Kiddie Kondos

We have condos for the elderly and dormitories for students. It's time for the family or "kiddie kondos"  to be constructed right in the hearts of cities. Starting from the top down, there is a rooftop playground with secure fencing all around, shade trees and garden beds, picnic tables and play equipment. There is supervision by staff trained in first aid, child care and playground management. In the evening hours, adults only may come up after nine PM to enjoy the area on their own. In the building, sundecks are safety oriented and in winter, may be windows-closed to the cold. A laundry line is there also, although screened. The units are floor sound-proofed and have a spacious room, the Great Room where the family can assemble before the large fireplace and eat, entertain or simply enjoy its openness. The kitchen bar is open here. Each small bedroom has its own toilet/sink cupboard with a community shower room for kids. The private parent bedroom suite has its own soaker/jetted tub and shower as well as a sitting area and deck, for private adult communication. The rents and ownership are tied to parental affordability and floor area. There is a camera supervised (as is throughout the entire building) comfortable teen room with access to outlets for their apps and a study room adjoining, that is a quiet space with study carrels and computer outlets that  disallow unfavorable sites. The teen equipment "bar" serves only healthful snacks and drinks as does the children's play room. Both areas are supervised. Parents have access to the cameras in each space via their unit television. A concierge can arrange safe babysitting and daycare space that is located in the building. Monthly fees over accommodation are flexible to include optional services such as baby laundry, child care and cleaning. The medical clinic on the main floor, is also located in the building. The rules of the complex are stringent and are subject to design and approval by those elected of the owners who regularly have or may call meetings. A maintenance service is available at reasonable rates. There is a club room and grandparent suites that can be rented. The costs of living in such convenient towers is at the going rate for this kind of building in the city and is designed exclusively  for those who work downtown or who simply want to expose their children to the advantages of city life. These kinds of living styles here, as far as I know, do not exist. Why not?

Mystery And

I am in a book club that has a number of tastes represented from flighty to serious readerships. The most prevalent genre, appears to be the mystery novel. The usual best sellers are bandied about with expletives. I am not a mystery fan, although once, I was. I love watching television series such as the Brit mysteries, but mostly because of their background scenery, and perhaps the appeal of the actor playing the main part. The mysteries are predictable, or have the usual silly surprises at the end. I've been accused of being a snob reader because I don't rave over the latest mystery books ground out annually by well-known authors whose names are so large they barely fit on the book jackets. Why? They bore me. I am not trying to be a snob, but really how many times do I have to know about Captain Jack Snap or Lieutenant Barbara Brink and their on-the-job frustrations, when it's clear that whatever happens to them throughout the tale, they are going to nail the perp at the end anyway. I doubt that real criminal cases are quite so tangled and torn as are portrayed in crime novels that see police having unlimited time and funds, to run all over town in solving a single case that goes on for months. But I suppose that's what fiction is all about: toying with the impossible. What bothers me most, is that when I do read one of these so-called "books", there's no meat in them. They should be able to be finished in one sitting, a no-brainer. There is nothing of worth to spend much time on other than skipping over the characterizations and settings dumped in, supposedly to give the author some kind of laudable value for the price you pay for the tome - if you can't wait for the library to do it for you. But, and this is my main gripe with these formula mysteries,  there are too many worthless pages in the middle. The beginning starts out with a killer scene that is supposed to yank you into the plot immediately and when that's over get on efficiently with the bits that lead up to the final surprise ending. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen any more. About half-way through these TV dinner books, there is an obvious ending right there, but the authors go on and on tortuously. Agatha Christie, the goddess of mystery, knew how to write, She set things up and then got on with it. Slice, dice, eat and feel full. The end. Mystery writers today, including the "greats", load up way too many pages with a lot of here and there, just for poundage. There appears to be a new movement: buy the book by the pound. And the literature on the pages is missing. Give me author Donna Tartt. Every page is masterfully written and each ending is well worth the reading trip. Six course dinner for hungry readers. No formula writing for her.

