What RU Doing NYE

The question most asked just before New Year's Eve is "What are you doing ..."  The answer that I hear most is "nothing". And nothing it is for me and a whole lot of other people I know. In fact, those of us doing nothing, really ought to have a Do Nothing NYE party. We won't hug and kiss at the stroke of twelve and we won't serve champagne or reminisce or make predictions or resolutions or eat haggis. We will do nothing at all at midnight. It will be the ultimate rebellion against tradition. Or something. I have to admit that when I had a husband, we did New Year's Eve in the grand style. We went, over the decades, to a real house in our sequins and Christmas neck tie and stood about in an elegantly decorated living room or Tiki basement den or RV park recreation space or tiny cosy living room watching the pre-recorded "ball" drop in Times Square NYC. I can't recall ever enjoying it much. There was great anticipation that at the stroke of twelve, there would be some kind of miracle. But there never was anything but trying to avoid being slobbered on by a stranger or hugged by a loud, corny, drunken fat uncle or wept upon by the soggy older woman who lost someone we never met. If we were lucky, my husband and I, found a quiet spot and said a sincere, I love you and kissed our memories together. (Sigh.) But after some years of life as a single, New Year's Eve is a solitary endeavor. I am inclined, still, to wear something sparkly and pretend that someone handsome and rich will ride up on a white steed and invite me to his castle. Actually, I prefer, rather than a white horse or a prince, a good friend riding over on a pretty dark Arabian pony or two and a nice latte in a mug. It should be an individual who likes good jazz or gentle classics, nibbling fine cheese and veggy caviar, someone who can discuss something other than jabs at a foreign president or nasty talk against our duly elected government. I would love to chat opinions about lovely places like mountains or Italy or France or farms or animals, other than spoiled pets, or Hollywood and its impact on politics or anything else but serious matters that don't matter at all. I would love to relax in an old pair of jeans and scuzzy sweater and big furry slippers and no make-up and my hair undone. I'd like to loll on a pile of cushions flopping on the floor and yes, watch what's going on at Times Square that has nothing to do with reality and that already happened five or six hours ago. I want to go outside at midnight if I can stay awake that long, and bang on a pot that didn't cost a hundred bucks, and yell into the street lights blazing away so that we can't see the stars, and say Happy New Year 2019!

Just An Orange

Oranges are so standard that they are seldom regarded as anything special. In my history, they were prime. When I smell an orange, it brings back reminders of when schools had cloak rooms and the prevailing scent of them was gum boots and orange peelings. Apples were seasonal, but for some reason, oranges were always available. Most kids had an orange in their lunch kit when they were metal kits. They were the school status symbols of the day. The children with jam cans, the big kind with snap on lids, were at the bottom of the list while Superman or Wonder Woman kits were the highest according to  what the weekly Saturday movie matinees starred. There were always the cowboy stars of course, but we girls didn't want them. We had sexism in those days. Orange peels were found everywhere on the playground because if you didn't start peeling the fruit when you were rushing out at recess, you couldn't get the job done before your twenty minutes were up. Most of us tried not to break the orange skin because if you were successful, you might even with care, be able to score off each section without getting sticky juice all over your hands. No one wanted to go to the smelly basement bathroom sink and wash hands because it took too long, and you might be late and lateness was not popular. The revered teacher you loved, would scowl. When Christmas rolled around, there were the Japanese oranges to look forward to. The best part of them, was the easy peeling and sectioning. But the most exciting, and joyous thing about Christmas oranges, was the challenge of getting the peel off in one piece. Some kids were masters and dangled their prize efforts all during recess to the envy of everyone who wasn't  allowed to bring one of those prized oranges to school. They were saved for special home consumption during the holidays. Most families could afford only one box for the season. And the most exciting part, when parents brought home the box of oranges that sat in the coolest spot in the house, usually in the hallway, to prevent spoilage, was knowing that they would last only a short, rationed out time. There was always at least one orange in the box that was rotten and all moldy and when you came across that one, there were ughs and gagging. But the odor of the rotted fruit was secretly savoured and the way the mold transfixed our eyes when it was removed and put in the trash, to the tune of groans all around, was just another strangely delicious part of  Christmas traditions. You knew that you would be getting at least one orange in your Santa stocking. You could tell by the lump it made. We didn't have fancy stockings made of felt and sequins in those days. Our girl stockings were often the long kind that were held up by contraptions we hated because they never worked well and required a lot of hitching and tugging.  And while we rather ignored the lump orange in the stocking and tossed it out to get to the other great stuff in the sock, we did eat it later because it was part of the fun. When the box of oranges in the hallway was empty, that, sadly, was, for us, the end of Christmas. 

