Assertive Or Offensive

One of the more recent trends is for women to be assertive. And that's all very well, but how one is assertive is the question. Those who merely tapped into the matter of this useful tool without examining the finer points, may have misunderstood what assertiveness means. What it doesn't mean, is blurting out your standpoint in aloud and offensive way. That simply doesn't get anywhere but the exit door. I know one particular woman who announced proudly to me that she used not to be assertive, but by golly, she had changed, and now she was going to speak her mind. Unfortunately, this individual went about speaking her mind but in a way that offended others. When she found that her approach was ill received, she waved it aside saying that she didn't care because no one was going to push her around any more. Oops! Expressing your viewpoint is not driving a bulldozer through the opinions and ideas of others. You can be calmly and courteously adept at getting your statement firmly across without being loud, nasty or crass. The latter only makes others put up fences that keep you and your mouth out of their space forever. So what is the middle road? The folks who I have found to be most enjoyable at stepping into the light and telling it like it is, rather than shying away, are those who use a little courtesy and humour. A certain doctor I recall, when in a tight social situation was a master of this tactic and achieved her purpose without causing rifts. Even though her arguments were strong in nature, she had a way of presenting them so that they were appreciated and taken seriously. While I am an advocate of women's equality, I, also, know that their manner is different than males and that's perfectly acceptable. A soft voice and good manners don't mean one is a shrinking violet. They take nothing away from making valid points when such are given confidently and correctly with both feet on the ground, well planted. As a matter of fact, some women can do this masterfully, if I might use that expression! I think of famous women now and historically who are highly successful leaders and rulers who wear, not guns, but hats, chiffon and carry a purse.

Need Or Want

Some people are conjoined to their cell phones. They use them constantly often for no reason other than habit, while yet others need them to do business or make contact that isn't available any other way practically speaking. I got a smart type phone with internet and so on when I was in the moving process and found it helpful. But now that I am settled, it sits there charging and never rings nor do I use it. The main reason it's not used is that I am close to the US border and their towers are so powerful that they leave me lacking on my side. Fearing some of the horror stories about huge charges for discontinuing cell services, I hesitated. But when I called the company, I found that ending the service would cost far less than waiting for it to run out. Furthermore, I could keep the phone.  I am told the unit will still  pick up services free from all sorts of businesses that offer them. Also someone told me that 911 calls will go through, service or not. While I have not tried these, I did cancel my cell phone. I simply do not use it. The company was polite and accommodating and I save a few hundred in the long run. But I began to think seriously about what I really needed electronically and electrically and what I only thought I needed. I looked at the little appliances sitting on my counter top. Did I really need a slow cooker when I could do exactly the same thing in my oven, timer settings and all? Was it necessary to have a panini grill when I already have a dandy fry pan and spatula? Should I have both a toaster oven and a toaster with bagel possibilities? One will do. Is a rice cooker necessary or a big steamer? A small gizmo that is easy-clean and pops into a pan works the same way. We see ads that make these things so appealing we think we can save time thus money, but really they are simply duplications that just take up space. And I don't know about you, but my urban condo kitchen gives me very little storage albeit being very attractive stone and steel. The same goes for clothing. How many pairs of jeans do I need? How many handbags? I could go on and on. I used to shop with someone who continuously and maddening asked me constantly "Do you really need that?" But now, I see the sense in the question. Do I? Do you?

Nice Works

Today was one of the busiest days of the year. When I started off for the mall, the traffic was thick. People waited and followed when someone took their purchases to their cars and then asked if they were leaving and could they use the spot. It seems a rather odd way of finding a parking place, but it apparently works. In the store it could have been madness but I noticed that most shoppers had that Christmas spirit and made humour out of tight situations where aisles were filled and shopping carts were suffering traffic jams. I also noticed that other people were in a great hurry and impatient and angry looking. And those around them had unpleasant expressions. At that moment, I decided to try to be especially neighbourly and it worked. It doesn't take much effort to greet someone or let them pass by or say excuse me or the famous Canadian word, "sorry" apologetically. I saw that those who found a moment to smile or begin a conversation with someone if they had a wait, made everyone around them smile, too. I ran into a very trying situation when I got home and the cable company who offered a special deal handed me from one to another to yet another person over my account. When I got to the fourth person, she had evidently been harassed previously, and her first terse words using "maam" in a overly business-like way, showed that a little  TLC was in order if I wanted to get anywhere. I used her name when I spoke with her. That's the first step in good feelings. She sounded as though her day was not good. I wanted to pursue my account  situation peaceably to its end and when she said she would have to hand me on to another helper, I could have become most annoyed but instead, I thanked her for her patience and said that would be fine, Rachel. She seemed surprised and told me that she wanted to help me but there were so many aspects to finding the answer to my question, that she could not, herself, give me the information, but she would find someone who could and would I hold for a moment. Rather than complaining, I said, I appreciate that and yes, I will hold. What's a few minutes? Events ran much more smoothly from then on in spite of the half-hour session. At the end of the entire business, I learned something about the services her company offered and also how to manoeuver in the site. I was rewarded with my patience by a couple of freebies at the conclusion. She and I exchanged seasonal greetings and when I hung up, I felt like a satisfied customer. Being nice, paid off. Literally. It's that small extra word in a friendly way, or being understanding of how difficult some clerical jobs are, that gets you not only better service, but also makes the individual who serves you, feel better. Being nice is catching.  

The Gifted

My gift list grows smaller. It's that stage in life. By the way, in case you didn't know aging goes by "stage", not chronological age being that the state of your body designates your "stage". You begin to lose your old pals and relatives. Or those on the list, move away and you seldom hear from them; you lose touch. No sense becoming all dewy eyed about it, that's the way it is. The world has changed not only in a physical sense, its personality has also. People are busy and more concerned about spending money than anything else. Christmas demands that there are gifts. Gifts are, of necessity, supposed to be stylish and practical at the same time. The gift card is becoming a standard present and while it seems kind of commercial, it makes sense. Gramma's knitted sweaters although treasured in the heart are never worn other than for a joke. They don't fit today's mini-space apartment and condo closets. Even Nana's attempts to accommodate the tastes of her gifteds by crocheting scarves, are a waste of time. The fashion conscious receivers like to coordinate their own scarf wardrobes. So what is one to do? Maybe knitting a set of shopping sacks would work since plastic bags are becoming something of the past. Unfortunately, plastic cards aren't. More and more people are giving food including sweets or home-baked items. What could be better than something home-made? Mass production still can't devise the kind of shortbread that mother did or Christmas cakes as pungent in their massed fruits and nuts, as  your grandmother baked. A very best gift is presence. Yours. Go see your loved ones. It takes time but the rewards are overwhelming and memorable. Some make jams or sauces to give. I recall a dear aunt who, at one point, due to health reasons, was on welfare. She used to find farm produce in the summer and bottle it. To get one of her loaves of bread and jars of peaches or apricots, pickles or relish, was a treasured gift that lasted a long, long time after the season. She got back later when the jars were returned. Some families make up wish lists and post them on the fridge or kitchen notice board. And these are usually modest and achievable - and best of all, used when the wrappings are off. The hardest wish lists to deal with, are the ones,  by small children whose wants go well beyond reality. Children do not deal in realities. But realities are points of gentle discussion and learning that love and giving, are the least costly and easiest done, to make the most perfect gift of all. Children can make gifts that show their love. To all, a happily Loving Holiday!

THE Tree

Christmas trees are no longer the "real" kind. At least not where I live. Not allowed. Plastic only. Fire restrictions. Putting up The Tree used to be a major operation. First, you asked around where the best ones were to cut down. No one "in the day" was concerned about property lines and tree-chopping regulations. You simply piled into the car, went to some wooded place, parked the vehicle at the roadside and tramped into the woods to find the right tree. You cut it down, dragged it out and took it home. Then, there was the great fuss about getting it up. After last year having your tree fall over fully decorated  because the cheap holder Mom bought at the five and dime, gave out or was too small, the neighbourhood dads got their heads together  and the alpha guy, Mr. Hall, who could build anything, showed them his secret formula for banging up a tree stand that was nailed right to the trunk of the fir or pine - and it couldn't fall over. You couldn't get it off for next year, either. My dad was a lovely fellow but he was just not a carpenter. Our tree, even with Mr. Hall's sage advice, did receive my father's home-made stand, but there was always a sort of lean to it. We tried many tricks to make it look straight. "A little more tinsel on this side" or "maybe if we turn it a bit" or "let's try it in the corner" sufficed. Eventually, the tree that smelled exactly like Christmas ought to smell, was up, the decorations were on and the presents were put under it. I do not recall "watering" the tree which didn't seem to make much sense because sap stops running in the winter. Anyway, it wasn't up all that long. In those days, Christmas did not start in November and go on until mid-January. A few days before the twenty-fifth, in went the tree and after New Year's it went out, sadly, or not, depending upon what kinds of Christmases you remember. The Tree today,  is not a tree but a plastic creation that has no scent. The lights are already wired on the branches and some even come with decorations in place. The thing folds up like an umbrella and the only needles that drop are the ones someone loses as they stitch on the sparkling décor ribbons with the wire edges. The "tree" these days becomes a  feature that has to match things. They are not trees any more, they are "mood setters" or "designer dream decor". Gifts under the tree also have to match and be  gorgeous creations to "go" with the room's current theme for the season. This year it's turquoise. Christmas is not a scent from the tree you found in the woods with your dad. It's not hung with the familiar old decorations that your grandparents treasured year after year. We didn't worry about "theme" in those days. All that, is gone. You can no longer take the tree out into the backyard to burn and dance around it while the fragrant smoke rises and the tinsel you didn't get off, curls up so you know the season is over. Makes me wonder what Christmas memories we make now? What do we hold dear this season to remember for the next? Turquoise?