Spell Or Quell

For those who preach that "spelling doesn't count", read no further. You are hopeless. Spelling does count whether you can do it without a Webster's hanging around your neck or not. I'm not speaking of those who text, because that nonsense is about  convenience (I suppose)  which lives apart from reason. Texters make up their own rules and, don't get me wrong, that's perfectly okay. We have to remember that the rules of present day usage, came to us on a long road called the evolution and development of the English language. If we had to abide by the grammaticals of a few centuries ago, no one, now, would understand anyone at all. Language changes every day, but there are some current, set laws that do not. Maybe in a few centuries from now, it shall, but you and I won't be around to know about it. Here is the message. When you put something on a forum or a newsletter, a sign or in a letter, please, please, please read it before you post. Everyone makes the odd typo or slip of the key, but for the most part, things like incorrect spellings and sloppy grammar do you no good. When others read your words and come across the correct use or misuse of language, they peg you either as a dolt or a doctorate. You must know the difference between "it's" and "its", "two, to and too", "their, they're and there" and so on. They can detect immediately, these language faults. How about subject/ verb agreement: "he don't know better" or "he doesn't know better"? Which is correct?  I knew once, a fellow pedantic who writhed when I said, "he knows more than I" instead of "he knows more than me". He said it sounded pompous. I allowed his writhings because my "I" meant "I do" while he was grammatically correct, I argued that I was, too.  I am not sure still, if we see eye-to-eye on that issue. But that's a finer point. I am speaking of simple language and the use of it in writing or speaking. There is a perfectly lovely chap I know, who persists on letting  his stupidity hang out when he posts onto an on-line forum.  He loves to show that he is well off, good looking, widely traveled and held a sophisticated job before he retired. But when he posts, he looks like an idiot. His spelling and grammar are dreadful. Apparently, his previous work place either gave him a whiz of an executive assistant/secretary or his Spell Check worked overtime. He plops his announcements boldly and pathetically onto the site, and beams at himself while others are "aheming" in the background, not knowing where to look to hide their embarrassment for him. You don't have to be a PhD to be a good speller, but do check your writing before hitting "send". If you don't, you'll send old English teachers into the stratosphere and your friends hee hawing out behind the potted palm.

Oh, be quiet.

When you live alone, some people pity you. It must be so lonely, so quiet, they say. I harbor a secret confession. It is something I love, something I feed on and something that few can enjoy. It's the quiet of being alone. Our lives are full of sound and few know what silence truly is. When you live alone, at first, you think it is too quiet and you begin to yearn to have something noisy to do and someone to talk to. At that point, lots of people run out and buy a dog or cat or bird to fill the gap they think is too hard to contemplate. But when the loneliness of living alone, disappears, and you become  accustomed to the atmosphere of the solitary life, you see its value and become in a way, rather jealous of it. When you do go out and about, of course, it is a pleasure to meet and greet, but when you return home, the peace of your singular existence welcomes you and wraps you in the kind of peace that more and more becomes compelling and takes on a value. While the sounds of outside voices, traffic, animals and far away events  are fun to guess at, within your domicile, there is an inside quietness and order that is completely comforting. You are in the company of your own thoughts and are able to sort them out and untangle the ones that haunt you or the ones that intrigue you. There are no interruptions. Today, after re-potting a few small plantings on the patio, I came inside and found the kind of silence that fills every corner spread out like a magic carpet.  It was an enormous gift. I knew that outside, the rest of the world was busy going places, doing things and exchanging ideas, but here in the place I call home, there was simple open silence like a great question mark waiting to be answered. The dogs that  bark were not, the cars and buses that ply the streets were, for some reason, away from the immediate area and the neighbours were so without presence, that I imagined them sitting at quiet dinner tables in peace. Noise was missing. Thoughts could be born and  live and thrive.  The meditative qualities of the silence made even my eyes rove about in my own environment, rediscovering photographs and art prints and the small things sitting on shelves and tables. I was hearing my space speaking to me in the silence, in ways I hadn't thought of previously. I wondered how many stresses in the "outside" world, could be eased if sometimes there was simply, silence so that matters could be considered clearly and without the interference of sound to distract thought. There are no traffic days on some streets, therefore, perhaps there could be days of silence that exclude even texting and typing and treadmills. A quiet world day would be a wonder.

