.

A Canoe Community

The pandemic has changed me and my life. When life was put into lockdown, all of us had fewer choices and changed attitudes. Safety and “what is left for me to do” became my prime concerns. So Harold and I who had started fishing in the first summer of the pandemic, decided to get a canoe the second summer, to enable us to fish on the water rather than solely from shore. Our knowledge of canoes and kayaks was very limited. We entered a whole new world.

What surprised me the most about it was the deep sense of community we found among paddlers and their eagerness to share their knowledge and resources. My friend, Rosslyn Aird, an avid paddler for many years was the first to share her skills. We had a private on-land lesson in types of canoes and kayaks (she must own at least a dozen), paddles, personal flotation devices, safety equipment and, the most important, lifting, portaging, and transporting a canoe. A couple of weeks later, she met us at a local lake and we had a private on-water paddle to get used to boarding, debarking and staying afloat without tipping the boat.

Another friend, Michel Godbout, another avid paddler, was generous in sharing resources to get us started on our journey as the world was still in lockdown and equipment wasn’t readily available for purchase. This involved foam supports and tie-downs. Rosslyn (Lyn) lent us paddles and PFDs so we could start.

Many friends and fellow paddlers gave us advice as to what kind of boat to look for (canoe or kayak), what kind of roof racks were available and what would be our best choice to suit our needs. We decided we needed a good sturdy canoe that could take a bit of a beating without damaging it. It needed to be at least 16 feet long, 3 feet wide, made of a durable material, and it had to be light enough that we could handle it ourselves for transportation.

I put up some pictures on Facebook and sent out a request, “Anyone know of a used canoe for sale?” Friends and family started sending us notices. That first day, friend Leslie Howarth told us her husband just might have a canoe for us that would meet all our needs.

We had a couple of visits to see Jeremy Shute and we made our choice. We had our canoe! Jeremy repaired the caned seats for us and was very helpful with loading the canoe for the first time and answering all our questions. He is also an avid paddler with a big project on the go that he shared with us.

“Speed to Sea” is a personal challenge and project that began back in the summer of 2017. Jeremy, Lesley and friends and family are paddling from Guelph’s Speed River to the Atlantic Ocean. It’s happening in stages. Each year they complete a part of the journey and then pick up where they left off the following year. This summer, on August 12, they will be starting in Cornwall, Ontario and will see how far they get in their two week journey. You can follow their progress on the “Speed to Sea” Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/speedtosea. There is also a YouTube video of their project at https://youtu.be/uONvf_FAEiE.

Thank you Rosslyn Aird, Michel Godbout, Lesley Howarth, Jeremy Shute, and all our friends and family that have contributed to us becoming members of the paddling community. We love our red “Old Town” canoe, all 16’4” of it!

A Sit Spot

A Sit Spot — “A sit spot is simply a favourite place in nature (or looking out a window at nature) that is visited regularly to cultivate awareness, expand senses and study patterns of local plants, birds, trees, and animals. The practice supports mindfulness, builds routine and increases focus.” (www.wildsight.ca)

My friend/dancer Colleen Frances, introduced me to this phrase. She took a beautiful picture of me on a beach in Costa Rica before our morning dance class began, when I was just sitting alone, prayerfully, gratefully enjoying the morning sunrise. She told me that if we do this, pick a spot each day, the same spot, perhaps the same time, and then just open our senses to what is happening around us, the birds and the animals begin to expect us and things begin to happen. Things we would never have noticed if we hadn’t sat silently and expectantly are wondrously noticed by us.

We Are Wildness (www.wearewildness.com) says the five qualities of a perfect Sit Spot are “it is close, it has nature, it is solitary, it is safe, your attitude.” Any spot can be a perfect Sit Spot, even if it doesn’t appear that way at first.

Once we’ve chosen our spot, Colleen used the phrase RAW — Relaxed body, Alert mind, Waiting spirit, to describe the mental conditions we use when we sit at our ‘Sit Spot.’

