Back On Line

When you go to Europe you are delighted at the lines of laundry festooning every alleyway and side street. Poles of it, lines of it stretched from side to side in cooperation and racks of it on tiny decks or hung in windows makes for a romantic scene. Our photographs bear witness. And while it is an ethnic/aesthetic sight, it is also a hugely practical solution to reducing planet footprints. Dryers not only wear out fabrics, they use up energy unnecessarily.  Here in spoiled North America, we shun the almost extinct clothes line of yore. Neighbourhoods, apartments and condos ban laundry lines or racks. Oh my, oh my, one must not look upon the whites of others. Ugh! Some of us sneaks, hide our laundry drying racks where prying eyes cannot see and  smile when we bring in our outside dried linens with the wondrous aroma of fresh air. The germs hate it. Being environmentally aware includes using a combo washer/dryer laundry machine that takes small loads, uses 30 percent less water, poses no fire hazardous air vents because it condenses water taken from drying fabrics and sends it down the drain and is efficient power-wise. The unit, widely used in Europe but available here,  is apartment-sized and fits into a dish washer type opening using ordinary water pipes. Not much cheaper than a laundry pair, but very easy to install and a joy to use. Those who have property, should make an effort to make changes so that laundry may once again decorate our yards, be healthier done out in the fresh air and use far less energy than those big pig dryers. Also, it isn't what water comes into your home as much as what goes out and into the sewer treatment plant that costs tax dollars and affects the eco-footprint. Let's all get back on line!

Action Reaction

Things in life, just don't happen. Usually there has been an action of some kind and following it, a reaction. If you light a fire, there is flame. If you cook, there is aroma. If you hurt someone, it may come back and hurt you. That's the way life is. You have to be prepared to deal with the reactions to your actions. But when does it all begin? What begins it and who starts it? Perhaps your act, you say, is merely a reaction to the actions of another. It is easy to wriggle out of what you have done to cause the reaction you don't like and blame others for what you are doing. How dare this person do what he/she did? They deserve what they got. Oh no, you did something or there would be no reaction. The hard part is being honest about yourself and what you did to start the "reaction ball" rolling.  Okay, so you thought you were fixing something you didn't like and acted on that. You knew there would be a reaction but when it happened you said that what you did was justified. Unfortunately, the world doesn't care what you think; you are going to get a reaction. That's nature's law. All that being said, how do you stop this atomic sort of on-going Hatfield-McCoy business? Someone has to end the flip flop action/reaction momentum. Blaming will not stop it. Self-righteousness won't make it quit. So what is the answer? The answer is that someone has to opt out of the game. If you want to opt out of this kind of insanity, you must say to yourself - why does it matter what my enemy  does. I have my own life to live, my own agenda to serve and it does not include what others do or think or say or how they behave. I am me and I will continue down my pathway in life. I will ignore all the action/reaction "stuff" and just move on. Doing this, you have cleared your path and all obstructions and now you can go on with what is truly important to you in your life. Bon voyage!

That Feeling

You know that feeling. It emanates from deep within you and you flush with pleasure. The anticipation invades every cell of your body. Your step becomes lighter and an inner smile begins to insist upon surfacing no matter how you try to hide it. You are in a state of love and floating on a cloud of wonder about what is to come and the joyous possibilities that lie ahead. There is an intangible mysterious air that pervades and the solutions to questions and the small dangers that might occur come together as you enter that sphere.  Your stomach almost aches for the sensual gifts of that dream  and your fingers tingle to touch and feel the rich texture of them. You are flooded with peace and goodness and cheerful memories and colour and excitement. You start to prepare and gather together all the exotics and  golds and silvers, velvets and satins, sparkling jewel-like garments to don your environment and make this miraculous event ever brighter and better. You are filled with love, love of the season - Christmas.

