Bump Babies

The Hollywood lastest fad is  baby bump news. Everyone loves babies. They're cute and cuddly and happy occasions to celebrate, but I am truly not interested in the fact that actress A is going to have a baby months later to actor B. It's all very nice that they are starting a family, but that isn't movie news that I find interesting or news worthy. I would much rather know what movies the stars are making and when they will appear. The paparazzi seems infested with this baby bump sort of silliness: what will the names be, is it going to be a son or daughter, how many other children does the couple have in this marriage or that? We love their movie work but these pregnant people are not people we know personally, and what their private lives are, should not be of our concern. We all know this glorious event will end up with an actor's child being toted around exposed to media glare constantly and is likely to be tended, of necessity due to the busy movie work of their parents, by nannies and sadly but eventually through divorce, become part of a second or third or more,  extended family. Do the math. Previously, hot news was who was dating who, how bare the dress was or who married or divorced whom. Now it's baby news: pictures of the baby bump at the premiers or award ceremonies that show off curvatures in designer garb, photos that are spread all over cyberspace and general petty gossip. Who really cares? The entertainment media wants us to care but actually, do we? We are always happy to see happy people, but it seems to me that pregnancy is something a little private and precious and meant mostly for an immediate family, not news that should be flung about for commercial  purposes. What I do like to see is news and views that pregnant women are no longer hidden away under tent clothing and behind closed doors as  once they were. The baby bump is not shocking to see now as it would have been in times not that far back. No longer is a woman worried about going to work "showing". In my day, you weren't permitted to work beyond six months and even then in my profession, you had to have board permission to continue working up to six months. Goodness! Someone might see an enlarged waistline and know that you, a married woman, were pregnant! All of your friends and relatives were delighted that you were having a baby; but at work, oh no! It might embarrass your fellow workers or worse still, your clients or customers.  Children were involved in my work, and while most of them had mothers who were at times pregnant, it was supposed to remain a family-only secret, not something to be witnessed in public. Eyes might roll or heads turn or tongues cluck, We are much enlightened today, fortunately. Why it had been something shunned in public previously, is mysterious since all of us arrived here from a mother who had a baby bump and had to appear at sometime or other in public. With a new year on the cusp, its symbol, a baby, is a truly welcome one, and may it be a "good" baby in 2017.

Silent Night

To all those who, as I, will be spending Christmas Eve alone, choose joy and be grateful. Finding joy, isn't easy. It takes work. If we have no one, or family far away or are  simply among the forgotten, we should know that we are not alone. There are millions of us just like you and I. We are in company! We can either moan about our situations or we can choose the opposite. I sat, the other night thinking about having to be alone on this special evening for the first time in my life. I began to indulge in feeling sorry for myself. It's not something I do often. Then I remembered that I was only wasting time and that, at my age, there's precious little of it left. Did I really want to use up an hour, or even a minute, doing that? I started to use a little tactic that always takes me out of a quandary; I began, in my mind, to list all the good things I have and have had. Everyone has a list, and each one is different. For some, it's position or things, for others, it might be a place or an album of memories to dwell upon, for many it's people in their lives, past and present. We all have these "possessions" to thought-indulge in occasionally. Here we are, we single, alone, individuals, who are alive and know what and who we are, and we have the most precious thing that anyone could possess.  Life. We can go on and be blaming our circumstances on someone or something else or that our status is unfair or make comparisons between ourselves and others we think are more fortunate than us. Even if our fate didn't work out the way we had hoped, we are here, we exist. We all have ourselves and the beauty of our thinking and feeling minds and imaginations and our dreams and our hopes. These very personal gifts  can't be taken away. Some might say, you can talk, or you, or you, or you; but it isn't a contest. We can't compare ourselves with anyone else and be fair. We aren't all winners in life, but that's life as "they" say.  Happy Christmas Eve dear alone friends, how lovely to have your company, and may your new year yield at least a few of your dreams. 

Ten Foot Board

When I was a tween long ago in my small coastal town, we spent a good deal of our summer vacation at the local swimming pool. It wasn't inside something called an aquatic centre with hot pools, and nice showers and slides and waves and all sorts of amusing features. It was just a swimming pool of modest size with a diving board in the ell at one end. And it had no roof. It was tiled, however, an improvement over the many pools in those days whose walls were made of rough concrete and the water often unheated. I supposed there were substances like chlorine for protection, because in those times we remembered the terrible outbreak of polio before the vaccine was discovered. But since then everyone had lined up to get their shots. But this park pool was tiled and looked clean and welcoming. We spent hours at the pool doing our versions of various dives. We had no instructor but we watched those who did have training, and saw in movies what the dives looked like: the swan dive and the twists.  We winged it. You were not allowed to cannonball into the pool for fear of The Whistle blown by the lifeguard on duty. If you were guilty of breaking the rules, you might be prevented from coming into the pool enclosure. But like all kids, we wanted to try our luck on the ten foot board. It took courage because from that height, the plunge looked ominous. Most of us went up and tried, but had to come down our knees knocking and give some kind of plausible excuse to our pals. We had heard the dire descriptions of how much our heads would hurt if we dove incorrectly and smacked them on the water. But I will never forget the terror of standing at the end of that ten foot board and looking down at the turquoise water and hearing my friends calling encouragement while I quaked. Finally, I did it, but only once. And it did hurt. A lot. In these troubled times, with 2017 looming,  I feel just like I am standing on the edge of that ten foot board. The ten-footer of the world. This world, with all of its technological advancements, medical victories and our efforts to become generous and open minded and peaceful is looming at the brink of what could be something either drastically apocalyptic or dynamically humanitarian. It rests on the shoulders of all of the leaders in the world, the whole world. Not all leaders agree what the world should look like. The waters aren't all sparkling and clean and clear. There are those who hate and plot to destroy innocent people, and those who strive to keep the peace and protect the populace from harm. There are leaders who are controlled by forces that are for good and those that we deem bad because they kill and destroy. We put the leaders there to do what we feel is going to make our lives better; we send messages that seem often to fall on deaf ears. Those we trust to do good, seem to be few and much belaboured. It is a scary time standing on this world ten foot board and there is no lifeguard. Then again, there's no one else but one at the end of that board. It's up to us.

Edible Animals

 We are of the animal world and we are omnivorous.  Some of us choose to opt out of that form of feeding and become vegetarians. It's a choice, even though the latter is more work in ensuring the correct amount of protein one consumes. We need protein and enough of it to keep ourselves in good health. When, for ten years, I became a vegetarian, I ended up having to revert to eating animal protein again, for health reasons. The reason I became someone who couldn't bear to put animal meat in my mouth, wasn't because of immediate social pressure or dieting or fad, but something else. While doing extensive travel for three years "on the road" on this continent, I saw, frequently,  truck loads of animals being carted off to butchery. It was heartbreaking to witness huge truckloads of chickens stuffed into harsh metal cages in heat and icy cold, feathers and wings poking out brokenly  and on large semis, four legged, warm blooded creatures in filthy conditions, their wide eyes frightened, in innocence and ignorance being hauled off for cruel killing. It sickened me to the point that I couldn't eat animal meat. It was a simple reaction of one creature seeing other creatures treated so badly that ordinary appetite failed. I hasten to admit that while my body may be meant to consume animal protein, under certain conditions, my brain and my stomach aren't listening. It pleased me recently, to learn that efforts are being made to slaughter meat giving animals under more appropriate conditions and to make sure that the same animals are transported more humanely. There is, sadly, still a long way to go. Our job as humans is to see that kindness prevails in all we do, not only amongst our own kind but that of other living creatures as well. There are certain people who scoff at that sort of observation, but they may be the same ones who coddle and spoil, small dogs or cats or birds or fine horses. There seems little transition from caring about these privileged creatures but not the ones that end up on our plates. All of life on earth is precious and has a place. There are societies who realize the consideration we must give the animals we consume. Yes, we do use and eat these animals, but it doesn't have to be a terrifying experience for the innocent creatures who share the world we live in and nurture us. We have been born with superior brains but it doesn't give us the right to harm other less reasoning beings.  Animals that we use in their deaths, deserve our respect for their contribution. Without them, we are lesser.

Beards

Apart from religious beards on which I have no comment, I speak of beards that are the current choice of style-conscious males. Being a female, I find it intriguing that men have to deal with this daily growth, sometimes unwanted, every day of their lives. Long ago, as a small child, I used to watch, fascinated, my father shaving in the mornings. Talk about women and their lipstick and powder! Our female daily routines that involve the face and hair are of choice, not of necessity like the beard situation in men. This era allows fashionable males to determine the length, shape and overall style of their facial hair according to the dictates of their social setting. Looking on, we females have differing opinions about what kinds of beards we favour. There are so many and each face tells which sort of beard best enhances, or not, the stretch of skin available on which to grow. I have seen a man with a beard, shave it and appear, instantly, a decade younger. I have seen ordinary, unremarkable men, grow a trimmed beard and look enticing and adventuresome. And I have also seen beloved, even revered moustaches and beards that are ridiculous to my eyes. First, I have to say that I rather like certain kinds of beards, those deemed "jazz",  while others make me want to use an aerosol  antiseptic spray directed to their chin area. It's the same with all women I assume; they either like beards or hate them. I suppose some men simply tire of having to deal with their daily shaving or trimming routine, and let it all go nature's way. I do know that men of that sort, become more than attached to their beards because they are always stroking them much like what someone would do with a cat or dog. The beard becomes their pet. Unfortunately, the face pet, as all pets, requires meticulous grooming. One of the most disgusting sights the world presents is a beard that, untended, displays all kind of flotsam and jetsam that no one ever wants to see. Ugh. The kinds of beards I prefer are the trimmed kinds, if at all. If you want hair face, please see that it is tidy and looks like a well tended lawn. One of the recent styles of beard is the two day old or more, of unshaven face hair that someone told men, looks sexy. Most women are not of that opinion. It looks unkempt and unclean. I want to say to those males, "For goodness sake, go shave!". To me, those kinds of indeterminate beards are as attractive as a torn and hanging hem on a woman's skirt or a shirt buttoned incorrectly. You want to hie the person off and help fix their social error. To beard or not to beard, that is the question. To avoid, the "slings and arrows" men, check with your mate first. You can't hide a beard!