My photographer friends often use this means of getting that perfect and unique photo. Stu McCannell, a skilled wildlife photographer, told us that the birds and insects and other animal life around us have habitual patterns that we can use to get that perfect shot. The Kingfisher returns to the same perch overhanging the river or the dragonfly has a favourite blade of grass or leaf to return to. In my garden, I know when to expect the robin for its nightly bath in my small pool.

My artist friend Suzanne Dyke, loves to sit in ‘plein aire’ and paint what she sees in front of her. Sections of my books have been written after sitting, contemplating nature and my own thoughts.

Choose a Sit Spot. Visit it every day. First, just sit, in quiet and alertness, watching and listening. You may be inspired to paint that picture, write that journal entry, take that photo, or it may just relax you and fill you with wonder at our beautiful natural world we have around us. “Stop and smell the roses” as they say. You’ll be better for it.

(Photo – Colleen Frances)

Four Seeds in a Hole

During this pandemic and the stay-at-home orders, I have started gardening in earnest. My daughter Brittany came to live with me last summer and together we transformed a back weed lot into a beautiful garden of flowers, flagstones, and a fountain. We learned a lot about seeds and plants, soil and watering (I’m still learning) and the practice of horticulture. Many small creatures; bees, insects, spiders, birds, groundhogs, squirrels, chipmunks, skunks, and rabbits have all visited our little haven and together, they have taught us many lessons about living in harmony with nature.

I have come to a realization that there is a whole group of gardeners who live by the philosophy of trying to live in an ecological balance with nature in their gardens. Natural means of diverting animals are used, such as planting marigolds or using raised beds and chicken wire fences. Insect pests are washed away with soap and water or hand-picking instead of chemical means. Growing plants that are native to the environment and planting seedlings that are non-invasive is encouraged. Rather than trapping or killing animals, there are those that choose to use other means such as a scarecrow or simply planting enough so that both the animals and humans share in the garden’s bounty. I have come to see the wisdom of planting an abundance of seeds rather than a few, knowing that many of them will be lost to natural means.

The whole experience has brought to mind a little folk song I used to sing with my little grade 1’s when I was a teacher.

“Four seeds in a hole,
  Four seeds in a hole,
  One for the mouse,
  One for the crow,
  One to rot,
  And one to grow.”

Know that the essence of the natural world is abundance. One yellow dandelion head will yield over a hundred seeds, a female frog will lay over a thousand eggs, one pine tree can grow into a forest. Accept, too, that life gives and life takes away. Not all that you plant will yield a crop. Other creatures may eat it as a food source so that they may have life. Some seeds will not germinate and will rot in the hole.

We humans are a part of nature. There can be enough for all if we learn to cultivate and share what nature gives us freely. Gardening offers us an opportunity to connect with nature and find our balance with all living things. What we do to the land will ultimately affect our lives in the long run. Let us learn to live in harmony and ecological balance so that all life may thrive. Gardening can teach us that.

A Balancing Act

Have you ever watched someone actually creating those wonderful balanced rock structures? You know the ones where they take a small stone and magically, or so it seems, balance another bigger rock on top of it, and then another, and another, until they hold together in one big delicate balance. They amaze me. I’ve tried it myself to no avail. I can’t even get two stones to balance, nevertheless, three, four or more.

This morning, catching up on my morning Facebook, I came across a friend’s posting of one of these incredible rock artists. I learned something watching the video, something I had never noticed before.

I’ve always thought that the structure was built one stone at a time, fully balancing the first one before the second, and then the third was added. But I noticed that the artist didn’t build them one at a time, fully balancing one before he balanced the others. He worked with the group, holding them together with his hands, as he built. If he let go too soon, before the final stone was put in place, the whole structure would fall. If he kept the group together long enough by holding them all with his hands, the final stone was often the one that put enough pressure on them all to hold the whole structure together. Each stone didn’t stand alone. Each one was necessary and stood on the shoulders of the one above it simultaneously. The stones worked together, at the same time, to find that precarious balance.