The L Word

There is a whole universe of angst over the L word in relationships. Over and over, I hear the complaint "he/she won't say the L word". Frankly, I would be concerned about the opposite - I'd want proof if I heard it too much! The famous L word between dating folk is perhaps viewed in the wrong light. Some believe that if they don't hear the L word,  the special feeling isn't present. One can love without having to say it constantly. It is admittedly, a wonderful word to hear and certainly adds colour to relationships, but some fear saying it. Their fears are well founded. Sometimes, the L word has certain connotations, perhaps arising out of romance films and novels. In these vicarious relationships, the characters' datings culminate in the inevitable L word and thus confirm true and eternal love between the characters. And that's fine for movies and books, but in real life, that kind of slant makes for a problem. First of all, saying you love something or someone doesn't mean you want to sign up for life. You might love for a certain period of time but not forever. Love, after all is a vulnerable state. To be fair, this is not to say that when someone makes an L word with  a promise, it shouldn't be kept.  Any promise ought to be respected. It comes down to filtration. The receiver of the L word has to consider all the surrounding factors.  Sounds cynical but perhaps being a tad cautious, might save a lot of tears later on such as "I thought he or she loved me". Love needs proving and time is of the essence. Take it. So how do you go about determining if the L is sincere or not? Hmmm. Then again, why not just take your chances and enjoy the moment?Complicated isn't it?

Ownership

We are one person. Who we are is just us and no one is exactly the same as we are. Even Siamese twins think differently. It is a matter of ownership. We own ourselves and that includes a lot of private stuff such as what we like and don't, who we love and don't and what we plan to do. Even small babies have minds of their own and while we as parents attempt to mold those little minds, eventually, they put what they see and learn and what they are told to learn come together and become what they think and do and are. They have ownership of themselves. And that is precious. Along with the good, they also own the bad and have to deal with that. There is good advice available and bad influences and professional assistance but in the end, it is left to our personal choices. Age and stage are no exception. Some take their problem and try hard to deal with it. Others fling blame about. I hear it. "The reason this happened is because you ..." or "if you didn't do ... this wouldn't have happened" or the famous, "if there was a God, He wouldn't have let this happen". Of course none of that is true. Life happens and it isn't always perfect. In fact, it seldom is. Around me, I see people who have horrendous problems, their personal hills to climb and conquer, and it doesn't always work out the way they wish. Like Sisyphus you have to start rolling that rock back up the hill. Not an easy task. And standing around watching some of these struggles that another person is going through, is hard, too. You consider solutions for them and thrash away thinking about reasons why it happened and you want to help  make it better to end the bad bits, but the situation does not belong to you. You alone cannot solve it.  What can you do? You can stand by and become a pillar, a backstop, a place of refuge for the one who is suffering. You can listen and understand, but you cannot "do". Ownership of ourselves while precious is not always an easy possession.

Not A Book

When is a book, not a book? When it doesn't have pages to turn. The current rage to make everything into un-realia: text conversation, i- photos, comp games and yes,e books  is tragic. I, a user, as most these days, have an electronic book, although it is not my preference. I like a "real" book to read. The e book is more practical to take along rather than fill my luggage with tomes that  make it a crucial choice between them or a pair of hiking boots. Otherwise, I much prefer the intimacy of a paper book. First, it has  character. It's size and how it feels in the hand, the font and illustrations, the heft of it and even it's vulnerability appeals. A book speaks of itself. My first school book was a reader in the days when children all read one volume and popped up in turn for oral reading. And while that method is shunned today, there was something magical about sharing the slender child tattered Jerry and Jane, Laddie and Snow. When we "took out" our readers, we were all on the same page! The pictures, in only blue, black and orange inks were unique.  The smell of those child-used books was unforgettable and the kids in my class dug their noses into them as soon as they were  handed out each day. Run Jerry go. See Jane run.  See Snow jump.  Run Laddie run. It took few words to make a story, one that was made clearer with minimal drawings. Books were revered in the days of great Carnegie libraries where you went for family entertainment instead of the Golden Arches.  In those brick halls with their awe-inspiring domes, and high silent stacks, you felt dizzy knowing that you could read any and or all of them. They were yours. Free! There on the round tables you spread out your books with the pictures you loved to trace: the prince's face, the horse's mane the fairy wings.  Each book had peculiar traits: their used pages, their texture: some smooth and silky like a satin gown or others rough like a the dwarf's coat. Still others were smooth and neat for the scientific reader.  The borrowed ones that were new carried a frightening responsibilty - the need to be protected from small siblings and the hazards of loose food. You hoped the librarian would never see you at home in your room with your apple and her book. And when you were a teen, steamy novels were skulked about and shared, with pages marked or with certain texts, the best notes and test material underscored and on the inside, with covers like archives, they showed the names of school basketball heros or friends of your sister's who actually used the same (shiver) books themselves (sigh).  Secret pages held jokes or added illustrations to giggle over and be flashed about when the teacher left the room momentarily. And when you became an avid college reader you took up theme books to exchange and  discuss with your friends on the way home from classes. Still later, you had a book with you wherever you went so that you were never alone. It was a good way to meet friends. And now, the technical age is changing it all.  But somehow the electronic book just isn't the same as the ones that had mysterious spots here and there, or a certain scent, scribbled gift greetings, dog earred corners or forgotten bookmarks. These, not screens, are the true books, the true friends.