Charisma

Charisma is not really a compliment when applied. It simply means that the person described possesses the kind of magical charm and grace, that draws other people to them. It's a kind of human magnet that, like it or not, pulls in others by the powers of this special trait. We've all been taken in, sooner or later, by those who have this gift, or perhaps, curse. The best teachers and politicians own such peculiar power. We find ourselves charmed by whatever it is that makes us unabashedly adore them. We've all suffered, or savoured, the effects of our enchantments. I can think of charismatic sorts who are unaware of their unique powers and while having them, are just as surprised by them as those who flock about. They learn to use the gift either positively or negatively. Examples of the positive sort, we all know, are among others, The Kennedys, The Royals and a bevy of Hollywood actors. Diana of the second group was a prime purveyor of charisma. Her beauty and doe-eyed presence took us all in. We grieved when she died and made her an icon of the sad princess whom no one understood. But really, the good works of this kind are done as well, by others and they are not so worshipped. Diana, simply, "had it" and even though other royalty may have been as benevolent, the public chose someone who met their need to admire a being, larger than life. The Kennedy family is another icon that bespeaks tragedy, power and wealth but who catch our attention at their very name. We are attracted by those who have endless amounts of money, such as the Hilton sisters and others, who adorn and adore themselves for us to gaze on admiringly and not without a lot of envy, or perhaps, scorn.  We love to consume tales of our favorite actors and their escapades. When one dies, it is like a personal loss. Why is this? It's part of our need to idealize and identify the harmless fairytale we can enter without cost. In our own simpler, less illustrious lives, we also find  icons to admire and want to be near, if not emulate. I suppose it is the Alpha Factor as in the animal family that makes it so appealing. But lovely as charisma can be, it is also dangerous. Not all of those we are attracted to, have our best interests in mind. Some of that alpha kind use their very strong powers to carry out  unsavory designs. The worst criminals we read about or see, often have this uncanny ability, to make others carry out self-serving plans. Gang leaders, political heads of state and religious fanatics use this power for negative ends. And even in our own social circles we know men and women who are not the friends they purport to be and when found out, are our greatest disappointments. But the charismatic influences in our lives that have us doing good, as they should, are our finest hopes.

So So Sew

In the day, mine actually, schools had among other compulsory subjects, something called Home Economics. In these classes, which in my recollection, had nothing to do with economy, we girls in Grade Seven were ground through the tedium of making an apron. No one wore it or the dress we were painstakingly subjected to stitching: examples of  the skills required in the art of sewing. Fortunately, today, the matter of learning how to sew, is the making of useful and attractive items such as gym bags and cute totes. The worst of it, in the old days, was that most of us, out of dire necessity, were already making our own clothes under the guidance of our mothers. Mine  conducted a neighbourhood class in it. Her objectives were to make it fun, quick and practical. But the echo of the agonies involved in making that long white school apron remains with me today. When I approach the sewing machine, I feel as though I'm going off to battle. And lots of times, I am. I don't enjoy sewing even though I do it. My old sewer weighed a ton being made of metal with no add-ons. You sewed seams and anything extra such as button holes was what you did "off site". I miss that heavy old electric beast. Since the early days, I have suffered through lots of stitching projects but only out of necessity. Other than quilts that have invaded the planet, most people buy their garments off the rack. Fabric costs make sewing a luxury, not to mention the price of a sewing machine and its maintenance. The last time I went to a shop to buy a replacement for my old clunker, I felt like I was in a science lab. There are machines that you plug a disk into one end, and say "go", and an art quilt comes out the back. Others are more human oriented, but you have to be, not only someone with the fingers of a neurosurgeon, but also those as deft and smart as a jet flyer, to operate. There are sewing lessons of course. They come with the equipment, and the price reflects it. As I walked the aisles of the store past row after row of shining machines while heading to the back where the sale sign was, I was overwhelmed by the do-dads on these plastic wonders. Some of them sewed more than fifty different stitches and button holes to accommodate the buttons they also sewed on. What you would use all those jiggly stitches for, I have no idea. One of them actually read designs and executed them in any colour you chose. By the time I got to the sale section, I was completely intimidated. Did I think I could sew? I thought I would have to go to engineering school. I did walk out with a rather flimsy, by my standards, sewer, but it went back the first week. I broke the delicate automatic threader. Where, oh where was my brute of an old machine that stitched both leather and chiffon and when whacked in frustration, never complained - or broke.

Crafty Stuff

This is the season for bazaars and craft fairs. Announcements are made far and wide to draw in customers who walk amongst the sparkles and dangles and wow-what-a-great-idea tables. I know about that because decades ago, before I sized down and threw out boxes of these delights, I was a maker of such goods. In the group I belonged to, we sought to raise funds for worthy causes by making, in the company of all, shiny seasonal items to put on the festive mantels and tables of those who spend hundreds on display. I must admit, it was great fun and lots of work. We held the event and sold out but when we took a close look at the proceeds, we found that we were our best customers. There were gasps when I suggested that instead of buying what we made and then wondering what to do with it after-season, we simply donate a like-amount and put our talents into more real assistance to those whom we were funding. It went over like the proverbial lead balloon, but I continue to believe that these fairs, while lovely to look at and display great talent and innovation, they aren't really charitable. Hands-on help might be better in some situations. Other more commercial craft  fairs are designed to put cash in the hands of those hands that made the gewgaws on display. And all credit goes to the clever work these artist craftspersons achieve. But what to do with the stuff after buying it, but toss it into the garbage for land-fill when the fleeting holiday is over? The tinsel dulls and the sparkles fall off and the bows droop. Sorry to be a party pooper but it is the truth, the kind we more affluent, ignore. A very good friend of mine gives gifts that she makes. They are simple and useful little cotton knit dish cloths and when she gave me one, I was thrilled. It was useful. I didn't have to hang it up somewhere and throw it out when it looked sad and worn like a wilted bouquet of flowers. I still have it and every time I use it or take it out of the wash, I think of my friend and smile. There may be other ways of helping the less fortunate. How about offering single mothers or fathers, some free babysitting? Maybe take a casserole down to the homeless or a pile of warm blankets or winter jackets? I knew a guy who did this. Or perhaps call on  lonely elderly persons who have no car and offer them a ride somewhere of their choice? Selling sparklies to people who don't need anything more to toss out later, doesn't show the true meaning of the season. Oh I can hear the bah-humbugs out there, but let's make the holiday one that matters. Most of us find it too easy to drop the cans and toys into the charity boxes, but forget the meaning of that vital, person to person, touch. Happy Holiday!

Saying - I Don't

Weddings are becoming mini-coronations. The "robes", the procession frou-frou and the walloping guest lists are becoming ridiculous. The total costs would buy an exotic car! At least a true coronation is lasting and I won't say more on that topic. I know one career couple who bought a mortgage together on a huge house, lived in it for five years until they had saved up for the gargantuan marriage ceremony that became family legendary. Sadly it ended in tragedy. One of the couple was killed in a head-on collision. There were no children in the empty house but ironically lots of photos on display of their long anticipated wedding for the remaining spouse to view. Cold comfort. And while it is an extreme tale, it brings to question what really  matters. Is the huge expense worth it? The ridiculous sum for a wedding gown worn once, the location, food and drink costs could well be put toward a down-payment on a house. Some young couples, after the "coronation" pay for it years to come.  Their indulgence might well have been spent elsewhere. To say that it is because they want to pay back for attendance at the fantastic weddings of their friends, or to "do it" for show for their  relatives is just not a valid reason for the foolish pomp and circumstance. Most of the people who attend weddings don't care if it's fish or fowl on their plate or how many flounces were on the wedding dress. They go because they want to celebrate the union of two people who are in love, not in debt, at the end of the affair. The weddings I treasure in my memory are the "small" ones held in homes and gardens or of the loving couples who go off to some romantic place of their choice are the ones I admire. Frankly, I have been at some large weddings that were disastrous. The bride and groom were long past their first honeymoon and often had their kids in tow. Why not call those a "confirmation of love" or some other term than  "wedding". To me, weddings are an event saying that a young couple are just starting out on a matrimonial journey and who want to celebrate it with their loved ones in a simple, sincere way. That is a wedding.

