Protect Yourself

An elderly neighbour of mine, no longer with us unfortunately, when I was entering a new relationship, took my arm, looked into my eyes and said "protect yourself". I was shocked since I knew her little. She had been through the war as what we had called the "enemy", and when her marriage faltered, went off to remain, for the rest of her life, alone. I assumed she was merely bitter about other romances after her own failed. But, at the time, involved completely in my new "friend" and all that revolved around that phase, found the warning rather distasteful. I assumed she was speaking solely of her own bitter experiences. Since that time, I fully understand what she meant. And I am not proud to say that she is absolutely correct. One does have to prepare for the rollercoaster of complexities in relationships. They all have similarities. The first part of the structure, and it is a kind of construction, appears everlasting and strong, unyielding to all the faults of any other you've ever heard of. You are in the "honeymoon" period. You float on a cloud. Then you begin to come down, in the ensuing steps, to earth and the practicalities occur. What you thought was permanent, takes on some serious cracks and what comes through them, causes big doubts. Working at it harder will fix everything, you believe, but the cracks widen into fissures and the fissures into valleys. And the energy it takes to keep your head above the dark water down there, falters until finally, reality dawns, and you see what so easy to ignore previously, just as it is. The choice being, to continue and work even harder, or to give it all up and get on with what you really want, and need in your own life. The test is the material the relationship was built on. Was it sand or solid rock? The rest is history. You take the steps necessary for yourself and that's what you need to do. Saying that, is easy. Doing it, is very, very hard. It is what my neighbour was speaking of: "protect yourself". It seems a selfish matter to "protect yourself" when there is someone else to consider. But, in the long run, all you have is the "you" that is you. You can't love unless you first love yourself, I am told. And it's true. You have to know yourself and what your needs are and to assess whether your relationship is giving you what you need. But you also have to provide for the other in the set: what is needed by that individual and that's the hard part. Can you do it? Can you keep yourself and what you need and still give? If not, then you have a hard decision to make. You can't drown in the morass of someone else's problems and still be helpful to them. They have to deal with their own dilemmas, the ones they own and you, with yours.  Most of the time, the middle mess of relationships can be worked out and come out stronger and more resilient than ever, but frequently, the balance is so tipped to one side, that it's safer and wiser to survive, to move on and find a haven that allows you to be what you are." Protect yourself." You're all you came with and all that you have.

Weathering

Sailing folk can read the sky and consult their personal knowledge to know whether to venture out or not. Those who care for challenge, the true sailing folk, will unleash their double-masted steeds and plunge into the fray, while the city weekend sailor will settle in with his yellow slicker coat, for a wet dock wander amongst his like kind to speak of the blow out there and unpleasant white-knuckle experiences that The Wife won't let him do again. No siree. Weather seems to be big these days, more so than ever. There are complete channels devoted to it. I know people who take the weather dead seriously and consult it first, over their horoscopes or gazing at the health of their morning tongues in the bathroom mirror. They worry about the little pictures on the gawk box that show the sun peeping over a tiny cloud or little blue raindrops funneling down. They fret over satellite cloud covers and high and low pressure systems and whether they are on the verge of them or not. Their mood depends on this. In fact, they will agonize over the seven day forecast even though it is as reliable as a time sched for a city train. One individual I know, falls into a depression if the weather map shows a week of rain ahead even in a Vancouver winter that is forever nothing but rain. The weather report, usually done by a model-like female complete with hair piece, fashionable outfit and perfect make-up or a cute short guy hopping about with his spiky cut - all professional meteorologists of course -  have become a feature, an entertainment. No longer is it good enough to say, hey it's winter. There'll be snow in most of the country with the usual exception of the West Coast and rain when it isn't snowing. It will be around a freezing temperature and in the summer, we'll get the sun again. Simple. But no, the weather segment of your news report becomes, while for the most part Eastern, as usual, longer than necessary with a short blurb about the moderate climes of the West thrown in.  I call it the West Whiff of the weather report. In places that have had weather phenomenon whether it be a storm or a flood or a mud slide, you are sure to get endless clips, always the same picture, of fallen trees preferable through roofs, flood photos in places where it always floods and slitherings of mud coming down a short piece of a city street. Most of these bits of tape are seen repeatedly and are not the vast disasters they are purported to be. They're usually found and photoed in isolated locations. Yes, there are weather disasters but they are relatively rare. Weather can be violent as proven, and if so,  indeed reportable. It fits in with the bad-news-is-big-news category. I guess what I am saying is for the most part, what's the big deal? Yes, it rains in winter in certain parts of the country and snows in others. The forecast is as easy as going outside and peering upward or looking out your window at the sky. That's todays weather. You'll know if you should dig out the umbrella or the snow shovel. But then, without the weather report what would we talk about at the bus stop or around the coffee machine?

Turkey Jokes

This Christmas, I came across one of those annoying internet sent jokes that seem to fly around for no apparent reason and come with no data as to their source. It's one of the ways lazy people think they can "keep in touch" by merely poking a key. This particular "joke" made me want to respond which is unusual. I thought, "What have we become?". The intro for the jest, promised to be a hint for roasting a holiday turkey and the photo showed a cooked turkey with two lemon halves placed under the breast skin. As you can imagine, the result conjured a human image. Apparently, this so-called joke has gone over hugely with individual responses causing even more childishness. I am tired of misogyny disguised as "mere fun and why are you so serious about it".  I am not what you could call a "women's libber" even though I detest what some boors see as funny, this turkey thing made me nauseous.  On the one hand, we are all shocked at famous male movie stars mistreating females and on the other we send these ridiculous "jokes" out into cyberspace where they can, and will, be picked up by anyone, including children. I repeat, "What have we become?". Further to this topic, I relate a family tale. We used to have a male relative, an older man, who, because of his close relationship to the family, had to attend family dinners and other events. He was a churchgoer and elder in the church he belonged to. He was not a drinker or smoker and he was well educated. His fault was the telling of "cute" jokes that had sexual innuendoes. I know that most, if not all, of us have encountered these old fools. And not all of these men are old. After suffering through this chap's after and during dinner out-put over the years, I finally got up the courage to tell him privately, what I thought about his habit. He simply glared at me and made a remark about Freedom of Speech. Knowing that there is no Freedom of Having To Listen, from then on, when he began one of his "cute jokes" as his wife defensively called them, I rose from the table to find fresh air until the "cute joke" had ended. It was noticed and fortunately, that kind of joke stopped. As they say, "it starts with one". Joking on line, is rampant and many of these ribald pieces of trash are accompanied by pictures or cartoons. The internet being without censorship apparently, allows some people to pass these on to dozens of their associates without abandon. Fortunately, we have a delete key and a blocked sender ability on most of our computers. Joking is a bad habit and, for example, lots of guys in man groups, and maybe women also, often feel pressured to make fun about the human anatomy and associated activities. They feel, I suppose, that it makes them more of a man or a foxy woman to jest about women's and men's bodies. They forget that they insult all women including their wives, sisters and mothers and in the event of women, their mates, siblings and parents. Women that I know don't sit around and make jokes about the male form, nor do most of the men (while I am there, I should add).  It is odd that most of all adult jokes are not really funny. They make fun about things that aren't particularly amusing and out of embarrassment, I hope, people feel the need to laugh. But after that disgusting turkey thing, I think it's time we became more discriminating.

The Busy Business

"I'm so busy that ..."  It's a great excuse for not doing something. When someone complains such to me, I want to say "Yes, you're too busy to ... because you don't want to". I had a friend, a close one, who, when he e mailed me, began or ended with a series of all the things he had to do that day which he thought would satisfy as a reason for not being able to either visit or communicate more than a few meaningless words.  If he had said simply, "Nah, I don't want to" that would have been honest, at least. There are people who are, indeed, crazy-busy but I don't know any of that sort. In fact, I wouldn't want to. There is a phenomenon in our mad, mad world now, that wants to speed us up to a pace that is unnatural. A cousin of mine revealed that she had been speaking with another relative and they noted that I walked very slowly. It wasn't said unkindly. Slowly? I tested myself and found that my pace was normal. Theirs must have been the presently-required dash-about kind of speed. It's true that I am inclined to stroll rather than pound the sidewalks and store aisles, taking instantaneous glances at it all. That's not for me. I enjoy seeing what's around me and listening to the sounds and taking in the colour and very nature of my environment, and I can't do that unless I tarry here and there or sit a bit and absorb what's going on around me. I suppose that's one of the joys of my age and stage: over the hill of some kind and retired. I don't need to rush. When a store clerk apologises for a wait, I smile and tell that person, "It's fine, I have all the time in the world". We all have "all the time in the world". Time is at our command. We can still meet deadlines but at our own pace. If I had to do the work world again, I would do it at my pace and get it done, nevertheless. The secret is to set your pace until you find the one that is just right for you. Contemplation is one of the perks of slowing down a bit. Small decisions are what make up a task to be accomplished, and these seemingly insignificant moments should be taken with care and thought. Too often I am accosted by a youngster and it speaks so quickly that I can barely understand what is being said. The words are ejected like verbal machine gun pellets. Perhaps it is a carry-over from their thumbs that are whizzing away on tiny screen keyboards of hand-held devices at a reckless pace. Most of what goes onto those tiny screens is a sheer waste of time. It's time taken up for no apparent reason, but youngsters can't seem to survive without their detritus of inane verbiage that is supposed to keep them "in the loop". They are "busy doing nothing" as the song goes. But, hey, that's their choice. And I suppose, I am one of those busy-doing-nothing kinds as I peer into shop windows at odd items, gaze up into trees to find a song bird or simply hang over a railing and stare out at the ocean with its peace and ever changing, never ending  movement. It seems very busy but in a perfect way. There is a movie title I love, "Stop The World I Want To Get Off". I often want to do that but the world won't allow it, therefore, I stroll. Too busy? Never.