Heights of Snobbery

There is an odd "pecking order" phenomenon that we humans appear to accept. It has to do with not only how high one achieves the heights of richness, power or even physical stature, it is about the position of the floor you live on if you reside or work in a tower building. Snobbery may be masked, but it is surely there. The very top floor is occupied by those who paid  most for their dwelling places. They are symbolically walking on the heads of all the other occupiers of the structure. While it is unlikely they are aware of that, perhaps, cynical viewpoint, they are sure to inform every and anyone who listens, that they do, in fact, live in the top floor penthouse. The receivers of this information are rarely not impressed. It's just the way we are. Perhaps the superior attitude about an elevation  higher than everyone else, has to do with the price of being there. In many tower structures, the higher you go, the more money you have to spend for the privilege of owning or renting. It can amount to thousands per floor. Where I live, we ground floor folk, don't enjoy the same elegant lighting that the upper floors have, nor do we live on a floor that no one else but us has access to but ourselves. If I try to rise up to another floor higher than mine on the elevator, my fob won't let me. It is to protect the floors above. But on my floor, everyone can trod the halls unobstructed other than those entering the front door and its so-called security system that somehow remains wide open when someone is moving in or out or a delivery person is admitted by a kind-hearted, but foolish individual. In our human dominated world, logic does not always prevail. So why is  special attention given those who occupy space on high? I don't think the sad situation that happened on nine-eleven or others during major earthquakes or hurricanes, would laud the advantages of being high in a tall structure. During fires or natural disasters other than tsunamis, it is for one's greater safety to live on lower floors, if not the bottom ones. Escape history proves it key.  Elevators are not to be used during incidents of fire, for example, and persons in wheel chairs must plan other ways of leaving a building. Descent, otherwise, becomes  almost impossible for the mobility handicapped. Perhaps the air is fresher on high, or the view is better or privacy greater that is the bigger attraction. It isn't just in buildings but also, for example on cruise ships, that costly upper decks are more elegant and those affording them receive specialized privileges. On planes the situation is similar but slightly skewed. The front of the plane, not the back, is the prime seating area but the same subtle snobbery ensues.  Or maybe we lower floor folk are just wallowing in envy?

Churayn?

"Churayn" is phonetically, "train" according to one of my former eight year old pupils. And phonetically, he was correct. But when I read the rest of his little tale that involved a love of trains, I understood. The little boy went on to become a scientist and I am not sure if his "spelling" has improved or not, but he is, apparently, a successful, train loving, adult I am happy to say. My son, just off on a train voyage from West to East, brings me to feeling sad and nostalgic, that trains are gradually becoming as long travel, a thing of the past. We have our urban trains, be they above or below ground, and they are here to stay as their popularity grows. They increase in scope to serve as  reliable, for the most part, ways better to go to work or school or other destinations, than individual vehicles that require road space and parking. Having traveled recently on Sky Train here in the West, I can laud their convenience and yes, frequency. As to comfort, the fact that we in Canada still admire good manners and consideration, the elderly and disabled may find somewhere to sit rather than hang onto a pole while in transit. The stations are outfitted with washrooms and elevators or escalators to aid those who can't manage stairs. Urban dwellers pay big taxes and complain, but truly, they oughtn't when one thinks of the benefits we access. But getting back to the trains, the kind that run all over continents, they remind me of land-locked whales who carry on their backs hundreds of passengers long distances while allowing them food, drink and accommodation and also, go in relative safety to their destinations. There are people who don't, for one reason or another, want to go by airplane and trains make it possible for them to reach their venue. But there is more to train travel than fear of flying. There are those simply, who love trains. They see them as more than a way of getting  there. When they hear a train whistle, their hearts beat a little faster, their dreams or memories of being on a train, come into their minds; they are in love with them. Getting on a train and settling into your compartment or other paid-for place, you feel "at home".  You feel safe. This small space is yours for as long as you and the great friendly giant that is whizzing you off, are a team. You feel the creature's body swaying and taking the curves, you hear the music of its unique "song", one that you put words to. You respect the servers who greet you, who make up your bed at night and call you to meals in the dining car. The dining car. There you see a menu that is as generous as those on a luxury cruise. Your table has a white cloth, your server is a gentleperson and your china and silver are elegant right down to the creamer and sugar bowl. All, in spite of constant movement. And you are not on the Orient Express with Monsieur Poirot! Down in the lounge car, you meet others with their tales and drinks and oohs and ahhs at the views. Up in the observation car, everyone points out what they see and head turn and friends are made, however temporarily. Trains, the great whales with their human burdens, plying the oceans of great lands, may they continue, always.

Real Reality

Reality is becoming unreal. We humans have enhanced our capacity for tech toys to the point that nothing is private, nothing is not calculable, nothing is not collectible, and beyond. To say that it's bad or good isn't helpful when computers, we are told, can think. But what does "think" mean? It's true that computers can collect, rather quickly, information from all kinds of sources and calculate outcomes, predict possibilities and store data for use at a time convenient to whomever wants to use it or for whatever purpose. There is something that computers can't do. They can't feel and it is unlikely they ever will be able to, but I hedge on that prediction also, because I won't be around long enough to test the theory. Something that is real, is my grandfather clock. It's a tall piece of wood that is showing its age. After all, it was fashioned in 1836. It ticks away with the same old pendulum, wires, metal bits and lead weights. It's not one of the pretty kind, all shiny and with brass-like curlicues and delicate carvings. The weights are large and rough and misshapen. Mr. Charles Leadbeater who made the clock beside his brother Thomas, didn't care much for beauty. He thought only about reliability and, indeed, he produced a product that has survived crossing the Atlantic, living in family homes from damp old England to damp young British Columbia-by-the-sea and ticking faithfully for all those generations. He has scars. Bits of veneer, that were so artfully inset, loosened with central heating and the rigors of time, and sometimes fell out during various moves by his family. They were glued back in badly. There are holes inside where one of the clan, decided to  hang tools in the case. Who would see them and they were so handy to find inside "grandfather". There are missing bits that are long forgiven and forgotten. The shiny brass globes that graced each side at the top and the tallest stand, are only faded memories to be found in photographs of Roselynn's parlour, the clock's first home in Cheshire, UK. But recently after a long respite, the phases of the moon and the days of the month, are back in service. The price to repair and adjust without replacing any part of the mechanism, was more than the whole clock would be worth on the antique market. It matters not the cost; no one in the family will ever sell it for any price. Once in my memory, a talented family gentleman, took all the metal bits apart and laid them on the dining room table, where they stayed for months while he tenderly cleaned each one, keeping note of how to reassemble all of them eventually. Not even our Siamese cat and her insatiable curiosity disturbed the array of old metal on the table's shiny surface. Thanksgiving dinner that year, was taken in the kitchen with respect for the past. When the power is off, the clock ticks on and accurately. Only during the changes for Daylight Saving to Standard Time, is an adjustment made but only by stilling the pendulum for the hour or a day, perhaps cautiously turning the hands. The old key has been lost, but  another was found far away and arrived by post. Ironically, it was bought with the help of my computer, on line. Like the ornate hands of my grandfather clock, with its comforting tick and the tweaking an old saying, what comes around, goes around.

Oh Nature Oh My

The natural world is something everyone thinks would be wonderful to return to. Some go camping and laud the fine time spent out in the woods under a tent laid on dirt and crawling around on hands and knees to dress and sleep and eat. Camping looks all very jolly on the outside, on good days, when it is not raining and cold, when you can find a hot shower in the evening and eat food that goes beyond canned meat, stale bread and pork and beans. The only people I know who truly enjoy actual camping as opposed to the kind that carts along a truck load of equipment and every amenity one can buy to make life as close to normal as possible in the woods, are those who adore being dirty, hungry, thirsty and cold. Who are those people? What is great about camping, is getting back home and remembering the days camping, when the sun shone, the lake water was warm and the camp fire circle was memorable. The rest we try to forget. Be honest campers. We are a spoiled bunch of humans because if we really liked true camping, why did we progress from cave to condo? If it was so rewarding and fine, we could have gone on for centuries reading paintings on the walls, fighting off and eating wild animals and digging up roots to eat. No, the first time Man picked up a sharp rock and shaved, the first time some raw meat fell into the fire and became barbecue, when he and she could find a dry cave to shelter in, Man began planning how to improve his lifestyle. Now, we don't bake bread without at least one machine to help out, clean without a cupboard full of fluids and equipment, eat without a table full of crockery and metal, sleep without a soft mattress and a pile of down, travel without a heater and AC and music, or go about without pricey clompers on our feet and designer labels on our backs. We've come a long way. Or have we? When we spoiled, self-indulgent beings have to go to a machine laden room to "exercise" or run miles for absolutely no reason, to deliberately starve ourselves skinny when there's plenty of good food to be had, drive big metal objects around that cost a whole year or two of labour and then turn around and get rid of them because there's a new model, whack little or big balls around for fun and get mad at them when they won't obey, dump a marital union that produced wedded promises and kids when nobody took the time to work at them and anyway, there's somebody else prettier to run to, then,  at the end of life as we know it, get smart and quit all the nonsense when it's too late and die. What in the world are we doing? Not camping.