More Less Please

When you are a single, and most of us either are or will be one day, less is more. Especially when shopping at markets. Country marketing is best because you can find exactly the quantity of product you need: a large onion, a few carrots and potatoes, and so on. The best part of the latter is weekly, at least during the summer months, the fresh produce we desire and most of the time, it's naturally grown by those who care about what they are personally offering you. But not everyone has access to a market or perhaps they cannot get to one due to physical limitations. They are left to neighbourhood public grocery stores. We are told that the produce is fresh but frankly, it isn't "same day". And for very practical reasons. We solo shoppers do the best we can. If our freezers are accommodating enough we buy the bargain mega packages and repack when we get them home. During sales, one can load up on freezable items. Of course, that doesn't apply to fresh fruit and vegetables that need to be recent to allow the best vitamin content. But if you have found a bargain, and it's too much for one sitting, you can easily be your own Jolly Green You-Know-Who. The small sandwich bags, and please not the more expensive zip kind, are best for this task. A trip to the dollar store will give you, for little money, plastic bag closers that are secure and can be used over and over again. Check your cookbook to see how long you need to steam the veggie for safety and quality, so that you may enjoy it next week as well as today. The key to loading up the freezer with things to throw out is "less is more". Okay, I hear you say, but I don't want to go to all that trouble. Since when was food trouble? Turn off the TV and go to the stove and sink. Consider the effort good exercise! A friend of mine who was perfectly able to get out and about in her walker to the malls, had her meals brought in. She complained about them constantly. All she had to do was buy the food, invest in a small stainless steel skillet, slap the meat in to brown, then the veggies, add some water,  let it cook for a short time and voila: a nourishing and tasty dinner.  A student I know has one hot plate and a tiny fridge and makes perfect meals. If you need more flavour, add some fresh herbs that are also readily available right where you found the veggies. They can go into a vase that is green and fragrant as you pluck the leaves to add to your meals. Basil and parsley, rosemary and bay, are wonderful. Furthermore, it gives you something worthwhile to do and also alleviates boredom.

To The Last Drop

When you are laughed at for using the "last drop" of food in the fridge to make soup, scooping the batter out of a bowl cleanly and cutting the veggies to the bitter end, you have your reasons. You're not cheap or a skinflint. You simply hate waste. I can't use The Great Depression as an excuse, and that's no laughing matter either, but I can remember food rationing. As  child I recall  butter paper being scraped for every bit left and the sugar meagerly doled out. In my Home Economics class long ago, dear Miss Maxwell, explained her days serving in the military as she got every grain of oats out of the bag or the last slide of batter out of the bowl before demonstrations. But what really makes me always use up the "last drop" of any food item is a news release: films of starving children scouring garbage dumps for any kind of remaining contents in tins and bottles of things that might luckily contain the smallest morsel of something edible. Or of the homeless hanging out behind restaurants and fast food outlets waiting for the nightly additions to the garbage dumpsters. Reading about desperate Arctic explorer teams who ran out of food and carved up their leather belts to make "soup" , chilled me as a young reader and made me very aware of how bad waste is.  People who throw out perfectly useable food, worry me. It isn't that they can't drive off to the nearest market and get more, it's just plain wasteful. Perhaps you've heard some mothers threaten their fussy kids about starving children who would gladly eat the green beans or broccoli and how lucky their brood is to have those  on the plate. She is right, actually, even if a bit wasteful herself by not giving them something equivalent that won't be ignored. I often watch friends cutting up vegetables by peeling potatoes too thickly or chopping off far too much, in my opinion,  ends of celery stalks or carrots or beans when, with a bit of care, inches more could be saved. Also watching with horror, school children tossing their lunch sacks into the  trash cans day after day because they don't like their sandwiches  when others in the class didn't have a decent breakfast that morning and likely won't see a nourishing dinner later, make me ill. Food is precious and lessons in appreciation of its respect might be a lifesaver - for someone - one day.

Cooking Not

When I see a recipe that looks tempting, I expect to have full input when I use it. What I often find disappointing as most people who love to cook, do, are  recipes such as the one I found today that promised barbecued slow cooker pork chops. I was interested in how the title sounded because when you cook for a crowd, the slow cooker is a great helpmate. There were two ingredients in the recipe: pork chops and a bottle of barbecue sauce. Period. Disappointed, I discarded it immediately as "cooking not".  To me, that kind of so-called recipe is insulting and untrue since the bottle of barbecue sauce is the cook and not the individual who pours  it on the meat. The joy of preparing food to eat, is finding various items to use that will satisfy both the cook and the cooked for. It allows for creativity in adding products that make the recipe unique to the food maven. The search for ingredients that  stimulate the senses as well as providing a nutritious meal, is one of the challenges that those of us who love to cook, look for. I am not a professional chef or even someone who puts on elaborate impressive bragging-rights fare. I simply love to cook - and enjoy the food as well. Too often lately, I find recipes that call for packaged pre-cooked and processed additions that can, with a little more time, be made right in the home kitchen. Furthermore the list of additives in these, are frightening. I do not consider pie crust or bread kinds of  mixes, cooking. I dislike canned or frozen items when fresh can be located. Sauces and soups from a tin or a jar are fast and that's the best you can say for them. I weaken slightly when it comes to spaghetti sauce simply because making a fine sauce can take a whole day to prepare from scratch. But even using your basic tomato base, I never ever just dump the sauce jar onto the pasta without adding to it a raft of other things that perk the redness up to the richness of an elegant Italian dish. You know what I mean if you love cooking as much as I do. These days of speed existence with its cyberspace instant in-your-face-lifestyles, it's just too easy to grab a prepared item from that expensive grocery we all know, where you can buy those to-die-for ingredients that impress your important guests who know perfectly well where you got them because they do exactly the same thing. If you call yourself a cook because you love to cook, do it. Cook.

Yours And Mine

This is  large planet and we are about to be tested to see how much we agree with that thought. We are going to share it with refugees who will be guests in our neighbourhoods very soon. These people had no choice but to leave everything they worked toward, loved and hoped for, and have come to us in desperation. It was not by choice. I imagine they will daily remember the good times they enjoyed once in their country of origin and will be sad and perhaps angry that such horrors could happen to them. They come here, not to take advantage of our opportunities and comforts; they have been sent here, but as such, are in this place to survive and try to piece back together their lives that were so rudely interrupted. What is our part as world citizens? What do we do when they become part of our neighbourhoods? Somewhat like adopting a child with problems not of their doing or choosing, but who need someone to care for and about them, the refugees are arriving from a torn place to a country that they have heard is kind and accepting. They loved their own land once as we do ours now. They are grateful that we offer them shelter but it will be enormously hard for them. Their language and customs, their environment and lifestyles were so different in many ways. They will need to find work and people who are friendly toward their newness. How strange and stressful it will be for them. We will meet these folks on the street and in the shops and schools and parks. Let us try and make them feel they are our fellows and neighbours. I think we have it in us to share and expand our generosity even though we have lots of other needy folks right here and we could spend hours complaining about these matters. We are bigger than we think and kinder and more "human" than we realize. Hopefully, we will bring out our positive thoughts and reach out to these people, fellows of this lovely blue planet, and prove that this country is truly The Best Country In The World.

Indoor Food Garden

Yes, you can have your very own indoor green garden. Even in November. All it takes is a small supply of sprouting seed - a little goes  long way - a biggish Mason type jar, access to water, a small piece of cheese cloth or similar, an elastic band, and you're off. Put some seeds into the jar, fill it with water and soak your seeds overnight. You need not keep the jar in daylight. I grow my sprouts in the corner of my sink. Rinse the seeds with fresh water daily and put the cloth back on the jar top tilted to make sure there is drainage of excess water. You want the seeds damp, not swimming. Soon you'll have a lovely green crop and a lot of discarded seed bits left in the bottom of the jar. To prep the seeds for putting in your soup and sandwiches (yum), pour them into a large bowl of water and rinse, allowing the sprouts to come to the top. Scoop the green sprouts out with your open fingers like a sieve, and put aside. Remove the discarded seed bits from the bottom and toss them into your compost. That's it! This kind of green garden is sometimes called micro greens. The bacteria that comes along with the process is mostly good and beneficial for digestion like other pro-biotics. The sprouts are great sources of Vitamin A, C  and other good things. And you don't need dirt or large spaces to grow your own food. You can buy elegant trays for growing or you can simply stick to recycled jars which is eco-friendlier. Kids will love growing their own salad toppings and sandwich enhancers. They can even keep their micro-gardens in their rooms. The sprouts make a nice little side salad with additions such as carrot parings and thinly sliced green onions and celery.  Design your own mini salad that can be served on a tomato slice with dressing drizzled over or sitting provocatively on a slice of toast. Sprouts look cute on most casseroles and float about in soups as though they belong there. I hear that some people even put them in the freezer for later. Campers latch on to this snack  because it gives them an easy source of green that is light and packable. Good winter gardening!

Eerie Dark

Last night was Hallowe'en night. Used to be a kid's night but now it's adult party time. And when the adults, those who remember the true Hallowe'en of the past, tire of the "fun" of dressing up in their elaborate costumes for yet another reason to indulge, will Hallowe'en disappear? I regress - into the comforting past once more. In the "old days" when there was such a thing as trust and no fear of releasing kids into the real world at night, we looked forward to Hallowe'en more than Christmas. It was when we didn't care as much as our parents did about the costumes as now. We thought only of sugar plums dancing in our heads. Ahh, those candies, piles of them and watching out for razor blades in apples, an idea that sent shivers up our spines but that never, never happened. The rich people on the corner in the mansion, gave out small chocolate bars for which we had to sing or recite something in their vast foyer. Some kids devised ways of wickedly going back to those houses twice. Most were caught red handed and scolded later by their embarrassed folks. A few, as we thought then, over-protective parents went along with the small groups of children, but usually the big kids looked out after the little ones. The truth was, if they went along with the smaller children they were sure to get  treats in their sacks, too. It was their childhood rite-of-passage way of easing out of Hallowe'en because high school loomed with all of its reputational demands. Everyone had firecrackers and the braver kids even had punks to light them. I suppose they were dangerous but since they were, we were careful. Kids have a lot more sense than parents give them credit for. There were some accidents somewhere of course, but they happen now, too, likely at the same rate. It was a grand night full of excitement and thrills when dad's went out into back yards and popped off the bigger, scarier mini bombs and exotic fireworks that mostly fizzled. In our rooms that night, we emptied the candies on the floor by our beds and sorted them. What lay there was, to us, treasure in all its glory. We scooped up and tossed the trove laughing in complete joy. These delights could be traded at recess next day or devoured secretly or saved like Silas Marner to gaze upon until we couldn't help eating them one by one. A few kids courageously doled out the grand collection of colourfully wrapped goodies miserly, some lasting almost until dreams of Christmas began. But here and now, last night was like any other night, no firecrackers popping into the darkness or happy shouts of kids roving the neighbourhoods. In fact, where are the kids these days? Don't see them on the sidewalks any more. And will Hallowe'en appear on the calendar next year?