The Bachelor Widow

Widowhood is different things to different widows. It isn't some kind of club where there are rules to follow and uniforms and lifestyle guides. Society, these days, doesn't have time to put up with a lot of grieving and hugging so a widow has to move on rather quickly and keep her woes to herself if she wants to function normally in a busy world. It is not to say that she is hard-hearted or ungrateful for empathies but all that fades after a year or two. Life is precious and she, the widow bachelor, of all people, realizes it. Or should. Young widows with children are apt to find a husband if they wish and older widows may, too, if they feel they want to take care of an older man but many of us are content to follow the path that karma has set before us and travel down that pathway alone. Life can be pleasant doing what we please how we please when we please. Once the adjustment to loneliness happens and it does, there seems no value in moaning since life is rather a short haul. The situation may be called freedom - of a sort. Marriage or its close kin is an honorable state especially when children are involved and "family" is operating. But when you are beyond that stage and on your own, widow bachelorhood can be very appealing. Your life is entirely up to you and suddenly you are not, as in your first experience on your own when you had a mom and dad overseeing all you did, or a room mate to contend with, or later, a husband with whom cooperation and compromise were necessary, beholden to another. All matters stop with you and it is quite a heady experience. Some widows do the Queen Victoria and spend the rest of their lives bemoaning their state while others use their time roiling about looking for a man to marry. Why I don't know.  Still others of us put our feet up with a cup of coffee in  hand and read until we feel like stopping or write until the ideas fade or fiddle with paint or fabric or flour. No one  says "let's go", "I need", "where's my" or "is that done yet?" and while the day may appear dull, there is something about a clear road ahead with the gloom fading behind, that makes it a non-stop holiday. For certain, there may be some male friendship and/or love interests but saying ta ta at the end of the date or visit and soloing into your own space again, inspires a sense of self unlike no other. Widow bachelors know it.

Sour Surveyors

Many of us are on a survey list and enjoy giving our opinions on products and practices. The survey companies who provide their clients with the information collected, tempt their prospective pollees with little contests offering cash or prizes of some kind. But merely giving judgements about experiences in the market place is enough to make it interesting and fun. I suppose, like the grocery chain receipts that are really more useful for the store's information bank than ours, these pollsters owe us something. We are the ones who shop. I don't know if contests are the way to go. Frankly, I prefer airmiles points. I'd rather have a sure thing than an outside chance. I do have a gripe with the survey folk, however pleasant their idea of fun might be. Being of a certain age, meaning beyond forty-five and working, one notes that survey companies seem to show little interest in older age groups. At the start of any survey, you are asked statistics: age, gender, location. And presumably, the poll will begin. If the polling people are aiming at a certain age group or status, they simply switch you ahead to the contest portion, saying that their poll has enough responders, thank you very much and then they enter you in the contest. Who is kidding who? This happens to all of us who are pollees"of an age", meaning we have joyously retired from the working world. Having approached the poll company about the matter, they patted me on the head and said that it had nothing to do with age, but that their clents were aiming at a certain age group. In short, it wasn't their fault. Yes, it is, in part. They advise their clients. My point is, that while I am not jarred much by this kind of stupidity, I am astounded that the client is ignorant about consumerism. Those working people today are so burdened with credit: cars, mortgages, monthly bills, that they do not spend as much time in the market place as the retired. Most of the money they spend is likely to be slammed onto the plastic loan card they poke or swipe. Retired people worked hard in their day and saved and invested and now it is time for them to spend it. The old idea that they will scrimp so they can pass it on to the kids is over. Most of the "kids" live in the basement anyway or are cared for by their parents. The retired are the people who have leisure time to shop. They are the folk who sold the family home and wisely moved into condos and apartments and without mortgages, are going cruising and RVing and flying off to exotic places on vacation. They are the ones who eat out frequently, sometimes daily, and want to look fashionable. They take the latest electronics for their entertainment and the best appliances for their new homes. They drive cars they actually paid for and drive them carefully during the daytime when all the other workers are plying their desks or conveyor belts or bossing others around. They are the consumers who count. They are not toothless old lions who know nothing and can't rub two thoughts together. They are retired doctors, nurses, teachers, professors,  business administrators and labourers all mixed into a crowd of people who don't believe that one has to look old to be old. The women are not all grey haired frizzballs in floral jersey house dresses (although that fashion has re-emerged) and the men are not all shuffling along in pocketed cardigans and droopy drawers ( and that fashion, too, is back or was). No, fashion for the older person has all the dash and pizzaz but with good taste. The retired have time to romance and dance and enjoy sport in a way they never did before. They buy, they use services, they travel, they dine, they spectate. Polling companies need to address the people who have the funds and who spend their money, if they want fully  to understand the marketplace.

