What do Dishpan Cookies, the Coastal Missions, and a local potter have in common? A lot in a serendipitous way. In fact, that trio has given me joy more than once. Take the other day, grey skies, garden calling to be cleaned up, my back telling me to chill, my mood bordering on a major blah when I remembered my list of Dubious Advice (refer to my blog posts on how to navigate aging).

Dishpan cookies and coffee in a Jane Wolters’ mug.

Dubious Advice # 11…Do something productive. Don’t mope around whining and groaning about how tired you are. Do Something!

I made cookies. Dishpan Cookies, big lumpy raisin, nut, oatmeal, chocolate chip cookies and served them with tea.

The first time I sampled Dishpan Cookies was recently at Chemainus potter Jane Wolters’ studio. Years ago, we had visited her studio and Grant spotted a vase on a top shelf that he liked and brought it down.

“Oh” she said, “I had forgotten about that vase.”

We had a feeling she was reluctant to let it go. It’s been his favourite vase and one we use often. So just before this past Christmas, when Grant was getting rid of some of his books, he decided his big hardcover book on the history of ceramics should go to Jane Wolters and we dropped it off at her house. She followed up with an invitation for tea and cookies at her studio a month later.

Oh, her studio. It was a wild and wonderful mish mash of working area with potting wheels plural, kilns and clay, pots in different stages of readiness and shelves of her earthy pottery and more shelves of her newer more metallic finishes. We wandered and touched and stroked. I had done some wheel work years ago and this was one of my dreams. As I was looking at Jane’s work I recognized her style, and realized that some of my pottery that I had bought along the way at art shows or fairs or gift shops was made by her. Jane insisted we both pick a piece of pottery as a gift as a thank you for the ceramic book. Grant chose a mug and I picked a tiny vase for my snowdrops.

Flowers in our vases from Jane Wolters

We sat comfortably in her studio as Jane served tea in her own pottery cups along with a plate of big fat chunky Dishpan Cookies. “These are good,” we raved as we gorged on her cookies and asked about the name.

“The recipe came from the couple who ran Coastal Missions.” she said. “I met them when we used to sell eggs from our hens and we soon became friends. After that every Christmas they would drop by with plates of a variety of home-baked cookies. They said the Dishpan recipe came from someone up the coast who they would visit on their missionary voyages.”

“But the name?” I asked.

“Likely the only bowl big enough to mix a huge batch of cookies in those up-coast logging and fish camps was the tin dishpan. They had to make do.”

I remember the Coastal Mission people who once lived along the water in Saltair and knew about the work they did travelling to the remote coastal villages, bringing more than just religion to the people scattered up and down our waterways. The Columbia Coast Mission boats carried goods, people, medical help and were an essential part of the Vancouver Island coast. (Now www.coastallight.ca)

This Coastal Mission connection was another serendipitous moment for me for it was part of different dream. I once planned to travel on those boats as a nurse going to the remote Indian Villages. And as I have a few ministers and missionaries in my background a bit of churching would have been possible too. One of my favourite books is Totem Poles and Tea by Hughina Harold who travelled by Coastal Mission boats to Village Bay and served as a nurse and school teacher in 1935.

And so, we sat In Jane’s studio soaking up her lovely energy and eating her scrumptious cookies as I basked in the revelation of the culmination of my dreams, even by association. (Jane is also an accomplished artist.)

Grant sat across from us and later remarked that we were a lot alike.

My only regret was that we were so busy talking that I forgot to take pictures of Jane’s studio. I did stop though to capture their whimsical array of garden tools along the fence as we were driving off.

Garden tools along the fence at the potter’s studio

When I got home, I checked the bottom of each piece of pottery that I thought was Jane’s and sure enough they had her signature big W. And the other day when my writers group met at my house, I baked a big batch of Dishpan Cookies and served them on a pottery plate made by Jane. And of course, read them this story.

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More dubious advice on how to navigate aging coming next month.

Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

Quite a few years ago, around the time I turned seventy, I began reading articles on getting old and on downsizing. The idea being you should downsize before it was ‘too late’. In other words, while you still had all your marbles.

We were already living in a small bungalow, but moving into a smaller home or modular home, with no grass to mow or gardens to tend, suddenly seemed the way to go. At least for me. I did most of the gardening.

It took a bit of convincing to get Grant on board. I quoted stats from Senior magazines and he was willing to at least look.

Dubious advice #2: Take a stand, be proactive.

While driving around a mobile home park up island, looking at the units for sale, we spotted a friendly looking woman walking across the road carrying a half full bottle of red wine. When we asked her about the park, she became animated, telling us how much she liked it and how hard it was initially to get rid of her things in order to downsize. “But it became easy. After all, it is just stuff,” she stated, as she waved the wine bottle in the air. “We got rid of everything when we moved here and never looked back.”

A neighbour joined her, clutching her survival pack of Benson and Hedges and a bottle of white. “It’s happy hour” she said, flicking a finger on her wine. “We’re off to visit a friend up the road.”