Forget Homework

Why school homework? Old methods of teaching in the classroom, were that teachers assigned piles of homework as a necessary discipline. Students either didn't do it and conflicts arose, or else they did it and complained that it was too much. Not wishing to get into that kind of hassle, in my classroom, I didn't give homework when I could see that checking it and arguing with students  just didn't make sense. Unbelievably, there were "diligent" teachers, even  of Grade Three or Grade Two pupils, who assigned homework. That seemed even more ridiculous. An eight or nine year old child should be able to go home after a full day of school and play with other children: outdoors, preferably, not having to sit at a desk doing homework even for fifteen minutes. They need to go home without those pressures and socialize to become the good citizens schools hope to turn out. Any argument about it being a discipline, doesn't work for me. An example of schools that do not assign homework is in Iceland, and one of the principals of such a school says that hours of intense schooling call for the student to go home and enjoy family or friends. I completely agree. It seems entirely pointless for a teacher to give homework when education should happen in the school. Older students often have jobs after school or have family responsibilities or need practice time on another project.  If there is reading to do, I think, why not do it together in the classroom. I recall asking students to read chapters of an assigned text and next day learning that many of them just didn't do it. The reason was that they knew we'd be going over it anyway in the classroom. That made sense. Why not do the reading together and discuss it, when it's fresh in everyone's mind?  As to Math teachers assigning loads of questions when the student already knows how to solve the problems or doesn't, and can't be helped immediately, is, to me, also an impractical way to take up student time. The best teacher I had in Math was one who had students at the blackboard doing equations. The teacher could see where the student needed help and offered it or partnered him with another student. We soon got over being embarrassed. Today students might do their work on the computer and the teacher having direct access to what is being done, can actually teach as is required. It's just like the blackboard method. That does make sense. To regard homework as a discipline in "training" one to prepare for post secondary education, is also ridiculous. You don't need to train. When and if you go further, you'll do it because you want to do it. After all, you chose university and paid for the courses.  If you don't do your out-of-class work, you only punish yourself. What if we banished public school homework? Is it worth a try? There's your homework. Think on it.

No Denying

Finally, in my life, being at the "invisible age", I refuse to deny things that don't make sense to me. Dieting doesn't make sense. Living in tight garments doesn't make sense. Not doing things that I really don't enjoy, makes sense. Eating with no lists of what not to and what to eat, makes sense. I see the end of my life path  in range, and since I don't want to waste any time, I have dispensed with the stressful denials that are popular today: saving the world, gym dates, tread mills, protests, meetings, boring dinners, make-overs, minimalism, stretch underwear, and so on. These are all about "perfection". Who is perfect? Some people have the kinds of minds and bodies to be very close to perfect, but I am, like most of you, not one of them. It's time to pass the baton to the next generation and be a little selfish with the time we have left. It doesn't mean opting out of responsible society, it simply means finding your own level, and feeling no guilt about staying there. First, I am at an age where all the social rules other than being polite, are going to work when they work for me. No longer do I put up with a bore. While I am not rude, I just walk away. Without guilt. I believe in respecting others and caring about them but the rest, well... When I go to a restaurant, I don't worry about counting calories or working out carbs. I order what appeals to me and usually it is in the high-count appetizer section, and then I might even order two of what looks delicious. The allergy fad regarding flour and butter and sugar and scent, I have never tolerated. Those who want to stress out about it, are more than welcome. It gives them something to talk about.  I am well aware of what sensitivities I must avoid and, therefore, don't need to bore everyone else with them. If I like someone, I tell them so. If I meet people on the street, I don't hesitate to speak to them. If I don't want to attend some event, I don't. No excuses, no "little white lies". I just say "no thanks" and move on. If I want to get up at two in the morning to read, I do so. The clock doesn't dominate my existence. I have a life of freedoms that I've earned. If you have to take a ton of pills to get through the day, don't tell me about them, just do it and don't feel guilty. It's no fun listening to people who say "I really shouldn't, but...". I am always tempted to answer "then don't" or "who cares".  If you like a second glass of wine, the world is not going to stop turning even when your disapproving friend scowls at you. Enjoy! We are too old and wise and knowing, to be ranting at and worrying about the way the world is going. We won't be around to see it happen. Frank Sinatra sang it well: "I did it my way". Worked for him.