No You Don't

"We know better than you, believe it. We do this only in your best interests." We all said it to our young.  Elders hear it far too often from their families. While the young know their own lives - such as they are - they do not fully "know" aging. Why? They're not on that part of the time line, that's why. The elder knows body pain, incontinence, dulling memory, loneliness, and losses both physical and emotional. He or she tolerate gradually failing systems that are merely doing what is natural and to accomplish that work, and it is work, they need  patience, love and support, not family judgements. "Mother, surely you're not going to wear that old sweater. Here is a  nice new one." "Dad you can't watch TV all day. Get out and walk. It's a sunny day."  Mom and dad don't have the strength to say, "Back off, or it's out to the woodshed with you", but they should. Not that they ever took their kids out to the proverbial "woodshed". Worse still, is the elder who is pressured emotionally. Telling an elder who he or she should associate with is cruel. It denys him or her the pleasure of choosing a support system of their own unique design. And really, whose happiness is at stake?  The elder who has limited time left, needs love and approval for his choices. Another pressure that is hard to tolerate is financial. I had an uncle who went to his wealthy mother whining about not having a new car or something to buy his pretty wife. My grandmother gave him tea and sympathy but no money. Over tea, she  reviewed the matter with me, saying that if she gave him all he wanted, he would be unlikely to come and visit her frequently to ask for things. Now, that's wisdom. Then there are those who rub their hands together waiting for their elders to pop off so they can collect what they didn't earn. They natter away about his or her needing to go to a "home" when staying at home is the best and often cheaper way to survive old age. Homes are places of routine out of necessity, what you might call kindly prisons. There are necessary time schedules such as events and the bus to the mall and meal times. Yes, there is hairdressing and book shelves and visiting entertainment but one's own home, whether it be an apartment or house is the best place to be as long as possible. Help can be shipped in. Choices should be what fits the elder not the family. The bottom line is love. Love the elder. You're looking at yourself.

