Pearls Among Us

A very long time ago, my friend and I were on our way to some event but she, the driver, asked if I wouldn't mind stopping for a bit. She wanted to check up on her grandmother who lived nearby. When we arrived, she asked if I would like to meet the woman. I did. We went into the front garden of a pleasant house and took the side path to the back. Down a few steps, there was a door. It was a "basement suite". The door opened and an elderly lady smiled us in. The tiny apartment was tidy and although it had its little treasures here and there, none of them were of the expensive sort. Soon the grandmother had the kettle on for tea. Even though we were due soon at our other locale, we stayed to enjoy it and the home-made cookies. I felt it a revelation to have this experience. I thought there must be a host of people in the city living just like this after a lifetime of contributing to it. Theirs were ordinary lives. Like pearls that never see the surface, they have a certain beauty that no one knows or ever shall.  A life drawing to its close with perhaps no great accomplishments, has also perhaps, no regrets. It was time to go. Putting on her sweater, the lady insisted on picking a few flowers to give us. She said she had permission. As we drove off, I began to think of the grandmother as one of so many "pearls" we seldom consider. The woman was a nurse who had done duty in the armed forces during World War Two. She met her husband there, and when the war was over, they came home and lived and worked all of their lives in the same city in which they were born. They had a house but when their family grew up, they sold it and moved into a smaller rental. They were able, only thus, to retire, using the proceeds. Along the way, they had done a bit of travelling in their car and enjoyed their grandchildren when their own children went on holidays.  Both the lady and her husband lived a good, long life and when her husband passed on, the grandmother turned down offers to live with her children. She wanted to remain independent. Her funds had dwindled markedly and her lifestyle was humble, but she coped. Like a pearl, she had begun strong like the tiny grain of sand inside an oyster shell.  Slowly her life grew, year by year, quietly layer by layer, every event marking the days. The couple had survived the Great Depression, wartime with its rationing and loss of life, the costs of rearing children who all became rather successful. The old couple's lives were gentle like a pearl, lustrous and satisfying, but not that of a sparkling diamond. They didn't need, or know, riches:  annual holidays on tropical islands or driving foreign cars or owning big houses or going first class anywhere. They were practical people who always for their childrens' sake, kept their "global footprints" small and few. No one writes biographies about this kind, but memories of the little white haired lady, make me wonder how many "pearls" there are out there, people alone and coping in these expensive times, people who made this country what it is,and ask for nothing in return.

Cuppa

I love my morning coffee and recently got one of the small one or two cup coffee makers. They are made for use with tiny packets of coffee that fit into a slot. Cold water is poured in and a button pressed, and the machine makes all sorts of lovely noises until coffee pours into your cup or mug. I used to have a large coffee maker, but it made far too much coffee for one person. I gave it away and opted for the "modern" machine that now adorns my counter top. What I found out is, that besides the expense of the coffee that comes in its own tiny container, the container itself must be discarded into landfill. These small cups, add enormously to the pile of non-biodegradable garbage that is fast filling our world. Reading the stats on how many of the convenient coffee packets are discarded daily, was shocking. And not excusable. When I read the instructions on the machine, something that most of us don't do unless an emergency arises, I found that the bit that holds the small coffee containers, has another layer under it which will hold and filter ground coffee. The left-over grounds are easily put into compost bins. I saw that I could still use my nice little helper machine, but that I had the option of making coffee from my own grind.  For considerably less than the amount of money to buy a month's supply of the small packaged coffee conveniences, I could purchase my favorite dark coffee in the bean state, and grind my own. I enjoy dark coffee and I was finding the packets made less than palatable coffee. One could make only one cup before the coffee turned to water. The recommendations said not to run a second watering through the packets. It was true, unless you wanted coffeeless hot water or add another packet. When I used up the last of the convenience packets, I bought myself some wonderful beans and a grinder and for the first time in a long time, did the morning crossword puzzle to the aroma of rich dark brew and the pungent taste of "real" coffee from fresh ground beans. Mmmm. Lacing my new morning delight with a dollop of sweet cream, I savored my "own" coffee. It made me think of other ways to sidestep packaging or cardboard convenience foods sold in containers that we really do not need. Meat can be purchased in large amounts and rewrapped  using much less freezer plastic. Many food items can be bulk purchased and put into recycled washable containers that can be used over and over again.  Homemade bread is so easy to make, it is ridiculous. And it's much less expensive and fun creating your own special additions. Toppings of oats or other cereals can be "invented" by the kids. Morning muffins are easy and can be stuffed with all sorts of interesting things: orange slices, bacon and cheese, berries. Let the kids invent their own Surprise Muffins. I hear someone saying, but it takes time. Sure it does but the time isn't that much more than fighting with wrappings and then having to store and recycle them. Maybe a family meeting to let the kids come up with ideas would help and certainly, their participation if not weekdays, weekends. Perhaps a Sunday breakfast using some of these sorts of principles and done by the family all working together would be fun. This kind of project sets examples. Now is the time to teach the young and the time we take to do it, is important. We want our tomorrows to make a better world for those who follow.