Having What You Don't

You can have or be whatever you wish.  Our minds allow us to be rich as royalty, brave as travelers in space, fierce as monsters or warriors, glittering as stars on billboards or wild as animals and plants. Imagination takes us anywhere just as a magic carpet could. Here it is Christmas morning and while most are still in bed or scrambling to the tree looking for gifts, all the people who have nothing this day, are thinking about what they desire most and searching and finding it in their dreams. It's like going window shopping and being able to see and think about the gorgeous things behind the glass. They become finer and better, truly, for not being in our hands.You can't feel what's there, but your imagination allows you to do, precisely, that. All of the freedoms in the world are not as endless as the huge capacity within our own heads. There you may find your most in-achievable goals, bring back the ones who died or go to places you've never been or ever could. Your mind is the ultimate multi-tasker. In the most dire circumstances or the endurance of  horrendous events, you can escape to refuge in your head. It's a human safety net and life preserver. Loneliness, the biggest creeping affliction of Man, is laved with scores and multitudes of friends and supporters we love or wish to. They come to us willingly in our thoughts and get us through times of mental pain. Prisoners and the oppressed, can free themselves in their minds and revel in the vast spaces and places they invent. Story tellers pluck the fruits to build their tales and artists render their endless colours and lines that wander enticingly in their reveries. Writers stroll in great meadows and  forests of words they need and glorious scenes that tell them places and people and plots to place on paper or screen. Musicians hear melodies as yet to be invented and create impossible scores in impossible tones and tempos. The talented achieve their heights and are recognised for their as yet invented gifts. Children become beautifully gowned princesses and handsome princes on brave steeds. The athlete wins the medal and hears the roaring cheers and encouragements of  found fame. The ugly are much desired in their fantastically beautiful and perfectly formed bodies. The old are young again, in love and loved by those they adored. The religious find their highest hopes. The poor, hungry and homeless, stroll the halls and gardens of splendid mansions and furnishings and properties. Epicureans see banquette tables spill with supreme elegance, the richest desserts, succulent meats and shining vegetables beside glowing exotic fruits. It is paradise contained. It is all free and it's now and right where you are. It's in your mind if you want it, and it's having what you don't have.

Dear Near Miss

Dear Near Miss or Miss Near, an open letter: Dear Miss: I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart, not a particularly significant place with my good state of health, but of course you already know that. As you are also aware, the other day, I had a near miss, forgive the pun intended. It was the day that, in another scenario, I could have died. But thanks to you, it wasn't my turn. The whole matter was much like the house that Jack built, actually, in reflection. It was a bright and sunny winter day when the wind to a high degree, blew down a large cedar tree of more than one hundred feet tall, and rotund. You could put it another way, and I shall. It happened on a sunny day that the wind blew, that uprooted the tree,  that felled it on the power line, that landed on the pavement, that caused a spark, that started a fire,  that melted the tar, that covered the gas line, that opened a hole in it, that threatened the entire block of town houses, condos and elderly home, that could have, but didn't, blow them all to kingdom come. Yours very sincerely, a single old lady who saw it all from her patio on the same street. This is a true tale. Until I had my cold shower (see a former blog) I didn't know the entire story even though the flashing lights and helmeted service folk were out there blocking off the avenue as bystanders stood about googling. The scary part is, that no one in the building where I lived, was entirely aware of the event. We knew that the power flickered a bit and the gas was off and we heard something go bang, earlier on, but being in the middle of a city, it wasn't cause to panic. We hear sirens and loud noises frequently including the incessant whistle on the rail line that runs dirty US coal through our pretty city by the sea. The situation made me think of how many times we all have these near misses, and afterward, think about how fortunate we are to have missed them. They are the times, we didn't take the plane or ferry or bus or train but learned later that if we had, we just might not be around to be remarking about it. We say things like "c'est la vie" here in Canada. Or "that's life" in the US.  But it is true that life presents us challenges right from the get go. Birth alone is a big chance for accident, even in this day of high tech everything. And think of the times we have passed a semi rig trailer that swung across the lanes going the other way and piled up numerous  vehicles strewn about the highway. Or the bridge in our area, that was swept away with a few unlucky cars the day we left home late and saw the sign. Or the storm that hit the day after our motor boating trip, the one that saw many thrown into cold waters never to be seen again. And then there are too many of our dearest people who woke up one day and found they had cancerous tumors, and are now gone. How very happy and lucky and scary it is, to read with sadness, that, for us, it was only a near miss.