The High Life

I live in a place by the sea that is beautiful. Its rising hills invite housing that strains to enjoy the sweeping sea views. Purchase of single family homes in this area can be afforded only by the very rich. As these private older and modestly built places sell, developers rush in and buy up a series of them on which to construct multiple living styles. Since views are very marketable and bylaws defend that privilege, there are height requirements. But, we all know that bylaws can be and are changed all the time, according to what the "city fathers" decide is best for the community: Official Community Plans notwithstanding. Taking philosophy somewhat into the fuzzy zone, one can view the whole matter of sharing the views as a peaceable solution. It isn't. On the edge of fist fights over the matter, and stressed out people trying desperately to protect their property, confrontation and argument dominates. Dog in the manger scenarios come to mind. Excuses are that someone has lived here all their lives and now...  That argument is tired. If you had your view all those years, why not let others enjoy it, too? Another argument is, that one's "investment" is threatened. Is home all about money? I can see that it isn't fair to ruin the view that someone enjoys, but it should be a matter of sitting down and working things out peacefully. Developers have one thing in mind and that is, naturally, money. Councils have one thing in mind and that is, tax money. Owners have one thing in mind and that is, peace of mind. As I walked along the beach this morning, I looked up and saw a hill, not of lovely trees, but of glass windows. It was pretty much all glass and not especially attractive. Behind the glass, were millions upon millions of dollars of real estate value, just waiting to be consumed. And ironically, it is of those who sell to developers, and then move into the very towers they protest. They have, then, the money to do it.  My aunt lived in an old, very well kept cottage many years here, and while she didn't have walls of glass in her modest home overlooking the sea, she did love to look out her windows at it. One day, the lot below her sold and the new owner tore down the house there, and built an enormous and some might say, fashionably stylish structure to serve more than one family. As the building rose, it became clear that the bylaw stating only a certain height was being broken. The ceilings he chose, were 12 foot ones. Appeals by my aunt to City Hall in spite of the bylaw in place, fell upon deaf ears. She was only one vote after all. Finally, after months of stressful talks with officials, the offender reduced, to a minor degree, agreement to reduce his roof height - almost.  Since he was still some inches off that required in the bylaw, he slipped by. My aunt looked out her window at an ugly roof and could see only a bit of the ocean she loved until the end of her life. When her place sold, it went for a whole lot of cash. Too late for her.

Venusians

Just read recently, in a well known scientific magazine, that Venus could well have been habitable some eons ago. It could have supported life, perhaps somewhat like ours, one assumes. While it's a very hot place now, without water, thus cloud to cool the surface, there is evidence that once when the sun was cooler, life strode, crept or slithered upon its surface. I have a few friends who believe that there is an invisible  twin world next to ours, and that what we do here is echoed there. I hope that it is a better world, better managed and one that takes lessons from our mistakes. I deign to question them further, however. I don't have the kind of imagination that can deal with that idea, but the one about Venus, considering it's only a mere 41 million miles off, intrigues me. It also scares me a bit. With the warming of our planet and the possible, but probable, eventual destruction of our cloud system, there would be, naturally, a decline in our own human habitability. We can't live long without water. While, in  our flimsy minds,  the time frame in eons, is almost unimaginable,  we have to remember how  a few decades ago, computer renditions of Jupiter were only a dream. But now, in my lifetime, at the beginning of which,  no one had microwave ovens, home television or cell phones, let alone being able to view space walks, there is no predicting what could be discovered next. It's a most exciting time we live in, and when money can be spent more on advancement scientifically, rather that wars, who knows what is to be?  Sci Fi writers toy with apocalyptic endings of earth in film and text. They see human life as grinding or frying to an eventual halt. The characters in these stories, strive to use whatever bits and pieces of what's left over from our once productive efforts to remake, invent and thus survive.  How long can we use up all means of energy sources to feed our need for commerce, entertainment, transportation and healing, before they deplete?  Old metal junk and defunct electronics become the fodder of the imaginary scenarios in science fiction  films, but the realities may be around that distant corner. Inventors strive to find ways to draw on solar, wind and water power as well as atomic sources, at the same thinking about what will happen when it all runs out. Will it run out; can it?  From what I've noticed in films such as these, there is no greenery to be found and water is more precious than gold. No clouds, no rain; finally, no people. Ah, we live in good times, but while we love tapping on our computers, watching the Olympics and enjoying our swimming pools, we need to look up at the starry sky and think ahead. Far ahead.