Secrets of Youth

When you reach "of an age", you can always use a little help. It might be a bit of muffin-top reduction with the use of spandex or perhaps a modicum of sunny colour to brighten up the  face  or the use of a jacket camouflaging the little hump that somehow mysteriously appears on some older backs. Everyone uses a private and secret aid of some sort to feel better, hoping they might look just a bit younger. You know exactly what I mean, unless you are one of  the "natural"  people who "grow old gracefully". I have yet to meet anyone who actually does this, other than talking about it. One of the useful aids to enhancing one's look, is shoulder padding. When women begin to see their once-square shoulders  heading south along with many other body parts doing the same thing, they often revert to padding to give a bit of a lift to their frame.  It's hard to find shoulder pads these days. A women's wear clerk advised me, in eyebrow lifting terms, "shoulder pads are passe, dear; no one uses them any more". Ignoring the patronizing "dear", I advised her back, "Really? I never gave them up".  A few decades ago, shoulder pads were huge. Football players would envy the look.  Still further back, conversely, women with sloping shoulders were considered the ideal beauty.  Today with fashion going all over the place, it's a choice. And my choice is to add a little height in the collar bone region. Now that sewing supply stores are disappearing, finding dress-making items such as shoulder pads, is almost impossible. I take them from garments I discard. ( Buttons, too. Just try and find a place to buy buttons! ) I sew onto the pads, a piece of the grabby part of the velcro, put the pads onto my shoulders, making sure the velcro attaches firmly to my dress or top's shoulder seams with a quick push and rub. It usually works quite well. Unfortunately, some clothing doesn't have the kind of nap that allows for the velcro to stick securely. While I usually find a fallen pad somewhere in the house, there have been occasions when one of these aids drops out in the most embarrassing places. Once having changed back into my clothing at the doctor's office, I noticed that when he sat down to discuss something with me, one of my shoulder pads lurked near his right foot. He didn't see it fortunately, but I made sure that I lingered until he finally got up and excused his busy self. Hastily, I dived for the lost pad swiftly just as he left. Another time, in church, as we approached the communion rail, one of these aids, slid down my sleeve to rest mid-aisle.  People merely skirted politely around it. I abandoned that shoulder pad entirely, but did check the lost and found during the week. No shoulder pad turned up. I suspected there might be another collector amongst the congregation. Sometimes even at home, a shoulder pad drops out and then the search is on. How can such a small thing be so hard to find? Having a little dog has its advantages. They  locate slippers, tennis balls, old sweaters and apparently, shoulder pads. A good wash and a stitch or two after the dog has played with it, and the shoulder pad is whole again and ready to go.