Cold Shower

In a lifetime, I have had only a few cold showers. Most were at campsites where there was no choice. With them, however, it was a hot day and the shower, a great treat. Today's cold shower was a surprise. Yesterday, granted, there had been a storm with fallen trees and branches but, I saw that the power was back on. As usual, I put shampoo on my hair before stepping into the shower that was merrily spewing its usual jet stream, when the shock of cold, not friendly warm water, assailed my cringing form. Although I jumped back to the safe space of my walk-in, the shampoo made it a requirement to proceed, cold water or not. After a few dashes in and out, I found the chilly downpour tolerable. When I exited, shampoo now a memory, the warmth in the room was more than welcome. Later investigation proved that our hot water system is gas controlled, thus the Arctic experience of the changed morning routine. But what happened, made me think what sissies we are. We expect light and heat and all the other comforts we are accustomed to. Perhaps that's why we like sometimes, to go bare dry camping. We like to pit ourselves against Nature. The idea of having to get back to the true basics is a wake up call. It's when you do not have heat or electricity or water that is potable. You have to light a campfire to keep warm, have to boil water before drinking or cooking food,  and even to have the fire, need to find fuel for it. Little gas or alcohol burners eschewed. We revert to our ancient ancestors the primitives who discovered these comforts little by little over the centuries until today, with its electronically monitored everything and safety persons to call when little things go "wrong", we are spoiled and become annoyed or angered if any of them go down. My, oh my, we have to bundle up to keep warm or boil the tap water or not have the daily shower  or shave or bath. We have to wash and do washing by hand. We don't have vehicles to go from here to there. Everything we are spoiled by, that we get with relatively few tax dollars every day of our lives, is something that without the services we take for granted, we have to do ourselves, by ourselves. So you get out of bed and wash in cold water and possibly head out to the privy in back for that certain purpose and come back into a house whose heat is generated by your chopping and firing up wood for heating and cooking. When it's time to go to work, you walk there or ride a horse or straddle a donkey. When you get there, you do all the work without a computer of any kind, if you want to communicate, you speak in person; there are no cell phones. If you are cold, you might wear furry boots and a big parka. Out comes the pen and paper and your head, for the written and numeral sections. Remember adding and subtracting and the multiplication tables.?Where is the  slide rule? Contact lenses or laser treatments for those orbs, uh uh. Dig around for the glasses, my friend. Coffee machine? Never. Didn't you bring your thermos filled with warmish coffee made of beans you ground on a rock? Haven't we come a long way, Baby? Ah civilization, maybe tonight I can have a hot shower?

Old Romance

Romance is for the older generation. There is a movie about the truths of aging romance: "Love Among The Ruins", an unforgettable film. Romance isn't the heat of passion or the search for a life mate or the greed of the need. It's something without time or brilliance or serving delicate egos. It's about knowing that what you see in someone else is not demanding or selfish or needy. It's about seeing someone warm and just there, nearby and with them, a time, a few moments or hours or days when everything is okay and life is beautiful. It isn't necessarily candle light or roses or champagne, but it could be. It might be a campfire or a beach or a moon or an old cosy couch. There are no rules regarding romance, other than looking into someone's eyes and recognising that it is a mutual feeling. That's why older age is the most romantic time of life. It senses the true meaning of romance. You don't need backgrounds of wealth or position or ambition. You have no far reaching goals to serve, you just are loving the immediate time you have with someone else. It's a time that makes no demands of you. You don't have to perform or look classically beautiful, you know that the eyes looking back, find you perfect, and all you have to do is feel the same way. Aging romance removes all of the stress of these parameters that the young have to deal with. While younger romantics are caught up in serving the fashion of the day, being financially sound and moving upward and onward, elders don't have these tensions. They've been there and done that, and all they want to do and be, is to enjoy the peace and happiness of the moment. They have the time to make that ambition achievable.  The problem is, for elders, to find the other person. Most of them, us, is that they don't favour the on-line coffee date routine. They sit in malls and dream that passers-by just might be the right ones. Or they loll in lounge chairs in "homes" sorting through their past lives and all of the loves they loved while hoping there might be someone real and near to share their moments. Or they sort through their lists of Facebook "friends" and emote over their many choices should the faces come alive in their imaginations. It's kind of sad really, but it makes these persons, the greatest of romantics. Some very fortunate elders, find a romantic interest, but they are not able to do the candle light and wine moves due to the objections of their own relatives or the restrictions of their physical states or their personal hang-ups or the disapproval of other society members. "Oh come now, you're too old for that stuff", they chide. These people aren't "there" and don't get it.  But the need for romance is a private and personal matter and aging never cuts that off. It's not something for relatives  or "home" managers or society in general to pronounce judgments upon or dictate rules about. The aged know most about true romance because of their ages. They feel romance. They seek romance. As much as any others, they need romance.

Dr. What?