Nosiness

A nose is the thing that goes before. There is a reason for its placement. Its work is vital in the animal world, and since we are part of that, being warm blooded creatures, our noses are an important part of our bodies. Noses smell to tantalize us, warn us, allow oxygen in and out and sometimes just sit there looking pretty. But not all noses, no matter how hard they work, are deemed "pretty". Most people I know, especially women, don't like their noses at all. They complain that they are too long, too hooked, too thick, too short, too big and so on, endlessly. They want nose jobs. I understand. I come from a family-nose family, and when I was a tweeny, the most sensitive stage in a young life, my grandfather took my chin in his hand and turned my head sideways. He commented.  "Yes, you have the family nose." He considered it my rite of passage. Like every other child in the family, I did not want "the family nose", but there it was and I had to live with it. Only now have I come to accept my nose. While it is far from perfect, it deserves a certain amount of praise. It hasn't gained weight nor is it wrinkled. So far. And I have, over the years, become quite attached to it even though it has been attached to me all that time. It and I have a very good on-going close relationship. In spite of the no-perfume crowd, I continue to enjoy sniffing good perfumes, flowers and trees, the sea air and the ozone after a thunder storm. My nose is a pleasure-giving organ that tells me what is going to taste good and what I want to be close to. It also tells me what to stay away from. It's a kind of  organic early warning device. When I become annoyed with my family-nose, I have to think about what I would do if I didn't have it. I doubt that I could continue to love the aroma of baking bread, roasting turkeys, frying bacon, the hair on a baby's head and a field full of lavender.  All those joys would disappear if my nose were missing. Noses fit faces and when someone opts to have theirs reconstructed at great expense, it doesn't quite fit. You can usually scope out a nose job. Certain of us have  heritages that award us with rather prominent features and when we try to recreate what we came with, it shows. Hollywood noses known as pugs used to be considered "cute" and most of the perky lady actors made adjustments to partake of it. These days, those employed in the film, or now, the HD business, leave their noses alone. I can think of at least five noses on the screen, that would have been shunned once on the stage, but which have now become a trademark of the person doing the lines. Noses are in to stay. Up with noses!

Man Up Men

I address unattached  men, men past THE age, whatever that is, and those who are lonely and looking for a companion to spend time with. This advice is not meant to hurt feelings, fellas. It's meant to help you understand what ladies are looking for in a man. If you are interested. Remember first of all, that we require the same kinds of grooming that we always have, of our men. Growing old doesn't mean you can laze up on that. Most single older men I have encountered who are looking for a "partner" to spend their old age with, need to think of themselves as much younger and more energetic, and therefore, need to make time to groom, groom, groom up.  First, get a decent hair cut and trim - yes: ears, nose and whatever else. If you expect to meet a nice lady who looks fine, you need to do the same. No woman, unless she is pathetically desperate, wants to shuffle up to some hairy, unkempt creature from Lost Lagoon. We ladies have eyes, and no matter how old we become, we do not favour old men who don't respect themselves by forgetting about good barbers and getting "done". That includes nails up and down. If you insist on a longer beard, trim it and make absolutely sure it doesn't harbour hints of last night's dinner. In the dress up department, throw out the grampa stuff: the button up cardigan, droopy seated pants and yellowed collar shirts with a white under shirt showing. Don't go in the opposite direction either and unbutton the front to show off a chain lurking among the wiry gray hairs on your chest. It is not appealing. You're not going to get the thirty-year old of your dreams. Those days are over unless you're a billionaire. If you aren't sure of how to dress, go to a good haberdasher and try things on while listening to the valet's advice. You don't have to buy, but do try. And try hard if you are serious about attracting a lady. When it comes time to make your appearance and take your date out for coffee, play it cool. Make a definite time for the meetingin a nice place, and pay for goodness sake. It's only coffee. She will offer, but she will expect you to pay. Sorry, but those are the "rules". It wouldn't hurt to hand her a rose, pull out her chair and be the gentleman you are somewhere down deep in a place you almost forgot. If you don't care for the person sitting across from you, play it to the last act and say good-bye politely. You can rip up her phone number after you drive away. If she doesn't like you, let's hope she is polite about it, too. It's only coffee. When you write or e mail her, please avoid the word "cuddle". When you use that term, you are likely saying that it's all you can do. And even if it's true, never use the C word. In fact, don't refer to that aspect at all. Strong and silent wins every time. Be honest and communicate in that vein. Truth and sincerity work every time.