Homeless Schools

Schools in many places are closing because of declining child enrollments. What to do with schools that are empty? Make then community activity venues? There are lots of these already as well as community rentable facilities that churches and other organizations depend upon for revenue. Some schools at present, sit empty for a very long time before being either torn down or converted.  My suggestion is to convert some of them into homes for the homeless. The buildings are solid and secure. Classrooms could become dormitories. There are  washroom facilities for  many, and with gym shower rooms, adequate cleaning up facilities for residents. The recreation rooms, libraries and other small rooms such as a "nurse's room", could create a a complete facility with space for a government hired staff as well: health care, education, counselling. The grounds could provide wonderful outdoor recreation, parking and security. The entire perimeter could be hedged and treed, the entrance made attractive and secure. Community who object to having "those" people in their neighborhood, need not worry about their children; their children are off at another school.  So let's take a closer look. Smith, a resident, with a "history" of  mental and other issues starts the day with a shower down near the gym and then, it's breakfast served in the school cafeteria. Breakfast was made by the team of trained residents who earn a small wage. They were trained by volunteers from the immediate community. The community wants to make the new facility a good place in their neighborhood.  Smith is heading to a class in plumbing. Classes are also given by volunteers so that the Homeless School is educational and something to be proud of. There are classes in  home care of appliances, electricals, plumbing and gardening. There are regular classes on various academic subjects for those who want to upgrade their formal education. Smith has a date with a counselor today. He's been feeling depressed lately. There is a resident health care provider, a security team and  counselling services on site. After his session, he likes to read the daily news and continue learning how to use Google. The school library, with comfortable furniture: books, magazines, newspapers and computers, has an on-site librarian to assist. After lunch he likes to go out to the garden and hoe the veges he planted. They're just starting to grow. While out there, he might go to the smoking tent to gab with the guys. Those not interested in these aspects might prefer to go down to the gym for basketball shooting, table tennis, badminton, folk dance or any of the other events planned by the residents' council and with volunteers sponsored by the community. The school music room has instruments donated and a volunteer who offers instruction. They hope to start a band. Later on, Smith will have a game of chess with his buddies in the hallway outside his dorm, and maybe go down to the bar room for a beer or two later. The grounds are designed for movement in and out freely, using fingerprint ID. Visitors to residents may meet but visit only in the pleasantly furnished portable converted classroom lounge at the gates. Smith has a date later with an old girlfriend he likes in town. A small bus provides for excursions, or travel to town twice a day. Smith doesn't like rules but he knows they have to be in place for the benefit of everyone. Rules are not only designed to accommodate the residents but also to adhere to legal requirements. There is security staff. Once registered, as in any good hotel, residents may chose to join in with activities or not, as they please.  The wide hallways have couches and small tables for playing board games or just walking and visiting. There are vending machines. A small charge for dorms is taken from each person's monthly cheque or they may choose to take a job in the facility.  Those choosing to leave as residents, may do so without comment, but have to be interviewed again to re-enter for health and security reasons. Smith hopes, one day, to have his own apartment, but, for now, he finds this is the best place. While the Homeless School ( a name for convenience) sounds ideal and perhaps, to some impossible, it is one way to keep expensive schools open, offer a building already complete, provide jobs and begin getting "those" people off the streets, into safe, caring facilities and onto a better paths.

Hair Reigns

Hair is one of the most important aspects of appearance. That's nothing new. Times ago, men wore elaborate wigs to do important political jobs, women were admired for the height and decoration of their top knots, and in some societies, hair was deemed a religious expression in its length or cut or curl. Hair isn't always what grows on one's own head, but such that someone else has grown, or that someone has manufactured. We cut it off, shave it, glue it on or add to it, according to fashion. We colour it and iron it and curl it and straighten it. The hair structure itself holds clues to the state of our chemical being and our genetics. Hair appears to be more important than getting thin. And that's saying a lot! Hairdressers or stylists or whatever name they adopt, work in conditions that are not comfortable, nor often, safe. The ones I know, are on their feet for hours, they breathe in dangerous substances all day and they put their hands onto a myriad of scalps that doctors may not choose to do without concern. They are seldom rich and yet, they enrich our lives.Why are we so obsessed with hair? It is said, that our eyes are our "souls", but I would say that our hair, is. I know men who go to extreme lengths to fake hair on their heads and woman who go through relative torture to colour or curl or straighten their locks. Too much hair or hair in the wrong places makes up a whole segment of the beauty business. Hair products dominate our bathroom shelves no matter what our status be. Few people I know, do not go to someone else for hair therapy. Why do we place so much importance on hair? Like Everest, perhaps because it's there? What is this hair thing all about?  Why are we not satisfied with it, just as it is? Why isn't grey hair or naturally coloured hair satisfying? Why do we need to have someone else tend to it and change it and send us out the door, poorer, feeling happy? I seldom exit a hair salon feeling satisfied. I go home, as many ladies I know do, and comb it out and adjust it  the way I want it. Alternately, some women have had the same hair-do all their adult lives. They wouldn't miss their weekly appointments for the world. I know one who, the days after her weekly styling, slept with her hair wrapped protectively, in toilet paper. It isn't just a female matter. Men I know, go for years, religiously, to the same barber. Some bald men, suddenly appear youthfully and gloriously adorned with a  miracle. I have been fooled frequently when admiring someone's hair-do, to have whispered in my ear, "it's not mine". And the actors we so love for their perfect images are seldom without their accessories of long or coloured or fulsome "hair". Up with hair, long may it grow!