There are doctors and there are doctors. Each sort is different. A doctor of philosophy for example, does not do surgeries  as your medical doctor possibly might. A doctor of letters or one of science or engineering is yet another kind of doctor. While all the doctors, have lengthy periods of education years beyond the average "good" ones, what their specialties are, depend upon their area of expertise and interest. We understand the label, doctor, because the individual granted such an honour, has spent a lot of time in his/her field and learning  how to do it. In short, these people deserve their titles and our respect. Recently, I heard a discussion about allowing pharmacists to administer tests of their customers and to prescribe certain medications for them: some as antibiotics, blood pressure medicine and certain sexually related therapies. According to the reports, those in rather remote areas where MDs are in short supply, greatly appreciated that they could receive medications on the advice of a pharmacist. They reported that pharmacists had very good follow-up routines and listened to their customers with time and interest. Along with the pharmacists during this discussion, medical doctors were present, and during the talk, the word "diagnosis" was introduced. One of the doctors was concerned about this term, and remarked that pharmacists did in fact supply care, but that it did not arise out of, or allow for, true diagnoses. He said that diagnosis was the work of the medical doctor. I found the discussion, fodder for further consideration. It is certainly true that pharmacists do follow up with calls about some medications and it is much appreciated. What concerns me, is that all of the medications that are said to be prescribed by pharmacists, can have serious implications on one's general health. Your medical doctor has a file on your complete medical history while a pharmacist does not, and should not. When something as serious as high blood pressure happens to a body, it isn't simply a matter of taking a pill to reduce the readings. High blood pressure could be an indication of something more complicated, and in my lay opinion, without all the information about a person's medical standing, a more serious condition might be undiscovered. Also, the use of antibiotics isn't something simple. The implications of continued use could have concerning effects. It is true, however, that when you receive a prescription from your doctor, there is almost never a follow up by his office. Most of the time, it is up to the patient to do this, or wait until another appointment is possible. For some people, these things are not easy. And thinking that you are going to have much more that a quick fifteen minutes in a medical doctor's office is a myth. Also to be considered, many pharmacists, if not most, are business persons who own their outlets. They are also professionals but they are in business. They need to make profit to stay in business, while a doctor is of the service industry controlled by tight government and professional restrictions and not necessarily in business for profit. The outcome of seeing a pharmacist as a prescriber of medicines, will be interesting.

Big Small Talk

In this holiday season and at parties galore, there is no reason to be bored. What is called "small talk" is actually large, and can be broadening experiences. There's nothing better at a party, if you can hear yourself, than tucking up to someone else who is looking kind of bored, and having conver. Getting started with a stranger, also a guest, is easy. What they wear, their hair, do they know the host, are they in the neighbourhood, are starters. Do not ask where they are from or if have they been here before or what they do for a living. Why does it matter? Here you both are, so start with that. It doesn't have to be a critiquing session about the room, the people, the party itself. It should be all about who you are face to face with. One-to-one chats, are not things to be interrupted. If you go to a party in someone's home, ditch the phone. Phones and socializing do not go together. The rudest and most annoying words to hear when you are with someone, are such cellular things as "do you mind" or "I have to take this" or "excuse me". Turn the phone off when you enter the party room door. Please. Keep talk about things, not people, and certainly not a whit of jesting comment about others in the room, no matter how tempting it may be. That sort of chit chat gets into the catty category. And unless you are actually a cat, it doesn't go over well. Almost everyone likes to talk about themselves and your introductory personal question will probably lead to an interesting picture of the individual you are looking at. They do not want to hear an exchange on your life info unless they ask, so don't volunteer it.  If they take out their cell phone, it's the end of the chat. Leave, and search out someone else. At a recent party, there was the food table to do exchange on. Things like: are you into cooking? What's your favorite restaurant around here? Have you tasted the great name-it on the table? All good appetizers to further small talk. Small talk is like reading a person book. While sipping and nibbling last night, I spoke with someone who gave me his history from start to finish. It just rolled out. His life as a flyer, was amazing. When his pretty wife beckoned him away, I felt as though I knew him well. On turning to my right, and remarking to a woman that she seemed to have an English accent, got me into her life story. She was a traveler. Then, in the kitchen, a gentleman discussed chili making contests and how he did his chili pots. Others gathered around, and the session became a recipe exchange. One quiet lady in the corner began telling me about her volunteer work when I commented as I sat down, that I saw she found a quiet corner. That's all it took for her to launch into what she did at the animal rescue centre. I learned about a place I passed often and had wondered about for years.  By the time the evening ended, I can't say I made a lot of friends because I didn't go out to do that, but I certainly did enjoy a large number of stories by people I might never meet again. The tales of their own lives enriched mine. It made mere small talk, very big.