If A Tree Falls

Have you stood in a place and wondered how an aerial view would be? Everyone knows "can't see the forest for the trees". It's true and it's especially true of human relationships. When you're in the midst of, or in the thick of things, it's hard to achieve perspective. Perspective is essential for truth. How many of us become roiled in a situation that seems so intense we can't gain the distance needed to analyse what's really happening. Anger, love, frustration and all sorts of other emotional reactions get in the way of being able to see clearly. We, as a different saying about Love states, are blind. Others tell us what they see, but for some odd reason, we are not able to see it that way. Our feelings are not only logical, but they are valid because no one, no one at all, can be in our shoes while we're standing in them. And logic doesn't always apply either. But when the event is past, we can, not only understand what others saw, but we have an even keener ability to assess it correctly having been the ones who did it. We've done the mining while others have seen only what's on the surface. Therefore, all is well.  Take being in a relationship that is bad, for example. This happens to almost everyone. It can be a friendship, a business association, a job, a love affair. They're much the same. They are all matters into which we plunge sooner or later. At the beginning, the "honeymoon" period, we are so enamored of the newness, the joy of finding what we thought we always wanted, that we "can't see the desert for the dunes" or the "sea for the waves". We have no perspective. And we don't want to have it. We love what we are involved in and foolishly, but naturally, think it is going to continue forever. When the inevitable cracks begin to appear, we ignore them and make excuses that their patina only makes the whole thing more ultimately beautiful. Then creeps in a period of actual doubt of questioning our choices.  We begin to see that there are too many cracks and too many hurts and too many flaws and we aren't on the receiving end of that former happiness any longer. Our lives have become a kind of obsession with the conflict between what we hope or hoped for, as opposed to what is actually going on. We begin to see the mistakes we made but we like the stability of the old routines that we enjoyed originally, and that have now become part of our lives. We don't know how to amputate the "diseased limb" we are used to and using and presumably, supposed to be loving to have. We know that there will be terrible pain and "bleeding" removing it, but we can see, that unless we get rid of it, of something that has become more an agony than a joy, we will be lost. We make the decision to end it, stop it, escape from it and at last, we do. It hurts. Badly. The journey isn't always smooth and there are regressions, but finally we can breathe easily after a lot of emotional baggage is left behind and we  move on unfettered. Now we see the true forest, the golden desert, the wide sea and realize that where we were was actually a pretty dark and dangerous place. Gradually, we feel better and wiser and cleaner. We have perspective. A tree did, indeed, fall on the mountain, whether we heard it or not.

Toy Weapons

I know that some may argue that giving children toys that are weapons that shoot, is okay because it is harmless, and furthermore, they used to play with weapons when they were a child. They say that they fashioned them from sticks or used their fingers as such and that it is a natural and safe thing that will do no harm. Children evidently don't see it that way.  No, it is not natural to shoot.You join the army to learn how to defend or the police force who use the real thing presumably only when absolutely necessary.  The difference today is that these kinds of kid's toys simulate the real thing far too well and are often mistaken as such.The result is, as we all know and all too often, there are police actions that end up tragically. Some of the toys that use bee bees or other forms of so-called harmless ammo, are in fact, a form of the real things. They are meant to harm and end lives however tiny. What kid with a bee bee gun doesn't try to shoot at a bird? Let's get real here. What I would like to know, is why are parents shocked when the authorities make "mistakes" and deem these toys to be real? Why give a child that kind of toy? It represents something that ends lives. What on earth can a parent be thinking of giving such symbols to a mere child? There are so many, hundreds, thousands of other choices. And why are adults so dulled to the idea of what they are truly doing in sending the wrong message to their children? It is not fun to shoot things, even targets which are only practise for what shooting weapons are ultimately designed for. Of course some of these "mistakes" end up tragically but let's look around and see where they originated. The he-man parent who stores a locked cabinet of weaponry gives a message that bespeaks how precious this sort of weapon is and how much adults enjoy them. What about film that makes criminals appealing and "cool"? What about parents who dress their little kids in bad biker style outfits that send only one message? How many times does it take to see on TV a weeping adult grieving over a child who mistakenly was thought to have a real weapon? Who gave the child the toy weapon? If a parent who loves weapons wants his or her child to understand weapons and their dangers, why don't they enroll them at the proper age in a club that espouses to teach the subject well. I don't mean these ridiculous places where it is cute to shoot paint at other people and pretend it's fun or give them computer games that shoot down other humans in pictures. Hey, it's all the same thing. It still gives the message that it's okay to end the lives of other human beings. Strange that it is the same kind of person who gives these kids reality toys like this who go on television and blame the police for mistaking them for the real thing. We are losing a lot of our police who are there to protect us as well.  There are too many guns, real and pretend, out there. When are we going to wake up and be more responsible?

Calling Card

One of today's banes, for me, is the fee that is charged just for a service to arrive at your door. They have done nothing but arrive and the charge is not pro rated as to distance. You can be three kilometers away or a block. Same charge.  Recently I had an electrical problem with an appliance. I called a number of repair services I saw in the phone book ads and found that every one of them charged a fee just to arrive at my door. The charges were in the neighbourhood of the possible cost of the repair itself. Sure, I know there are costs to do business and that one must, in some cases, bring a truck full of tools, but why charge me for their  business costs? Running a business has costs that are tax deductible, an advantage, as a customer, I do not enjoy. First of all, the cost of the repair might be less than the fee charged to come out. Second of all, if there is a fee for arriving, why not include it into the ultimate repair cost and itemize it as such? Does it really, as I found out it does, sadly, cost seventy-five dollars to drive just around the corner to do a job?  One of the businesses that came, couldn't do the repair. I still had to pay the coming out charge. Their ad was a whole page thing telling me what a wonderful company they were and how kind and good. Really? The next one who came, after I paid the coming out fee, took out a catalogue of parts and a list of charges for various jobs and at length, with a pretty plastic bound loose-leaf book in hand,  explained that if I took out a plan with his company, I could get a large discount on further repairs. Not planning to need such, I turned it down. Then he took out a list of jobs and according to the quality of replacement, I could choose from their price list. I picked the least expensive one since the job was minor and the appliance was not in need of "gold quality" materials. On scanning the job, he said he couldn't fix the item and that it would require another visit. I asked if I would be charged another call-out fee? Fortunately, it was not so. While I had to pay the call-out fee for the first visit, I did so, but it rankled me.  I was not going to invite this company back for a second time  and even though I was assured that they had a truck full of all the latest equipment and supplies I was not convinced of their credibility.  The truck they had was large enough to walk into and it was painted up vividly with large logos and promises. As I waved good-bye to the chap in his attractive company uniform and big yellow vehicle, I turned to go inside and called a local handyman I found on the complex notice board. The handyman came - no charge. He fiddled around with the repair having to go in and out to find the right tools but finally the job was done and there was no sales pitch about it. His charge was pathetically low. I wanted to give him a tip but I knew he would be insulted. He cared about doing a good job and getting a recommendation. What is the lesson in all this? Shop around. The phone book ads don't always speak the truth. Call and find out what the initial charges are for coming to your home but also compare prices and best of all ask others who hired them,  what the quality of the work was. Lots of retired repair folk have long experience and do a good job because they are interested in doing their best. Ask around; ads are made to exaggerate.