Canada East/West

There is no East or West. It's just one line right around the earth; go far enough, and east and west are one and the the same. What divides east and west, are people who live on one side of land that is opposite another side. Simple. Same with north and south, but that's another story. The other night, I sat with a group  from what we here in BC call, The East. They were Montrealers and Torontonians, but as most of them revealed, they were originally from outer parts, the smaller towns near those large cities. When the conversation turned to historical Canadian aspects, things got a bit dicey. The easterners said that they were the ones with the important history while the west was simply where the east drifted eventually. They considered that eastern migration, made the west. That, naturally got  backs up amongst the western faction in the room. We were also informed by the easterners that all the culture and development of the country came from the east. What was most amazing was that many of them thought that we, in the west, knew very little of the importance of the east in doing so. What ensued was  an evidently large gap, and that we needed to straighten out some misconceptions regarding Canada's east and west. It is a fictional rivalry. Most of our western high school history texts dealt with such as heroes and heroines found in eastern Canadian lore. Birch bark canoes, The Great Lakes, arrow shooting aborigines, tales of the Metis and of the British and French battles has nothing to do with western history. It is eastern, and that's fine, but what about western history? "There isn't one," were were informed, "it all happened in the east".  Text books across Canada were put out by eastern authors and publishers, therefore, it was natural for the content to be regarded as "our" history. In a similar vein, we young students in the west, had to study British history to a large degree, while our meager education about the young Canadian west, touched only briefly on The Gold Rush and The Haidas. It is true that the influence of the east, historically, is strong nationally, but it is actually the result of Europe's British and French arguments that drifted over to this country in an imperial conflict. Which European country was going to take over, so that Canadian furs, gold and other natural resources could be called their own colonial grab? That's what our eastern history is all about. They weren't all that interested in fostering a delightful new country because they loved it. They wanted to control it. The history in the west has to do, not with European matters that came to us from foreign countries, but actually, greed. Gold, peopled the west but the hardy folk stayed on because they came to love the beauty and challenge it offered. The west was young, rugged and full of adventurous spirit. It developed in a style of its own.  Both east and west built what is Canada and there is  no argument as to whether "east" or "west" is best. Each is unique and each melds to make this country, great.

Need/Want

The future seems to hold a big challenge. Space. Not the one that's "above" us, that is endless as far as we know, but the one we live in. Used to be, long, long ago, even before The Day, that "space" in villages was  down at the local cathedral. Space was big enough for every soul in the place to go when things got risky. Raiding tribes or clans usually gave some kind of warning in the days of warring ethics and strategies and everyone would hie down to the castle for protection. Today, home size is rapidly diminishing. First of all, only the urban monied can afford a lot of useless empty footage to live amongst. Normal, modern urbanites are more sensible. The latest New York sizing-down abode, has slipped to tiny apartments running for about three thou a month for a living area of around 350 square feet. One dweller of this kind of minuscule domain, says it takes her six seconds to walk from one end of the suite to the other. It's an attractive little den with most of the walls having fold down cupboards that hold beds, tables, and other utilitarian items. The building with it's collection of practical folk, has all of the necessities for comfort, entertaining and leisure. I don't know about you, but I have been sizing-down for many years and somehow the smaller space I live in, feels quite adequate for my lifestyle now. The days of needing a whole room for laundering or sewing or guests or dining or storing books, are almost over. It's more a matter of how-much-space-does-one-need to live the life they own. The footprint factions make sense.  Most people other than those with small children, use or need very little space to live well. Most work all day somewhere else and go out for leisure activities and entertaining. Entertaining is inviting your group out to a restaurant where no one has to slave over a hot stove, and everyone including the host, has naught to do but enjoy the company collected. While it may be a credit card venture, it's one that is clean and fun even for the host. Housekeeping has lessened to a remarkable degree when firstly, there's little space for dust to collect and secondly, any grime in sight can be swiped up instantly. So, you say, what do you do on a rainy day when it's cold out. You enter the computer world or the TV world which brings everything in the way of visual delight, entertainment in venues you can't afford or get to, or information you thirst for. No one needs grandmother's silver tea service really or mom's Spode. You can always go to the museum down the street or on line to find the exact pattern to gaze at it as long as you wish. Amazingly, too, people have pets in these tiny apartments. The animals love it because they've never had a kennel so large and they get to go out walking at the waggle of a tail.