Woman Not Widow

The label widow should have a time limit. That may sound heartless but then, I happen to be a realist but not a "hard hearted Hannah". From a long marriage into a new kind of life, you find one that  fosters an independence that is almost heady and takes getting used to. At first you think you can't do it, but you can. When your husband or partner dies, there is a time of sadness and loneliness but it doesn't last very long. Life gets in the way. You don't have time to sit around and cry. If you didn't manage the household before, you do now. All of it, not just managing your career and your house, but also the accounting, the relatives, the day to day, the recreation, the car. All of it. It's yours and there is no one else around to moan, groan and fight with over it. All the decisions are yours. When one sets aside the grief, which I didn't do much of because, it is, frankly, a waste of the years you have left. Living life is not about the past, it's about the present and your future. You get over the loneliness and begin to rather like making all the decisions. You might even take up a romantic interest. Death doesn't take that feeling away, folks. And I hope the kids are listening. You are not insulting any memories. Where you are now, has nothing to do with the past. Every day is new. Some of my friends take a different viewpoint and weep a lot. I do sometimes, but not often and if so, privately. I am not a widow, I am the woman in the store buying groceries for the week, shopping for a new pair of shoes, searching out an honest mechanic, learning how to fix little things around the house or calling someone who does. I am not knocking on my neighbour's door begging for a nice man to fix the roof or drains or the knock in my car engine. I say that because my neighbours are very fine people, but they have their own lives to live. I found out when left on my own, that it doesn't take brawn to do things around the house and no one fixes their cars now anyway. The computers in them won't stand for it. Sure I am alone and it's quite wonderful in many ways. Loneliness is a state of mind, not a tangible thing to grasp and hold. With the vast number of things to choose to do these days, that, too, is a myth. What you do find, is yourself. When you married a long time ago, you found someone to share your life with and you became half of a whole. When you are left alone, you find that your half is, indeed, whole. It's quite a surprise when you discover the you that is you. You either follow the same old ruts or you step off the path and learn that there are other choices. If you are very lucky, you will find a lover or perhaps just a dear, dear friend kind of partner to stroll along beside. You learn that marriage isn't exclusive in keeping this kind of relationship alive. A close, even intimate friendship, with someone easy, is an enlightening experience. You are mature and can handle whatever is presented. When you were younger, perhaps you found these emotional matters difficult, but having had a good marriage, or perhaps even one that wasn't, teaches you things that you didn't realize you learned. I am not a widow. Don't label me with a death image. I am a single woman and doing fine, thank you very much.

Getting A Grip

Used to be something called The Grippe which was the same thing as we call influenza today.  I recall grandparents calling their suitcases, "grips". And then again, we have gripes. The latter is what I feel sometimes. I have a gripe, not that it is pronounced the same as the other "grips". My gripe is about  all the bad news we receive every day: bombings, shootings, riots and arrests of the innocent. The media, doesn't spend much time looking for pleasant things to write of or speak about or show. When things are going along too well in our safe areas, The Media reaches out anywhere in the world to find bad news. The worst part of it is that we, The Public, seem to eat it up. Bad news headlines catch our eye.  It's a bit like driving past a car accident and slowing down, not for safety sake, but to see if someone were badly hurt. If you deny this, you are likely telling yourself a fib. But wait, we aren't meanies, out being nasty bad news bears, we happen to belong to a sympathetic group of creatures who are bent on helping each other. Even when we are gawkers, there is a positive reason at the bottom of it. We have a natural good Samaritan in most of us, that thinks just maybe we can do some good if we come across a bad situation. We can't help it, it's our nature. And once in awhile, that element of our human psyche, is one that actually does save lives: giving CPR, standing back when we are told, calling 911 when it's needed, offering a hug or kind word. But the "grip" I am thinking of is what we have to seek out when the bad news is so bad or there is so much of it, we start to slide down the slippery slope of depression. We need to get a grip. We feel helpless that we can't do anything for the huge numbers of people who are in horrendous situations. We think of the innocent children caught in these moving hordes of our fellow world beings who have lost everything while we, here, live in relative comfort. We donate, we watch and care but fail to understand how human beings can treat each other so heartlessly in the name of political, religious or economic greed. Not all of us can rush off to help, even though we might like to. We do the best we can in small ways, and then we have to find peace in our own lives knowing that we have so much to be thankful for. The world has always had strife and it does bear thought, but how does one live knowing so. We can do what we can in our small ways, but we also have to find happiness in our own lives. We can do something nice for someone else no matter how small it is. A smile, a kind word, a happy greeting, are things that make not only others  feel better, but also, ourselves. We can love our families and spend more time with them. We can offer our friends and neighbours hearing ears and pleasant words. We don't need to bake cookies or cakes and deliver them, we need simply to take time to look around us and appreciate what we have, small as it may seem and share the positiveness in some way. We need to try and tip the balance, in our own ways in our own spaces, toward the positive. We need to get a grip.