Marriage Two

As often, or nearly always, happens a long marriage ends in the death of one of the partners. It's not only a hard time for the mate left in dealing with loss, it's even harder if the family disapproves of their parent becoming romantically involved again. They feel that the departed has been somehow betrayed and that their feelings have not been considered because their permission was not gained for the new relationship in happening. Their feelings are natural, but not correct. Looking at it from the outside, is easy. Being in it, isn't that simple. In one scenario, the new relationship person moved into the parental home and the children, now adult, feared some promised items there would be lost to them. They went inside and thieved them. Naturally, it became a serious rift. The items were of close personal value, so it wasn't about money. Better communication may have averted the crisis. In other cases, financial assets are in question. The bottom line is one of those in the marriage vows: "until death us do part". When one mate dies, that ends the marriage and estates fall to those in the will, usually to the remaining partner. Where older people who remarry are often confronted by their offspring, has much to do with material things rather than feelings. You assume that children who do not truly understand when it comes to the deep loneliness of someone widowed, would be overjoyed that their parent found someone else and their life is no longer painful. Unfortunately, it's rare. Feelings run deeply. In a situation I have encountered recently, two older people plan to marry and have not told their children but want to go ahead and make their vows and then make the announcement to family. They fear that telling may spoil their wedding. While I am overjoyed that each of them has found a wonderful new love to enrich and fulfill their lives, I do not agree, they should marry without speaking to family. They need not ask permission. They have considered their union thoroughly and have tested it as much as possible. They have spoken to friends about the wisdom of their choice and finally have gone ahead with their decision to marry. When I want to test a decision, I try to think of the other side and how that works. It's hard to do, but worth the effort. Thinking on the side of a family that receives a sudden announcement of  marriage by their parent to a relative stranger, could make them feel that they don't matter to that parent. It could bring out resentment. They may not expect to give permission but they do want to feel involved in their parent's happiness.  Family is part of a person's life even though that life is independent of children when it comes to relationships.The latter are the sole personal choices of an individual no matter how old the parent is. The family's job and need, should be to support and assist the choices of their elder parents who remarry and thus,allow them freely to regain the gift of someone to spend happily, the rest of their lives with.

Heels

One of a female's rites of passage is the introduction of high heels to a young lady's life. She usually takes up with heels when she is somewhere in her teen years. They begin in "trainers" of a couple of inches. From then on, the heels grow higher and higher. Some women wear heels that are so lofty that they have to learn how to walk all over again. Damages to ankles and toes notwithstanding. High heeled shoes are supposed to make one's legs look longer, thus more attractive. And what ambitious young woman doesn't want to be desired by her dream fella?  But in the real world, attractive to whom? Dreams are generally just that and no more. There is some idea that males apparently find high heels a turn-on. It seems that they fantasize, that with longer looking legs a woman is more model-like and thus more appealing. One thinks Barbie Doll. It is assumed that such males enjoy the Barbie Doll image, one that doesn't actually possess normal human proportions. To be fair, there are a lot of males "out there", who do not like high heels on women, but I don't happen to have met any. And considering equality, if men had to wear the kinds of high heels that women do, one try and they would grab their big runners and use them to make a fast get-away. Most of the ladies I know who do wear such ridiculous shoes, take along flat shoes to wear until they reach the restaurant or club or party destination, and then don them just before entering. It is all a pose and that's okay, because it's part of nature's plan that the birds and other animals do colourful things to lure their mates. But the suffering involved, is no fun at all. What woman doesn't come home after a time of wearing these ridiculous 4 or 6 inch inventions, and fall onto  the nearest couch or chair, removing the offending foot wear with groans of relief. Not only are these fashionable creations for the foot, high, but they are also made with little straps and ties  looking as though they can actually support the sizeable weight above, Jenny or not. Little Biters would be a good name for some of the lacings and bands of leather or plastic that cut into  tender insteps  also struggling with the heel height, as well. Logic does not rule over vanity, apparently. Even models whose business it is to parade down runways, often fall or stumble wearing torturous shoes in which they must not only attempt to point out their garments' best features, but also to wend a precarious way  through glaring lights and glittering audiences in shoes that defy natural movement. Commendations to them, but please fashionistas, don't expect any sensible woman to emulate you or your work, and certainly not your towering spiked heels.

Pomp

Pompous is not good but there isn't anything wrong with a bit of pomp at times. We do it at weddings these days bigtime. There are flowers and confetti and music and people striding about in elaborate, elegant attire they will wear only once. They rent halls and food preparers and servers and the champagne flows freely. Little expense is spared for the occasion. But today on television,  at a more auspicious occasion, the BC provincial Armistice ceremony, I saw crowds of public with uniforms spotting the hoards here and there, not in any special placement or order. A military band was squeezed onto a street side where only those in the immediate area could see them. The wreaths were made of ugly fake grass looking like someone ground them out in a plastic factory and mounted them on styrofoam.  A tiny space at the foot of a monument whose top feature, a soldier, the television audience never did get a chance to see on a zoom lens. The personnel standing at attention at each corner stood stock-still doing their work of honour, but media paid little artistic attention to them. Those laying wreaths did so in a miniscule space and while the guides leading them in their uniforms looked smart and did a fine job, their charges while placing the wreaths in the cramped area, struggled with the thin wire frames that were supposed to hold them. Noticeably, the wreaths were whisked away immediately by a partly visible hand that reached out and snatched them. Where did they go? Far away lined up so that they  were barely noticed, a row of gunnery, popped out once in awhile some loud reports. A distant view of the grand guns was seen through a misty display of recreational sailboat masts that blocked what they were, until one finally figured out that they were the saluting guns. The blob of those directly in front of the monument were squashed together randomly and of course, as always, the sound system broke down and was replaced with one that worked minimally until the real one blurted in  again. The ceremony petered out because there was no emcee to describe what was happening or when. In short, it was a tacky mess. Sorry, but the truth is, organization was missing. I am not one to like ceremony most of the time, but it seems that on this Remembrance Day occasion, a better job of managing it could have made it at least dignified.  The best part was  the military airplane flypast in formation. What was missing was "pomp". Couldn't the event be held in a large grassy area with grandstands and a ceremonial seating be set up? Everyone could see the marching bands, perhaps horse parades of the Mounties, veterans proudly honoured in a march passing the dignitaries. I realize that those presenting wreaths wanted to lay them at the monument but something representing it, could be placed for the occasion and wreaths in actual natural greenery be supplied and chosen by the various honoring bodies and that the offerings be later taken to the monument itself. The gunnery doing their salutes could be in view and the flags and trumpets and bagpipes and bugles could be seen and heard in proper order. It would give one the sense of honour in duty. Hopefully such an event would have been rehearsed proudly so the it all worked smoothly including the sound system. Poems and prayers and tributes could be heard and properly acknowledged. There is comfort in order. That kind of ceremony of honour would be satisfying and touching and worthy of remembrance and remembering.

Barely There

Regardless of my age, I am not a prude. Nor am I someone who aspires to behaviours that are morally and socially unacceptable. What others do, is their business and their freedom of expression. I don't have to like it, however. That is my freedom. Lately, in the broader media, I see photos of Hollywood actresses wearing garments that they must wear to please their employers. At least, I hope those are their reasons, because some of the outfits are horrendous and completely unsuitable to the pared-down bodies that are forced to wear them. Apparently, for these poor ladies, who I hope are ladies, it's all about money and working for those who pay it out. Some of the creations are almost not there. And even if flesh-toned undergarments lurk beneath bits of lace and net, they make women  look like something from unsavory locations that have less than savory clientele. Other garments actually do reveal far more than anyone wants to see at the opera or award ceremonies of any sort. I don't know about you, but sitting next to a guy with hairy legs in shorts at any event other than sports, has me looking for another place to sit. It makes me wonder if the same actresses have to sit through dinners at tables while dressed in creations that look good only on a ramp or at a pole. For example, an opera is no place for too much bare skin no matter how plumped up and pampered it is. One of the photos I saw the other day, showed a woman whose entire body was sparsely laced with stretches of fabric that had to be glued on from shoulder to ankle in order for them to stay in place. I pitied the young woman as she sashayed about for the hungry cameras shouting encouragement at her while she posed and grinned her stark white teeth, fluttered her fake lashes and glowered her glittering lipstick at them. No matter the mansion she inhabits, she must be embarrassed as mother and professional actress. It's hard to take anyone seriously when their rear end is hanging out, made-up, toned or not. My wondering is why not take it all off and be done with it. Guessing must be the issue and the bits of plasticized material no matter how many sequins adorn them, only make the display less attractive, not more intriguing. The lack of covering is no accident. Each garment is meant to elicit salacious tastes in hopes that it may accidentally- on-purpose, reveal something more than it ought. The word beauty flags. Beauty is good taste, purity of line and elegance. It's not blatant sexual titillation. The best designers should be showing off their talents in their calling, not degrading what they worked for all their lives. When you find a garment that is put together to flatter the human frame and is done with exceptional craft , intuition and ingenuity, it should inspire oohs and ahhs, not whoos and whoopsies.  Come on Hollywood, set an example so that your audiences can applaud the dignity and respect the acting profession deserves, not the present-day pandering to  juvenile pop media and peep show fans. Bare bores.