Easy Come

Some young people I have over-heard, and yes, I do this a lot since I sit alone in places like Starbucks and their ilk, make talk that older people perhaps those who grew up in the fifties, had it easy. What?
No, kids, it wasn't at all easy although we are positive thinkers for the most part, and tell about the good times. Sure we could trust a hand shake then and most of us had families, not "extended" ones or ones with single parents who struggle. Yes, most of uslived in houses, not high rises. And it is true that you could walk in the woods or forest without fear of running across a displaced creature as it is now largely. The water that came from the tap wasn't full of chlorine and we could all walk the streets at night without worrying. Easy though? Not in terms of today's kids. We were largely ignored when adults were around and told to say hello and then disappear. We were swatted when it was needed and at school there was the seldom used but greatly respected, Strap. We didn't have cars unless we were boys who had good after-school jobs that girls didn't.  Girls babysat any night and on weekends for a pittance and often nothing if the parents couldn't make the coins. And that was what we got, coins. We saved those coins because most of our families didn't have money to go out and buy us expensive shoes or holidays at the beach. They had just come out of a World War and few common people had bundles of money holidays. A car was a luxury and it was pampered. Credit cards did not exist. There were labels of course, but when there is no money you make do. No other choice. If other kids made fun of us, we lived with it. There was no one to go to but perhaps a school counsellor who was untrained and wanted to get out of the classroom. Their advice was pretty much ignored because it was based on very little research material and we knew that what really counted, was what we were determined to do regardless. And we did it.  Until Doctor Spock came along, kids were things that naturally happened and while our parents loved us, we were mostly "surprises" when we came along. The Pill had not been invented. It was an unregulated world where areas of grey were present and no one sued anyone. For recreation, we went to each other's homes and made taffy or traded and listened to records, the black big kind we put on turntables. We had school dances where the boys lined up on one side and the girls on the other. Tremulous treks were made across the floor to ask a girl to dance,  Nice girls never phoned boys or asked them out or to dance. The lines were there and if you crossed them you got a reputation. The Good Night Kiss was as far as it went. None of us wanted to "get into trouble".  Kids were not allowed to loll about lockers and use bad language. You could be kicked out of school for sassing the teacher mildly or slamming a door or wearing rude clothing. There were no children's rights but it all seemed to work out well and no one complained about it. Games were after school and they were events we all attended to cheer for our teams. There was the hang-out café where you put a coin in the little table juke box. School supplies were supplied as was transportation by the School District. Fees for this and that were unheard of. There were no such things as Teacher Aids or Parent Conference Nights. We put on concerts or plays during the year of programs planned by adults. There was little if any parental involvement in schools. There were PTAs that raised money for things we didn't know or worry about. There was no door to door fund raising. Sure there were bullies but everyone just avoided them and ignored them away. Status was there of course. You knew your place and lived with it. You were not a crybaby.  It got you nowhere. You studied at home or at the library and you passed or failed. It was left up to you. If you could afford it, you went to university and if you couldn't, you did something else. Simple. All the complications facing students today have little to do with improvement over what was. But it wasn't easy, we had to make it on our own - or not.

Colour Me Clear

We seem to spend an undue time worrying about skin colour and too little time thinking about how to stop fretting about the colour of one's skin or the texture of one's hair or the shape of a face when we should concentrate more on what and who an individual is, based on what he or she does. I don't mean what they do for a living, but more on how they act and react in the company of others. Are they considerate, do they share, are they compassionate to those less fortunate, whatever "fortunate" means.  Okay, I know you are going to say "but the colour of my skin is what I am". Maybe so, but that is divisive in a way. It says I am unlike you and not, therefore, one of you.  I think what you are is what your actions stand for, what the history you tell is and how you make it work for the good of all. If suddenly we were  transposed to clear, what would happen? It would mean that colour would no longer have significance. People would see us for what we do and how we behave. Sure we'd have individual preferences and histories, but we wouldn't have people ask strangers, a black Canadian third generation, for example, "where did you come from?". There is some kind of odd idea that because one's colour is not that of a majority in a place, the person must hail from somewhere else. Our country is comprised of something we like to call the Canadian Mosaic, and interestingly, white people were not the originals here but an aboriginal group was. Actually, I don't like being referred to as "white" in the first place. I consider it wrong. I am flesh-toned just as every other human being is. If our skins were all clear, we wouldn't have racial attributes laid upon us because we would be simply another human being just as everyone else is. Our choices of religion, politics and backgrounds would not be areas of pre-conceived notions owing to our shade of skin colour. We might then, have actually a reason to speak to one another if we were curious about origins.  Communication would take place. A ghetto would not be an obvious matter because identification would be essentially impossible based on a certain colour or body or facial format. If you entered or left such an area of choice, your presence wouldn't be something for you or others to worry about. You could move about anywhere in the world, the same as everyone else and not be a stand out owing to the colour of your skin. It is something to think about.

House Fly

The common house fly is something everyone knows and resents. These creatures have their uses, but they are also rather dangerous. They carry a number of nasty diseases on their hairy little bodies and the insect is so prolific that it is used often to study genetic matters. I am one of those inclined to keeping pests out of my house if at all possible. To this end, every door and window is screened and if such bugs should enter, they are dispatched or discouraged immediately. The summer being over, it seemed time to put away the fly traps and other gear meant mostly to fend off the worst of the fly pests, the fruit fly. The latter come in drifts through screens and in a semi agricultural area such as the one in which I dwell, they are a great nuisance. But it was late fall and the fruit fly had thankfully disappeared. Those of us who live alone, are inclined toward seeking companionship of almost anything, somewhat like prisoners in solitary confinement. We ought to know better but human nature is a peculiar thing. When a house fly, just one, appeared a few days ago, I was a little amused. First of all, there was no food exposed for the small thing to consume. And second of all, the feeding sources were covered or inside cabinets of some kind. The trash was also covered. Well, I thought, it will die of old age possibly this evening, therefore, I shall not worry. That evening, the fly in a kind of companionable way flew back and forth in a sallying manner in front of my television screen. It was silent, no buzzing. It did not come near me or attempt to share my little bun or wee glass of sherry. No. It simply sallied back and forth as though in a friendly fashion enjoying the same program as I. The next morning I consulted Google and learned some extra facts about house flies. It had a short life span and thus my house fly would not be a problem for very long. I had not seen it about all the next day, but on settling into my couch for a quiet reading time, what should sit on the arm of the chair next to mine, but the shiny little self of the fly. I could have reached out and easily destroyed it but instead I simply shooed it away and away it went. It will be gone by next morning surely I told myself, but I was feeling quite familiar with this little chap by now. I learned that flies usually live for only a few days if that long. Unfortunately, they can lay their eggs and continue to be a hazard when they land with all of the disease they carry. But I had nothing to swat the creature with and let it be. I did not see it at all the next day and forgot about it entirely. This morning while having coffee and reading my book at the counter in the kitchen, I looked up and who should be staring at me with his compound eyes, but my tiny friend, the fly. There was a dish towel next to my hand and in a single blow, without a single thought, I dispatched it. Before tossing the towel into the laundry, I saw the little body of my erstwhile friend, lying on the floor legs up and quite still. Why I should feel sad and just a bit lonely, is very odd.

Numbers Game

Once in a line-up at the bank, I overheard someone say, there are too many numbers to remember. It spurred some thought on that comment. It's quite true. Our lives are controlled by numbers. There are must-haves and the I-choose kinds of numbers. We are given a driver's license number but we may if we pay, choose our own license plate number or letters. There are numbers given or forced on us by governmentals: SIN numbers and so on. We have a number hammered out by insurance companies, credit carders, banks, housing, schools and so on. Computer IDs require passwords or numbers, all of our listed personal devices have a number. We are surrounded by numbers and to think about all of them that we use over a lifetime, is likely to drive us insane. We don't think how our lives are run by numbers. They are much the same as telephone wires: the myriad of ugly wires that block our clear view of the sky everywhere, that we ignore or realize how many of them there are and what an eyesore they are. When an appliance or piece of equipment goes wrong and needs repair or to be returned, off we go to our files to find out the numbers: model number, serial number, date purchased, invoice, price and so on. To trace a parcel we have ordered on-line we are given a number. Yes, numbers are us. Once, as an educator it was suggested at a planning meeting, that we assign each student a number according to his or her socio-economic style. It wasn't an IQ number into which we place, pathetically, an undue amount of importance, but a number that would project the student's personal self. At these meetings, I am generally a rather bland occupant of a plastic chair, but this time, I simply had to make my views perfectly clear that never would I number a young student. It seemed an inhuman thing to do, much like the mass tattooing of persons during the horrors of the world war. People are not numbers. I know that some say it is easier and more efficient to deal with the vast numbers of populations to assign them numbers for this and that. Okay. My argument is then, when a human is born, why not give them a unique number that is theirs only thus everything they do, will always have solely that number and no other. Think how simple it would be to remember your personal and private number. No one could use it because there would be only one, yours, that would follow you all of your lifetime. And I don't mean the SIN that we hide so diligently. Then again, with that thought in mind, why would you need a name? You'd be remembered as Good Old 1234 instead of Good Old Micky. When you passed on, your number would be recycled after an appropriate time. You could look up all of your numeral predecessors and see that particular "family tree" as well as your other one. Perhaps parents when their child is born, could look up the heritage of the number they might select for their baby if they wanted it to reach the heights of a former numbered individual. Your house number, your license numbers, your club number, your student number and so on would all be the exact same handy set of digits. Your phone number, same, and all of your account numbers.  Even if your memory slipped, you could still remember your own dear little number. But now that I think of it, I really do prefer a name with a little line-up of letters in some kind of romantic order, rather than a number. Numbers are rather cold things.