Staff Of Life

Bread is the staff of life  for those of us in certain parts of the world. Other parts choose rice or beans. These days of no gluten, no carbs, no whatever the latest allergy is, there is always bread flour that is friendly even to those needs. Nothing is so therapeutic as bread-making. It has all of the important things in life. It has seen sun and rain in the grain, and air in the drying. Bread making is so easy that I don't see why anyone buys it. Making it, is even easier if you have a mixer. The best investment, and it is expensive enough to be called that, is a good solid mixer with a reliable brand name. Since I got my mixer, not a processor, I think nothing of tossing in the ingredients for all sorts of kitchen goodies and watching the mixer do the work. Bread can be rising in only about twenty minutes. Jealously, however, I save the kneading of the bread dough for myself. My favorite dough is plain and made by putting in two cups of warm water, including a half cup of milk, a couple of big spoons each of butter and sugar, an egg, 2 packs of yeast, dash of salt and adding flour gradually as I watch it mix. Round and round she goes, until the dough no longer sticks to the side of the bowl and it begins making babies. Little rounds of dough form beside the big mama piece and then blend in when she calls them back. Usually the bowl likes about six cups of flour but I'd rather go by how the dough feels. It should be kind of shiny and won't stick to your fingers or the side of the bowl. You'll get to know. The dough will teach you. Dough made with yeast is a living thing. When you stop the mixer and put it in a bowl in a nice, evenly warm place, you'll see it rise.  Hey, you can grow things! If you want to get fancy, you can try different kinds of flour or add bits to it such as seeds, nuts or grains and certainly herbs or spices. These can go either into the mixer or during the kneading. It's the creative part. When the dough has grown to twice its size, the real fun is ahead. You have your pans or metal baking sheets ready to one side, and  the wooden or bamboo or marble boards flour-dusted. The dough blob goes on and you and the dough get to know each other. If you are a plastic bubble popper, you're going to enjoy hearing the pop of the air bubbles that you knead out. That's when memory and meditation begin. The smell of the dough, the feel of it, the kneading sends you to places you have long forgotten. I see my grandmother on the farm, mixing the rye bread in a huge tub.Never did she buy store bread or white sugar. Her freckled arms are buttered and glistening, her red waves bounce as she bends over the tub. She works harder than any woman I have ever known, and has shelves of canned garden produce to show for it.  She has eight children. She has no electricity or tap water but she knows that what she makes is the staff of life for her family -  and she smiles. When your bread bakes, the smell is life-giving magic. Bread. It's worth the making.

On The Up And Up

At the super market the other day, an elderly woman stood in front of a spaghetti sauce shelf, shaking her head. We struck up a conversation and she expressed her concern over rapidly increasing food prices. She was a retired lawyer. I agreed with her. All the basics are slowly becoming luxuries themselves. In the last few years, costs have escalated while pensions have not risen. Someone once snarled at me, "oh, but youhave a pension." Pensions are not free. They are paid for while on the job. My former employer promised to share in my pension when I received it, but now while I still pay into my pension fund for medical and dental care, the employer is gradually backing out and I am having to make up for that reduction. There are no options other than cutting back on expenditures. Those who sneer at people who drive clunkers, wear dated clothing and look old because they can't afford botox and weekly hair appointments, aren't thinking about their own futures. When you leave your work, you give up a lot. You have to live on far less an income and in spite of the time you have for travel and leisure, you don't always have the money to do it. I used to be able to buy a nice little chicken to pop into the oven for around six dollars. Ten dollars more, is the going price for the same bird now.  I have to think about replacing the chicken with parts of  them in an on-sale bargain pack. And not the pricey, responsible consumer product or the organic one. Can't afford that. As to a tin of soup or tuna fish or beans, dig out a five dollar bill. Buying  a house if you live "on-shore", is a fantasy. My parents who were not wealthy, always owned their own house because there was no such thing as a mortgage. Mortgages these days are standard fare. Same with cars. You drive around in a credit vehicle unless you are one of the people who "sold the farm" for a bundle. The days of buying what you can afford are over. It's a credit world, one that must stress people to a huge degree. Most seniors that I know, are getting by on what is considered the poverty level. They don't complain. They're too busy adjusting their lifestyles to meet the demands of the day. To top it off, there are some milleniumer attitudes that are horrific. One young man called into a radio commentary program the other day. He lauded assisted dying legislation and capped it with, "why not spend tax money on we young people who need it,  rather than those old people dying hospices". First off, young people die in hospices, too. Second, I wondered if he were one of the milleniumers who lives at home drawing on his parents' good graces and how he feels about his grandparents' contribution to the society he enjoys. While, the younger employed populace can credit card their dining out, designer labels and foreign cars and cluck their impatient tongues in a supermarket when a little old lady scrounges in her purse for coins, what are they going to think when the boss comes along with a pink slip and an empty cardboard box. "Cost of living" increases on pensions, amount to about 1 or 2 percent. But percent of what? It's one of those jokes you just die laughing over.