Condo Upsides

While there are definite disadvantages to condo living compared to owning a single family dwelling, there are also to be found, large advantages. After deciding that you are willing to put up with joint ownership of your home and the condo rules and living in close quarters with others,  look at the upside of condo life. First, as I have found, you will have wonderful neighbors. No one where I live is unpleasant, at least, I don't see any of that nature. Of course, there are folks who are rather unusual, but isn't that what makes our world interesting and challenging? We aren't sheep. Also, on the people end of things in condos, you can make very good use of these fine fellow condo owners. If you travel away for a time, you can make reciprocal arrangements for your buddies to water your plants, pick up your mail, be your security check and in some exceptionally generous cases, look after your dog or cat. The latter is naturally in exchange for the same service for their home and or animal unless you are simply a pet lover who doesn't own one. and have fallen in love with their little pal. Another very enjoyable experience in condo mondo, is the social aspect. If you are fortunate enough, as I am, to have various volunteer committees in your complex, there are parties arranged, dinners, social evenings and card nights. Gardening is available if you join that committee. Group living can be rewarding in sensing the old-fashioned or perhaps, "new fashioned" lifestyle, of sharing and caring for those in your immediate community. Bringing finances into the picture, one asks, where else can you have access to the benefits of services that are arranged by your management company: easy collection of fees and special assessments, places to report damage or repair needs, security issues, gardening and cleaning maintenance and safety checks that are necessary to large buildings and a host of other details you are happy to pass on to condo personnel. When you are elderly or somehow in need of immediate assistance at times, condo living is ideal. There is always someone nearby to offer help. It might be something minor or even major, but as I have found in those I live with and beside, there is nothing but well-meaning generosity of spirit and action all around me in this edifice. When I was laid up with a bad back, someone returned my library book. Another I had met only once or twice, brought me some homemade soup and an apple pie. Yet another dear soul went out and bought a medication that I had run out of and needed. Still others offered their assistance with advice and kind words. It made me very grateful that I lived with those who had caring instincts. I will repay their kindnesses by mirroring what they did. It is a world lesson that everyone could attend.  Again, you don't see this or other similar details about condo life in the fine print, but I recommend that you "read between the lines". If you do, you might be surprised at how great condo life can be!

Scary Condo Truths

 Lately, with what  many seniors who give up the "family farm" to live in a condo, are learning, you have elected amateur councils running whole hugely costly building complexes. Most of these elected officials are untrained in the skills of managing multi-million dollar edifices. Why they can't be trained or why they aren't, is a crisis that will perhaps change in a society where condo life is becoming common. Some innocent buyers think that their new home has everything in place and that magically it will all be taken care of. Not so. You will be taking care of it. You will be electing a council of people from among yourselves to do that job. They will determine how your money will be spent. The decisions these volunteers make are no minor matters. Most developments hire a management company and their personnel also, are often only lightly trained to deal with matters that can exceed their capabilities. Management needs to be carefully hired. The state of each strata structure depends solely upon the decisions that this representation comprised of owner councils and professional management makes. The security, safety, operational systems, and more  become the prime responsibility of these few individuals for the many. Expenses of huge residential properties runs high. It also seems that suddenly there arises such bodies to further extrude expense as those engaging in various kinds of attentions necessary to the building itself arise: fire inspections, cleaning, gardening, plumbing, wiring, security, insurance, lighting, assessments of various kinds: the list goes on and on. The building councils also become entangled in on-site personal disputes and other issues connected with group living. Councils are volunteers and their lives are taken up with the attention to caring for those who are fellow residents. It is a big job. As happens often, there can be personal issues between neighbours that are not easily settled and which are certainly not the responsibility of councils to police, but since there is no one else to report an offense or offensive situation to, the council members do become involved  unwittingly and unwillingly. Sometimes at condo meetings, individuals behave in inappropriate ways because of issues they are frustrated over. The solutions to these matters are not easily solved and certainly councils comprised of people who are not paid nor trained specifically, find this difficult or impossible.(I wonder why we can't have official ombudspersons.) Many owners of new condos, do not read the fine print before they purchase their beautifully appointed units. They need to understand shared living and what that means. Shared living is just that. Everyone in that building owns it and is responsible for it. Period. An elected council does the job for everyone in the building and if that job requires money, you pay. I would advise anyone who plans to own a condo to be very well informed before signing on the dotted line. There will be laws, by-laws and rules and these can be changed but not easily, and if so, only by vote.The decisions are firm and fines can be made when the rules, laws and so on, are not adhered to. Appeals can be made but with guidelines. Anarchists can bow out in condo life! It's an "us" not a "me" situation. The condo lifestyle requires a lot of cooperation, coordination, comprehension and very often concession to things that you do not especially want. Your realtor or developer has the fine print. Make sure you go over it carefully. What you see might not be what you get or want, but if you own, you have to live with it. Read the fine print. Please.

Food On Wheels

Grocery delivery isn't something new. I recall, as a child, my mother rushing out the door to join the other ladies of the neighborhood to select fresh goods provided by the Chinese vegetable man whose black van came regularly to our street. Milk and other dairy produce  was delivered on order to our door step. The breadman came to the door bringing baked loaves and other  items. Trips to the butcher shop and those to get canned goods, were the only shopping outings. When super markets arrived on the scene, shoppers flocked to them to buy everything in one store, everything from socks to pots and chocolates to brisket. Today, a new style, based on the old one, has arrived. The modern grocery store shopper can sit at his/her computer and order from a variety of ways, groceries to be delivered right to their door. A personal shopper will select, according to your specifications, what you put on your list. If there is a substitution, it is to your advantage, not the other way around. I am sold on this form of shopping now that I have experienced it. The fresh items that came were flawless, and frozen goods arrived in special containers to keep them solid. I live in a condo and the items came through without hassle, the tricky security system, to my personal door and were carried in to the counter top. Tipping is not allowed, and since you pay by card, there is no fiddling with coinage to be bothered with. What I like best, is that I don't have to take my car out and struggle in a busy lot, to find a parking spot, juggle a basket along the store aisle and then wait in a long line to pay. Everything is completed on my computer and all I have to do is put the groceries away when they come to my kitchen. Easy peasy. While this style isn't for those who love to squeeze tomatoes, shelf gaze or forage, it's ideal in my book. There is planning required, the store I chose allows me to select from the flyer and from all departments, and I may even return things that do not suit. Plastic bags are returned for recycling and the courtesy of the delivery man is second to none. It's a saving even when paying for delivery, a nominal cost. I don't pay for gas, wear and tear on my car. I do not pick up items I don't really need. I don't need to wrangle a basket to my car trunk and back in the rain and cold or subject my nice car to the dents and scrapes of careless people I park beside. I enjoy shopping now that it is so easy and convenient and safe.  Who wouldn't?

Family Doctoring

Family doctor has become an archaic term. There are so few, if any,"family doctors", that when you are asked that question, it's actually embarrassing. Most people other than pregnant women who need on-going care, seldom see the same medical doctor in the clinic more than a few uninterrupted times. It's not to say, it's the doctors' faults. It is to say that medical services are so changed that our attitudes have to, also. When I moved to a new community previously, I asked around if someone could recommend a "good" doctor. The names I was given, I called, but they were not taking new patients. I called the local hospital and was given more names of doctors accepting new patients, but when I phoned, I went on a waiting list. If you are fussy and want a female doctor as many females do, rightly or wrongly, it's a personal and legitimate choice, you may not find one. Many female doctors will attend pregnant women only and state it on their listings. When I moved again  to this new community, even though I didn't need a doctor other than for minor prescriptions, I had to ask a friend to accompany me to ask her doctor if I might become a patient. I talked to the front desk who seemed to be doing the selection process among other matters such as asking registered patients what their problems were before seeing the doctor. Triage by amateur? Many of these folks at reception desks seem to take on work that belies their actual knowledge and training, but that's the system and just try to get past it.  I was very grateful for my friend's recommendation because the doctor was female and although some distance away, reported to be "good". "Good" means that the particular patient and the doctor can establish some sort of rapport. When you have to tell a complete stranger in fifteen minutes, your most intimate physical and often emotional situation, you want someone who seems to understand your "aura". As it turned out, the young female doctor and I, unfortunately, did not find common ground and parted. Even then, not being able to speak to the doctor herself, I had to relate the matter to the office staff. The doctor was busy. And doctors are indeed busy, too busy, with patient loads that are gargantuan.What I had to do to avoid chagrin, was to changed my attitude and I sought out another medical clinic  purported to deal with situations such as my elder one. The clinic I have adopted has promised me a "family doctor" and put me on a waiting list. I don't really care who it is, I am not seeing the doctor for anything other than physical matters. In fact, going to an emergency ward in a hospital seems to be the best way to deal with an immediate problem. And if it requires that you lie down, call an ambulance. At least you can wait on a gurney if needed. There in hospital E you will find doctors who deal with matters quickly and have close facilities that otherwise would take months for your "family doctor" to apply to for access.