Squeaky Clean

I knew it! Being too clean is not good according to scientists who work with friendly and not so nice bacteria. We need those little things inside us to keep our alimentary canals in order and they just love a little dirt now and then. Apparently, it makes their lives interesting and productive. I have always harboured a suspicion that houses with pristine corners and counters or those who put bleach in the water to wash their vegetables have deeper problems than a bit of grime. I always ask myself on entering these domains of super cleanliness, "What are these folks really trying to clean up? Their lives?"  Now it seems we should not worry over-much about scrubbing little junior germ-free but rather, allow him to get his pound of dirt going early on. Also, running to the doctor for a load of antibiotics every time the kiddies bloom runny noses and slightly sore throats isn't a good idea. Recommendations say, find some other way to relieve those minor discomforts for fear of using antibodies that destroy all bacteria, even the good guys lurking inside us that we need for healthy lives. Apparently, a bit of a battle goes on in our intestines when the good bacteria battle it out for dominance and usually win. Scientists say it makes them stronger and last longer. Squeaky clean innards are apparently not as much fun as we were once told. Those little things in our bodies just love a good fight once in awhile. So next time the little one kisses the dog, don't panic. Or when mud pies in the back yard are served up by tykes who take an experimental bite occasionally, no need to run screaming out with a toothbrush and mouth wash. A few bad boys in the mouth, don't necessarily do the harm we think they do. Not to say we should loll in  mud or let the house go to rack and ruin, but rather, we needn't be fanatics about scrubbing those apples or potatoes to a shine. Also, the foods with the pro-biotics are not quite as effective in our bodies as just plain old dirt. Not that we want to go out and feed it to the kids. Fibrous foods remain king and things like red wine, EV olive oil, garden veggies or naturally pickled items such as sauerkraut, for example, do lots of good work in the body. The difference between slim and fat surprisingly has more to do with how many of those little workers inside your intestines can be mustered up and not by counting the calories. By the way, nice to know that dark chocolate is one of the good fellows!

Elderly? What's That?

Apparently, one is a Senior around the age fifty-something and in the newspaper, "elderly" is an age number, not one's condition. I have always assumed that an elderly person is someone who, through no fault of their own, is in poor health and has trouble getting around. They take on the "elderly" look. Unlike general incorrect opinions, it has really nothing to do with grey hair, a stoop or wearing something unfashionably outdated. (The latter could be as a result of trying to live on a pension that allows nothing more fashionable than canned tuna fish and macaroni or the big M. On a good day.)  It riles me to see someone referred to as "elderly" when they are more active than most forty year olds. And anyway, it's an attitude toward life that denotes young or elderly. While a person's years may be beyond fifty, sixty or even seventy, some can't, fairly, be called "elderly". Then again, I do know certain people my age, who adore being elderly. They work very hard at whining about their ills and troubles and the "state of the world today" and how much better it was when they were "young". Often times, they fall into the laps of their families because they are simply lonely. Being alone can be a boon. It doesn't mean being lonely. I know too many individuals who are living with others and complain that they always feel "lonely".  Living alone is what we did when we were young folk just out into the world making a living. We loved our small apartments or rooms and had fun doing them up the way we liked them. We valued our independence. Being older might mean you no longer have your former mate with you but it can become a learning experience. You learn how to do the things your mate did and find it a revelation that you can, indeed, cook, clean, use repair tools and deal with business matters quite well all by yourself. You find ways to get around and to enjoy the new kind of life that you are so fortunate to be living. But when, after all that you have strived to do and did accomplish, you are called "elderly", it sucks. Yes, let's use that term. It's one of the new words you hear and you think privately, now that's a good way to describe it! While I don't advise one to be running around in a mini skirt and six inch heels when you are over the hill a bit, you also don't need to give up on life and collapse into a soggy heap. Your family will congratulate you on working at your independence and you will feel very successful and personally rewarded for your efforts. You are not "elderly" until you decide to be. Maybe never!

Whistler

No, I'm not speaking of the fantastic BC ski location or of the Seven Dwarves, but just whistling. What you do when you put your lips together and blow. You don't hear whistling these days of little plastic blobs stuck in ears and pockets full of small things festooned with buttons and keys clicking away non-stop. The world seems to have forgotten the "instrument" that we all carry around constantly, and can use any time; electricity, micro towers and airwaves, notwithstanding. What made me think of it, a long past recollection, was an old, classic melody I happened to hear today on my sound system. It seemed very familiar and suddenly I realized why that nostalgic memory arose. My mother whistled it. She passed away some time ago and strangely I had forgotten completely how beautifully she whistled tunes. She was no singer, nor am I, but she could whistle songs like a lovely little bird. And on key. The music she chose to whistle, was usually show music, the old romantic kind about lasting love and also, the loss of it. The music I heard that made me remember her whistling, remains nameless but it is one of those things that resonate. Mom was a worker. She was a small, pretty little woman, with great drive and determination. She couldn't sit still but used her hands tirelessly, to make pretty things not only for us, her family, but also for others. She wasn't paid in dollars to do it, but did it for the sheer joy of making friendship something pleasurable and was repaid in kind. While she sewed or baked, did crafts or house chores, she whistled. I don't think she was aware that she was, in fact, whistling. It came naturally for her to whistle while she worked, just like the Seven Dwarves. Warbling, sweet notes came flitting out of her tiny mouth puckered up kiss-like and while her hands flew at whatever task she chose, so did, in same time, the tweets and lilting music. Once in awhile, if she was particularly engrossed in a certain problem to do with a turn of a seam or the basting of a complicated dart, she'd stop momentarily but then, continue on, unaware entirely that she had been in the middle of a passage of complicated notes. When she began again, not a beat was missed. No one mentioned her gift for whistling because lots of people did it in her era. All kids that I knew, tried whistling. Some had a hard time at first but everyone caught on eventually. Whistling is a lost art and could be revived as a valuable, stress relieving tool today. It's free, it's easy and you can do it anywhere, any time. If you know a song, try it. I dare you. Just put your lips together, remember a song and tweet. The real kind.

Let There Be Light

Lighting is a dicey subject. Some like blinding globs of it, while others prefer the dim dark. I am sort of in-between on the subject, but my bark today is that light is largely ignored. Within one's abode, the subject is not an issue; there are a million choices. And they affect only who is under that roof. Outside is another matter. Street lights emblazon our ways and ugly up the landscape but nobody sees the wires and poles for some reason. They will put up a fight for a mail box or a sign that bothers them, but completely ignore the bevy of lighting that disallows a glimpse of stars at night. If you asked an urbanite what planets it could see from its high-rise balcony, it would look at you as though you were insane. Stars?  You only do that in the country, not here. Oh yes, we have a lovely view of the moon, but stars? Nope. To see the gorgeous array of diamonds in the firmament, you need a dark sky. The milky way is something most children have not been introduced to. It is a shame because it is a sight that makes us know that our little world, this planet, may not be the only one in the galaxy. It is space space for dreaming and imagining. We disallow ourselves in cities, the pleasure of this stress relieving activity, by having not just too much light, but light of the wrong kind. One of the small places where I once lived, passed a bylaw in their seaside town, that  lighting was not to be the white, harsh glaring street lighting but that which is soft-toned and beamed downwardly to not offend. Some towns have street lighting that goes on only if there is human movement below. Some places have by-laws that prohibit lighting that is too bright and appears uninvited in someone else's yard. Where I live  in a complex, there are very pleasant garden lights that shine on pathways and not upwards. All lighting has what we can call "switches". Some are automatic and set to go on when needed. Others are manual. Why lighting at all?  On the farm in the good-old-days, we used oil lamps. We children were given the job by our farm grandparents of carrying lanterns in the farmyard at night. It was a big responsibility and we took it seriously. There were full milk pails to consider and farm dogs weaving amongst people's legs to avoid. Furthermore, there was real fire to be careful of. And that is ominous to youngsters. But the best times were star gazing when the lights were not on and constellations could be seen. Later, flashlights replaced the lanterns and then, those horrid garish gas lamps were introduced, the ones that some inconsiderate folk use in campsites. But it is progress and that's okay. Progress, however, should be harnessed for control, before it controls us. Every kind of lighting has its purpose, even the horrible gas lamps occasionally in some situations. Security lighting is essential because thieves and their ilk don't like to carry on their miserable trade under spotlights.  But even lighting placed to protect the honest people from those who aren't, can do its job without offending the good guys. Work spaces where residential neighbours can't see the offensive shine are fine, but they should be directed where they need to be, not into the upper sky. That isn't hard to do. People in residential districts can keep their lighting in their own yards for security but be respectful of others.  Let there be light, and let it be put there with careful thought.  Lighting is to help see, not offend.