When I Read

Reading to me is better than film or video. Why? What I imagine is far more vivid, meaningful and colourful when I create it in my mind. While others read for information and feel that it enlarges their brains, I do not look for brain development. I can get that kind of stuff on-line. What I want when I tuck into my comfortable reading space with some kind of comfortable thing nearby to consume during moments of reflection is an uninterruptible time space. For me, two or three in the morning works wonderfully. There is no traffic noise, no knocks on the door, no useless phone calls and no tasks waiting to prick my conscience. It is like a time warp into which I escape. When I pick up a new book and turn to the first page, skipping the introduction that I will read later, I expect to be entertained. I don't want to deal with issues or educational aspects that make this a work session or one with which I may use to impress others.  While I have no quibble with collateral didacticism I want it at an intrinsic level. I want to be intrigued, fascinated, amused and warmed. The genre is not important, but I do insist upon a higher level of literary effort in my authors. I don't mind research but don't please throw it in my face when I am trying to get into a plot and I do love plots. To me, storytelling is all about plot. Plot leads me from page one to the end. Please entertain me and if you have issues, state them in a sharable way so that I may walk with you, authors, please. You don't need to drag me kicking and screaming through a miasma of your research work. Description works for me but only if appropriately plugged in. Add in lots of dialogue to let me know my characters lived and spoke. It makes me understand them more intimately. My reading requires that an author is honest and he/she can hit hard, use any kind of language or situation but please make it something that adds to my life, my feelings for another creature and my experience as a planet dweller - or even someone who does not live on this planet. Make me want to turn pages, make me want to stay up all night, make me want never to get to the last page because I will feel that I shall have lost someone or something. Everyone has unique reading needs. I know people who are non-fiction hounds and their needs are to collect facts piled upon facts so that they can exchange them with others of the same bent. It's not my choice and it doesn't make me feel intellectually inferior. I know some who fall into romance or western or fantasy or sci-fi or other formula  novels. That's fine. For them. Sure I read factual material when I must, but when I get up at three a.m. and make coffee and search out my glasses, cuddle into my big leather couch corner,  I want what I want in reading and it is to be entertained!

Someone Else's Food Cart

We've all heard the adage that you don't know how someone else feels until you walk in their shoes. That can be a hard fit when applied to food costs. While we are all anticipating Christmas: the turkey dinner with family, the beverages, the gifts, the holidays, the decorations, we are not thinking about those who are barely surviving every day life. A neighbour of mine facing an increase in her housing fee, must reduce the only place on her meagre budget that will allow it: her food allotment. Let's not joke about dog food. It isn't cheap either, nor is tuna fish. Already a tiny woman, close to sixty and therefore severely limited in her job choices, she is asking herself how she can live with a budget of one hundred dollars a month for food. It's a must do, not a choice if she wants to keep her modest condo with a mortgage. She drives a scooter.  I know some of you on lesser means will say, well, she's a lucky sort to have a home at all. That's true and she knows it, but she does it all by working hard at a job that you and I would not enjoy. Her job, steady grave yard shift, is an assembly line cutting dead chickens.  Get out your notepad and see what you can do with 100 dollars for groceries. I did. What I came up with did not include toothpaste, shampoo, laundry soap, or treats. I juggled with this problem and found that I'd have to rely on food sales, growing herbs, baking breads and using lots of rice and pasta. Freshness, if available, for nutrition was key. The idea of farm markets sounds good, but the prices at these organic operations are usually higher than the super markets and thus a luxury. Foraging isn't a bad idea if you know a place where the dandelions and berries at roadside are not poisoned with sprays. Growing garlic chives in pots is easy and makes for flavorful dishes. Small tomatoes grown on a deck in the sun yield a few at a time and are delicious. Meats from bulk farm outlets where you get bags of wings or bacon ends or stewing meat can ease the task when you divide them and freeze. Sacks of rice especially the brown variety offer good value. The same with flour, sugar or salt bought in bulk. It may mean an original outlay but in the end is worth it. Baking breads can work into pastas, pancakes, pies that along with some gleaned fruit (people with apple trees in their yards can be generous), are wonderful.  Dairy products are a challenge. Fresh milk can be fortified with powdered milk. Olive oil is a boon brushed on bread for toast and used dozens of other ways you might use butter. Olive oil is easier on the body, too.  A one hundred dollar a month food budget allows for nothing unhealthful such as chips, candy unless you make your own occasionally, or chocolate. And alcohol beverages are out. I guess that makes it healthy, therefore, all is not gloom.

It's A Blur

Once an art teacher told us that if we wanted to appreciate a painting, we ought to look at it from an appropriate distance and then blur our eyes in order to see it more clearly. Sounds mysterious at first.  He or she, I forget which, not that it matters, said that if we did this, we'd see the true essence of colour, shadow, line and form. And it is true. Just try it sometime. Looking at a Botticelli, a Rembrandt, a Gaugin or a Van Gogh with blurred eyes and we see the purpose of light and shadow, the colours working against one another and the relationship of  forms to each other. We can then better appreciate the things that possibly the artist is trying to accomplish. We remember that while he or she knows how to draw or paint a perfect rose, it may not be how the rose affects our senses, our concepts, our memories. Thus he or she does it to include these matters. Some artists, the bane of realism folk, do the job for us and blur charmingly like Degas, who may have been partly blind anyway but painted because he loved what he saw. What matters is how we feel about what we see and not the techniques or sets of rules for looking at it.  That's what we have to trust. It's the same in life. Often we become so enamored of a moment or image or action that we forget there is such a thing as the absolute temporary nature of things. Everything comes and goes: people, objects, even rock. All have a "lifetime" that will end in its present form and while matter cannot be entirely destroyed, it does change. What happens as we age and everything that everyone does, seems terribly important at the time, but in hindsight, it is all rather ridiculously temporal. We fret over things that somehow turn out the way they should or if they don't, they were bound to end up done somehow, even if not in our favour. When something dreadful and sudden occurs, we are shocked; in hindsight, it may have changed us but we found a way to survive and come out stronger or, alas,  in some cases,  weaker, but we all learned something from it. Perhaps doing a "blur" when we become too focussed on matters that may not matter, it might help to make everything much clearer.

Puppeteers

Every family or social group has its puppeteer. You know the one I mean. It's the one who does all the arranging and comes up with the ideas to "keep the family or group together". They aren't all bad folk, especially if the family, for example, wants to hand over the wheel to the puppeteer person. They might be tired or lazy or simply unwilling. The best part of the puppeteer, is that he or she does a lot of work to head up things. There are food lists and locations and transportations and dates and times and so on. There are all kinds of little details that the manipulator loves to use. The work eventually becomes the reward. One of the good things about such a manipulative creature is that he or she, recognises the strengths of each of its puppets. This one is good at finding places to meet. That one is perfect for the food and drink aspects. Another seems to have a gift for planning schedules at the event and still others' talents can be used to make sure that the comings and goings and accommodations are fitting. So I suppose the puppeteer is a useful individual. What I do not like, is that often the puppeteer has gained along with the gratitude of the family or group, too much power and begins to see their self-assigned role as controlling the choices that each of the family members ought to choose for themselves. It is a subtle matter. Some that I have heard of, enter too much into the life choices of their charges and approve or disapprove of not only what the member does, but also of what friends or lovers or associations that person will have. They have built their powers over others gradually, sometimes over a lifetime, making it hard for others to disagree or to launch out on their own powers because it could oust them from the comfort of the group. Others have become so immersed in the power extended over them by the puppeteer person, that they simply don't want to "rock the boat" and even make an attempt to suggest some other unique plan. The puppeteer holds the strings and most often these are invisible; to everyone but those outside the ring those who can see the subtle yanks and tugs. We outsiders can see clearly the stage set by the controller and how devious that power is, the one that has established the puppeteer as chief dictator.  Some puppeteers are those who run sects that turn someone innocent into a kind of sheep in a flock. Others in a family have for so long deferred to their manipulating puppeteer that they have given up and have lost their ability to think for themselves.  Everyone when indoctrinated, looks up to the controller for guidance in more than mere family dinners or events. That's when the arrangement is no longer something good. Fine china, for example, is appreciated for the beauty of its delicacy, the knowledge that it can be broken easily and therefore, must be coddled. The steel of the other sort, the kind run by a strong puppeteer, is binding and hopelessly, unrelentingly impossible to break. Dent, scratch, yes, but unbreakable. Sometimes, it's good to test our strings to see who pulls them, to know if we are making choices we really want or need or are we simply allowing ourselves to indulge in handing over what is ours.