Kitchen Cuts

You wouldn't think that working in a place of stainless steel, marble and oak wood could possibly be romantic. It is. Try it. One lovely dark, fall evening, go on-line and find a recipe that you both enjoy. A late trip to the market to buy the ingredients for your eating pleasure can be part of the joy of cooking. My charming chef and I poll the store aisles picking and choosing what we hope will end up as our delightful dual dinner and later, pop into the wine shop for something that pairs with it. There's a rich, tasty magic about shopping as a couple that makes for closeness. Back in the kitchen, we anticipate and discuss about how to enhance the printed recipe by adding our own touches and decide who will prepare and execute what. My dear chef is a measurer. Everything is meted out meticulously. He, therefore,  is elected to effect the main event of the show while I, trained by a grandmother who used her hands as the teaspoons, tablespoons and quarter cups, quell my historical bent to act as obedient sou chef. I chop and dice according to instructions, flit about washing the used utensils and bowls, fetch and carry. Someone has to do it! Our kitchen dance includes passing hugs as well as loving touches. Very nice but not in the recipe book. Movement about a small place, as my kitchen is, requires cooperation and guile. He goes there while I pass by here, he reaches high and I bend to find bowls low. He grabs the utensils from the stove-side basket while I snip the herbs ready to go into the pot or baking dish. We grate and slice and flavour and pluck and thus the dish is ready for the oven or for simmering stove-top. We two have created something together. It is called harmony as well as cuisine. The waiting for dinner to finish is living room time for a quiet chat or watching part of  a recorded game or movie. When, finally, the aroma from the kitchen proves to be our cookery vision come true - something fragrant, brown, crusty and inviting from the oven - the quilted mitts are put to use, lifting it out and letting it rest while the wine is poured and the candles lit. We serve, we sit, toast this duet of culinary arts and dine. Our kitchen dance began and ended warmly knowing we have created something shared and savoured and seasoned with love.

Mean Girls

Ignoring nasty remarks is a best defense. The world has mean girls like Regina George of the film world and and the best way to fend her off is to ignore her. Sure there is a nasty side of life out there and while it has its place, you don't have to let it rule your life. Responding to catty remarks is pointless. In a catty-like manner, simply leap over them and carry on.  The delete key is the best weapon we have for e mail nastiness and using it on unwelcome vituperation saves a whole lot of time. Blocking the sender is also effective in stepping over the ire. If only we had a delete key in life! Having recently been the target of some unkind remarks designed to offend  me, I learned a valuable lesson. The biblical advice "turn the other cheek" didn't make much sense to me, for one sore cheek should be warning enough. After expressing my point to this individual verbally, I walked away and carried on with my life. Immediately, I forgot the snarky remarks and became egrossed with what and who really matters.  Constantly sorting through our ills, is a waste of  precious minutes of our time. Out there, is fresh air and love and hope and beauty. These are what we all want and can find. For sure, speak up, but when the chips fall,  use them for compost or build a nice little fire to warm your hands.

The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

Blog comments are welcome: the good, the bad and the ugly. It means that someone read your stuff and reacted. It feels wonderful and makes your efforts rewarding. When a blog comment is clearly a cheap personal shot it is deleted immediately and forgotten at the same rate. The ones that are taken seriously are those that show maturity and thought. These allow for consideration no matter how negative. Writing is something inate. You are either a writer or you write. There is a difference. The former, cannot help writing and everything goes on the page: all feelings, all reactions. And while there is editing later, the core remains. The latter works too hard at technical matters and thus reports rather than expresses. An analogy is the difference between an artist and a draftsman but both are writing in its many forms and both are valid. The artist pays attention to creating for himself and others, an impression, while the draftsman attends to the rules. I have enjoyed all of the comments to my little blog or my "bloody blog" as one lady put it. At least she had the intelligence to offer reasons why the chagrin. There have been comments by the very young, unfortunately not well thought-out, but welcome nevertheless and the very old and the folks who keep on reading it. I happen to be fond of blogs and read them constantly myself especially the ones that are from-the-heart. Bloggers, let's blog on fearlessly!

Cantoo Cook

Cantoo cooking is not Chinese cuisine, it's for those who say they can't when they can, too. Getting right down to it, toss your one-serving of meat into a lightly oiled skillet and let it sizzle a bit with some chopped onion. Toss in the veggies sliced to compatible thicknesses, add water to an inch, any herbs and seasonings you like and plunk the lid on. Let it simmer or bake on low while you read a chapter or two or make a few calls. Poke or peek after ten minutes to see if everything is tender. When it is, shake in some garlic salted flour and stir to thicken. When smooth and done, pour  into a shallow table bowl and there's your dinner with a crusty loaf of French bread and a glass of red or white. Ingredients? Buy family packs of meats and fish and re-pack in small amounts to store in your freezer compartment. Have a selection. Buy  a small sack of veggies - the best quality and hey, simmered fruit is nice with meat, too. Scrub but you don't need to peel everything. Pick up a couple of pots of herbs for plucking from your window ledge: basil, thyme, parsley for eg. Nothing looks prettier on your table than a rosemary tree to prune at mealtime and the smell - oooh. A sack of sweet onions  and potatoes lasts long on your deck in a pretty basket and there, you're a cook. You can surprise your meal by adding a little of this or that: honey, brown sugar and vinegar for sweet and sour, maple syrup, even wine or beer to the mix. Experimentation is fun. And now that you cook your own good food, you're body doesn't have to deal with additives or fats and your wallet will thank you, too.