Chairperson

Being a chairperson is a daunting position that most of us have experienced. The first time is the worst. The kind of chairperson of which I speak, however, is not about leading a meeting,  but about a person who must sit and do everything in a chair. Me for one. My back being what it is these days, hopefully, on a temporary basis, asks, and not even politely, that I skitter about in a contraption called a rolling walker. It's a kind of skate board for elders or the disabled, temporary or not. At first, I found it awkward and embarrassing, but as the chair and I became better acquainted, it turned into a loyal steed. From it, in spite of the furniture that will likely show the chair's bad moments in small scuffs and accidental encounters for years, I am able to do the laundry, cook and clean. None of the above are easy, but with practice and necessity, the keywords, we, the chair and I, manage quite well. Tell that to my back. Please. The height of the conveyance is such that one must often rise, pain or no pain, to see what's going on. The matters of cooking, particularly demand that one look into pots and pans or microwave ovens, mine, the latter, fortunately at knee level for some architectural quirk no one has been able to fathom. Cooking in a chair is rather like pop-upping and downing. Housework done by chair is even less fun than on two sound legs and one strong back, but it is possible. You can actually wield a hand-held vacuum with some dexterity while sitting down. The best part, is being closer to the floor, and thus able to ferret out the elusive dust bunnies that lurk behind doors and in corners. Folding laundry, especially sheets, is quite another matter on wheels. I finally discovered that my chair has brakes. They keep me from flying across the room for no apparent reason. Sheet folding requires flapping dangerously over the vehicle's side and hoping not to glide or tip, thanks to the brakes. After the day is done: the household chores and all, being done more or less, there is grocery shopping, going to the bank and getting the mail. Grocery shopping was a whole new education when I discovered the huge benefits of on-line groceries that are chosen via photos and flyers, paid for by card and later delivered right to your door. That style will be a keeper even when the chair and I part. Banking now, can be done in the most unique ways, We all know about Paypal and its pals but now there is something called e transfers. You can actually pay someone by e mail and it's fantastic. Utterly. Going for the mail is the most fun. As I whiz down the hall in my bright blue metallic four-wheeler with its handy dandy basket out front full of anything, I may meet my co-residers and while they stand and chat, comfortably I sit. When the time comes to say farewell to my faithful chair steed, I might even miss it. But not the back aches.

Lasagna Siatica

While finding myself almost completely debilitated with a major case of lower back ache, something that revisits during the most inconvenient times, I decided that an easy plan for creating many time-saving dinners out of one, would be lasagna. When it had cooked, I could slice it into sections to place in handy cruets and put them in the freezer. Having mistakenly purchased a package of noodles that do not need pre-boiling before assembling, I thought I had found the perfect solution to convenience while enduring my current back/knee/ankle pain called sciatica. The latter word sounding deliciously Italian, most likely because of it's Latin roots, I felt justified in taking down the carton of spaghetti sauce thinking to embellishing it with whatever I had in the fridge. Yes, there was a side of red pepper, a sweet onion, some frozen spinach and the ever present jug of sherry over at the wine cooler. Not being able to spend time frying up the onion and meat, I simply dumped everything into a pot and let it simmer. I felt justified because Italians do this in making their wonderful sauces. Furthermore, no one was looking. Since I creep about woman-handling a walker with the basket intact, a left over from my dear mother's hip replacement days, I felt quite able to handle mere lasagna. Wrangling a walker cum basket in my miniature kitchen is no easy feat. I had forgotten to take the lastest dose of pain reliever and the walker and my kitchen stool presented a challenge when they met each other and had to be separated. Having wisely placed the pain reliever bottle in the walker basket, all I had to do was reach in and pop the top off and voila, no pain. Ha! Bending to retrieve the bottle from the miasma of assorted usefuls in the basket caused the sciatica to wake up and make itself known. Groaning loudly and struggling toward the fridge doors, there are two of them, I managed to knock over the step stool and trip over the walker but was able to regain balance avoiding hitting my cranium on the granite counter top. I captured a part can of tonic water and downed the pain pill. It required sitting in the walker momentarily to work, while feeling guilty about the bad language that escaped my lips over the fallen foot stool escapade. The pot of tomato sauce was splashing everywhere as I dug about in the freezer section and found four half empty packages of shredded cheese. Their dates were unknown and I didn't care to look. Since the sherry was near by, I grabbed the stubby little round bottle and maneuvered us all toward the stove, emptied a portion in that I hoped was one quarter of a cup. My fire alarm system demands that I keep the door open when I cook and since I had forgotten this step, it began to shriek. Ah, all we needed was a quasi coloratura soprano. Next time I have sciatica, I'm ordering in a pizza.

Bolt of Lightning

Sometimes in life, just when you think everything is close to perfect, from seemingly nowhere, a bolt of white lightning strikes. It can be a sudden accident, a piece of very bad news from afar, or like mine, a serious family health issue that occurs to a person very close.  The words, "it's a tumour and we are not sure, until we remove it, if it is cancerous" throws one suddenly into an unimaginable place. The stable world you once lived in, suddenly has a huge crack in it, a cavernous opening in the solid substance you thought you could trust, and you know you can't allow yourself fall into it. Why? You may be needed. You hear the news, but you don't believe it. It's just too much for your mind to process quickly. The worst is, that it is news, not about you, but about someone you love as much as life itself. You feel that if it were about you, you could deal with it in some cursory manner, but because it happens to someone else, you feel helpless. You are secondary to the problem. You nod and sit down and begin to think about the accompanying intricacies, possibilities, hopes if there are any of them, to be had. Your feelings are about as far down as they can get, but at the same time, you can't let go, you can see only the positives. It's human nature to seek goodness even if it's out of something so bad, it can barely be comprehended. We humans are strong and resilient creatures. We are survivors. We are flesh and blood and thus very delicate, but our strengths are to get through, no matter what. We are hopeful beasts who don't lie down and give up. We fight in some way. And further more, the negatives, if allowed to rule, would be too horrendous to process. But gradually, painfully, orderly, we sort through what  to do next: how to deal with this news, how we can help the individual who received the news about him/herself and who to call on if need be, for help. There are professionals trained to deal with these very things and we have to seek them out.  We try to find solutions to the problem with those knowledgeable, and that process happens over the next phase continuously. It takes a few days for everyone to come down to the realities facing us and those we love. We make a plan to follow whether formally or not. We gather around us those who care, and find great comfort in the sharing of our hopes and our efforts. The "bolt of lightning" that strikes can be used to give us the energy to do what we have to do.  And we do the best we can.

History of Gold

Those of Golden Age, have to be patient in many ways.  It's a time, that you are told,  you can impart the wisdom you have gained over a lifetime, to the younger. It's a tempting thought. But the young want and need, to live their lives in their way, and if mistakes are made, they become the valuable lessons in their lives, not the ones we had. So what does an elder pass on? The work of elders is to impart their histories so that in doing so, the younger may find something of personal value to hold and keep, and perhaps use, in some way on their life journeys. But, like learning the hard way, that flame burns, the best lessons are not tales from the past, but experiences formed in  the present. Personal histories of the aged, add colour and depth to young lives. The true value of learning from elders is to see oneself as the forefront of something very old and precious, very personal and creative. Even unsavory pasts work to do their job in converting bad experiences to corrections of that pattern. Each history provides building material for the young in determining their own destinies. It's a choice as to which bricks of knowledge will be used to construct that plan.  Elderly folk who become upset that their progeny don't take their specific advice shouldn't be concerned. They ought to assume that, like it or not, they did their part simply in telling the family history as they know it. That's lesson enough. It's more important that you offer it, than it be adopted. How do you present this elder gift of your past, the one only you can give? The young being so occupied in these times with work and family, histories told by elders have to be found in small opportunities for brief tales, told in old photos or recounted at family gatherings. Patience is required. Writing histories and keeping them aside is not only satisfying for elders who recount them, but also, marvelous memories for the young to discover later. When my mother died, and I had to dispose of  her effects, I found priceless bits of paper with small notes revealing things I had never known or been told. These hastily penned tiny journals on scraps of paper, don't need to be enhanced or edited.  They stand as recorded, just as the elder did them, complete with every curl of the pen, inflection of the word or glow of a yellowed photograph. Whether these histories in bits or whole, are tossed randomly into a worn suitcase, a shoe box or diligently glued into an elaborately styled album, they are equally perfect in their ways. Often times, it's not how artistic the forms are, but it's the immediateness of the words that charms the most. I have found old recipe books with spelling errors, food spots and margin notes to be far more interesting than some of the fancy scrapbooks with florals and doo dads attached. Just scribble your stories, collect the old pictures and tell your tales. They all make what we were, to what we are.

Protest

Protest is the way that those holding the same fears or hopes gather to demonstrate their concerns. The collected persons are supposed to be peaceful but we know that behind it all,  they are not actually feeling peaceful. Most demonstrations are built on strong feelings, sometimes of celebration gone overboard or of anger and frustration or of a specific cause by an organization. And while the protest or demonstration begins as peaceful, too often the emotional weight of the opposing sides erupts and like a match to straw, it will burst into flame. People are hurt. A tiny physical shove, a rude word with retaliation and it's enough to see things get completely out of hand.  That kind of "flame" denies the whole concept of "peaceful demonstration" by those who thought they simply wanted to express their combined concerns. It's called a riot when tempers are loosed and physical acts are committed.  And that's when we call in the law keepers. Their difficult job is, while remaining neutral, having to cope with people who have lost reason. The law keepers put their own lives at stake trying to make order out of chaos. Demonstrating and protesting began hundreds of years ago and now there are those who are professionals at it. They have been trained and coached to know how to deal with what was once merely a group of individuals who had a reason to come together to make a show of numbers. These times, professional  demonstration folk teach methods of  appropriate attire, signage and strategies and, yes, even how to seek permission to hold demonstrations with notice so that there is police presence. It's a sort of accepted form of saying "yes" or "no" to  the group cause. I always hark to the animal world to find sense in some human reactions. How does a beast protest? Sometimes going back to the most simple view helps to clarify, the complexities of our modern human behaviours. A group of bees or wasps will gather to protect their nest, a clan of gorillas will make a united front to fend off intruders, a flock of crows will collect by scores in trees for a fallen mate. We aren't that far from our natural world when you think about it.  What is worse with we humans, is that we have intelligence, the kind that wants, always, for us to improve and further to improve on improvements. It gets us a long way in most things, but it can also get us into a lot of trouble. Part of the problem is when powers won't listen to individuals and therefore, people feel forced to find a way to be heard. If the number of votes is what it takes to be heard, there is no other route than to gather in numbers, and the larger the number, the more votes there are to attend. Whether this demonstration is a move towards peace or not, depends upon the outcome, and the peaceful outcome depends, oddly enough on the individual.

