May Days

I grew up in a town, New Westminster, that was quite old and traditional. Sadly it has changed. Then, there were Victorian style houses as well as attitudes. The streets were boulevarded and treed, the lawns neat, and the houses tidy. It was a decent, friendly, well organized life style. The pride of the city was its main park. The park had an ice arena, lacrosse box, tennis courts, small entertainment building and a big outdoor arena and lots of picnic area, fields and paths in the tall evergreen trees. The big outdoor facility was where, each year, there was the May Day celebration. In the Fifties, community strata has its upper classes comprised of local politicians, doctors, business owners, school principals and on down the line, if a line there was. During the lead-up to the May Days, great to-dos over who would become the next Queen of the May, kept the town abuzz. Unlike today, which has the winner of such contests, the person whose team sells the most tickets to the event, each school elected the young girl who would be their candidate and the final decision was accomplished in some mysterious way that I didn't know, at the time, nor care about. Whoever it was, we knew was the girl who most deserved it and we were happy for her. The year I remember most vividly was when a beautiful child, I think her name was Maria Montezuma in my memory, was chosen. The name might not be exactly what it was, but that name will do. The most appealing fact  was that she was a resident of the city's orphanage but had magically risen to the heights of local royalty. In my mind she became the Cinderella of my dreams and even now, I believe she was, indeed, such a girl. In those days, girls remained little girls and innocence and sweetness were regarded as the way they should be - rightly or wrongly in today's opinions. My young friends all yearned to be a May Queen and wear the floral crown, ride on the float, be donned in the velvet ermine trimmed cape and white stockings and shoes, dance at the May Queen Ball with the mayor and all of the important people of the town. During the day, all the schools presented to the May Queen in the park's outdoor arena, their performances of gym activities, dances and marches, but the highlight was the Maypole Dance. Not only was the Maypole dance pretty with its young pastel dressed small children, and the colourful ribbons they wove, but also the anticipation of having a perfect dance with no tangled ribbons having to be unwoven and re-done. A perfect rendering seldom happened because the Maypole dance was complicated and required a great deal of coordination and focus. With all of the excitement around them, the youngsters, if successful, were highly commended. The May Queen Ball in the evening was free and any young person in the city could go. Even today, I can hum to the end, the tune of the Maypole Dance and in my mind see and hear May Day once again.

Decor or De-cor

De-coordinate is what I will call today's décor. From what I see on a certain modish on-line site that has interesting "now" furniture and accessories, décor is a mish mash of bits and pieces in white, turquoise, pink and a paint box of other pastels. Nothing gives me a sense of harmony and grace or of design and craftsmanship. If I walked into a room filled with these so-called eclectics, I would see nothing but a blur. Where are the items that bespeak something? Anything. When I enter a home, I want to know about its people, those who live there. Today's ads show book shelves, usually white, with a collection of volumes covered in jackets to "pick up" the room's "accents". What? I want to see what you are reading, what you're interested in. Your home should tell me something more than how cute it is. Sure I like to see various textures and shapes, inviting tones and seating, but I want to see more. Show me a bit of the mystery of you. Please. A basket of knitting or sewing, a tablet or PCU with a pen beside it, a ship in a bottle, an easel, a beautiful sweater tossed on a chair, an action photo of your sport, your chosen colours in cushions, a carpet either patterned or plain tells me a lot about its owner. Your pictures and paintings and prints give a personal mood to your room. One home I was in had the lady's paints out beside her partly finished work. Another was a that of a quilter, and her box of squares with embroidery thread (yes, some quilters do not use slickery trickery sewing machines and ready cut pieces) sat beside her comfortable chair with home-made cushions. Families with kids, have cupboards where children store their toys neatly when not in use, in their living rooms. Living rooms are for living. Magazine photos of kitchens with nothing on the counter tops are, to me, fakes. Those shining counters don't  hold ketchup bottles and cereal boxes, but are completely bare with only an artsy vase or bowl, are not a kitchen. Kitchens should say what and how you like to cook. If you cook. Bathrooms are where you can go ape. Some of the most attractive rooms in a house are the bathrooms. The accessories, towels, plumbing and floors can be exquisite. Kids bedrooms are fun, too. There you see exactly who the child is. They have all of  their favorite things out ready to use. Parents allow them the paint colours they love albeit often temporary. Paint works. Adult bedrooms can also be gorgeous with multi cushions, luxurious fabrics and carpets. It's a couples room where the owners can relax and surround themselves with what makes them feel sensous and unique. Down with the snowy cool northern influence and up with a warm blooded Canadian décor: woods and wools.