Slower Lane

When you no longer work, whether it be part-time or full, you find yourself in a slower lane. There is no need to rush. There are no time schedules other than those you set for yourself. Your days off are those you choose and no one is "the boss". Before you get to that point, you fear it. What will I do with myself all day? There will no goals to meet. I will be bored. Who will I be when I am not a -------? All of us who once worked, felt the same way before we quit and while we told everyone how great it would be to be free again, we worried about it during those last few weeks. But we soon learned that being out of the work force, is a constant holiday and
 time soon becomes so precious that anyone or anything plunking you into a gridlock of tasks, is to be avoided. Other than missing the bigger pay cheque, there are delights to be rediscovered. And even the former pay scale that required you to spend on appearances and transportation and all the little expenses that your job demanded, is not the same issue. Your favorite jeans, shirts and sweaters are your new work clothes and you may relegate the high heels to the far end of the shoe rack. It's not that you are going to let yourself go, but you can go casual during your new working hours. When you are going to lunch out or on a shopping tour, that's when you might dress. And just think, when you do, you can spend time to look your best. No more of the get up and take ten minutes of prep before out the door as it once was. You have time to dally thinking about your date with that guy or the gals and what to wear and where to go. Furthermore, your togs don't wear out as quickly and you have time to steam the wools and press the shirts and shine up the shoes. Also, when you do get out and about, you are rested and at peace and all ready to fully enjoy your new life. All this doesn't take a huge retirement salary either because even if you are a Second-hand Rose sort who haunts the retro racks, you will have hours to re-model and search and select. Those of us who live alone and have only ourselves to pamper begin to appreciate our own time and rather jealously guard it while others who have a man or family to take care of too,  will have more time for planning how to use their hours best. The hobbies you once indulged in, can be trotted out: arts, reading, writing, games, crafts take on new interest. Learning and volunteering are sharing your time in  valuable ways and spending family time can be revived. Boredom does not happen and if it does, no one is to blame but the gal in the mirror.

Baring Fall

We've all see the movies where there lies a trail of garments, lacy and delicate, leading off screen. The suggestion is there. Something secret and private is happening, something primal and to do with love. We are  embarrassed, but at the same time, we are flushed with happiness. Fall is the same. We all love autumn. While every season has its beauties, this season is unique. Hers is a passing loveliness, a kind of grandiose funeral of what was, now arrayed in the splendour of her undress. The promise is seductive, that of a Spring and new life, but we must trust and wait through a long, cold, wet winter. Fall. It is, of all seasons, the heart of resurrection. A weekend drive, or as he calls it "a drift",  with a dear friend, resulted in finding, accidentally, ourselves on an isolated uphill drive, twisting and turning through forests of maples and alders, evergreens and tall, yellowed grasses that turned out to be Sumas Mountain. Glimpses of a valley, with a seemingly slow-moving  Fraser River, plied only by a single boat making a V of white , lay stretched out, as we passed corners with bare branches allowing us to see what was below. A flirtation of views through screening limbs of black, made the way only more enticing as we found ourselves wondering if the road, now and again gravelled, would simply end. But on it went, and no matter how the car displayed in what compass direction we were headed, the titillation of what was around the next bend, kept us intrigued and proceeding. On one side, the stony hill rose wetly high above and on the other, the road  threatened with its soggy sludge, to fall away down the steep cliffs. But we kept on in anticipation. Anticipation of what? Old rock quarries, now wrecked in mossy piles of rejected granite, and glimpses of homes once hidden at the ends of narrow roads playfully revealed by  bare, betraying trees, were the only evidence that this brilliant array was shared. But just in case we strangers forgot, the camera preserved for us, the  glories of an ancient, pristine beauty.