Whitest Pearly White

Teeth used to be something natural but now they are the outstanding feature of faces. The teeth of the future, are dazzling white and beyond perfectly formed. My dentist didn't believe in the startlingly white tooth fashion statement when I had all my caps installed. He believed in the natural look. How old fashioned is that? But at the time I felt,  I could join the other perfect smile population and I was very pleased. My former natural teeth were just fine but when the old fillings needed ousting, I was encouraged by the dentist to go for caps. A bit later when snow white dazzlers came into fashion in  a big way and people opted for the whiter than white variety, it was too late for my naturally coloured caps to vie in the fashion scene. I had normal looking teeth. I began to see nothing but white, white teeth after that. People with the whiter whites, grinned a lot. Their photos looked like dental office posters. They were pictures of perfection toothwise. For the price of all new kitchen appliances in the latest finishes, you could get yourself a rack of pearly choppers that could cause cramps with all of the smiling you had to do from that moment on. Formerly plain Jacks and Jills, rose from being shy and bashful, to stunning creatures who smiled at everyone non-stop and made loads more friends and lovers than they knew what to do with. Who wouldn't want to cuddle up to thousands of dollars worth of dazzling snowy white plastic? Those lily whites just beckoned to be adored. The glitteringly pristine set of teeth invited your set to communicate in unison. People who used to be retiring and prim, were now social wonders with their shiny sets of frontal decor. Their smiles grew wider and taller. Selfies became a requirement. If you've got 'em, flaunt 'em was the word. The mouths of political figures, once serious and pondering, now sported  marvellous grinners that blinded even those on the opposite side of the House. Of course those opposite, beamed back in like sets of party porcelains, too. Out-whiting became the key. Who cared if no one went by the colour rules of nature. The whiter, the better. The more perfectly aligned the imposter teeth were, the better. There were professionals who professed adjusting your non-aligned head by straightening it all out with their miraculous dental arts. And when we thought nothing could be whiter or more impressive, along came the hewers and planters of teeth.These high dental experts went onward and upward and found a way to better nature even more by planting metal and plastic teeth, screwing them right into the bones of your head. If other other medical geniuses were doing the same with joints, so, they deemed, why not teeth? And the dollars flowed like rivers. I know a woman well into her dotage, who sold her home and little dogs, to get a set of teeth installed into the bones of her jaws. Why not, she claimed, they would last forever. She swore that even if she had only a few years left in her life, she would go out in a blaze of dental glory. When she moved into the Home after she got her new teeth  planted, she was the belle of the dining room. Her  famous smile lit the up Hot Dog Thursday like nothing before. From what I hear, she has a number of gentlemen in the place, begging to play Whist at her table every Saturday night. That's a lot more than I can brag about.

Balance Beam

Sometimes life is a balance beam. It's like the one you had as a kid in gym class. You know what I speak of: the benches along the wall that the teacher had you turn upside down and walk along during PE Period. You learned after a bit of work, to walk the beam doing various gymnastic maneuvers without falling off too many times, until you got it right. It was fun. It wasn't high enough at the beginning to worry about,  but as the teacher raised the equipment, the challenge became greater, and in spite of the nice thick blue mats below, your fears increased with the height of the beam. You had to overcome your anxiety of falling in order to maintain your balance. It was a kind of connection war between your mental and physical forces. There are many times, now, in daily adult life, when you feel that you are on that balance beam and even though you know the fall can hurt, you want to take a chance anyway. It could be taking on a huge venture, a relationship or some sort of  project. You know that if you fail, everything will seem to be lost, but you decide to consider your chances regardless of the risk. Before you do, however, you measure the dangers of failure, against your need to take on the challenge that could be important to your future contentment with who and what you are. You have only one life and you don't want to mess up. At least not too much. After thinking it over, you either go for it, or not, but you do so with a grounding, nay, grinding, assessment. If you take on the risk you could be hugely rewarded. If you don't attempt the risk to tread the thin beam, you could regret it for the rest of your life. You'd never know if you might have been successful or not. It is therefore, you think, a matter of trying the project on or visualizing your walk along the edge. To do this, level headed folk, take a realistic approach. Emotions have to be set aside in order to deal with the realities. Out comes the paper and pencil or a run to your "guru" whomever or whatever that is. You fold your "paper" in half and write down, on one side, the pros and on the other side, the  cons, of this decision. You give each side the value and weight it deserves, but only in actual, solid  terms. Emotions and the possible opinions of others, though considered, must be set aside. It is your life and your move. You spend a lot of time at this point. After this, comes the scary part. You have to take the step. You tell yourself that you have given it thought and that if you don't do it, you will never have another "kick at the can". What happens next, becomes part of your history, and hopefully success, and if it doesn't, you can tell yourself that you at least gave it a fair trial. Good luck, because sometimes, no matter how much you rationalize, that is all there is.

Facing Up To It

Social media isn't real. It's a toy and a tool. Nothing more. It's not life. I know some sad individuals who brag about how many "friends" they have and make comparisons asking, "how many friends do you have?" and then tell you their four figure stats. Friends? AYK? They are faces, not friends. With a tiny, even accidental tap, you can gain or unfriend those faces. You can make thousands of friends by friending the friends of those friends, or so-called ones. It is sad when I hear that some people even communicate with the faces of these strangers, and make comments on their sites when they have no idea who that face truly is. They are overjoyed when the face, answers. They build a fantasy with the faces, thinking they are friends or will become friends, even potential lovers. They examine their Friend sites carefully and take great interest in what they see. They go through all of the photos and messages. Their imaginations expand the text with the photo shot so that they feel they have, indeed, made a friend. They ignore the fact that the real lives behind the faces are not always the truth about the face that goes with the text. The whole piece can be nothing but a fantasy. Even though there are requirements of the site, no one checks unless there is a complaint. The whole face site could be mere speculation and broad fiction. A fantasy can be created by some user people to fog out the loneliness of their days. This can reach dangerous levels when their fantasies turn into hopes that the face in the photo is someone they actually know through the site, and are in their real world. Sometimes they begin to message their dream faces so that they might meet them. This kind of situation turns social media into a dating site, but one with no protections. The results can turn into bad situations. It's often what you read about in police reports of scams. Social media sites are great for passing on news to your real world friends but thinking that it will make actual friends is a big stretch. Friends are people you know in real time and life. They aren't a face and a few chosen photos. I have a real friend who must be reminded gently that the media faces are not real people whom she knows. They are pictures only and not all reliable. Those one knows, are the ones who live across the street or the hall or in the neighbourhood. You see them often and speak with them and visit with them  on real terms. The faces on social media are two dimensional only. You know nothing about their backgrounds or status or personalities or lifestyles. They could be criminals or scammers or emotionally unstable people or perhaps not the picture you see at all, but one modified or of someone completely different. We have, in this world today, to face up to facts not iffy fictional "friends" on a website with millions of faces world wide. Some do not want to face up to the facts.  These are the lonely people: "all the lonely people; where do they all come from?"