A High School Ago

At my high school, a rather pompous little thing of around three hundred kids, mostly progeny of the snob set, there were invitational clubs. There was another school not far off,  that most students went to, on the other side of town. Educationally speaking, it was better. The small city had a history of a class system stemming from its industrial roots. It was a nice little town on a hillside over-looking a river that once saw paddle wheel boats plying up and down its shores. Later on these craft became larger ships to sail off with the area's natural resources: jam, tins of fish and boards. Like most old towns on the coast, there were well defined management  and worker sections. They were a sort of ghetto system that nobody talked about. If you came from one side of the street that divided the rich from the poor, you knew it. Everyone knew it. I happened to live on the "good" side, in the gardener's cottage of a once fine mansion that was home to the biggest timber magnate in the city. My dad was a worker but the house price was right so that's where I ended up. My friends at school were all "well off" being the children of the white collared professionals and business folk who made their living off the poorer set. For some reason, however, I fit in and was accepted - to a point. In those days, schools were less regulated than now. Parents pretty much left kids alone to do what they expected them to do - get  ready to go to university and become something. Universities were different too. If you could afford it and make a pass mark, you got in. Whether you stayed there or not, didn't matter. Most of the girls married by the second year and became housewives. The boys at the U tried to find rich girls to support them. It turned out, ironically, that the poorer kids who managed through jobs on weekends and nights, were the ones who stayed in post grad  and became the noveau riche down the line. About that time, the town began to curl up at its edges, perhaps out of shock that its decline could happen. Anyway, the fashionable part of town latterly became a collection of post and beam box houses and little strip malls on the top of the hill. Later, the mansions below were apartmentized and the once popular main street sadly fell into a haven for drug dealers and gambling addicts. The town is now desperately being "revitalized", but it's glory days are forever gone. What memories I have of my young life there, are positive for the most part but school attitudes stayed with me as they do with everyone who went to a high school. The exclusive invitational clubs were cruelly insular. Parents of those invited in, ran them using their own sorority and fraternity experience to bear. Membership was kept small and the boys and girls who sported club sweaters and pins, were revered not only by the students but also by the teachers. Of course, I was not invited. I found other non-invitational clubs and activites that kept me busy and happy. But the knowledge that I would never have been invited in to one unless I wore the right clothes or had the right parents and lived in a mansion, stayed with me.  I could feel the hurt while understanding the system. It was a perfect lesson in reverse tolerance. Noblesse oblige was seen, not heard in my town. But it was okay, because I developed a determination that put me eventually on an equal plane with my peers further down the road of life. Much later, during reunions of the school that no longer exists, I learned that none of my peers knew I was not invited into their clubs. Our indoctrination then, did not allow comparisons, we just lived the times and put up with what it presented. Wouldn't happen today!

Recycle Rethink

I am a firm believer in recycling and trying to reduce land fill. There is a "but" involved here. The other day on the garbage room door. A notice stuck to it told us not to put plastic bags into the recycle bins. My reaction was 'What?". Being that businesses continue to hand out their products in plastic bags, we end up with a dearth of them. We used to put them into the recycle bins but now what do we do with them? I, faithfully, as most do, wash out bottles and squash tins, rinse wrap with food on it, separate this kind of thing from that and religiously follow the posted rules for garbage collection. There are three receptors under my sink and I play the sorting game every and all day. I used to put my plastic bags duly knotted into the recycle bin but that is no more. It was one thing to not be able to put beverage alcohol bottles into the bins even though they are glass albeit apparently not the same as the mayo bottles. I have to gear up my polluting car and take the wine bottles to a depot where in the smelly and dirty place I mingle with the guy who makes his living doing this. I wait in line while this chap puts through his weekly collection of hundreds of bottles and cans. Now, I am not complaining about this wonderful guy who helps us keep the streets clean, but I really do not want to spend time in this noisy and rather unpleasant place being the little old lady that I am. It was bad enough trying to find a parking spot to get in here not to mention the three or four miles worth of gas to do so. But that is another tale. Back to the plastic bags. Yes, I do take my cloth bags duly washed from time to time and duly forget them in the trunk of my car, but I try just as you do. But that doesn't mean I am free of the plastic situation. On line purchases come in plastic, other stores with large items, clothing stores and so on, use plastic bags. Are they biodegradable? And if not, why not? Then we could perhaps have them join up with the other stuff that seems to be unrecyclable to the experts. I went on line to find out why plastic bags are not to go into recycle bins and there were reasons, but there was no help with the question, okay what do I do with all of these bags other than use them as real garbage sacks. There are just too many of them. I know, I know those of you folks who have lots of time and commitment have no sympathy for crybabies like me but the news is that most people are me. We are kind of lazy and maybe not as easy to convince. The bottom line is, that if the powers that be, don't make this recycle movement easy enough for slobs like me, we just opt out. Advice is: make it simple enough and sensible enough, that all people will put forth an effort to recycle because if that doesn't happen, there will be cheating. I will do my part to change. Now the recyclers should do theirs. Give us a place to put ALL bottles and ALL plastic bags and for sure, you will get ALL cooperation and no sneaky petes. They'll busy doing what they can, I promise you - and more - to keep this planet going as long as we can.

Old Soldier Gone

What's a soldier? A being who gives his or her life to a cause, an idealist who does it - not just  talks about it, someone who is faithful in the highest measure, someone who is not a coward no matter how afraid it sometimes is as a soldier. I knew a cat who was a solider and his nine lives are all used up and he is recently gone. His name, aptly, being an orange male cat, is Marmalade. When he came to his home, he was a kitten - a tough little bugger (excuse the language but it seems fitting for such a cat) - who got into many scraps and bore the scars as proof. He didn't instigate them, he merely guarded his property. He caught his first mouse early and sadly but not for his kind, many birds. He respected, however, the hovering owl that frequented his rural home and he ran from the farm dogs who had reputations of daring even to bite humans, but he loved dearly, his two little girls. He watched, lovingly, those girls become women and move from his home. They came to visit with him after that and his purrs were as loud as motor boats when they held him. When he was young, he was scrappy. He felt it his duty to protect the yard for he had marked it all around as his country. He did wander to the friendly neighbors who knew cats, having their collection of them. And they generously shared many a meal with him from their own bowls. Marmalade liked to go out at night. Cats are more or less nocturnal, but are seldom allowed out by most keepers, to follow their natural bent. Cats like to show their appreciation, by delivering if not all, some of their catch. The latter is not always appreciated by their keepers who don't fancy a headless mouse or a section of  garter snake left beside their beds. Dead birds are usually brought in whole. Even cats do not like to disturb tidy feathered arrangements to any degree. Cats have a penchant for neatness considering the time they spend attending to their coats. They sleep a good deal during the day and have peculiar habits such as running about at high speed and crashing into walls for no apparent reason. With all of their energy, it is likely to be simply letting off steam. No one owns a cat. A cat owns itself.  Marmalade was a gentleman cat, albeit a manly man sort of  cat. His keepers, for the sake of saving his life during his nighttime rambling and running into bigger cats, had him neutered, but it didn't bother him much. He was a kind of rugby player cat who was not a family man anyway other than guarding his human keepers. Marmalade had his edges. You could coddle and stroke him but only for the allotted mysterious time that HE had in mind. His keepers showed their scratch marks when with no warning, Marmalade had said, STOP. Not having words to use, this was his way of putting an end to too much babying. A couple of times he met up with the local veterinarian down the road a piece. The encounter was short and usually involved some kind of medicine or stitches. Yesterday, he was carried, at a very old age, due to complete kidney failure off to the veterinarian.  Marmalade's now grown girl keepers and their father, said good-bye to him on this, his last trip to the vet. He was kindly, released from a long and soldier-like life, a vet himself. It was okay with Marmalade. His girls are old enough now to take care of themselves.

Reader Rules

There are no rules for readers. Some readers say there are, but since reading is largely a solo affair, I have to disagree. I for one, break "the rules" all the time and probably you do, too, whether you admit it or not. I have been known, as one offense, to break the biggest rule of all and read the last chapter of a mystery before getting there legally. Most of the time, it's because the book drags on and on and I am not really interested in what goes on in the middle and need to flip to the end and get things over with. Other times, I do it because I feel rebellious and want to be one of the people who can giggle my way through the book knowing how it turns out while all the other lawful readers, don't. Tee hee. Most of the time, however, I try not to cheat. Other book rules I break, and I am sure avid readers do  all the time, is to shut and toss a boring book on the return-to-the-library pile without a second glance. Some books are a sheer waste of time. It seems this can apply to "best sellers" as well as the oh-well-I'll-give-it-a-try books. Best sellers are often varying plotted carbon copies ground out by authors who have found a great way to make money doing a book a year - or more. And then there are the books that are highly recommended but are just not fun to read. Who wants to plow through a book just to be able to sound brilliant at the next book club meeting? Not for me. Reading should be an enjoyable experience. We are no longer students who deign to read The List provided by the professor. We are free to read whatever and however we please, thank you very much. Another bad habit I have, and perhaps you, also, is concerning books with photographs, I look at the pictures first. I open where the darker hints show on the pages, and search out each fuzzy face and read the names from left to right and top to bottom or try to guess from a sea of faces which are the significant ones. I do it without guilt. There is no referee of reading about, so why not? I want to know my hero or heroine right off, his and her childhood photos and all. It gives me a feeling of having been introduced before taking in the details of that person's life. Seems perfectly logical to me. Other books about those who do grand things and meet famous people often have me turning straight to the tales about the particular persons in question. I am reading currently, about a well-known photographer of the high and mighty, and I am more interested in the latter than the photographer and his beginnings. I'll get to him later. I am also guilty of putting my book into a copier to get the title page, back and front, so that I can refer to the book's details quickly. What is the copyright date? What publisher is responsible, and is this a new edition? It's all there, and I prefer not to write it all out. I have also been known to beg librarians to allow me to finish books that I have waited a long time to get and whose borrowing periods are up before I am done, to please, please let me have the book just for another week? It seldom works, but I try. If not successful, I have been know to sit in the library almost up to quitting time, desperately reading, before having to return the due-that-day book. Librarians watch me above their eyeglasses, with pointed stares but I always do, rightfully, put the book in the slot, however reluctantly, right on time. I do not ever want to offend my librarians. What would we do without them? And what would we do without reading, legally or not?