Writing The Memoir

Around retirement time, there seems a need to write one's memoirs. It is a personal decision because it is doubtful that previous generations care much about their grandparents' past lives since they are wholly wrapped up in their own survival during these trying times. The reason we do it, memoirs,  is mostly for our own selfish reasons same as spending hours on genealogies that are usually a waste of time in the long run because they are pointless and characterless.  But perhaps when our progeny are retired and we are long-gone, they just might want something to do on a long winter's night and dig into the attic jetsam to come up with what we, their elders, have penned. That's the  reason we write memoirs. For that moment. No one wants to be forgotten.  Okay, so you have decided to begin the memoir. How to start it is the first problem and the reason most give up on the idea. First, they say, "the kids'll get the family coffers, so why do they really care about our past lives?". Well kids do and their kids do, too. The past seems to matter mostly to ten and twelve year olds who suddenly realize that their own parents were once kids. They like to make comparisons. Second, many begin their memoirs starting on the day they were born and then launch into long descriptions of parents and grandparents and wheres and whens and ifs and ands and finally in a morass of pages, give up and go play golf or knit a quilt or whatever they do for more fun. In an effort to make the tale readable and writeable, don't begin at the beginning, necessarily. Start by writing scenes taken from anywhere in your memory. They can be short or long. Stack them up as pages in a box. They don't have to be chronological. Just write it down like it happened in that moment. The readers will figure out the time frames, it's not that hard.  If you must put them in order, do it another day. Simply go with the memories just as if you were there and write them down with scribbles, notes and all. Name names and tell places and don't fret about long explanations. Think of it as a movie about yourself full of short clips that say who you are and what you did or thought or both at that time. And stick them in the box, messy or not. You can edit later. When the box of YOU is found one day, the bits of crossings out and scribbles will be adored. You might even have a book in the end that you can actually self publish and your off-spring can load it with formal covers, onto their book shelves, literary or not, and your people will love you for it. Well, love you more for it. If you are estranged from your family, do it anyway and tell it like it was - on your side of the fence. It's your chance to give your reasons. What you were as a child and the impressions you had are all valid whether you think so now or not. You can even go ahead and be perfectly honest because your impressions are just that - yours. There is no one to judge whether you made sense over it all or were correct or not and no apologies are necessary. Tell those to the priest or someone else and just go ahead with your side of it. When you have finished, I was going to say, but then I realized, you won't finish. You'll go on with this until you are no more. But your words and thoughts, the you that is truly you, will go on and on in the eyes of your readers.

Ivy League Clingers

Where do you get your ideas for your "bloggerelle" someone once asked. Where every other writer does, I answered. It's in the air we breathe. Today, while breathing, I saw a strand of ivy on my window sill, one that, unbeknownst to me,  had grown up and around the oak  frame. Wishing to clean it, I decided to take the ivy plant from the sill and wipe down the glass and wood work. Alas, the ivy stalk had sent its tiny sucker-like tendrils right into the wood, thinking to draw nourishment and hydration from the "trunk" of its "tree" just as the same plant does in an outdoor natural setting. I had to tear the small clingers from the wood which was now marred by the innocent root-like growth of the vines. The idea set me to thinking about clingers, human ones. There are people who seem happiest while clinging. They reach out  to try and find someone who doesn't mind their habit of attaching themselves indelibly to someone else. You've seen them in action. I am not a clinger, in fact, I rate myself as being the farthest away from one. My independent spirit would likely be called antipodal. Having once had a dog that persisted in following me everywhere to my great disdain, I discovered that my nature is likely farthest from being called a clinging vine as I gave it to a worthy friend. I know such human clinging vines and they are often sad creatures. Their greatest need is to find a likely subject on which to settle. If they mistakenly happen on someone who has no intention of nurturing their intent, they become morose and desperate and try even harder to find another person to stick on. Once found, to keep their intended, they will do anything, submit to any manner of abuse and lay themselves at the mercy of the clingee. You know the kind. They cannot be talked out of their goals. They think, if I do this or that for this person I cling to, they will become indelibly accustomed to me and will not be able to cast me off. I know dear people who clean house and do their gardens, who spend vast amounts of money on jewelry and travel, who accept any kind of nasty treatment and go back for more. All so not to lose them.The objects of their affections have no intention of re-paying them with the slightest promise of permanency or being, to them,  in the least, faithful. They know that they may do what they will and that the clinger will come back for more mistreatment. Tales of such pathetic relationships are classical. Clingers just can't help it any more than ivy needs to climb.

Splendid Love

When one says "I love you", they have in mind, their own vision of what it means. How you perceive those words may not be what was intended. I suppose this applies to everything that we hear and say: there is a receiver and a sender, basically, and words do not always convey intent. As legions of people have learned, the L word is easily spoken but can be reality, only if proven. In romance, for example, it is  heard frequently during the "honeymoon" phase. It can be written or carved into a tree or traced in the sand and it is, perhaps even sincere - at the time. But Love has to be tested and it is, mostly, by Time, that old professor of truth. So what is love? It's, of course, an emotion and emotion has the word "motion" in it. It moves. Love is one thing one day and can be something else the "day after", a tenuous term: wispy and winsome. It must be handled and/or believed with care. The successful loves are those of long lasting relationships: friendships, marriages, associations. Familial love is also testable. Some family purveyors of the word, take it to mean, I love you if-you-do-what-we-want-you-to-do-or-be and if you do not, our love is removed. This kind of love never was actual but, merely a tool used to control and imprison someone with rules of conformity. This sort of love professed, is like a manacle and really not love at all. Love is free to be given and received without boundaries.  Families are often broken in this way. Sad, because family is the one safe place where one should be accepted no matter what. It is supposed to be a haven with people who take you in and care for you, even make sacrifices for you.  The most commonly cruel "love" is that spoken to take advantage of another. How many false romances are begun this way only to leave someone with scars. And sometimes what one sincerely thinks is love, over time, wears out and was not love at all but only infatuation. The greatest love is that which is strong and lasting and tested to be found true. If you've experienced such a love, you are indeed, a fortunate person. And those who have not, should never abandon the hope of finding or having the ability to give that kind of love. Love is a many splendored thing and it can, and should be, splendid.

What's Right?

What are our "rights" and which ones do we have? Often we say, " but it's my right to ..." and finish it off with what we think that right is. But is it merely what we think our rights are? Do we have the right to demonstrate and how may we do that? Do we have the right to come and go as we wish? In some countries you may not be able freely to go from one place to another as we do. We have two languages in our country and according to the Charter, we should be able to use and to see either language. This one intrigues me as I see some oddities to do with this right! When it comes to the law and what it may or may not do without permission, we should be well aware of these rights for our own protection. We have fundamental freedoms. Do you know what they are? For example, we talk about our right of free speech but obviously there are limitations. Society and its laws deem that we pay attention to legal matters such as libel and slander for which one can be sued. Sued, yes,  if one has the determination, patience, proof and the price of lawyers to effect that threat. And then there are obscenity laws to protect us from those who interfere with our freedom to enjoy peace on our property. We have the right to sue. But in this country, fortunately, we are not yet "sue happy". Our courts don't favour idle sueing and not too many lawyers are willing to dabble overly long in that pool of dubious murk unless there is direct cause. Other rights are legal ones: those to move or reside in and out of the country, language, multicultural facets, treatment under police law and government and legal topics. Some rights are honed by individual provinces and these vary and are well worth learning what they are in your particular province. Our rights were enacted in 1960 originally but they stand today even though they are open apparently to interpretation. They are broad in terms and often tested in courts when challenged. We have the right to life but not death, for example. These days, there is much controversy surrounding the matter of assisted suicide for those wanting to go, literally, that route. There is discussion on the matter of the rights to having religious schools and their continuing existence. How one is treated by the law is within a set of guidelines and how one is punished and who is to decide that and what the limitations are. In some countries torture and horrendous treatment of prisoners is accepted. Not here. But for the majority of us, our rights, as we know them, on an every day basis, stem from our rather hazy knowledge, that usually is assumed through our pores. It's not a bad idea to take a few minutes to look up your  Canadian Bill of Rights and Freedoms.You might be surprised. Right?

All Powerful

Is there an "all powerful" force or being? What most call God. That is the question that only "faith" can answer depending upon what "faith" belongs to those asking it or expounding upon it.  Without revealing my personal beliefs, I may share my thoughts on the subject in spite of the it-isn't-polite-to discuss- religion rule. As to the last "rule" I would have to say that it seldom applies when people get together. Somehow, eventually, the subject in some way, arises and strong opinions prevail. We are as human creatures with a spiritual nature as witnessed from our primitive beginnings. I am an incurable talker but during one of these conversations, I am unusually quiet. I have much to learn on a question that continuously baffles me. I respect the religious opinions of others, be they not obviously harmful to other human beings or their beloved properties. No one can tell me that destroying the latter is in any way "god-like". If there were such a "god", it is certainly not one that would attract me. Horrible wars raged over such questions that had answers which didn't fit the other side's opinions. And they happened a very long time ago. If you think about it, they are happening today. I suppose it is necessary before criticising any religion, to learn all about it and speak with those who are believers. And most of all listen before coming to a conclusion. Even this piece could be denied for daring to bring up the topic of religion. That's how powerful the subject is. The idea that our lives are like a board game with someone moving the pieces about, ones that are our destiny, is rather difficult to understand. Another is that this game-player, if I might, knows how the game will turn out. And it isn't always good. It seems to me that our lives are kind of shaky in any event and if we make it to a timely death, we've sort of come close to winning the prize, or at least being mighty lucky, if you'll pardon the hidden pun. What I can't see is one religion, calling down another since our very constitution denies that. These days with wars ensuing over who believes and practises what, is a difficult thing to fathom. It would seem that any all-powerful force would be looking after, in a kindly manner, its charges, and keeping them from any harm. If there is only one such force, let's hope it cares about and protects its subjects and respects all the others of its ilk. That could convince everyone that it would be a fine thing to subscribe to. But to murder or cause destruction doesn't seem at all convincing in an attempt to enlist new members or instill confidence in its tenets. I'm just saying.