That in itself can be a lesson in life. We think we have to move step-by-step, fully balancing one factor in our lives before we move on to the next when, in reality, we need to include all the elements, holding them together long enough until we can put the final factor in place to bring it all together as a balanced whole.

When we feel that we have to fully achieve one thing before we can move on to the next, this separation of the elements can hurt us. It leads to perfectionism which tends to stifle us, sometimes stopping us in our tracks in our intended progress. If we can’t even get one thing fully working in our lives, we feel we are not ready to move on to the next area of expertise and drop it all together. We give up and refuse to take the challenge. We never feel ready or capable or good enough. It can lead to poor self-esteem.

In reality, we often are balancing many components, multi-tasking, learning as we go, pulling the elements together in a jumble of ideas, until the final conclusion hits us full in the face. Or doesn’t. Sometimes we pull it off but the final structure is held in precarious balance, ready to fall at the slightest outside force. But so what? At least by trying to build something, refusing to give up, believing that more than one factor is at work in our lives at a time, we learn from our mistakes, and continue to move forward.

Years ago, I studied modern dance while getting my first undergraduate degree. After four years of study, I left and went travelling. When I got back, I went and visited my former professor of dance. She told me about a local recreation department that was looking for a teacher to lead a creative movement class for children. I told my teacher there was no way I felt ready to teach anybody about dance. What did I know? She assured me I did know enough, so I gathered up my courage and applied for the job. It was the beginning of a career in dance for me, both teaching and performing.

While at the same university, I met a woman in my dance class who was really just starting out in dance. She had been brought up in a very strict religious family, where dancing was not allowed. She couldn’t even skip properly at the first class. That didn’t stop her from teaching her Inter-Varsity social group everything she learned. Day by day, she learned something, and day-by-day, she took what she learned and taught it to others. Her confidence in herself amazed me. She didn’t feel she had to be fully accomplished to offer her skills to others. She was of the Maya Angelou philosophy, “When you learn, teach. When you get, give.”

The world is a busy, multi-factored, jumble of ideas and experiences. Don’t be afraid to pick up many of them and fearlessly start building your life. It’s all a balance. Make yours beautiful.

The Power of Telling Our Stories

Last night I attended the ‘Evening of Sharing – The Power of Telling Our Stories’ organized by Lisa Browning, One Thousand Trees Publications. The three speakers inspired me deeply with their unique life stories. They went beyond themselves and shared generously details of their lives from dealing with the death of a loved one, to writing our own stories instead of living through others, and mental illness and depression.

Margaret-Ann Brix shared her children’s story “Grampa’s Butterfly”, Melinda Burns, psychotherapist/writer/poet shared the importance of finding our true selves through writing and journaling, and Clay Williams spoke of his inspirational long distance runs for charity, specifically depression and mood disorders.

I bought Margaret’s book to share with my grandchildren and found her story to be a delightful metaphor on life and death.

Melinda began with a short meditation that focused and centered us. Her lesson was about mindfulness, being our true selves in the present moment. We can learn about ourselves by writing down our thoughts and feelings. She spoke of the difference between thinking, writing, and telling our stories. Writing is that safe space between thinking and telling, where we can record our thoughts and feelings in a safe space with no judgement from others.

Clay encouraged us to sign the Canadian flag that he carries with him when he runs in remembrance of someone we know who suffers with mental illness. “I would be honoured to run in their name,” he said. My signature joined hundreds of others to uplift those in my life that I care and pray for.

Thank you to all three speakers and to Lisa for organizing this special evening. Lisa holds “Evenings of Sharing” every month, each on a different theme. You can check them out at her website www.onethousandtrees.com.

A Murmuration of Starlings

In the fall, the starlings begin flocking in daylight hours. You can see them in black clouds, rising and falling through the fields and forests. At night they roost in high trees and each sunset finds them searching for their night-time resting place.