Dubious advice #3: Drink wine- or not- but have fun.

We thanked them both and drove around the mobile home park and up the hill again to look at the unit with the kick-ass view and low price. “If we could bring in a new park model and put it in this site I could live here but that would become awfully expensive and not worth it,” I mused. Grant agreed.

We were still undecided as to what to do and as our needs weren’t pressing and as we hadn’t found anything that really spoke to us, it was easier to do nothing. Doing nothing was a decision but then as we were driving around in our free time looking at real estate, we hadn’t committed to doing nothing either. One thing we did had reinforced in this process is that one has to get rid of ‘stuff’.

Everyone we talked to had a story of getting rid of their possessions.

Another woman in a different mobile home park, told us of living in a four- bedroom house, her husband having a debilitating accident and having to downsize to a one level mobile home. She dumped everything she could on her children and had six garage sales before she was free of years of clutter. Free was the word she used to describe how she and her husband were living now.

“Getting rid of stuff was the best thing we ever did,” she said, “and it took my husband’s accident to motivate us.”

I don’t wish a drastic motivator but I do wish something would help me clarify this urge to move, to feel free. I continue to de-clutter, rid myself of stuff and we continue to pour over real estate. Perhaps when I am free of stuff I will feel free to be living in harmony with my surroundings and my self.

Dubious advice #4: Get rid of stuff.

Still more dubious pieces of advice, part three and final, coming next post.

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Crone: a derogatory term for an old woman, a hag? Or the word for a woman of an older age who is revered for her wisdom, compassion and healing laughter? And a woman who embraces the ancient crone archetype with her age accumulated knowledge, her insights and intuitions, a woman who has found her power. An Island Crone. A sometimes-witchy island crone!

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Normally I don’t give getting old a second thought. Why should I? I am a healthy 85-year-old, active, and still interested in what’s going on in my community.

I feel I can do every thing I once did. Until this happened.

It was a beautiful blue-sky day on January 1, 2024 when I walked down to the ferry dock to watch the annual polar bear swim. I didn’t see anyone I knew. Covid had done that for me. I had stopped going to public events.

But then I recognized a voice in the crowd, a young couple whose daughter was doing the swim.

“Here,” he said, “you can watch with us.”

He held out his hand as I stepped over the foot high divider between the vehicle and the pedestrian path on the ferry dock.

When the swim was over and I turned to leave they were already walking away. I looked at the wooden beam that was the barricade between me and my way home and I knew if I tried to step over it without support, I would fall. The air around me was shimmering, it was either the sunlight dancing on the water or something else that made me feel dizzy, whatever, I knew I needed help.

I hate asking for help.

I called out to the wife who was on her phone walking away. Of course, she rushed back and gave me her arm to grip as I stepped over, teetered a bit, then centered myself. She gave me a hug and was on her way.

Dubious advice #1: Don’t be too proud to ask for help.

It was a long walk home.

“How was the polar bear swim?” Grant asked.

As I told him what happened I started to weep. “I hate feeling old,” I blurted between sobs. “I feel vulnerable and useless and as though I’ve aged a decade.”

“Well, you are getting old Lizzie,” Grant said gently, “and its just part of letting go.”

“No!” I refused to listen to him. “I know I am old but I can still do something to slow the decrepitude. Walk with my Nordic poles. Do my balance exercises. And write in my journal to ease the angst.”

I have more dubious pieces of advice on how I am navigating aging to share with you. Next blog post, my friends.

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

The first winter after we moved to Crofton B.C., a small pulp mill town on the coast, we were invited to the Seniors’ Christmas Dinner. It was to be held at noon at the local community hall and I was expecting small-town-kind-of-lame, get-in and get-out.

It was the event of the year! White table cloths, sparkling wine goblets, Christmas crackers, fresh roses for the women, Santa Claus, live music and turkey with all the trimmings. Everyone was dressed in their best. There were speeches and dancing, the hall was packed and the wine was flowing. This annual event had gone on for years, honouring the towns’ seniors, many of whom had lived and worked there all their lives. We knew we had chosen the right town for our retirement.

A couple of years later I met another newcomer, the way you randomly do in a small town. Jean Ballard and I discovered a shared love of writing and a fascination for the deep sense of community in our new home and we launched a monthly newspaper column about Crofton for The Chemainus Courier.

Jean took photos, we shared the writing and soon developed a reputation around town. One irritated reader wrote to the paper saying we must be wearing rose-coloured glasses because we even made the ongoing dog poop problem into a funny story. Jean and I bought dollar store rose-coloured glasses, strolled the Sea Walk flaunting them and posted our picture in the paper. Our readers loved it.

And we loved writing about our adopted home. In fact, Jean wrote a love story to Crofton for Our Canada magazine. In her article she referred to Crofton as a chicken soup sort of town. You can read it here.