Party Pooper

Okay, I'll just say it. I do not like parties and truthfully, most of the time I hate them. When I was very little, I learned to dislike parties. Birthday parties for most kids are some kind of agonizing arrangement made by adults who conjure up "fun" for kids who'd rather be out climbing trees and puddling in water somewhere far away from party clothes and "your best manners". Even as a child just out of tottism, I loathed the stupid games we had to play. Musical Chairs, to me was one of the worst. I was not an aggressive kid, and that game required pushing and shoving and yes, even in desperation to get the last chair, pinching. You did not squeal on the pinchers for good reason. They'd get you later. You knew it. I used to think when others were scolded for their rough moves, how come? Isn't that what this game is all about. And then there was Pin The Tail On The Donkey in which you were blind-folded, spun and handed a lethal weapon to stab into a picture of an ass. It didn't matter where the sharp end went, everyone laughed at you, and you felt just like the donkey. Another game I rather loved, was Drop The Clothespin In The Milk Bottle. (Those were the days before dryers and milk cartons.) Now, this game made sense. It required some kind of intelligence and skill. Ring Around The Rosy or London Bridge was the height of silliness but what else could we do because the reigning parent needed to be encouraged. She would be serving soon, we hoped, the ice cream and cake. Of course these days, party planners put up candy bars not the chocolate bar kind, but a stack of plastic buckets where you can indulge yourself in cheap penny candy until you are sick. What happened to birthday cake that looked like cake? The cakes now are either those frilly muffin things or some kind of glitzy field of dreams with fairies and cars and animals all over it. Who would want to take a knife and kill it all?  Is that a cake or is it a plastic toy box? The best part of the party was the biggest downer. The kid who lived in the house you were forced to go to for the p-a-r-t-y, got all the presents that the guests' parents bought after deep conferences with the birthday kids'. You felt miffed, but you knew that you would get your revenge because you had a birthday coming up, hee hee and you would get all the presents at your party. Every child was happiest near the end of the event, when the fighting and the yelling and the crying began. We all knew it would happen. It was as sure as shirts. That's when the real party began because we could then let it all out in spite of the neckties and ruffles and petticoats and cute little vests just like mommy's or daddy's. That's when it was okay to be a kid and do what was natural. Even the ride home with the silences of  Stiff Mommy and Growly Daddy! Nuts, there's a holiday party I have to go to this Saturday. Maybe when things get dull as they inevitably do, I'll take out my sack of  old wooden clothes pins and the milk bottle.

Beauty In Aging

It intrigues me to find, now that I am into aging, that people don't see the beautiful and fascinating things that happen as the body begins to hint at farewells. In my once doctor's office shared with a plastic surgeon, there were two life sized torsos: one with a youthful smooth look and the other, wrinkled and in places, the flesh  sagging. The idea was to inspire the seeker of restorative surgery to see what could be done to avoid the rigors of aging. But, the wrinkled form, was, to me, in my thirties, far more interesting and actually, therefore, more beautiful to look at. It showed something of life in it, while the other one, was much like the trite forms of mannequins. I was left wondering why I felt this way, and have since, after all these years,  not forgotten that small experience. I know that most of us, when we begin to find places on our bodies changing, think that these are downhill marks. They are actually uphill manifestations, very common in all human beings or any others of our animal world: the graying hair, the loosening muscles and the pains. They are indications of a long life. Why we revere youth and its inherent beauties, is natural. These were the times when our bodies were on their uphill journey and able to withstand all of the challenges life presented with much ease and fast, curative powers. We didn't need then, to be thinking sillinesses such as "no pain no gain" and that kind of nonsense, while stressing our poor bodies through tortures due to our great fear of aging.  It is death that is ultimately feared, and it is a perfectly natural fear since we are all definitely heading toward the final farewell. But since we are all going to die, it's the journey, not the destination that is prime. The journey through life, is the pleasure we eke out of every day, not days designed to abuse and shun and fear the changes taking pills and gyms and other desperate measures. When the little signs of your body aging show up, they are fascinating. It is your wonderful body and you can witness one of the greatest features of it, in the up-close witnessing of its aging. This doesn't mean sinking into letting it all "go"and resigning yourself to depression, but to allow yourself to appreciate that you are part of earth's marvelous powers, those of life itself that for every living thing is changing every single moment. The lines and little blue veins that appear are like small examples of your success. What you have left behind in your life, can be reviewed in so many ways to appreciate the great gift of life you have had and one that is part of what you have in common with all other living creatures on earth. To have become old and wrinkled, crippled even, with aging challenges, is something to be happy for, when so many have been cut off from it through sickness or crime or famine or wars. You are fortunate to have survived all that has challenged you in your lifetime, and yet you persevered and won. You are here. You can see it witnessed in your body and it is not ugly, it is your badge of honour. Look up and out and with pride, grasp the changes and revel in  the truth that you are alive and can see and appreciate how your body has carried you all this way. You are a miracle!