Secrets

Secrets are like the medusa with its many moving aspects and arms. I am not fond of secrets, preferring information to be open, but stating that is, of course, naive. Secrets fall into the domain of the holder. It's up to  individuals or other bodies to manage the secrets they hold. Most affairs are able to be revealed while others are not. Governmental bodies are leaning strongly toward opening public awareness and offering information as a tool in the prevention of suspicion and negativism. And it is true that trust can only be earned through  revelation. The more truth, the more trust. Personal and private secrets are exempt, naturally, if they have to do with matters that are only personal and private. At a meeting I attended recently, the elected executive presented a motion that all their meetings would in future be in camera and that observers at their executive meetings would not be welcome. Observers, by law or rule, are not allowed to speak at executive meetings, but they hear what is presented and know exactly what issues council discusses and decides upon. The laws or rules also protect certain private information by allowing executives to call for moving into in camera sessions. The reason the in camera motion for all meetings of executive, was the fear that discussions among the executive might be passed on by the observers to the detriment of the organization,  thus the motion to go entirely and always, into the secrecy of in camera. There is, indeed, valid concern in that conclusion. One must assume that observers, being directly involved as members of the body, in matters of the executive, will be discreet. There is always fear of rumor and that, too, is valid. But observers as electors of the executive, a trust position, should have the intelligence to quell information that is not suitable to talk about publicly. There again, trust works both ways, Executive trusts those who attend their meetings and those observing should honor that right and use discretion. But rumors will happen. It's part of human nature to love speculating and guessing and bandying about issues. In some ways, it is helpful to look at issues in many different ways and consider outcomes, both real and speculative.  At the same time, it can be dangerous, but only if those listening and discussing, forget to seek out verification of information gained via rumor mills before passing on information. Facts remain facts, and need to be polished up a bit by finding those who have them. Group dynamics have rules and these are to find leaders who will do the work of many to help the few, but with trust that is mutually respected. Secrets need to be harnessed and let out, occasionally, for airing. But watch out that they don't gallop off!

Woman Alone

Women alone, are those who have been left alone in some way: widowed, divorced, abandoned by family, by choice and so on. They aren't all elderly whatever "elderly" means. Most women are not adept at using tools to maintain their homes or are interested in driving into the thick of city traffic. We spend a lot of time at home. Going out walking, either after dark or in places that are less than safe, is what keeps women from venturing out alone. The other day, an acquaintance asked me if I had gone into the park to enjoy the new pathway in the woods. I had to answer that I had not, and when asked why not, told him that I didn't walk alone in forests. The questioner forgot that couples don't have to think about safety, but we singles, do. It's the same with driving. I use familiar routes and don't go on long motor trips alone. I want to, but it isn't a good idea. Again, safety. Young women are also cautious fortunately, and thus go about in groups. Another hazard of living alone is finding services for small repairs. While the job is small, such as adjusting a cupboard door so that it doesn't stick, the cost is not. For a worker to come out it's around 100 dollars or more with time and supplies added on. The reason I've been given, is that there's a truck load of tools ready to do the job and it has costs. Frankly, Scarlett, I don't give a darn about the tool truck. I have a screwdriver. All I need is for someone to put a teaspoon of gas in their vehicle and spend 10 minutes adjusting the little thing on the cupboard door. DIY you say, but I say, that's not what I speak of. It doesn't cost one hundred dollars to come to my door from a few blocks away. The excuse that "everyone charges the same" doesn't help my budget either. I was at the grocery store and the clerk looked at me askance when I asked her if she were going to load the bags into my cart before I left. She was surprised but  did it reluctantly. Since when, at a major upper level grocery chain, does the clerk have to be asked to place bags in the cart? I take my car in for oil and get a list of costly things that need to be done. What do I know? I always ask the mechanic to prioritize and time the items he lists. The eyeballs roll skyward but he does it. What do I know about cars? What does anyone know in this specialty computerized age? Times have changed and we seem to live in a growing myopic world. There are many advantages to living alone and making all your own decisions, but the downside is a bit of a slippery slope.

Taboo Subjects

I was once advised never to, in good company, discuss money, religion or politics. What do people nearly always end up discussing but precisely these topics in one way or another?  It's not to say they do so peaceably and that proves the fear that they might be inflammatory and thus, should be avoided. That leaves the weather, the kids and one's health as discusson and how boring is that?  One should not deny the three topics stated earlier, because they are not actually the issue. It is behaviors when discussing the topics, that  are to blame.  Topics such as money, religion and politics often, since they are very personal, become confrontational it is true. But should that fact deny discussion? It seems to me that if one is discussing or even arguing, there are societal rules about doing so in a way that is not offensive. What are the rules? First someone offering an opinion, is doing merely that. Those hearing it, should listen and may argue the point after, giving their ideas and making their points, without expecting to force them on others. Sometimes you must simply compromise and let it go. It is a discussion, not a war. If one can't discuss without anger, one shouldn't discuss at all. Some argue about money matters. Money matters even for those who say "it isn't about money". Most of the time, it is about money. Almost every thing we do and talk about, has, in some way, something to do with money. Money has never been the evil, but how we use it often is. And then, comes religion as a topic. We all have it or not.  From what I glean from our constitution, it is a freedom and a right to choose a religion. There isn't just one religion that we have to practice. What you choose is yours and what I choose is mine. Here is an example. As I have heard about one particular religion: "oh, ha ha, you get your sins forgiven and then, you can just go out and do them all over again". I guess those who use that uniformed position, forget the bottom line, "go and sin no more". It's human nature to take things out of context as argument. But it is unfair argument and that should be pointed out. Next we argue about politics.  I thought a political choice was something personal and private and above judgement. Whatever party you choose is your preference, and while others may try to convince you that their choice is better, and tell you why, it won't change your mind if you are adamant. And it should not lead to fisticuffs.  Your personal beliefs in whatever, are entirely yours and as such, are protected under the law. Why then do some individuals persist in forcing their choices on others who have different beliefs? And why is it disallowed to discuss such situations publicly, when they are clearly  in our country's constitution as rights and privileges. Learning and practicing the rules of debate and argument would make our lives much more peaceful, publicly and personally if only we used them.

To Bra Or Not To Bra

To bra or not to bra, that is the question - apparently. There's a recent move for women to go bra-less. I didn't know you couldn't or shouldn't. I always thought it was a choice,  Apparently, the women who opt for this current kind of freedom, feel that somehow they've been denied it, but I recall in the hippy sixties, it was common for women to dress without the benefit of Lycra and wire. I am not sure that most women would be comfortable freeing this part of their anatomies, but I know that some men wouldn't mind at all. Just as staring would become a factor among women and others, if they freed certain parts of their anatomy. Why this is, is the sexual mystique that we all live within. It's a kind of unwritten law we consider to be acceptable under our modesty rules to hide what we certainly know is there. Not wearing a bra might cause somewhat of a situation in a social gathering, and in a way, the idea of it, intrigues me. I am not sure if we are ready to find it acceptable  to "let it all hang out", a term used in the article. Dressing bra-less in a light-weight fabric might cause one to receive a lot of unwanted attention regardless of good intentions. In the piece on bra-lessness, apparently women are flocking to get their new and "free", looks onto social media as quickly as possible. I am, therefore, not sure if their motivations are all that pristine in nature. No pun intended.  It certainly makes one wonder how much of this sudden display, is bravado or simply attention garnering. And why is that? I know many women who would find going bra-less quite uncomfortable since they are more endowed than others who feel it of no concern at all. We are varied in our shapes and weights and personal mores. And one should consider why bras were invented in the first place. I suppose they arose out of the corset era where anything visibly female was either exaggerated such as bustles, or denied such as the wooden fortified corsets. Evening wear in the most decorous eras strangely, was  freeing especially regarding corsets that permitted women's chest not only to bare, but to bear themselves as much as possible: their proud decolletage. Bulges were welcomed all framed in ruffles and lace, but only in the evenings. Not a woman I know, today, finds going bra buying enjoyable. We search often in vain, to find ones that don't pinch, squeeze or let us down. It's a chore of searching, sorting and trying on. And no one has invented a truly easy one of these garments to put on. They fasten mostly in the back. Why? Is it because many women used to have maids standing behind, to help them with that task? Why can't all bras be made to fasten in the front where one doesn't have to go to contortion lengths to fasten those tiny hooks easily and quickly. And straps? They fall down at the shoulders or dig into them or rub in unfriendly ways. The ladies who find bras easiest are the ones who don't need them in the first place. Theirs are hardly-there little lacy bits that are more a pretty excuse than a worker.  Ah well, we shall see how long the movement lasts. Could be but a bulge in time.