A Place to Call Home: Welcome to Crofton, B.C. | Our Canada (on readersdigest.ca)

Jean moved away a few years ago and we dropped our column, but she continued with her own blog of nature photos and country hikes and I continued writing my two memoirs, Growing Up Weird: A memoir of an Oak Bay childhood and River Tales: Stories from My Cowichan Years.

Life in Crofton carried on. New people moved in, houses sprung up on the hillsides, the population grew  and seemingly every one, and their dog, walked on the Sea Walk.

Then Covid struck and there were no more Seniors’ Christmas Dinners.

Of course, we still had the Christmas parade, with the fire trucks and floats and hot chocolate and live music at the Warmland Church, but I missed that turkey dinner and the camaraderie of the old timers  who‘s roots stretched back to the early smelter days.

Then this December the Seniors’ Christmas Dinner was back on and it felt Christmassy again. The Crofton Community Centre, that always hosted the Christmas dinner, no longer had their catering crew and were unable to do the whole turkey extravaganza. However they put on a great feast of sandwiches, home baked goodies, pumpkin pie with whipped cream, tuxedo cake and two kinds of punch.  The lunch was hugely successful and I realized it was more about gathering and celebrating than about the food. It felt like old times.

It really is a Christmassy soup sort of town. And yes, I ‘borrowed’ that title idea from my old writing partner, Jean Ballard. 

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe to my blog. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

Have you ever been to a Croning?
I have. But not by choice.

A Croning is a ceremony, often wicca like, where women are celebrated for reaching the status of crone, wise woman, or elder.

My younger friend Sharon invited me. It was twenty years ago and I was not ready to be a crone. I was old enough, over fifty (sixty actually), grey hair, gone through menopause and had become a grandmother, but I was not nearly wise enough.

Nor was I ready to embrace old age, I was in a new relationship and the association of crone with the word hag or witch just didn’t fit my self-image. Pictures in my childhood fairy tale books by Grimm and Anderson came to mind, hunched back old crones stalking innocent children in the forest, hags cackling over cauldrons of stewed toads. This was not my reality.
I went, but only because Sharon, who was celebrating her fiftieth birthday, and ready to welcome her cronehood, was treating me to the experience.

You know how it is when you walk into a room and everyone seems to know each other and no one hands you the play list? That was how it was for me on this day. I watched as people embraced each other, I participated in the required circle where we introduce ourselves by our matrilineal line, dutifully naming our mothers, grandmothers as far back as we could go. I had done this many times before, with passion, but I couldn’t dredge up any of it on this day.

Women’s gatherings can be welcoming, warm and infused with joy. Seeing women being free to express themselves and move unconsciously to their own rhythm is delightful. This gathering was like this, and I had a hard time getting in sync.

Most of the women at this workshop were too young to be crones in my opinion. Yes, there were a few elders, lovely white-haired women who dressed in the appropriate flowing organic cotton dresses and long strands of beads. These were women I would love to have known but I couldn’t make myself participate.

It was towards the end of the day that we held our Croning ceremony. I watched as the oldest woman in the room walked up to receive her crown of cedar and her crone blessing. Others followed. I shook my head when someone beckoned me to go up and I held myself apart from them as they chanted and twirled with scarves swirling from their outstretched hands.

There was something not quite right about the day for me, and I have never been comfortable in groups where feelings felt contrived but at the same time there was a part of me that longed to join in and to revel in the freedom they so joyously embraced.

I certainly was not ready to welcome Cronehood.

All this changed last year when I turned eighty. I had arrived at this magical age, still healthy and active with a long list of things I wanted to do. Definitely a milestone to celebrate. I could now properly claim Cronehood status. I did some research. The Unitarians had this to say about Crone ceremonies and the word Crone: link

We could perhaps define the crone as a woman that is gracefully adapting to the process of aging. She inspires others. She is comfortable in her own skin and with her spirituality. Her intuitive and creative powers are pronounced. But what really sets the crone apart is that she embodies a passion to explore meaning in her life; and she exemplifies an unselfish willingness to share her honesty, knowledge, wisdom, love, and compassion.

Honoring our wise women for the contributions of knowledge and wisdom is a tradition that has been lost over time. This ceremony acknowledges that our elders are our wisdom-keepers.

Crossing the threshold into Cronehood can be a major event in a woman’s life. It’s a celebration of all that you’ve learned, and all that you will come to know in the future. For many women, it’s a time to make new commitments and vows. This third cycle of your life is the one in which you become an Elder. The word Crone should now be a word of power for you, so celebrate it. You’ve earned it.

I took this advice to heart and celebrated my eightieth birthday with my family and a few crones. The accompanying photo shows my daughter Maureen, my friend Sharon, me and my sister Kate, all beautiful crones who are aging gracefully.

I have entered what I consider to be the fourth cycle of my life. I embrace my Cronehood as I join the legions of elders who continue writing and publishing well into their nineties.

Stay tuned,
Musings of an Island Crone