Handy Man

There are lots of other things I miss a great deal about my husband, but one important one is his talent as a Handy Man. For a man occupied all of his working life with ledgers and pens and numerals,  he would  have made an excellent carpenter. Even when we ventured into having houses built from scratch, he got himself involved. There were constant visits and talks with the contractors, serious studies of roof slants and drainage and beams but, someone else did the actual hammering and cutting. Where he really shone was the renovation projects we got ourselves into. A lot of people doing renovations, and I include women like my mother, drew up a plan on a scrap of paper and then by gosh and by golly, grabbed a saw and went at it. If something didn't quite fit, it was squeezed into, sawn off, filled in or taken apart to start all over again. But not my husband. He measured and planned and drew and tested ahead of time and searched for exactly the right materials. On the other hand, his father would pick up old two by fours and part planks that drifted in on the tide and nail them into place with dozens of random nails, few new ones, and while the end product stayed there for decades without budging, it looked like a piece of horror chamber equipment. A boyfriend I had was the same. I asked him to put a nail in the wall to hang something on and ended up with a huge screw half in and half out that had a dangerous tilt to it. But he was so proud of it,  I didn't have the heart to critique. But that husband of mine wouldn't have allowed such a mess. One of the projects he accomplished, was to insulate a very old house we bought, that had never known fibreglass. The pink batts were applied and then held in by some kind of large flat plywood efforts with slats so that the long living room walls looked like a wooden spider's web spun by a diabolically mad insect. But it worked. And later, the time that I decided to surprise him by putting up the wallpaper all by myself in the en suite, to see his surprised looks was memorable. Luckily, the store had more of the same pattern. That's when I learned what a plumb bob was. I miss hinting things like "I would love to see a shelf there" or "wouldn't a window on that wall, light up this space" and know that those wishes would come true and be beautiful, solid and straight. I miss, too, the person who lifted heavy items and moved big pieces of furniture into place, who fixed plumbing and knew about electrical wires and could reach high shelves and who never lost his temper when he hit his finger with a hammer, mostly because he didn't. I did buy a wonderful new cordless screwdriver recently, that was recommended by a person who said everyone should have one, and actually put up a curtain rod. It was a daunting experience and I hope that no one ever sees any of the extra holes in the plaster that are hidden behind the draperies.

Being Mother

Motherhood is something you can't study for. It just is. Holding life within your body is unique enough, but when you actually see the tiny human surprise that comes forth, it's a mystifying experience. You look into those brand new eyes looking back at you, and you know what you have to do. You instantly dedicate your entire life to that small, unfinished person warm in your arms. You know that from that moment on you are going to enter into the most important work your body was made for, regardless of any other theories abounding.  You are, and will be needed for the rest of that small creature's lifetime. And being needed is a great gift. It gives back. While it's a huge responsibility to rear a child and the years of nurturing and guiding lie ahead, for a moment, you doubt that you can do it. But mothers have a natural talent and knowledge built into their psyches. Father's too, if they allow themselves this great joy. But, like any other important work, there is labour involved, even though the most important need is giving of yourself wholeheartedly. You may not have all the resources you want, to be a good parent, but there is one only vital ingredient. One must-have. It's not the latest educational toys, the organic foods, the perfect school, the ideal nanny, the money or the pretty house or even a mate: it's love. Lots and lots of love, and letting that little one know it constantly. It's being there, and being open to its needs, standing by it when all else seems to fail it. It draws strength to grow and develop to be whole, knowing you are there loving it, no matter what. In that child's life to come, there are going to be times when it needs you desperately or maybe not at all, but you are still there, still loving it. It's a quiet matter, motherhood, parenthood,  and there are hurts and sorrows and joys and endless memories to have when your child reaches maturity. It's then that you learn about who you are. Through the memories your child tells, you learn what you didn't know about yourself as a mother. Fathers, too. You, also, can share with that man or woman you birthed, and who is now grown up, tales of their growing years to enrich their lives with your "take". Mothers who have had to give up their babies at birth, are also loved always by that child that was given from them. How difficult that is. And often unselfish, but the truth is that your birth child will come back to find you. While these children  dearly love their chosen-mothers, they need to find the flesh and blood ones who gave them birth, all the while knowing not to hurt either sharing woman. And the birth mother, whether she is able to take the same steps or not to welcome once again, what she bore, she will love that child forever in her heart. It's complicated matter being a mother, but it's the greatest natural joy there is.