Wishing Stone

This early morning, walking along the pebbly beach here on the West Coast, I aimed to find what we, as kids, used to call "wishing stones". They're the small dark  pebbles marked with a light grey circle. Lots of shiny dark pebbles have grey on them, you say. Yes, but not all of the circles on them are complete, but if you find one that is, that determines it a wishing stone. You make your wish and toss the pebble out to sea. You all know finding a perfectly white stone is good luck, and finding one that is flat and rounded of any colour, that fits your hand, makes an ideal skipper. You bend just so and flick your wrist when you toss it, you see how many jumps you can get as it flips along the top of the water. It's fun, too, to find "beach jewels" or bits of glass that have smoothed with the tide and waves, until they are  dulled and show unusual colour among the pebbles. Beach-walking is many things to many people. Some speed along, nattily attired in all the gear that runners or fast walkers love to stage. They show off their sleek bodies in the latest stretch wear with lines and slashes in just the right places. The ear buds are locked in. They wear gloves (for some unknown reason) and their running shoes are aeronautically inspired. Looking at their unworldly designs, I think they could space walk in them and stick to the pod without a cord! There are street people ambling along just like you, loving the beach like the child none of us ever quite lose. There are the chatting groups of three or more who have accomplished the skill of close flying that pilots would envy and there are the determined elderly who carom along with the help of wheels: these I admire. One of my favorites, is the long- bearded gentleman who "jogs" daily in his speeding electric cart. Nothing, not even arthritis, is going to deter him! But the most delightful part of my walk is its ending when leaving the walkway and crossing the reeds, I climb over the bigger rocks and find a log to sit on. There I savor the sound of the gulls, the swish of the waves and the rolling of the pebbles only a few feet away. This small, smooth rounded rock, molded by hundreds of years of motion, all of different colours and shapes and of singular origins fell from moving glaciers eons ago. They will make more sandy beaches in more eons of time. I feel the tiny pebble with its circle, I hold in my hand. I look beyond at the stretch of beach . It's like the world and its peoples: all of different origins, colours and shapes, together, rolling and roiling and unwittingly making up what we call, the world. Our world. How fortunate to be here this morning, before the sun, just about to come over the mountain, shines on us all. I can freely take in the freshness of the air, listen to the gulls and look far out to sea. It's the same sea that frees and sustains and gives us life earth-wide. Such a privilege.  It's a lesson like so many others Nature offers, if only we'd stop and think for awhile.  Makes me hope worldwide for this lesson of togetherness.  I make my wish and  throw the wishing stone out as far as I can.