Take Heart

The world seems in chaos and as we see events taking place, over which the majority of us have no control whatsoever, even in our meagre one vote. We feel that everything is sliding into some kind of dark place. It is depressing to say the least: disease, war, poverty, pollution and more. But take heart. Right where we stand, is where we can find peace if only we let it in. It doesn't come in bottles or smoke or pills. It comes from the heart. We can still smile, say a friendly word, do a nice thing for someone close. Just smiling makes our environment more pleasant. I know people who watch their screens constantly. They can spout the latest news about world events and sound very knowledgeable. They know the names of the enemy, be it a virus or a party or a faction. They know weapons, their titles and what they can do. They can point out on a map, every place that is warring and hurting people and causing the world to retch its bombs and rockets. They impress their friends with their passion about which places develop and cause destruction and what "they" ought to do about it.  Each natural disaster becomes the topic of their day. Their lives centre around horror and mayhem and they appear to revel in it. A life like that, needs to find balance. While I don't think one can turn away from what needs doing or what needs some help through contribution and assistance, I also believe that a ray of sunshine is needed to keep one's personal equilibrium. What good does it do to find yourself inundated when right around you, there are others who need your attention? Your kids might be where your grace is, or the relative you seldom see or call. Visiting someone who is alone, or taking yourself for a walk or out to a nice lunch could be part of the solution to things negative. Peace begins at home, as is said. It's all about thinking how the other feels. Spending time to be with someone near, offering encouragement, giving compliments that are genuine and seeing things in positive ways is key to personal happiness. Spending too much time grieving is not recommended for anyone. Stepping out into the sunshine and welcoming its warmth and seeing a bit of humour is a much better way to live and be productive. Many of us have little extra money to be attending hundred buck or more dinner benefits, sending life bequests to television stations or fat cheques to big universities even if we are alma mater. We can offer our small, meaningful donations. Most of us, have just enough to put groceries in the cupboard or pay the regular bill needs monthly to keep our own little worlds turning.  Some haven't enough to accomplish even these, but we are all rich in family or friends or natural surroundings. Sunrise and sunsets are free. Parks are open to use. People, even strangers at the market or café, could use a smile and a hello. Find your heart, and do your peace.

Off To The Ball

Fall and ball rhyme, and it's not surprising that the two go together beautifully. As the yearly season closes, so do certain team games. Football, soccer, rugby, baseball and all the other kinds of summer ball games are wrapping up before the icy sports descend upon us. I suppose it's sexist to say that ball games are the domain of men, but in truth, it's mostly men who put the emphasis on their importance especially at this time of year. Males congregate in back yards, dens and basements. They carouse in pubs and sports bars. For guys, it is the season to be jolly. There are women included, but from what I have witnessed, females', except for the few and true, enthusiasm isn't quite as intense. This is the time when jerseys and caps with team names on them, become The Thing to sport. This attire is not mere clothing, it denotes belonging. I know males who keep the same old tees and club uniforms for decades and trot them out each fall to show loyalty for "their team". These relics are conversation pieces and valid excuses to talk to virtual strangers about "the team" wherever the wearer goes. In the fall, it's: "Aha, so your a fan of ... har hoho har".  "Hey, didja see it when ..." is heard all over the world in different languages.  Sport finals on the box are more than mere vicarious viewings, they are reasons for males to bond and group and celebrate. They don't put their money in going to the game that's usually for the rich only. They put their money on their best guesses: scores, numbers of tries, goals, home-runs, hits. Home life changes. Forget or record your usual favorite series when a sport final is playing. Don't walk in front of the set when a game is on. Keep the fridge filled with the drinks of choice and plenty of snacks. Mealtimes are adjusted to happen between games. No one can interrupt  until the play is complete, the innings decided or the whistle blows. Fall ball finals madness is on. It's party time, too. The Cup is on, let's all get together so the guys can take over the living room and the "gals" can congregate around the kitchen island. I see it every year, androgyny notwithstanding. Don't get me wrong, I love it. I am happy when the guys are happy. It's nice to see genuine laughter and smiles, guys having fun with other guys. But hey, I love ball games, too. Take me out to the ...

The A Team

A is usually representative of A, the first letter of the English alphabet: its alpha. We have alpha wolves, As on tests and a-ones in the military, but there are other As, too,  and some of them are not quite as clear as the others. There is apolitical and atheist, example. Neither of the latter do I understand completely. Does anyone?  I know persons as these latter, in both camps and they are interesting to behold and certainly to listen to. Apolitical, I suppose, means a person who is not a political party individual. These people claim that they sit on the fence regarding politics. (Seems to me, a kind of dangerous thing waiting to occur.) Politics happens in all phases of life. When humans congregate, they seem to arrange themselves in groups of some kind. Immediately, "politics" is formed. It is small P politics, but politics just the same. People-tics would be a better name for it. Since the beginnings of Man, there has been political activity. Any time a group bands together to get something done, they form a "party" whether they want to call it that or not. They work together to accomplish the goals  that brought them together. Perhaps, and usually so, another group has different ideas that they want put into place. The two groups, if wise enough, debate the issue and in some way either compromise and cooperate, which is the best way to do things, or they decide to become opponents and push their influence to convince all others that what they want is best.  What do we have? Politics. Unfortunately, in the animal world and sometimes the people-world, one or the other party decides that the only way to get their own way, is to cause war. Whomever wins, will rule from then on. Whoa, you say, that's not the right way to go about it! Exactly. But logic doesn't always prevail. Various forms of government came to be, so that every single person should somehow be a part in the decision making: thus democracy and hopefully, peace. Doesn't always work but it's worth trying.  Another group of As are atheists. They are perfectly lovely folks who do not find they want to believe in a god. They decide that there is no spiritual master plan and that they don't need a spiritual leader of any kind in their lives. They have a right to their own ideas, certainly in the Western world.  Religion is a private matter. Religion is also, a dicey matter because it is so intense, up close and personal. Even within religious groups, there is often friction of a mild kind. There is struggle for many of its members to envelope all and every tenet of their group.  Often they re-form to become another, more agreeable faction. Vast amounts of time is spent arguing about why they are what they are and how they hope to convince everyone else that their way is the best way. In a civilized sphere the debate is present and eternal, but the end result is basically, I'll build my church and you build yours. Atheists don't have a church but they do have an unorganized form of it when they gather socially and discuss their beliefs and debate why their take on it is right. The true meaning of A , according to Webster, is that "a" means "at" or "as one". In Latin, "a" or "ab" means "from" or "away". Seems somewhat contradictory. Our language, one of the Latin strain, continues, relentlessly, to fascinate, especially A.

Best Buttons

There are lots of buttons and/or keys to press these days on your computer keyboard, device or video control and I think they should be rated and awarded usefulness ribbons. I have discovered the very best button or key, the blue ribbon contender. For computer folk, it's the silence button, you know, the one with the slashed circle beside the speaker icon?  It's the same one that reads "mute" on the control board for my TV. Since discovering this, number one, very important tool, my viewing stress level had dropped to something close to zero. One of our modern frustrations is ads. I know they have to be there if we want viewing at all, but seeing them once is quite enough. Even the cute and clever ones can become monotonous. One of the very small programs I peek into each day, is a series of short clips on fashion, celebrity and film. Each clips lasts less than three minutes, but prior to each is an ad, the same one that takes mere seconds but its repetition is maddening. But thanks to the blue ribbon winner button, when I enter the program, I am ready to instantly snap the silent key down and gaze out the window until the real action begins again, and I can choose to hear sound once more. Whew, such a boon, that key! It's the similar effect when watching sports and there is that annoying half time frou frou with the good looking pundit guys who spout their game smarts when all we want is to get on with the game itself. Worse, there are ads involved throughout this beautiful people segment, with slender long-haired, sport-smart blondes or brunettes interviewing the same foot ball hero over and over again. No matter how handsome these folks are, their appeal is lost in over-kill. That's when the red ribbon winner comes in handy. It is the fast forward or re-wind, arrowed one. During a recorded piece, it is invaluable. With it, you may zip past the ads, unwanted messages and other interruptions and get on with what you really want to look at. I like it for self-run  re-plays. It's the "Hey Charlie, come look at this" button. Occasionally in some movies where the sound is not pristine or maybe my ears, I miss a word or line or perhaps, I want to see a certain scene over and over, there is the FF or the Rew to offer assistance.  Great little helper. Prize number three, the green ribbon,  is for the delete key. Spam Killer is another name for it. Like everyone finds, there are countless interesting sites but they often come with their miserable little unwanted companions, spammies. They are the "love me love my dog" sorts that cling to your computer like lint. Or maybe you have a perfectly wonderful person who decides to offer their choices of sites that are full of inane trite jokes and pictures that they persist in thinking you are the in least bit interested. You are not. Delete! It's that easy. The only complication is when the sender asks you about what they have sent - "Didn't you just adore...". Being the polite person you try to be, you don't want to say, "No, not on your life" but this moment can be rescued while gritting your teeth, nodding your head and looking as though you know some fascinating secret,  with " ah, ohh, hmmmm". The effect mystifies the asker and thus works every time.