No To Nine Yards

Nope. Not going the Whole Nine Yards. Never have, never will. Why, some ask? If you don't try, you'll never reach your acme, your perfection. My answer is, I have no intention of going that far. In high school I was always on the Honour Roll and proud of it, but my closest friends topped it. They stayed on top and continued on throughout university. I marched down the aisle and got the board's tassel flipped and had a career, but not on to the doctorate.  In fact, one clever friend dedicated her life to Nine Yards. She went on to become a tenured professor and writes books as a global authority in her subject. She never married, travels all over the world making friends in her field and continues in her eighties to publish. She writes to me and tells me modestly about her successes because she knows I am thrilled for her. She has reached her acme, her perfection. But she  lives alone and is now retired and hoping to have time to get her next book ready to publish. Her subject is so narrow that few will partake of all the work she has gone to, and she knows that, but she revels in the fact that she has accomplished. She has gone her Nine Yards. Recently, I met a woman in my Bridge group who plays at least four times a week and strives to learn all there is about the game. She plays seriously and rather expects others to try for the same. She does "instruct" at the table but not entirely offensively. We can certainly learn from others whether we want to go the whole way or not. This Bridge player is going for her Nine Yards in cards. There are many people who do the Nine Yards but I am one of the lazy ones who says no, I don't have that kind of ambition. I love coasting and enjoying the ride. I don't need to be in the driver's seat, nor even the front seat. I am content to smell and pick the roses along the way. This is not saying we shouldn't go for the top, the Whole Nine Yards. If some didn't, we wouldn't be where we are today on this Technological, Scientific, Literary, Artistic and so on,  planet. Man's nature is to achieve and to progress even though at times, it puts lives at risk over stressing our physical limits. Our marvellous brains seek to overcome the risks as well.  So I congratulate all the Nine Yarders but sorry, I want to get back to my book and my games and my lolling around with the plants and to savour the flavours. But to all of those of us who could be called lazy and users, we feel no guilt about enjoying what the achievers have accomplished. Who for, and why, do they do it? Take heart. They do it for us.

LOLs

No, LOL in this case, is not laughing-out-loud; it is lonely-old-ladies. There must be thousands, nay, millions of these around the world. They cope. Women, historically, do things to cope. It might be going to the local Senior Citizens Centre to mingle. It could be a lady's group such as book clubs or quilt making or weight loss gyms, but they all end up with some kind of conversation to do with the lack of "good" men for the finding. Or simply men, period. Women in their sixth decade or beyond, are, by all public accounts, termed "elderly" whether or not, they sky dive, surf board or climb mountains in their spare time. When "elderly" happens to one, it's always a surprise. You dress in silks, wear a spritz of perfume, put on make-up and behave sweetly, but one day, you are "older" which starts somewhere around fifty, and the next thing you know, suddenly, you are "elderly". I don't know about you but "elderly" to me means a person who is kind of incompetent or pushing 100. Statistically, there are more older women than men. Quite simple. Men die earlier. One day you are married and have someone to share your life with, and the next, you are sitting alone in a very silent living room by yourself night after night with a book or the television or computer as your near and dear. There are some ways to meet a man but most of them are rather unpalatable. The on-line dating route is depressing. The camera isn't a good match-maker and the frequently unrealistic descriptions and requirements in the on-line blurbs, are misleading. I've done the coffee routine trying that route and it's not fun. What you saw in the photo,  is not what is sitting in front of you with something in its teeth and tissue still in its beard. As to suddenly meeting Mr. Right (with apologies to those who make other choices), it doesn't happen like in the movies where you turn the corner at the cereal aisle or in the deli, and there he is. The generation that hies from the fifties and sixties, the ones currently known as "elderly", aren't prone to being forward about going forward. And, being "set up" by dear friends who want to see you connected in some way to their relative or pal, can also be disastrous. If you don't click with their suggestion, someone is going to be offended. That choice leaves you  to make a Dear John phone call or e mail, stating that the most you and said suggestion or recommendation can ever be, is friends. And everyone knows what "friends" means. Being an LOL is a difficult matter to solve, therefore, most of us simply give up and tell everyone how delighted we are to be independent, but we lie. We all have the hope that one day the perfect match will turn up somewhere, sometime and romance will blossom. Ah love eternal!