The Jack Spratts

"Jack Spratt could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean; between them both, they licked the platter clean." This nursery rhyme so well known, isn't far from the truth. Men are not quite as prone to fatness as women, or so we are told. It's hormonal they say. Let's face it, men can hide a lot of their bellies behind those nice sport jackets that hang straight down to their always slimmer-than-women's-hips. The fat guys that I know, sport a belt that lurks under the overhang, shall we call it, said a necessity to hold up their pants. Women carrying fat, "pook" out around the hips making the extra bulk difficult to hide. Also, women's clothing is usually geared to point out a  waist that men call their "wealth". The shes of the world deal with their extra poundage using loose, filmy upper garments that work much the same way  men's jackets do for them. This whole fat versus thin matter that dominates the let's-be-Hollywood, has taken an ugly turn. A new operation in vogue apparently, is one that staples the poor stomach so that only small amounts of food can be consumed. Talk about your plastic surgery and botox! And is being thin worth taking a chance on your health, your very life? Gyms are full of sweating folk running on treadmills. Move over hamsters. There are food planners that deliver to the door, greenery with bits of protein all designed to force you to eat less. These salespersons tell you that their foods are not only fresh, they are going to help you lose all those ugly pounds. Other plans that I have heard of, cost a bundle but you are guaranteed to lose weight. The latter includes regular visits to a "counselor" who not only weighs you in with accolades if you lost, but also shoots you up with extra powerful vitamins. I have yet to see anyone that I know, keep all the lost weight off after the euphoric thinner period. Then there are the I-am-fat-but-I-love-myself folks who believe they can enjoy both sweets and sweethearts at the same time. There are new fat models with very pretty faces and gorgeous hair, who tell you, being an extra huge size is just fine, thank you very much, just look at me. Well, no. Most of us carry more weight than we ought to, according to some lists made up by skinny doctors, that never take us normal sorts seriously. The bottom line whether we like it or not, is that it is not healthy to be too fat. I am talking obese. But hey, if you are obese, go easy on yourself. The world is not obsessed about your weight. It likes you for you. The weight thing is your problem if you perceive it so. It's your rightful choice. When I meet someone, I am more interested in what lies between their ears and what words come out of their mouths, than their girth. I worry a whole lot about the people that are too thin. To me that is much scarier than being too fat. Neither is a good thing, but fixing over weight-ness is a lot easier than the opposite. The anorexics I have known look dreadful and frightening. There is nothing at all attractive about someone who looks like a tree in winter. Sure, Hollywood wants skinny. It looks better on camera. Of course, models have to be bone- thin. It's their career to be a wire coat hanger. But you and I shouldn't emulate these people. We like our cookies at times and the ice cream and the cheese cake. We also love the salads and the meat or tofu. We groan  when we go shopping for clothes. but hey, dieting  makes for eternal lunching-out conversation. Bring on the lettuce, I'll eat the Nanaimo bars alone at home.

Surveyors

Pre-election telephone surveys interest me. You, too? Usually, they are party generated because that particular party wants, either to learn how you will vote, or to see if their promised platforms are on the right track to meet public approval. Having hung up on a few of these surveyors, I decided to go along with one, simply to find out what kinds of questions were being posed. The pollster didn't ask me, outright, what  my vote would be, but by skirting around, using clever tactics, he would, naturally, if I answered all of his questions, know my political leanings. At the same time, I was pondering his or at least for whom he worked. We continued. The questions were general at first : what are the most important issues to you, what do you think of the party in power, which party best reflects your thinking and so on. Later, honing in on specifics, there were these sorts of queries : which of the three leaders presented, do you see as PM, what coalitions would be the best combination, which of this selection of issues (named) is the most important to you. There were other questions concerning my personal life: whether I owned or not, my own home, how many children  I have or had, were they living at home, what was my income, what was my age. I never do answer these kinds of things, and informed the questioner who made no comment, who carried on with his list. What I found almost hilarious were inquiries such as: what would this or that new PM do about certain major issues. As I told the chap, how do I know what they would do when that party is not in power and the situation has not arisen? Do I rely on what they say they will do? Of course not. That would merely be guess work or hoping or wishing. That is why this long and tedious business of campaigning for weeks and weeks ahead of elections is such  waste of time. Am I the only one who sees that? What on earth good is standing up on a platform and speechifying about something that has not occurred and that, if it did occur, present conditions at the time would apply perhaps changing not only the situation at hand, but also the implications of any actions put to bear. It doesn't make sense to me. So, okay, you say, how does anyone become acquainted with the person who wants to be leader of the country? Certainly, we do need to introduce the candidates to the citizens. They can comment on current local, national and international events and how they see them. They can even speculate on possible solutions but to promise that they alone can make those solutions work is not credible. You can throw the switch to start the machine but you need to supply fuel for it to work. The fuel in this case is usually government controlled funding and the political oils to keep everything running smoothly, Therefore, it can only be tested in the doing, not the talking.

Cut-offs

Cut-offs are sometimes what we call old jeans: cut off to use as capris or shorts. The kind of cut-off I am thinking of, is when one individual "cuts off" another. Someone close to me, does this frequently - and mysteriously, I might add - to the point where I no longer want to play the game of let's-get-back-together-again. Like crying wolf, there is an end to that kind of controlling behaviour and usually it backfires on the perp. Time for a fictional example. Let's call this person, Tom, just for the sake of utility. And let's call the intended "victim", Dave. Tom and Dave are brothers. Tom is a guy married to a difficult woman who is what we'll call controlling. They've had a long and hard marriage but they stuck together regardless. Tom's wife insists that their life be controlled under her firm schedules and needs. She wants meals and household routines to be exactly according to her dictates. Tom, over the years, bent to her controlling ways but is now behaving exactly like his wife. When he and his brother get together, Tom had better get home in time to sit down to dinner exactly at five. If he doesn't, the wife, removes his plate. There were battles over this addiction to scheduling early in their marriage, but Tom finally gave in and as his friends note, "Tom is becoming his wife". And Tom was. He announced to his brother, one day proudly, that he had learned to be assertive. Dave knew where he learned it. Unfortunately, Tom used it on everyone else and not on the wife. If Tom was not served in exactly the way he wanted to be in a store or other service, he had it out with the poor clerk or work person. Tom felt good, however, when he blasted off. He felt he was moving ahead. How wrong can one be? When Tom didn't like something about one of his friends, he said nothing, but eventually, letting his feelings build up, he told them they were cut off from his friendship. Once he packed up a cardboard box full of items one of his friends and he shared, and dropped them on the friend's doorstep. Years later he and the friend re-united. Tom was so pleased with his "victory", that he tried the same thing with his brother. Dave  tolerated Tom's moods, but would, after a few weeks or months, ask Tom for peace-making. But always, Dave would ask himself, "What brought that on?" Still, Dave didn't want to lose a brother over it. Thus he made peace. After about four of these little snits of Tom's, Dave gave up. He was tired of Tom's petulant behaviours that he knew were inspired by Tom's wife's influences. She had cut herself off so well, that she didn't have a friend or a relative left! Looking from the outside of this picture, it is easy to see that cutting people off is cutting yourself off. Other persons are not losing anything when someone "cuts them off". They are losing a problem they don't want to have again. Like Tom, who is really cutting himself off, the problem has only one solution. Wisely Dave walked away. And stayed away. He left his brother. And that is what happens. Tom, cut himself off and Dave knows that Tom is the one with a problem that only he can solve. Rather than "cutting off", Tom types of lonely folk, should latch onto learning some respectful communication skills and get back those they lost.

Trivial Pursuit

When you see dying all around you, of dear ones, you think differently about life and what it really is. The situations we hear and see in the media are what feels just another reality TV drama on screen. There is good and bad, tragedy and success, hope and hopelessness, and we are helpless to do anything much about it other than gasp and groan or cheer as we watch. These times, with hoards of people fleeing their birth countries and natural disasters tossing them about like flotsam and jetsam, we become oddly immune to true feelings. We aren't there. We watch. But our curiosities make us ask, what does it feel like to be one of our fellow earth dwellers of every colour and kind, struggling within inches of our lives trying to survive all of the bad forces. In our comfortable part of the world, we see  attractive, nicely cared -for folk vying on political stages, orating while we, the listening, hope for them to give us answers to personal, community and world problems. There is no quick and easy solution and there never has been. All we can do is what is right for us in our small, surrounding worlds, and hope that it filters down to something more meaningful eventually to others. That's about it - trivia. It's our minuscule addition to the vast trivia that makes up the larger bundles of it rolling along like a snowball getting larger and larger, every day, as we populate the planet. It's not hopeless. And we are the tiny bits, the trivia, that can, in our humble way, make it tolerable if not perhaps, better. We can live responsibly without becoming fanatics. We can deal with what is right around us. Maybe it's trivia, but we go after it anyway. We make our footprints smaller, we give what we can, we are kind and sharing with one another, we are understanding of those both better and worse off than we are, we give love to our close ones and protect the young. We try to be good and helpful neighbours, we strive to be creative and learning and productive. We simply care and are aware that we are just another bit of trivia but, we say, that's what all the bigger events are made of - us. It is a large and friendly planet and we crawl about it, hoping to live long and useful lives, to find love and a life free of hurts and open our hearts to those less fortunate no matter what our station in life. It's our trivial pursuit.