Terry Fox Day

Terry Fox is a hero who will never be forgotten. Today marks the anniversary which no Canadian will forget. Terry's will to run and raise money to further cancer research shall continue to be remembered until his goal of achieving a cure has been reached. While that goal has found its end in a few ways, cancer, a many-headed monster remains. Part of the problem is precisely that: cancer isn't simply one disease. It is of one main character, but because it is so varied in its locales and kinds, it is not something easy to "cure". This morning, on radio, my favorite medium, I heard a chap speak about accompanying Mr. Fox on his run across the country. Terry had arrived in Ontario and this gentleman assisted the Fox entourage, a tiny one, in its hopeful effort by one young man, to achieve a fund-raising run from the Atlantic to the Pacific, Terry's home. As we all know, sadly, it couldn't complete that, because the cancer re-appeared and the run ended as did Terry Fox's life, not long after. This young man knew how many others fell from this terrible disease and didn't complete their lives just as he couldn't also. Even that defeat was not defeat. I lost many of my people from cancer as do we all, and if a cure is found, it will be momentous. No one who has lost those close to them can describe what it's like to see or hear the fatal words, I'm sorry to tell you that it's cancer. For doctors to have to make this announcement, is the worst part of their work. They know that not all cancers are ones that can't be beaten, but they also know how personally devastating it is to fight the disease no matter what the outcome. They also know that you can't keep it away by eating certain foods or avoiding certain habits. It can happen to anyone, at any time of their life. There are ways of trying, however, and some cancers are kept away when people live as healthy a lifestyle as possible. Smoking and other substances inhaled or consumed, that prevent  life sustaining oxygen from doing its work in our bodies is known to open the chances of cancer entering a life. And to use excuses such as, I know those who smoked all their lives and they didn't die of cancer, are not a valid reason to take a chance or affect that of others. Allowing yourself to work in a place that is conducive to inviting cancerous effects because it pays well, is another invalid excuse. Taking care of our bodies is our biggest and most important responsibility. We can't care about or take care of our families or friends by abusing the privilege of life and doing what we know may possibly cause cancer. Life is free and it's all we have. Even those who have endless amounts of money will tell you that your health is a far greater asset than gold. Gold won't save you from cancer but it can help those who are in the business of trying to find out how to, and they need a bit of your gold today. Remember Terry Fox who gave his life, his golden life for others. Give.

Radio Remember

TV doesn't do it all. Well, Netflix comes close with its no ads, not-just-blockbusters, lotsa choice formats, but radio has it, over all. Nonsense, I hear screamed in the background., televison gives me pictures, a thousand...   No, not nonsense: good sense. When I get up in the morning, and am busily scrambling, brewing and toasting, I can't be watching a screen or thumb-dumbing on a device. I have things to do and places to go where no man goes, other than, yes, the radio! I dug up an old transistor radio (those under the golden age will have to use the encyclopedia here) that I keep on the bathroom shelf and while I go about the ablution business in the early mornings, it keeps me informed, entertained and in "the loop". When I exit the small room, I am busily going about keeping down the dust, fluffing up the pillows and generally making the place presentable. My hands are not going to hold some little electronic bit to communicate because I am in the real world, and the real world is demanding my pro-active attention. The radio is doing its best to make my life more intellectually complete, while at the same time helping me avoid future serious arthritis in the thumb. Aside; I do fear for our texting young and their joint damage fifty years from now when I'll be fertilizing daisies. What one does in early life seems to show up, later, and it's no joke. But, back on topic. Radio is quality, at least the government sponsored station that I adhere to. It keeps me up to date on world issues, and unlike newspapers, provides me with more than headlines and compost filler. It speaks to me hands-free in the car and is my only emergency tool in the event of an event. I can receive tsunami directions, blizzard warnings, stock market trends and road snarls, not to mention, soothing my hungry, raging beast tummy returning home from work in a traffic jam. Radio is fun when you pick up shows that flirt with comedy or introduce you to people doing small but important things, as well as those on the other side of Good. If we want, truly, to be active citizens, we need to be introduced to the huge variety of people in this varied world we live in. We need to see the good and the bad, but always with that comfortable distance radio provides. Music and the arts are seldom covered as fully as on the radio. Seldom, do we get as much background information from experts in fields of current interest as in radio interviews or essays. We are speechified by politicians and professors and the proletariat, alike.  And best, there are no flashy ads to interrupt or interfere in our thoughts on a subject. Sometimes I wonder how many radio fans are out there who still enjoy the chat of a "host" or the music of "our very own", the voices we have come to know and love and trust. Turn on the radio.

Blaming Bullies

You've heard it, too: blamers blaming someone or something for the misery in their lives, be it large or small. They rant on for hours about what someone is doing to them, but have little or nothing to say about what they are doing to stop it, no matter what the cost. A friend of mine describes her husband as a monster and yet they have been together for over fifty years and reared a family in the midst of their horrendous marriage. When I managed to talk her into telling me why she put up with it, the answer was "it's easier to just go along with it and anyway, I need the financial support". Easier? What? How easy is fifty plus years of putting up with a bully of a man or in a man's case, a bully of a woman, eating up your valuable lifetime, staining it with misery. How easy is it for kids to witness, and unfortunately ape, that kind of situation? I don't like divorce any more than the next person, but bullying is something intolerable and it must stop. In the case of boss ogres, a well paying job is hard to leave, but hating and fearing to go to work daily, just isn't worth it. There are other jobs, other men, other women. If the offending parties cannot cure their sickness of needing to push others around, I guess the only way to solve it, is to leave the situation. Get out and stay out. There are too many safety options available now for women or men to allow bullying in their lives. We have shelters and doctors and policemen who are there to help. Not all are helpful, but seeking out one who is, is better than living in sorrow. We have one life, to quote the old saying, and it's all we have. Just one. Why live it in misery under the rule of a bully? Blame, unfortunately,  lies not only with the perpetrator in that kind of problem, it also lies with the person who does nothing about it. Fear? Yes, there is fear and a lot of it, especially when the children are dragged into the picture. Your children, however, need a full life, too, even with only one good parent. But fear shouldn't turn us into blobs of jelly. We are all equally worthy of a perfect life. There are times when, no matter what, we have to act to save our own lives. When your ogre of a boss treats you like a slave, it's you bending under the will of a bully.  Stress will destroy you sooner or later. Money isn't everything. Happiness and a peaceful existence, come first. Bullies have this interesting pattern, and it's written in stone. They treat their victims horrifically and then they turn around and become a wonderful, generous prince or princess, and give you their gifts of regret and promises and kind words, and back you go, right into the middle of the problem again. It's the last time, you say to yourself. But you know the fear that once again, as ever, the abuse will return just as it always has. You are the one who has to act. The bully won't stop, ever. Blame yourself for a change. Do what you need to do for yourself, and fix it.

Not About Books

Book clubs are a fad. Everyone I know belongs to at least one book club. Why? Reading is more something you do because it's a habit, but it's also something that you need to stimulate your mind - or should be. Books inspire people and teach people, they don't simply entertain. So often, I hear a book clubber say, all I want is to be entertained when I read a book; I am not, after all, taking a course. Very well, but what is meant by that because "entertainment" means something different to each person? Some like mysteries, others, adventure, yet others, to read the latest best sellers and so on down the shelf. Book clubs who study books in detail with lists of questions and on-line bios of the authors, struggle to find books that their patrons will enjoy. Not an easy job. Like running a book store, the leader can't, as they do, depend entirely upon what commercial sales gurus tell them. They have to rely entirely on their own judgement of their audiences of readership. In a book club with which I enjoy the privilege of having begun, the members comprise, other than the ever-present popular mystery/detective/spy kinds of fans,  those who like non-fiction, western, fantasy and horror tales. To select one book for study, that excites all of them alike, is impossible. That is why, I don't choose to sacrifice one particular book for discussion at our sessions. And that leads me to wonder why these dear people come month after month. The answer is, to socialize, to debate and discuss, not really what the book is about, but what their ideas, stimulated by the book subject, become. Book clubs are just another, what we used to call "coffee klatches". They are opportunities to have contact with other people who read and want to say something about what they read. The coffee becomes noisy wine therapy, not whining, although that occurs, too. But there are times when one wonders if interest will flag, and members will simply become bored having to listen to themselves and each other, blabbing on and on about what they read. The saving grace, is that authors continue to pump out books at alarming rates and not all of them are ho-hum series stuff with big name jackets and recycled plots using current events as the basis. Some books are fresh and new, and delve into human nature in such a way, that we find ourselves buried somewhere in the middle.  It's not about books but about seeking  treasure from an author's brain and throwing it into the pot to mix with ours at book clubs. Long may book clubs thrive. It's not all about books.