Best Of Everything

You don't need to be rich to want the best of everything and most of us have it whether we know it or not. What "it" is, is your best you-name-it. You know what I mean. Your mate or friend or parent says, put on these shoes; they look so good on you. Your answer is "No thanks, I am wearing these." And you haul out the shoes that, like old friends, you feel comfortable in. They fit. They mold to your feet. They might not look "the best" but you can depend on them to carry you through to whatever end is necessary and do it kindly. Everyone has their best jeans. They may be faded and ripped (unintentionally) in a few spots, but they are so good to you. They are your skin. They fit and don't fight with your legs when you bend.  They're well-mannered.  They know you better than your doctor and although they might not have the designer label (or maybe they do) you and those jeans, are old pals. The best includes small things, too. Insignificant ones. I am an avid crossword puzzle fan and I have, not far from my desk, a special bit of shelf within arms reach, where I keep  my most valuable things: my stylus for the touch screen computer, a tiny magnifier, a ballpoint pen that never fails and my favorite pencil. These are my most valued writing possessions.  I am worried, however. The other items on that shelf look like they will survive for a long time, but my lucky pencil who gets me through the morning crossword daily, is growing far too small. I took a long time finding this pencil. I rifled through countless drawers and scribbled on dozens of done crosswords to see how it would fare. This pencil is my ultimate "best". The lead is just soft enough to avoid paper glare and yet it doesn't smudge. Alas, soon its eraser will not let it fit into the pencil sharpener. That concerns me because the point is just right. Best applies to jewelry, too. My silver chains are my best chains.  Secretly, I think they are lucky. I forget why, but when I put them on, I feel it. And I need not worry about them. Whoever heard of a stolen silver chain? Likewise everyone has their  best mug or glass or plate. "Why don't you use your Wedgewood? It's not doing you any good up on the top shelf and you're not getting any younger," they warn. But my old black dishes, earthenware, in spite of its obvious scratchy surfaces, makes nice clunks when I take it in and out of the dishwasher or set it on the table. It's reliable.  It wouldn't worry me if it gets broken because it's standard stock. If I use the good stuff, there is stress. How would I replace it? There are new patterns now. Too much concern. It's just clay. And then there's my beast of burden, my car, my dear old Mustang convertible. It's top leans a bit and it squeals when I back it out and purrs in a  rumble when I drive. Love that thing. It has more dents and scratches than granny's knees but it doesn't give me trouble, and all it asks for is the occasional tankful of gas - and not the top grade, either. Ah, like you, I have the best of everything. It's simple;  what's best is what's most loved.

Popular Books?