Fire With Fire

Every day we read tragic news about those seeking refuge. We look around at our comfortable lifestyles and feel guilty that other inhabitants of this lovely blue planet that seems to grow smaller as technology grows larger, and we wonder why only a few thousand miles away, there is such incredible suffering. We feel helpless even though we might carry signs, light candles and give money to help people in these disastrous states. It appears that's all we can do unless we are involved in professional organizations that send personnel, such as medical people and others who can deal directly with it. But those heroes who go off and risk their lives to help others are few. Most of us can only stand by and watch and listen with tears, to what happens. It is easy to blurt out simplistic solutions when the complicated political timbre in certain countries belies any understanding. We can "try on" what it would feel like to suddenly have a government that rules us out of our homes and causes bombs to explode and guns to be fired, to see us fleeing for safety with only the barest of  possessions we can carry, our frightened children by the hands, to find, in desperation, some kind of safe shelter. Money, things,  mean nothing. Lives must be put on the line to escape the terror. On this continent we don't know that kind of warring. And hopefully it will not happen to us. But it is happening to people just like us, humans with families and needs that are the same as ours. What can be done? Behind the scenes of this kind of tragedy, there are economic elements that involve the supplying of arms and other things vital to warring: fuel, clothing, food, shelter and military training. Where do these things that play into the hands of aggressors, come from? It is not an easy question to face. It is not easy because the reality of it is, that most of it comes, unbelievably,  from peace loving countries who shake their heads at what's happening in these conflicts but continue to supply directly or not, contributions to its horror. Media makes huge profits on these wars. They feed on photos of fleeing refugees, pictures of streets full of fallen bodies, military conflicts in action that we are told we must see. Really? Sure, I want to know what is happening in the world, but I don't want to see it repeatedly and by those in competition with each other for the most heart-rending, money-making scenes. Once is enough, thank you. I get it. What I want to know is what's being done to make it stop, other than bullets, and to find out why isn't it stopping. Where does the supply come from and what plans are in action to make it quit? Who is doing this? Why not cause complete economic halts to any and all supplies coming from peaceful country sources? What about complete sanctions against countries who cause vast numbers of their own people to flee? When there are fellow humans bleeding out past their own borders, can't some kind of tourniquet be applied? There is no heart in greed.

Greyed Expectations

When you get to a certain greyish stage in life, you can go two ways. You can grow "old" in the way it is portrayed by those not yet there, or you can do it "your way". The give-up route is to become an oldie goldie and wear baggie print dresses, walk in ugly shoes and let yourself go "natural". As one guy who left his grey-haired former to contact someone who looked far younger than her years, told me one day when I mentioned the word, Botox, "Oh no, I like my women "natural"". Didn't seem to stop his oogling the women who were "made up"! Natural? What does that mean? Does it mean, get up in the morning, wash and go? Does it mean no make-up or hair colour? Perhaps it means, look like my old grandmother. She was a sweet old lady who wore an apron and clumpy black shoes. Grandmothers come in many variations. Some let themselves go and others take the time to enhance their remaining attributes. I don't mean hours on the treadmill or painful yoga classes. I mean simply adding some colour here and there, dressing  in something that bespeaks other than yesteryear and avoiding whining about surgeries and family problems. In other words think outside the box: the shiny wooden one with the brass handles. Become informed about something other than personal health issues. Watch or listen to current events. You don't have to moan about the world's problems you saw on the eleven o'clock news, but  you should be aware of those headlines so that you can sound brilliant when you ask, "What are your thoughts on ...?" I suppose older men have the same challenges: leaving the saggy-seat pants behind, throwing away the old man sweater cardigans and the big ugly runners and not talking about the knee or hip replacements they've had. Then again, some elderly really love sinking into old age like an old slipper. But who likes looking at an old slipper, I ask? Many elderly are lonely. It seems to be the greatest complaint of any age but, especially, the elderly. There are men and women who dearly want to hook up with, not marry, some members of the opposite sex without having to join the tiddly-winks club at the nearest Senior Centre. There are some Senior ( I really do not like that word) Centres that have programs to accommodate singles for dancing and lunches. One that I saw recently worded their programs positively and freshly. They avoided "relax amongst", "share family memories with" and "gentle joint stretches". If the place was not labelled Senior Centre I might have gone along. Senior means seasoned or old, no mistake about it, and when you have to live with a seasoned or old  body and visage, you don't need to enter a building that shouts it. If these places were called "clubs" with a sign such as the name of the community or town or city, it might be more appealing to those of us who avoid Senior Centres. Even when we are ninety, we invariably hope to say, " But, I'm not ready for that yet!"

Like It Is

When you are my age, the people, your fondest memories, die. Yes, they die and you are left and it isn't easy. Those at memorials spouting things like "well, it was for the best" or "he/she lived a long and fine life", are not what you believe, although you play along. That's what you're supposed to do at this age but let's not kid ourselves. Why don't we tell it like it is? When the people whom we played with and had great times with, those who knew all of our secrets and thoughts with no embellishments, die, we are plunged into deep sorrow.We are not happy or understanding or tolerant. The deaths consume us. We cry real tears. We sob. Yes, we bang our fists. But it doesn't bring our dear old pals back. Damn it. We loved these gone loves deeply and truly and no amount of platitudinous balderdash is going to defray us from what our true feelings are. The young gather about and pat us on the back and coo but it doesn't help.We aren't going to tell them, though. They'll find out one day. Our buddies grew young then old with us. They heard our bad times when things went wrong and they listened and didn't judge. They were there to celebrate and grieve with us, to laugh and cry with us. They knew what our times were and what it felt like then. It isn't now, it's all about then. Then had a certain colour and smell and voice. Our dear young ones can't possibly feel it. When we had our long ago friends around and we talked over old times or just sat together, we knew what it was truly like and we communicated it not always with words but with just being near each other.  We all knew where we came from and what the air was like then, the sounds around us then, the hurts and the successes, the hates, the loves, the agonies of that time and the joys of it, too. It isn't about remembering, it's about feeling. Others don't get it, not even our dear children, bless their hearts. They can't. They aren't the then, they are the now. We are supposed to be The Now but we aren't really.  One day their then will be a new then but now, today, when our friends and dear ones die, we are left and all we have is memories of our times together and it hurts. We weep. Let us weep. We miss them and our then.

Who Has Seen The Wind?

No one sees the wind but it shows itself when it is high. To sleep through a wild night of winds all around our domains is a lesson in its strengths. We hear, sleeplessly, its roarings and whistlings. Objects fly about and are pushed around by it. We try to accommodate our possessions to protect them, but, at times, the winds prove a more powerful force. Most of the time on this moderately weathered coast, we don't consider winds as something to be concerned about. If  one is out on a boat, however, always and ever, or should be, very close attention is paid to winds. We assess its patterns, the comings and goings, its speeds and possible duration. One's life depends upon this knowledge when venturing out in water bound vessels, be they large or small craft. Sailboats are designed to take the wind but only to an extent the vessel is worthy of. Sailing folk, read the winds closely and make use of them through their knowledge and experiences. They know the limitations of their ships.  Motor boaters try to avoid heavy winds that are beyond their abilities to take a heavy sea. Large ships also have great respect for the winds because they must cross great bodies of water under any conditions when they are on the high seas. But inside our own homes, we listen to the winds and while they seem exciting, their results can often be more. We hear unfamiliar sounds and while they may be innocent, they pique our curiosities and sometimes, fears.  If we live under great trees, our concerns are valid. Flying branches can smash windows, fall on roofs, travelling cars and people outdoors and could thus do serious damage. Driving during a windstorm, and I am not speaking of  tornadoes or  hurricanes, but just  good, high winds, can be frightening with leaves and man-made detritus blowing past on highways and roads. In spite of all efforts for hydro companies to prevent such accidents, trees near lines, do blow down and make repair work not only difficult, but dangerous when power outages pull these people out of their own beds and into storms to service for us, downed poles or wires. Weather becomes news when thousands of people are left without power due to winds. We have come to depend upon generated electricity. In a storm, traffic lights may go out, businesses using power: restaurants and offices, have to close. In our own homes, we use power for heating and lighting and the running of our appliances and other electronics. We depend upon it for our spoiled creature comforts. Suddenly, Nature's wind becomes big news. It shows its vast power in  being directly responsible for deaths, for closing down vital transportation lanes and certainly  in putting many people to great inconvenience. and even in danger. It takes a good storm to make us appreciate the power of natural forces and how used to feeling protected we are from them. We should  appreciate the gift of living not just within our own human controls but that we exist among earth-wide natural phenomena that are generally friendly and safe, but they can and do, truly rule our lives. They've been around well before man came on the scene and will continue well after we've gone.