Iron Clad

Picasso painted one of his saddest works. It's titled simply,  "Lady Ironing". This, one of his earlier, less famous pieces, hangs in the Guggenheim. Its tones are grayed and softly lined. The woman, a thin youngish, creature, evidently in complete exhaustion, hangs over her ironing board pressing and dreaming, her mind, far off  in some undefined world. The painting is large enough to offer its unique impression, easily passed by, but one that elicits, when pondered, pathos in those who take the time to stop and consider it. Women who iron, not that much of it is needed in these times, know how ironing can be a form of meditation among other routine household chores. When you are at the ironing board, smoothing out wrinkles and folds, you feel as though in doing so, how pleasant it would be to be able to do the same with the troubles that we hear and see every day. How easy if we could iron out prejudice, poverty and violence with a simple swish of hot metal pushed around on its cord. I am not fond of scrubbing at things, but I do rather like ironing. In times back, most women in the fifties took pride in doing such  as their husbands' shirts, first applying a bit of starch to make the fabric crackle when you hung it, and then, the delight of savoring the smell of freshly ironed cotton. It's like no other clean scent. But in this day, when time seems to be the driving wish of every human being, ironing has almost vanished. New fabrics treated so that they need little pressing are invented to save time. Even I, who didn't mind the task, actually, use a steamer now, rather than an iron. I hang up the garments that need "doing" on the rack supplied on the appliance itself, and when there are two or three items to steam, I plug the thing in and run the steam-spouting business end up and down and watch the creases simply disappear. There is no dragging out and setting up a stubborn ironing board and squirting all the cottons with a water spray bottle or starch container or after, folding and hanging. The steamer requires only, while doing the job, leaving the garment on the hanger, steaming and  then putting the clothing, on the same hanger, into the wardrobe. Quick and easy, The process takes seconds. I miss Ironing Day which in the past, used to come Tuesday, the day after Monday Wash Day. In those days, working your job, managing a house and family combined, were as common as now, but we set "days" for housework. Now, it's a matter of see it, do it. Get out the little "helper" rigamajig with the handy dandy accessories and fly into it just to get it all done and off your mind. Or better still, let someone else do it and pay them. There is no day dreaming or meditation or crackling shirts involved. And there is no turning back. We've come a long way. Or have we?

Politickle

Politics is  a word that means a way of getting things done to benefit the society it represents. It has various forms of being, in various places in the world. Politics are shaped by those who are involved in making policies so that their legal systems can carry them out. The word sits close to another word in the dictionary: "polite", but there is nothing polite about politics. Most, other than dictatorial forms, are made up of people hammering out, through argument and debate and, finally, a vote in what is supposed to be a formally controlled environment, to create clarity in the laws of their lands. It's a serious business and those who engage in such a career, know it. Its effects spread throughout the country it works for, and should reflect it. There, for safety's sake, unlike a kingdom that grinds on until a death occurs as in times past, is a limited time period in which certain facets of the political scheme can operate. When the time period is up, there is a country-wide vote to install another set of politicians or to retain the old ones. Before this can happen, however, the parties of politicians have to point out to those who are going to vote for or against them, why they should be the next government. They go out and about to convince the populace that they will do the most beneficial job. And at this point, things can become rather silly. Sometimes they become downright bizarre. The people who think their group should run for leadership, find a leader and together, they tell the voters what they might do if they are elected. They want to convince the people that their plan will work. It is quite simple, really. But, and this is where politics become politickle, the job that is, in truth, to convince voters that their plan will work better than that of the others, become engaged in a personal popularity contest. What's their fashion, their hair, their face, their past? What do they eat, where do they live? What part of the country are they from? What makes the whole process more ridiculous and it shouldn't, of course, is when election promises are made that are unrealistic and not backed-up with solid plans and strategies. This is confusing to voters who need to know exactly how the business of using their tax money is to occur. That's all they want and need to know. They want to trust their politicians. They are not, or should not be, interested in how their elected will appear or what kind of mother and father and family home they had, or what their spouse's body is like. It's about running the country. And when going around supposedly informing people of the policies they plan to introduce, and it turns into personal insults and name calling of the opposing parties, and general primary school recess-spatting on the campaign trail, it flies in the face of the very serious matter of how they are are going to run an entire country. Without political dignity, and a clear sense of what truly matters in the work of managing a country, it becomes politickle.