"Popular" reading, I am finding, has nothing to do with writing skill. It is a craft only. There are some who see a certain author's name and buy the book whether the writing is any good or not. They are hooked on the author and don't give a hoot about how it's written other than plot. And that is their choice. Somehow they have eyes that ignore all the faults in the English language simply to get to the end of that title, so to move on to the next in the series. I suspect they have some sort of sifting device in their eyes and minds that forgives the dreadful text they have to wade through to get to the end of each book. There is one particular writer of  thriller novels, that I find so bad, his pages are jokes. His name is not King, incidentally. King writes superbly, even if too many pages. That appears to be the habit of popular authors these days. It makes me wonder if they get paid by the pound.  But the author I speak of, who shall remain anonymous, begins with tripe and goes on and on and on with it. The whole book is filled with murder and not of the characters within, but of the English language and standard writing elements. I am not thinking of  formal, stiff rules but merely those of regarding the respect of usage and the comfort of the reader. One wants a tale to flow evenly to take one on a satisfying journey to a revealing conclusion.  I took a chance once and suggested to this same anonymous writer, some faults I noticed. I knew he might be taken aback, but his irate answer was to ask me, pompously,  how many books  I had published. Margaret Atwood, when I wrote to her saying that I was disappointed in one of her books in her usual looking-down-her-nose style, sent me a lesson in grammar that I put with my other literature information from college days. Readers deserve to be heard by authors. After all, we make them a living, The thriller author of whom I speak, has lately developed the bad habit of including in his verbiage, brand names for which I suspect he gets some kind of kickback.  He also has begun adding allusions from classical literature and small passages I think he gleans from  Bartlett's because he has never struck me as being anywhere near intellectually gifted. His tactic of plugging into sentences and paragraphs, long descriptions and didactics is distracting and maddening. You feel as though you are sitting next to someone chewing gum noisily while you are trying to concentrate. The character might pick up a spoon in the tale, and the author spends two or three sentences enlightening the reader on its metal origins, its style and where it was purchased and by whom. None of the information shoved down one's reading throat matters to the tale. It merely frustrates. He also insists upon far too much verbiage. Half of his pages, if I were his editor, would go. Reading his books is like wading through a sea of melted tar laden with sticks and stones to get across when a simple bridge would do.  I avoided his books for years, but one day while browsing in the library, I came across the shelf that had a row of his shiny new novels. I picked up two thinking that over the years, he must have improved since he is lauded as a "best seller". I did make it through to one third of one book, but no one nearby could abide my loud groans and frequent guffaws, therefore, it's going back to the library's "best seller" shelf today so that I can pick up an author who knows something about writing a best book.

Paper Cuts

One of the bosses I met during my working years, was a wise individual whose words stayed with me. He wasn't particularly highly educated, but he held wisdom exceeding doctorates in his caring ways about others. His thoughts were broad and sharp and rang true. He didn't mean his lines to be advice; they were given usually, as asides during conversation. This kind of one-on-one help is invaluable, and remains always, the best kind. He said,"Don't let trust be taken for granted, get it on paper and in writing, and keep a copy". That advice has been standard for me ever since. When I hear people considering the huge move of co-habiting or living with another person,  I shudder somewhat. Having listened to tales of woe when a relationship goes under, makes me wonder why people do it without some kind of legal arrangement. Get-it-on-paper comes to mind. It's lovely to take up residence with your lover and learn ways of sharing your lives together, but at the same time, realities do enter the picture. If you are owning something or having children together without some kind of legal documentation, you may one day regret that you didn't consult the lawyer before taking on that kind of bond. It's not a move to darken the wonderful feelings of being a loving couple, because hoards of people do it very successfully. It's actually just a caution that if something can happen, it just might happen and often does. Like you, I have listened to tearful moans by friends who found that when the "honeymoon" ended, trouble started. Sharing kids and dogs and mortgages can be disastrous when couples break up without some kind of contract. If-only-I is too late. Unfortunately, nasty things can happen when splits occur, things that could have been avoided if the couple had simply gone to some lengths to get their moving in with their mate, on paper. Does such a legal effort take away the romance? Of course not. It shows how much you respect your very important move, so that both are showing how much love for each other is present. If one of the partners objects, the other should still make the matter clear. It takes true love to have the sensitivity to meet the needs of both of you who want no secrets in your relationship and no worries about the future of it. Moving in together, isn't plunking your clothes into someone's closet or dresser drawers. It's far more than that. There are all kinds of emotional facts, financial habits, personal needs, family concerns and a host of other small details that can become messy when the stresses of living with another person become everyday reality. If you really care about trust, trust enough to get-it-on-paper.