The Art Of Dumpery

Romance today has rules that defy such matters as courtesy. The art of lying when "picking up" a companion (shall we call it) absolutely requires this form of flattery. The intended target may not be your ideal choice, but who actually lands The Ideal? Well, perhaps until the shine wears off and reality sets in. Finding someone only coming close to what you have on your list of perfect mates, is likely what's going to happen. When you get to know the one you found, and found the one who came as close as you are likely to achieve , you may see that your "list" needed editing in the first place. And so you continue on with the romance until it wears out, or one or the other of you "dumps" him or her. Dumping is quite different than being dumped. There is the dumper and the dumpee. Either way, there are forms of going about it. There is the direct dump, the sneak dump, and the double play. In the direct dump, there are a few hard words and then that's the last of seeing the back of the head you used to adore. The sneak dump, the rudest one, is a text or phone call with a final good-bye. The double play is when you learn  that you are no longer a duet but are now into a trio. All three methods, while seemingly unfair, are pretty much the way it goes. We won't discuss the dumper further, because that party is already enjoying him or herself with a new conquest or running back to the old safe one. In any event, it is likely going to last about the same time as the one you just lost, given the perp's history and all. I prefer to call being dumped," taking out the garbage". Anyone who dumps someone and leaves without proper discussion, is simply, that: a substance that is no longer useful. If you are dumped, consider yourself fortunate to be rid of what is extraneous material. So what does the dumpee do? First need is ice-cream straight-up and reverting to favorite old sweat suits.  But after the carton is empty and you see yourself in the baggy jumpsuit in a full-length mirror, other tactics should be employed. Rule number one, is patience. Rule two is, don't do anything drastic for at least six months other than not eating ice-cream. The sweats can stay, but only for emergencies. Temptations to e mail nasty letters, make phone calls in the middle of the night or  trash the tail lights of the dumper, do occur, but they are as practical as head banging. Finding  someone else at any cost, whatever that may be, helps some people, but my theory, is just wait it out and spend time indulging in something you didn't have time to do when your former was around. I like computer games and blogging. Do something harmless and positive, and do it every time the blues hit. And they do hit. You can be lying there in the middle of the night having awakened from a lovely dream of former times, and wham, you realize there will never be the old you-know-who again in your life. You know that all the love and attention you gave to that creature was wasted effort. Get up, have a coffee and read or TV or game. Imagine you have slammed a door on the past and now are moving on down that hallway to open up another door, one that leads to wiser and better things. Just remember, that while you might feel you have been cast off, it is really only dead leaves you don't need, that are missing. They are gone and have, in the going, fed you the distinct possibility of better, new times ahead.

Come ON!

"The Campaign Trail"? What is that? It's a lot of "sound and fury signifying nothing". Way too much time, energy and money that could do better, is spent on sheer nonsense. Do we need to "expose" party members to the public at large or listen to their  promises? No, we don't. We just think we do because we are brain-washed by various folks who make a lot of money "on the campaign trail" who tell us that we do.  Who are the folks? They are the groomers of these show times and places and people. Advertising via the media takes its share. Venues such as halls and rooms and caterers and cleaners make their money on it. I could go on. Think of the time wasted by those who are in "power" pouring their paid time into campaigning. Is it  useful to the average tax-paying citizen? No, not any more than their expensive travel to other countries to eat at the tables of other politicians at the expense of their tax payers. I may sound disloyal to the political machine but really, politicians would likely rather be at their desks getting things done than running around the country in pretty suits and make-up. Furthermore, of what value are the promises made during these runnings-about speechifying? Promises are, as ever, only as good as their doing and not at all, in their saying. When a politician does get elected, there are so many factions and reasons to or not to, carry out the promises that is it simply, a waste of time to run around making them. What happens day to day, is what makes things happen. World economies, political unrest, disease, natural disasters can change government plans no matter how astute world "leaders" are. To promise to lower taxes and up grants, down crime and up standards of living. is ridiculous. These things are all dependent upon money and we all know about money. If we have any of it to know. Those of us who used to pore over newspapers about what party will do what, have become less secure in what is said and wholly dependent upon what the market says or whether our paychecks will stretch this week or not. What some well off politician is saying on the campaign trail, doesn't pay the gas or grocery bills or buy the kids their running shoes. While we yak on about who to vote for, that one vote is all we have to express ourselves and how we feel. Unfortunately, I am not really sure if it does much to make my life better. But, it's all I have, and I guess even though I discount what promises are made, I get to take a look at a face that might give me a clue as to who should lead this country. It's all I have. One vote. And in spite of everything I have ground out today, I am jolly well going to use it. But I wish the campaign trail was much shorter and made of solid concrete - concrete plans for the betterment of our everyday common man and woman lives.

All American

Travelling around the world here and there, you mix with people from many countries. I am not speaking of those you meet for a short time on your travels through their borders, but the ones you travel with. These are the people you get to know rather intimately as you share the wiles of  ship or land journeying for weeks at a time. There are  social occasions on trips of this sort. Time and time again, we, in a group, and there is no better way to travel, are introduced as our country: Chinese, American, Russian, Canadian and so on. For some odd reason, we imply that those from a certain country are examples of the popular identity attributed to that place globally. For example, and pardon me for these foolish tags, they're not mine, a Scot is thrifty, a Canadian is nice, an American is loud, a Frenchman, romantic and an Italian, a natural opera singer, etc. Most of us understand that these labels are wholly ridiculous cartoon images but we hold them to be kind of factual even though we know they are perhaps only partly correct. In this cosmopolitan world there is no reason for these old-fashioned ideas of traits, but you get the point. For some reason, the term "American" that is given to those who are inhabitants of the United States, seems askew to me. Everyone from North, Central and South America, is "American". I stand by that statement. Often times,  when it comes my turn to tell where I am from, unpopularly, I say "I, too, am American, but my country is Canada". There are gasps. You would think I dropped a bowl of soup on the floor. The shocked looks around the space are daunting - well, to anyone but me. I have no truck with niceties or poses as you have sensed reading my blogs. The truth is the bare truth when it comes right down to it. Yes, we of the two continents of the Americas, are indeed Americans. Our countries are Peru or Mexico or Canada but we are Americans of the Americas. The best part is, that U.S. Americans never seem take offense at that statement. They are very open folk, and while they have may their secret opinions, they are quite generous about sharing Americania with all the rest of us. For one thing, it gives them a chance to talk about being a citizen of the United States of America. They can launch into how hard won it was and who the heros are and were, and how financially influential it is in the world. Okay, so  what do we call them? U.S.ers or United Statesites or USof Aers? I suppose long ago, it was shortened to "Americans" rather than United States of Americans for the sake of brevity and convenience of tongue. But occasionally we need to freshen up and shake out the truth.

Eyes Wide Shut

I think the title of this blog today is a movie title but it is so appropriate for my topic that I will keep it. We can have our "eyes wide open" and walk into the most ridiculous situations, perhaps ones that are bad for us. I suppose it is one of those human errors ie. "to err is human", we occasionally meet. In the past few months my eyes have been "opened" to a couple of relationships that were wrong. Ever found that? One lasted for about four years on and off, and the other was a life-time one. The first involved an individual who came to me in a lie but I couldn't see it that way. Others warned me to watch out because  they sensed the wrong, but in matters of the heart, who listens? I must say it was not the perp's fault entirely because I fully participated. The second one was so close that I couldn't see the sham. All of the evidence to quit these negative messes was blatantly visible, but somehow peace-making was the pattern I grew up with. Then. And although Mr and Ms Perp knew full well what they were up to, I, in the back of my mind, probably knew it also. We get into these things foolishly knowing how they will end up. We tell ourselves that the good times out-weigh the bad ones and therefore, we should go on and on. One relationship was familial and those, while common, are the most difficult to put a stop to. Guilt enters in. The old adage, "blood is thicker than water" sorts of words, float in, to colour it hard. But finally, time after time of being booted around emotionally, one gets the message. "End it", fate screams in your ear. And finally you make the big decision. Now, without going into the gory details, after being drummed constantly by one's own conscience continuously warning you to stop hurting yourself, you begin to see the light. The "aha" creeps in when, time and time again, wondering why this is happening to you, you get a true glimpse of yourself feeling badly. You recognize that you have gone through this so many times that it is old-hat. "Oh, here I go again" you say, as you wipe away the tears.  And one day, you say to yourself, this must stop. The back of your mind says, "But how?" That's the hard part. How? Someone I  trust gave me a clue. He said, "Just stop it - have no contact whatsoever with this bad thing." That was good advice. For people to think that the good times outweigh the bad ones, is incorrect.  If there are bad times, they need to end. There shouldn't be "bad times". I saw a movie  called The Heiress. The female character, a gentle soul, saw herself as inferior having permitted that abuse for so long, it seemed normal. She had convinced herself that she was unable to confront the issue openly, and was, in her own light, indeed a failure. When her cruel father denied her his estate if she married the man who clearly was after her fortune, he would disinherit her. When her lover heard of it, off he went. The woman realized her mistake. When her father died, she inherited a fortune. Back came the suitor. This time she led him on, and in the last scene, locking the doors against him, she went upstairs to bed, candle in hand, with a victorious smile on her face. She had finally empowered herself. To fix the bad in your life, break off what's hurting you,  take time to remember the bad times, not the good ones. Contrary to what psychologists recommend, take the low road. Forget the  positive bits and slam into the bad  reasons to end the relationship. Having done that, chuck the bitterness over your shoulder and get on with your own happiness. You deserve better. You deserve the best.