Useless Stuff

On one of my on-line sale rambles, I came across a page that advertised a fondant smoother. It cost regularly, 12 dollars. I didn't know that you could "smooth" a fondant, not that I dare to make such delicacies. It reminded me to get into "that" drawer which every kitchen owns, and see what I have collected there. When I took over Mom's kitchen, I found small metal pieces that mystified me. I knew she was a cuisine course-taker beyond reason, and when I worked my way to the back of the deep drawer, I found tiny manuals on how to decorate wedding cakes, make party hors d'oeuvres, carve vegetables and brown meringues. A couple of hours later, I sorted out the tools for each operation and began to fathom what it took to accomplish such matters as smoothing fondants, etcetera. I had heard of bacon pressers and bagel cutters but these little tools were instruments of a much finer kitchen occupation. For someone who still uses her long-gone mother-in-law's mother's kitchen ware, I found these were artisan devices that very few haunters of the second-hand stores would relish. No pun intended. Next, I went into my special utensil drawer and took a look at what my heirs might ponder. I had that scoop of my mother-in-law's to be sure, one made of tin likely rather than stainless steel. It's the one that I use instead of the cute little set of four measuring cups. One scoop is a quarter of a cup and the rest is logic. It sort of matches the mottled colour of the serrated bread knife that I depend on. The knife is stained with lemon juice, balsamic vinegar and salts, but it stays sharp forever, and cuts like no other pricey knife on the market today, including the plastic Japanese Samuri sort. Next came the little wooden handled scraper, also made of stained tin. The scraper cleans like no squirt bottle cleaner goop does, such as that to remove the marks on the glass topped stove I once owned. It comes in handy for fry pans (oh yes, black iron ones), when all the soaking in the world won't work. And for stubborn bits on the floor or counters or windows or shoe bottoms, there is nothing like that scraper I protect with my life. But my very favorite kitchen helper is the old, once silver-coated serving spoon, still elaborate with a pattern my grandmother loved and the last of her precious silver plate. It is bent perfectly so that it picks up the final bit of batter, and scoops just the right amount, to fill  muffin tins. The old potato masher, now bent, its handle mostly worn away, takes punishment and stains, too, but it also does the job. No complaints. It's seen more Thanksgiving dinners, summer potato salad picnics and birthday parties than the fancy black plastic one that sits beside my gas stove, charming, but unused. I thought, why do I have all the decor matching kitchen utensils displayed when I seldom, if ever, use them? They are smooth and futuristic, but these venerable tools with their worn handles, scratches, dents and bends, showing the marks of  my family on them, will, I hope, last, so that my grandchildren will learn to use and cherish them as I do.

Mirror Image

I love mirrors.. It's mostly about reflecting light in places that are short on windows, but it's also, in my place, about seeing myself as I am, where I am. I'm not interested in staring at the face staring back, but in seeing who is living there with all those familiar furnishings. Do I fit in? When you think of it, how can you better know the scene in which you exist? You can decorate your abode however you wish: in the latest colours and styles, keep the old and true or mix up a whole set of collectibles from interesting places, but you have to see yourself , the "me" that you have created. About the only way you can do that, is with mirrors. Of course, you can ask someone to come and photograph you  and then gaze at the effect on your computer, but the easiest way, is to put up big mirrors. I love that mirrors create space where it is not. I love that they tell the truth. Regarding the latter, a friend of mine who is about my age, shuns full length mirrors. She doesn't want the truth, she says, looking at her older self. "Ugh" is her assessment. In my new abode, I have been searching for a full length mirror just to check how things look, before I go out. Since I have little space available with my present arrangement of furniture, I can't find a spot to hang a long mirror on the wall and spin in front of it. A problem. The solution was to find a mirror that will attach to the closet door, one that is not visible to guests. Voila! I did locate a mirror to purchase, on-line. When it arrived (I adore on-line shopping that comes directly to my door), up it went. My friend who abhors full-length mirrors would love this one. It's light and can be relocated if you happen to shift things around or move. Full length mirrors are essential. First, when you are going out, casual or not, you really ought to see what others shall. You don't want to go with a thread hanging from your hem, your belt missing a loop or your hemline drooping. Also on those days when you can't decide what to wear, it helps nail the final choice. Wear it, see it, bear it, is my motto. I am no size five. A full look is imperative. Second, if you sew or hem something, you want to check your efforts, and what  is better in accomplishing that, than a full length mirror. Not all mirrors work well, however. One of the major department stores, in its women's wear department, places the mirrors, very narrow ones, in the corners. To view your choices, you have to contort yourself between the chair  and the wall where all the garments hang. It's uncomfortable, and I am not one of those free thinkers who run out into the hallway half-dressed to take a look in the bevy of mirrors there: "Honey, does this look good on me", sorts. I prefer to assess myself, faults and all, privately. Mirrors at home, do it.