In Love Again

Falling in love is one thing but doing it all over again with a familiar entity is wondrous. I have fallen in love again, but not with a person. It goes this way. I am moving and my vast, and dear library, is naturally, going with me. The restrictions of city living involve reducing "stuff" to a bare minimum. I can do without shoes and music and cookery tools, but I have a very hard time getting rid of my dearest books. They have been gleaned tenderly from stores, second and first, and from the shelves of friends who have invited me freely to help myself. I have, I say with a red face, gained other books. innocently, I might add out of the generosity of those who would lend them to me, and yet others purloined without knowing it.  In all truth, they were not meant to make their homes with me but during a long career and many moves, I seem to have acquired books that have the names of very good friends stamped securely, but ineffectively, on their titles pages. One or two of the friends from whom I borrowed same, have now gone to the great library in the sky or wherever they build them these days, and the other lenders are  mercifully somewhere I do not know. I do, however, harbour their books tenderly in hopes of seeing them again one day and being able to redeem myself. Truly, I have forgotten to return them, and then they eventually, slipped forever from my memory. Really! And although I have sheltered them merely through their being old and helpless looking,  I would, indeed, return them graciously if I could. I consider them, eternally, visitor books. But, getting back to the present, I decided it is time to catalog my books so that I can quickly locate them after I move. And at the same time, I swear to get rid of most of them. I have a grand piano to install as well.  With longstanding familiarity and forgetting the LOC and its reams of numerals, I stick to the easy methods in the orderly art of cataloguing and use good old Dewey. I understand him perfectly as long as he keeps it simple. My book shelves are my "walls" and thus I sit, day after day, with books and labels and pen in lap attaching and penning to get everything in order. But as I do this labour of love, I find books I have not read and want to, nay, need to.  It takes all of my willpower to quell that intense need and sometimes, I fail. A small pile of must-read-right-now-in-case-I-die-suddenly is growing at my feet. Among them are such treasures such as a bibliophile's calendar that has a review of a very famous book for every day of the year. And then there is the book by Columbo of the eeriest ghosts of every province  and another, a Margaret Atwood's fiction that I bought and forgot. These are essential to my peace and well-being and I know I must deal with them immediately. I have conquered one shelf now, and will delve into another tomorrow, but still have five more to go, all filled from top to bottom alongside their lovely dusty companions. I am overjoyed when I meet these old friends again, and as if  seeing an old lover coming up my back steps after decades, to envelop me,  I fall in love all over again. My books seem to reach out their arms, and I know I must  fall into them and cosy up once again. Let's see now - oh, here's Walt Whitman and ah, there's an Annotated Alice. Excuse me, I need to take a few minutes...

Jealous Green Eyes

Jealousy has many meanings depending on how the word is used. I am concerned, here, about the individual who likes to think that a partner is jealous when he/she glances admiringly at someone else, in this case, a server at an eating/drinking establishment and makes a remark about it. It is  common, and often a characteristic, for some to ogle attractive others. And while it may be natural to gaze upon a stranger one sees as attractive, it is impolite to make a show of it especially while on a date with someone. Most  daters try to control their eyes and certainly their comments, but there are some unwise sorts who simply, cannot control their mouths. Apparently, they have no trouble with their eyes! Those who find that they do not have a leash on the leering while with a companion, could, one hopes, defer from, at least, the come-on comments. It is maddening to sit with a date who insists upon making sleezy remarks to a server, remarks they think are flattering. They feel it enhances their sex appeal to do so. "Oh, look at me flirting; I am such a hotty!"  Oh no! It is bad enough for the datee to be forced to listen to such drivel, it must make the server feel that he or she would like to empty a trayful on the ignorant skull that spews this sort of nonsense. And for the rude flirtator, to accuse his/her date of being jealous over it, is just not fair. Or intelligent. It's passing the buck, in fact. What's happening is that the date is jealous, but not of the victim. They are jealous of their right as an invited date, to be the sole person focussed on and certainly not having to share their time with  those who must serve the food and drink at the table. Servers are simply trying to be polite, doing their jobs and should not be regarded as part of the entertainment. One has no business considering it okay to insult servers in this manner. They are not anything but working at their hard and heavy jobs while being very polite to those being served.  Customers should not assume they have any right to give out flirtatious remarks like some elderly candy men who haunt the malls getting their jollies in the same way.  Tips notwithstanding. They don't appreciate being taken for granted as though they are unfeeling automatons open to any kind of remark coming from the paying customers. The money we pay, is for the product, not the server. Most servers have home responsibilities and reasons for doing their difficult jobs.  It is tiring for eight or more hours, to carry heavy trays and plates, to remember who wants what and how at each table, and to deal with the pressures of restaurant or bar service behind the scenes without having to put up with smart-mouthed customers.  No matter how attractive the server is, or how much they appreciate, even need, your fair tips, they do not need to be insulted with remarks that are offensive to their private selves. And for someone to turn on dating partners and accuse them of being jealous when they hear this sort of negative comment, is just plain thoughtless. They are being humane, not being jealous.   Compliments should be for the service. And only the service. Let's couth up!

What Women Really Want

Yesterday had an interesting twist. I spoke to a man who told me what women want. Later, I heard a woman tell me what she really wanted. I was conflicted somewhat by what I listened to. The man complained that he had a bad marriage that ended in anger and all he wanted was a woman who didn't want a commitment from him. The woman, a widow, admitted that her life was lonely after an uncomfortable marriage but that she didn't want a husband because she would never trust another man. Both people had relationships but neither wanted to make a permanent arrangement of them. They just wanted to "date".  It was clear that each had suffered bad experiences in making binding commitments and were afraid to make them again because of it. But what did each really want? Clearly, each wanted a commitment but did not trust a partner to give it. It's natural to want a mate. We all want to find that perfect match, the one that makes a trusting bond that lasts until the day we die. Unfortunately, it happens seldom. I had one of those "seldom" found relationships that unfortunately ended in a death. Frankly, I am loathe to make another commitment because I know how difficult it is to find another person who can or will make such a thing happen. The older you are, the harder it is to find someone unscarred. I am in the same boat as the man and woman I spoke with even though my oar may be another colour. We were made to share our lives with a mate admissibly but many people who want this kind of connection with another, simply have not been able to find that special person with whom they can share a trust. And then there are certain individuals who physiologically and/or psychologically are unable to commit to one other person exclusively. The varieties of human beings and their personal needs is vast. Trying to locate someone with whom to share your concept of life is no mean task. Much of the time, in youth, it happens and works out, but likely accidentally. Youth is a formative period in human development and if someone young mates up with another, it stands a good chance of working. Marriage is not a static matter, it develops and changes as time goes on. Those who marry or commit young, have a chance to adjust to the condition of marriage and in doing so, may make together, a true and lasting arrangement. It doesn't just happen. Like curing clay, commitments harden and crack and sometimes, or often as these times, break apart while others self-mend and stay together. Elements such a outside forces come along and they change the stability of a union. It has to be strong and able to mend the cracks and hits to survive. What do men want? They want exactly what women want and that is a comfortable life with a person who is flexible and willing to work to keep the relationship going. Trust is key. When that breaks, the scars remain even though a repair has taken place. The first thing that will crack it apart is the weakness caused in the once cracked place and that's the hard part: getting past it. All told, a good union can be, with work, the best kind, even stronger than one that has never been tested.

What Matters Most

Some say that what matters is right in front of our eyes. No. My steaming cup of morning coffee is not what matters most, well, perhaps at this moment, but what really matters, I maintain, is not the future or even the present, but the past. Why? When I watch the elderly, I see a far away look in their eyes and I know they are not looking at what lies before them but what is somewhere else. Something distant. I suspect it is some memory or recollection of note that pulls their attention from this world, into what was, not what is. Long ago, when caring for two very old, very dear folks, I recall them in their nineties, sitting in their living room on furniture that was almost as old as they,  holding photo albums in their laps with little dishes of various pills and glasses of water beside them, speaking in their frail tones about the pictures they were looking at.  Small piles of these books of memoirs were stacked at their feet. The two laughed together and their eyes sparkled as they peered across the room at one another with youthful faces shining through the wrinkles and liver spots and white hair, what there was of it. The old couple was recalling events of long ago, ones that they had shared in their over sixty-year marriage. When I peeked unseen into their room and saw their joy in recalling  mutual times, I knew it was a private moment and backed away. They lived only a short time later, one "going" after the other, as often happens. What this scene taught me is that what we do in the present, is vitally important. It will become immediately, the past and matters because it can't be undone. If two old people who know they have little time to live, take joy in the simple pleasure of their memories, what we do now must be the key. All of our endeavors to make life better by working at jobs we secretly loathe and putting up with people we can't abide and living life-styles that are not who we are, comes down to an ending whether we like to think of it or not and an accounting total of what our lives added up to. We'll be asking: was it all worth it?  It seems logical to me that we grab the moment that makes us happy and cling firmly to it. Sure, we have to work to survive and often that means toleration to a maximum degree, but in the end, if it has to done, we try to find something in that place that has meaning. If it doesn't, we strive to put meaning into it and if that doesn't work, we move on and continue the quest. The whole matter of happiness appears to be that search within ourselves to achieve it rather than grieve it. I like to think about this old couple nearing their final days and finding happiness not in their present circumstances but about what really mattered in  their long lives. They knew hard work and loss and achievement and disappointment: all that, but it wasn't what they had or didn't have, not about things, but about people and what they did amongst those people to find true satisfaction and happiness that would carry them along until their lives ended.