Scent-sible

Fads seem to catch on and go viral. One of the recent ones is allergies. While some allergies are true afflictions that need medical attention, others are merely, I believe, ways of seeking to control their environment by something they simply don't like, therefore, it becomes their "allergy". And it gets them a lot of attention, however brief. The other day, a woman sidled up to me, one I have known for over a year, and kindly (I think) informed me that my body lotion made her allergic reaction flare up. She said, "Sorry, but that's why I don't go near you. But I LIKE you." I will let you surmise what you will about that piece of dialogue. First, why didn't she tell me immediately so that I did not use the lotion. We'd both have been a lot happier. The matter had been bandied about by all of her associates and mine, until she was sent to "bell the cat". Was I offended? Yes, but not because of the scent I no longer use. I was offended at the delay informing me. The scent in the lotion which was made by a company that is proud of its non-allergenic products, was made of fragrant herbs and likely some preservatives. It was interesting to me that the lady in question, eats a large amount of garlic and doesn't wear deodorant. She also has herbal scented candles all around her domicile. Recreationally, and legally, she imbibes occasionally with another kind of herb that she smokes. Taking all of this information into mind, I deduced that her "allergy" is likely to be psychosomatic rather than a physical aberration. I hear about allergies so much that I begin to wonder if they aren't control issues. At a barbecue recently, while wearing the same innocent body lotion that is not detectable unless you are breathing down my neck, a young woman made a huge fuss about having to faint because she stood by me at one brief point. She said nothing to me, but staggered off toward the wildly smoking barbecue where she vented her abhorrence of my scent to all there who were also breathing in the pungent smoke at the scene. Her hand was at her forehead making me think of languishing ladies of an earlier era, and there were clutches of concerned people glancing my way. Two of her large dogs whose odour offended me, were also in rapt sympathy at her feet. I would have minded but for the fact that she was also "allergic" to everyone else's pot luck dishes. She was a vegan, gluten glucose and lactose intolerant. She couldn't touch alcohol and all water had to come from a non-plastic bottle and not one made with aluminum. Did I miss anything? Her infamy spread and lasted for at least an hour until everyone tired of giving her any more of their fun time and drifted off to the food table with their beer, perfume and shaving lotion. I joined in. I had worked up an appetite.

Artist Or "Artist"

Art is such a broad field that it's hard  to comment on it. Everyone has his/her own concept of what it means. I have been to art galleries all over the world, in small places and metropolises. I've seen art that looks like art to me and some that doesn't. I am not an art critic and I don't envy those who are. Art is expression of some sort, done in some sort of way, on something chosen to contain it. From that definition on, it's anyone's guess what art is. I once entertained the thought that I would like to study art seriously and took many courses toward that end. I could see that I simply didn't have the kind of dedication to become an artist, to tolerate the lack of funding and the energy that goes into it. Trying to make a living at any of the arts is almost impossible and if someone heading in that direction doesn't work in another paying field, they likely won't become rich doing it. Most real artists have studied drawing and much more formal preparation, for  a good part of their lives before they were taken seriously as artists. They have delved into colour and light and form and all the mechanical aspects of dealing with and putting material into some kind of form and order that makes art. Some amateur "artists" skip the training part and dive right into slapping paint on canvas or putting together some other sorts of things and calling it art. Who can judge whether it is art or "art", or as some would say, craft. The art that I have trouble with is when someone decides he or she is an "artist" and without conscience, whaps on paint according to something akin to what they've seen a genuine artist do, and glibly call it "my modern art". They attach high prices to their usually smeared, smudged and dripped creations and actually find a few buyers who don't know any better. They defend this nonsense by saying, well, if Picasso or Thompson or Kandinsky can do it, why can't I? What they don't realize or perhaps are ignorant of, is that true art is a matter of development over a long period of time. You can certainly "do" modern art but how did you get there? Where did you come from to get to that place? And where is it going next? The artists I mention, developed their styles by experiment and struggle to find what they wanted to say. It isn't easy to explain what they ended up accomplishing, and few of us, we ordinary people, understand that.  An artist begins in training the eye to see and draw, to learn  the basics and gradually moves on up from there. It takes a very long time and eons of thought and struggle. You can do what you want with paint and canvas, but you can't be a true artist unless you have progressed in a similar way. To paint a red dot in a white field is easy but what does it mean?  It's not what you did but where you came from and why and how you arrived at that point. That simple red dot is not simple at all.

Who Is Allowed In

I heard a very passionate person, today, on a radio broadcast, arguing that certain kinds of people should not be able to become Canadians because of what their country's beliefs are and that those beliefs don't fit with ours. She outlined what a Canadian is, according to her views, to our laws and the nature of our character, here. It gave me great cause for thought. I know that when I visit another country and enter it, I adhere to the laws of that land, and sometimes, while I may not agree entirely with what its concepts are, in respect of my being there, I know that I should at least try to understand the customs and behave appropriately as far as I am able. It tells them that I appreciate the differences between our mores and theirs. It becomes a form of global  friendship and understanding. In Canada we have laws, and they do not allow abuse of man or beast and no matter what one's tome of faith is, the law here stands before all else. Those who enter this country, when they come here to settle and stay and become Canadians, understand that. If they didn't, they wouldn't attempt to become citizens. They evidently want to make a change. And while the vast majority of us, came here, also, as immigrants, we should welcome others who want to be with us to form this country's grand plan.  I think we can, for the most part, trust that idea. The person arguing to disallow certain kinds of people with beliefs that are not legal here, forget the process for becoming a Canadian. We have freedom of religion and a whole lot of other constitutional freedoms and responsibilities in Canada and if you wish to be Canadian, you have to embrace them. Immigrants study these requirements and are tested, and are willing fully to adopt Canadian ways even though situations aren't the same as in their original countries. Where certain of their beliefs don't fit with the legalities of this country, they know it, and decide, regardless, to embrace true Canadianism. If we have concerns in that direction we should look carefully at our own beliefs. Few of us adhere strictly to our tenets, and if we did so perfectly, we might come pretty close to sainthood, no matter what our faiths are. But we know that the law is law and it rises above all else for everyone, no matter what one's personal beliefs are. We have to render unto Caesar as the saying goes. Welcoming other world citizens to our country is part of what makes us Canadian.

School

It's September and kids are going back to school. Some are staying in the protective arms of their parents who are their teachers and call that school. That's a topic for another day. Having spent  thirty years plying the hallways and classrooms of school, and now with the perspective of being retired, I have a few thoughts about what education is. First, I don't know any teachers whether considered "good" or not, who don't like their work. You can't be a teacher for long, and not love what you do. It's too hard a job. Lots of people think that teaching is easy. They may say, ha, you go in at nine and you're out at three; what's hard about that? First of all, I don't know any teacher who could accomplish that time frame. When you ask the same parent to come into the classroom and spend time there, they soon drop the "teaching is easy" fallacy. Teaching is a profession because, as in most professions, you have the responsibility of the way you do your work. You have a guide to follow, certainly, but it doesn't tell you how you will present the material. It doesn't tell you how you will use your ideas and resources to hope that your students enjoy learning. Those aspects are up to you, the teacher.  The first day of school, there will be large group of children looking at you and expecting to learn during the year, some important skills designed specifically for them. That alone is an onerous task when you really think about it.  There is enormous complexity in teaching thirty, more or less, young minds with their varied backgrounds and multitudes of unique qualities, a program  that tells you what to teach but not exactly how to get it across. You go to teacher's college to learn the how parts but putting your own personality into the mix on the job, is what makes it work or not.  And it doesn't always fit every child's needs no matter how hard you try. Every child has a different learning rate and style. As in real life, sometimes there are occasional natural classroom conflicts. Parents hear what "goes on" in the classroom through their children and while they don't filter any other important information in their lives that way, they believe, literally what their kids say. Most of what is said when parents ask their children, how did it go in school today?, is "okay" or "fine" but sometimes it's not, and that's when teacher and parent have to get together. The first teachers in life are parents. But when schools and home get together as teachers, that's when education is complete. It's the best opportunity you can give your child. But the two of you educators, are not the only teachers your youngsters have in this complex world. School happens everywhere and in everything the child sees, hears, does and senses. Serious business, schooling. Serious world, they meet.

What the Dickens?

It's Labour Day and a day that should be one causing us to think of workers. I haven't been in the work market for a long time, but all around me I see and hear tales about the working world. I speak to two married parents who carry a huge load of debt. Both university trained parents work, not for frills, but to survive. Hope of paying off the mortgage are unlikely and sending their children to university at the outrageous future costs of that, is something they don't want to think about. Month to month, they can just get by trying to live an average life. Saving extra money for a glorious retirement isn't possible. If their jobs didn't have benefits such as medical, dental and pension plans, only emergency care would be possible. Maybe their nice house and cars make them appear "rich" to some but they aren't. No one sees the two at the dining room table monthly, trying to figure out how to have a holiday away or buy the kid's bike or dance lessons or the fashion runners. Theirs is a success story, however. Down the way, in a rental, lives another family. They just learned that Dad who is bordering fifty doesn't have a job and at his age, is unlikely to find one. His company "went under". The choices are, that he goes to work up North or tries for a starter wage job in town. Starter wage is what teens make who live at home and drive mom's car. But what other choice is there, when the grocery bill alone is scary? The chief wage earner is now mom who goes to work on the bus. She worries about rent and groceries. At the moment, they are slowly sinking further and further into debt. Their teens who work after school and weekends, complain that their "friends" have all kinds of things they do not, and that it affects their social standing at school. They ask "how come?" even though they know "how come". The family sits at the kitchen table wondering what to do. There are no answers other than a job, and soon. In a tiny house on the corner, there is a widower whose neglected place needs a roof. he can't afford a "home". His only choice is to sell but he owes huge back taxes and penalties.  He has a government pension and that's it. He was a house painter and while he worked which was rarely, since people in his neighbourhood couldn't afford to hire one, he tried to save what he could, but it simply didn't meet what he needs now. He sits in front of his old TV trying to think if he can afford tuna fish and macaroni, or just macaroni this month when the pension comes in. He's lost track of taxes and insurance. Those are luxuries he can't afford if he wants to pay his hydro bill and cable. He gave up his car a long time ago. His family lives far away and when they call, he tries to put a smile in his voice but he is lonely and when he doesn't feel well and sees the doctor, he is always happy to know he isn't sick. He can't afford to be sick. What I write, Dickens did in story form and did it well enough to make a difference. Not any more.