We had a big cedar forest beside our former home and it was exciting to see them veering in as a flock, circling the area, landing, only to rebound into the sky, initiated by one unsettled bird, and sweeping around once again. After several of these wheeling episodes they finally settled and the noise began – chirping, screeching, chittering, and chattering, from a host of black starlings. Looking up at them from below, all we could see was the occasional bird as it hopped from branch to branch. It was amazing to think that there were hundreds of birds hidden in the leaves above our heads.

Finally, they settled with the coming of darkness. We had some fun going under the trees and suddenly letting out one loud “Whoop!” The birds ruffled up their wings in one sudden outburst, which upset the birds beside them, and then the birds beside them, and so on and so on in a giant ruffling wave that radiated out through the entire forest, like a giant wave in the crowd at Roger’s Centre.

But the birds got us back for upsetting their sleep. Early the next morning, as the sun began to rise, so did the birds. Once again they began their chirping, screeching, chittering, and chattering in a noisy clamour that woke even the most difficult morning riser. Then once again, off they went, wheeling and circling, gathering all the late stragglers, until they were gone. Silence reigned once again. All that was left was a forest floor littered with white bird droppings and the occasional feather.

A Butterfly Visitation

Yesterday, under blue skies and fluffy white clouds, our family attended a tree-planting ceremony put on by the local funeral home in honour of those who had passed away in the last year. For us it was our beloved Bill, father-in-law to my daughter and grandpa to my little grandsons.

The event couldn’t have been more perfect. Everything had been considered and was perfectly coordinated from the beautiful natural setting at the local conservation area, to the ample parking area and organized crew, to the large white tent set up with folding chairs and picnic tables under towering mature trees. A local choir and talented musicians provided beautiful heart-felt music and inspired speakers provided us with thoughtful messages.

One tree, symbolizing all of the over 300 trees that would be planted this season for our loved ones, was planted just outside the tent allowing us a visual reality of our loved one’s memorial tree.

As a final tribute to those who had passed, live Monarch butterflies were released by the planted tree. We were all invited to come up close and witness the event first hand. A hat box filled with the butterflies was placed on the grass and children and adults were encouraged to reach in, take out a butterfly and enjoy the experience of a living jewel in your hand before it took to the skies.

Butterflies have always been special to me and my second husband, Tom, who took me to the local butterfly conservatory for our first date. We released twelve live butterflies at our wedding five years later. On our first anniversary, Tom and I released one in our back yard to celebrate our love. Four years later, Tom passed away with terminal cancer. Since his passing, I have had several unique experiences with butterfly visitations. My family and I have acknowledged that perhaps these butterflies are Tom visiting us and we often say, “Hi Tom” when we experience these intimate encounters with these lovely creatures.

I was eager to get as close as I could to the butterflies but it was very crowded as over a hundred people encircled the box trying to get a glimpse. It took some time for me to get close enough to get some photos with my camera. Finally I was able to snap some pictures as smiling children and parents held living butterflies in their hands and then watched them as they flew up and over our heads into the sky.

One of the last butterflies to be released flew from a hand to a woman’s head beside me landing in her hair. Within seconds it made the short flight from her to me, settling on the crest of my ear where it decided it wanted to stay. For several minutes, the crowd around me marveled at this special moment as all the other butterflies had taken flight and were gone.

I decided to try and walk to my family’s picnic table to share this amazing experience with them. I didn’t know if the butterfly would still be there as I started to move. As I sat down at our picnic table it took a moment for my daughter and family to notice the beautiful orange and black ornament that was still in my hair. Liam called out, “Gramma, you have a butterfly in your hair.” We all laughed and I said, “I know. Say hi to your Grandpa Tom.”

The butterfly lingered for a lengthy period of time. We were able to get many pictures of this unique experience and share it with others around us. We actually finished our luncheon before the butterfly quietly left unannounced about 20 minutes later.

How special this moment was for my family and me. Thank you to Dods & McNair Funeral Home, Orangeville for making this special event even more memorable for us.