Don't Tell Me

The unofficial rule-making people annoy me. They are the ones who say that to do what they don't happen to like, is wrong or rude or incorrect. I believe there should be rules but some rules are made by fools. One of the "rules" is to write e mails that are three to five words, no more no less, long. They also "rule" out added things such as graphics or doodles etc. I happen to write and my habit is length and verbiage. I try to keep the outpourings to a minimum but that is my habit and I refuse to change. I write in sentences, not phrases, because I love the sentence complete with proper punctuation. It is what I am and what I do and I am not going to change. Rules or no rules. I bend the sentence rules a bit by using the incomplete sentence  and sometimes I end  with a preposition but generally, I shun the pruning of words. These can be found on itty bitty screens alighted in hands, usually youngish ones. "YRU g'n",translated, is - Why are you going?  "IM" is - I am ('going' is understood apparently). The advent of the HHD or Hand Held Device has likely encouraged the informal  rule makers to dictate that longer "real" English should be sliced and diced to save time and fingertips. If the sender is walking and chewing gum at the same time, he/she needs to be quick about it or something real could happen such as a blue bird sighting or perhaps a garden in passing. It is a faster world out there they tell me. I could add something to that but it would be rude. Then there are quasi rules about walking along sidewalks. When I dared to walk on the left rather than the right, I was tongue-clicked and groaned at. Okay, I thought, I am not an automobile, I am a person and this sidewalk is large and I do not see a yellow line down the middle and even if I did, I would likely hop over it, depending on my mood, and walk on whichever side I pleased. In a large city such as New York, I can see that rule - perhaps. The folk there walk at mega speed and in their running shoes as though there were an Oscar waiting for them at their destination. I think they are angry people perhaps because their choice is either walk or take a taxi and walking being faster and certainly cheaper, raises the temperature and perhaps temperament, when one might wish to have a shower upon arriving at work and there isn't one. Well, that's my theory. We are all ruled by rules that are generally unofficial and often silly but for some reason we think they keep us orderly. When a rebel comes along and breaks the non-rule rules we consider them "weird" but in truth he/she is simply working "outside the box" for his/her own reasons. Next time you see a guy wearing a skirt, I did recently, go ahead and stare. Break the staring rule, we all want to anyway. Why quell? And ask him why he is doing what he does. I did that once at a market and was told that the skirt was not a kilt but a garment that had been worn in a country during their wars. The chap manufactued them in khaki and went on and on about it. Sometimes breaking a silly rule turns out an act of sanity and not a little fun.

Denim Blues

As I put away my jeans today, I noticed how thin the knee fabric was and it concerned me. Deeply. Then I thought, why are you worried about jeans? My jeans are my old friends. I was introduced to denim when I was a pre-schooler. Blessed with pioneering grandparents who had emigrated from their early holdings in Saskatchewan in the days when it was called Assinaboia, I went regularly to their retirement farm in what was called Haney in the old days. The farm was haven to my many cousins who were sent there during the summer vacation while our parents did a couple holiday. We didn't miss them one bit.  The country place was vast, at least a section on a mountainside tribuatry of the Allouette River. The one of the small streams filled with September salmon, so many you could walk over them if you wanted to. There were horses to ride bareback, cows to watch being milked and warm hens eggs to collect. In short, The Farm, was heaven to us. Our grandparents let us free and the only requirement was that we appear for breakfast, dinner and evenings of playing Rummy with Grandpa. We went deeply into the woods and forded fast running streams. We climbed trees and fished with safety pins. We had complete access to the various waterfalls and streams and fields. Denim was the choice in clothing and shoes were an option. We wore then, something called overalls and  yes, they were the bib kind. We didn't know about fashion but our denims often did sport a fallen shoulder strap. Later on in life, there were "pedal pushers" made of denim for bike riding around my town and still later, denim skirts and jackets were considered "in". The best part of denim is that it can be worn almost to rags and still look fine. But now denim has reached fashion heights and has become a must for all closets. Some jeans are bejewelled, others, ripped in intriguing places, still others go off to work. But denim remains and doesn't lose its value as is seen as young women plying the second-hand stores looking for jeans of certain numbers. I am not a great fan of denim as formal attire but it has been seen more than once at film openings and upper end parties in big cities. My favorite jeans, and I have many pairs, are the ones that I am afraid to wash. They are simply too fragile. I do them by hand in mild soap and water and agonize over their time left. They are pale blue with whitish knees and skimpy in other worn places. Their seams are still trustworthy but the hems are becoming finely threadbare and in places the gold thread is looking dangerously thin. My formal jeans are dark blue and do not have orange stitching. I feel safe wearing them with a tweed jacket and good blouse or tee, to go out shopping or to a movie or out on a date. Their only requirement is a pair of sexy navy heels but just try to find some. It seems the world is not doing navy shoes that go with jeans. Light blue shoes to match the truly worn pair, my favorties, are impossible to locate. I have tried. Desperately. I have even resorted to painting  pairs of Birkies to match my jean colours. Latex paint works best but these days of slender coiffed feet and Italian sandals with delicate strapping, the Birkies are left to us, the older set, to clump around in. Long live all old jeans! 

University???

When a young person asks me, should I go to university, I can't, these days, answer that question without first trying to find a good reason why anyone should go at all. In former days, university life was full of joy and expectation. Now it is often merely to fill in a blank on the resume for a job. One student said, if you don't have a university degree you won't be hired by a good company. When I asked what sort of company did he mean, the answer was, any company. Does this mean that if one wants a job at a rug, car or clothing sales business, an applicant should have a university education? Apparently, the answer is, yes because, I am told, it is a process of elimination and those with a degree are more likely to be hired. This whole picture is ridiculous. First of all our secondary education system stinks. It is so general that some kids find it a waste of their time. And don't tell me it is a socialization process. It was but it is not any more. You can have as much socialization in a fast food joint either in it as a customer or a worker. Senior high school students in their last couple of years, often have to take courses that have nothing whatever to do with anything but getting a piece of paper saying that they "graduated". I know students who had the number of courses correct but for some reason didn't have one particular course to get their certificate and had to do another whole year or take another course simply to fill out that particular bureaucratic need. How ridiculous is that and often it is a lack of close attention by the school to the individual's program in the first place. The system is antiquated and frankly, a mess.  First, we have to make high school education meet the true needs of students and not a bevy of requirements laid down by someone with his/her head in the clouds. Second, young people should get directly into their interest field even at high school and leave this "broaden your mind at the U" nonsense for those who are rich. The well-off might be able to afford the six figure numbers for that but most other people simply can't without going to loans and mortgages. And for what?  And using the pre-requisite ploy when the pre-requisites have nothing whatever to do with the professional goal of the student, is merely a way of sucking money out of the beginner  to pay for the expensive end courses of those about to leave the university. A pre-requisite should reflect directly on the end goal of the chosen course. That is the harsh truth of the matter. When I look at community colleges, I see some sense. Here people can live at home and get the basics before deciding on a career and whether it actually requires a formal academic education or a technical one that will take the student directly into the field he or she wishes to enter. Too often I hear students say, I'm going to university because I don't know what I want to do. That is an expensive way to do it. Nursing schools used to be largely in hospitals where nurses should train. Doctors do. Chefs, designers, mechanics and so on need true apprenticeship programs, not the ones that don't work now. Sitting in a classroom works for some careers but practical experience is where real learning takes place. We need more technical schools for students who can opt for that education at the Grade Eleven point. We would have more workers earning something quicker than having the student sit around in front of a  lecturer and wasting time on courses that they have no interest in anada that they could take on line.  If someone desires an academic education, all to the good, they can hie off to the university and do that. The others who need to make money as soon as possible and get to work as soon as possible can follow their choices. I'd like to see high school a shorter term with concentrated real learning taking place and that courses that have no true bearing on the lives of its students, be discarded. With computer knowledge much of the student's education can be achieved that way rather than sitting in a dusty classroom listening to someone droning on when what is being said, is easily accessible on a machine. Sorry, but it's a new day out here and it requires some new, perhaps uncomfortable, thought. University is just too expensive for the average person and scholarships are tokenism for all but the elite.