Death Matters

Death is not a pretty subject, but as we age, it becomes a more familiar one. Sometimes it's our own death that confronts us, either near or farther off. We human creatures with all of our reasoning powers, are not able to feel our mortality. The dying people that I knew or know, simply take it one day at a time. Nobly, most proceed toward their ending with grace and dignity. They go through all the so-called stages. Death is not all bad to look on, even though we  miss loved ones who die and feel sad that we will not be able to see them ever again or grieve over our own demises. The good parts are, that we recall happy things we did together. The good times. Those reminders don't entirely wipe out grief but they do make us smile through the tears or perhaps even cause us to have an occasional laugh. At memorials there is usually a lot of laughing. Guests want to review the person's life and wisely seek out the funny events to do it. It's a relief to know that others also knew the one who died and that we are, therefore, in good company. Memorial humour is always a healing cloud under which to gather and welcome back the good old days. While most memories are pleasant, however, there are ones, always, that privately, bring out feelings of guilt or frustration or even anger.  One thinks, why did I not do this or that,  because I think if I did, it would have been a better relationship with that person. Hindsight is not only perfect, it's often cruel at these moments, but there is time at hand, and it can heal.  And while we need to deal with the bad bits, we also need to set them aside in time as one of those things that can't entirely be solved. There are plenty of regrets all throughout our lives. It's a human effect. They are the shoulda-coulda-wouldas of it all.  Death is hard for anyone to accept and fathom, and some of us get a grip on it before others. One woman I know, just can't achieve that level and her grief is deep and dreadful. She seems inconsolable and is shocked that others of her friends have "moved on". As she expressed to me, "they're disgusting!". That's how she feels, and it can't be denied her. It's her life and her pathway to tread. Some find a cure for loss negativity in work or learning or finding another person or situation into which they may venture. It's a kind of distraction they make for their grieving. They try, most of the time, to forget themselves and their feelings. It might be a long journey for some. Others are able to move on in a relatively rapid state. Dealing with death, our own or that of others, is one of the most certain events and challenges of our lives but it is by far, the hardest.

Pain Is Gain?

How can pain be gain? I saw an idiotic ad done by a gym the other day, that read "More Pain More Gain". Who would go there? Your body speaks to you and truly pain cannot be gain. I know that some exercise enthusiasts  will learn sadly about the pain/gain game later on in life when their joints begin to scream history. There is a current ridiculous belief that over-exercising until pain, is some sort of gain, but I think it means loss. Loss of weight. That's another questionable endeavor when taken to extremes. No one should be obese, but it happens unfortunately, and those afflicted have to  deal with it as any sickness. But taking questionable medications and doing freak diets to be thinner than natural or pushing your joints and muscles too far, is dangerous. What I speak of is the already scrawny individual over-doing the sweating routines encouraged by people who are attached to gyms or sell flashy spandex attire. The healthy body needs to flex and lift and get the heart pumping but pain is not good. Never. Pain says "that's enough; stop" and it's logical that one should ease up and let the pain dissipate. I doubt that immediate cessation is good but slowing down until the pain subsides appears to be right. I see a young woman dressed in her colourful gym wear, coming down the hall in the early morning before she goes to work, and she is drenched with perspiration and  she looks entirely miserable. While her muscles may be thrilled, her face is tortured. She's in her late forties. I fear what's coming up for her in her fifties and sixties. I have seen athletic people suffering from the effects of their over-extended work outs and game injuries when they become old. While exercise is good and should be regular and sensible, there are bodies that don't like it and say so. Sedentary life-style is not a good idea either, nor is over-exercising to the point of pain.  When it hurts don't do it anymore is my motto. I want to live a comfortable elder life that might even reach one hundred like many of my kin. None of them, not one, went to exercise classes or gyms. They were active doing normal things like going to work, gardening, housework and walking to visit or shop or recreate and more. They just moved around all day. As the saying goes, they let no grass grow under their feet nor did they gather moss. Some people like to go to gyms and that's great while others hie off  to exercise classes or the pool. It's partly social life and partly for their health, but I am sure when it comes to experiencing pain over it, they have the brains to ease up until they find their personal comfort level. The best trainers know that finding that special level and working up to one that bodes well but doesn't trade pain for gain, is the way to go. What you do with your body is your business, but  give a little thought to the far future you hope to have one day so that you may live on to enjoy your life's rewards. Pain is injurious and a warning: it's not "gain". Listen to your body first. It's all you've got.