The Big Apple

The apple did not come into being with Johnny AS - he may have introduced it to some of North America but the "apple" is a wild plant that has been domesticated and developed into all kinds of varieties. It is a friendly natural tree that proves its versatility in lots of ways. Botanists could do tomes on its characteristics. I love apples and most people do. We start our babies on apple sauce, we drink the juice of the apple and create all kinds of toothsome treats with it. Growers of roses appreciate the apple in a different way. The stalks of the delicate rose are grafted onto apple stock and it hosts the lovely flowers on a strong system. The apple is the subject of lore and fairy tales: the apple that sent Snow White into her sleep, the golden apples of the princess who gathered them, the biblical apple of Eden that Eve was said to present to Adam. The apple can be pressed into juice and turned into beverages that are enjoyed both fermented and not. Pies and butters and other sweet treats are loved by all. There is a recent tale of a woman who, having mental issues, hid out in an abandoned farm house with an apple tree nearby. She survived solely on apples until her supply ran out. She wrote in her journal, how she picked the apples from a tree and stored them in the house for months, portioning them out to take her through the winter. It was the only food she ate thus the apple must be a near perfect food. It was dehydration that took her at last and starvation because she had no more apples to eat. On my grandparents' farm, there were many varieties of apple spread about the orchards. As a child I savored the apples that tasted all the flavours possible in apples. Some were sweet, others tart and still others tangy, but my favorite tree was the Transparent Apple. If you know the variety, its period of perfection is very short. You can read this apple by its colour and those who know it, have their most favorite time. Pie bakers like it when it is not quite ripe, still slightly greenish, those who like them right off the branch, prefer it when they are just turning from tart green to a white tinged with gold. Sweet tooth people pick them when they have softened and are sweet. We young cousins on the farm, ate them any old way and were scolded when we picked them green. We just couldn't wait for them to turn ripe. The Transparent apple tree was my private haven. My tree wasn't far from the fence that kept the bull from entering my grandmother's vegetable plot. The tree trunk was bent and due to its age, gnarly, but its foliage was thick and its fruit incomparably delightful. When all my other cousins who stayed at the farm during school vacations, played in the barn, I read my books in my apple tree. It is my good-place-to-go even today. I suspect it is no longer there in Haney, but in my mind, it is ever lush and inviting. It's the apple of my eye!

Liars Are Us

Liars are among us. Before you go off feeling insulted, ask yourself whether you have ever called-in sick when you knew you could have gone to work or school or service.  Ask yourself when you told someone how good they looked when you knew very well, they didn't. Or remember the time you wanted to get out of a promise and lied because you didn't want to hurt someone's feelings with the truth. Along with lying, goes the art of excuse making. "Sorry I can't go, I have a family event I cannot miss." Who is going to argue with family? "Please don't kiss me, I am just getting over a cold." An old maid aunt of mine used this with great success. "I'd love to do it, but I have to ----." Apologizing? It can work but that's another subject for another time. There are many varieties of liar. Some are professional liars. They sell something and lie to make their profit. There are the sneaky liars who try to blame someone else for their lying, saying that it isn't their fault when they know it actually is. There are the social liars who do it so that "friendships" run more smoothly. There are the pious liars who spout what others should be doing while doing what they know they as bigots, shouldn't. There are the innocent liars, perhaps small children, who don't know what a true lie is but give it a go in their naive desperation. This kind of liar soon learns what kinds of lies work and which do not, and thus, either hone their success or if caught, largely give up  their liar ambitions. The worst liar in my opinion, is someone who betrays  a friend or a lover or who has been assigned to be a caring individual. It is someone you may unwittingly built a trust with. They are worst because they plan to lie. They don't lie casually. They work out a design to best make you believe in them before striking: somewhat like a charming poisonous reptile.They can spend years on the art of making their lies work. They are the true thieves in the liar world. They remove small amounts of their goals over a long period of time so that their lies are hidden. Of course they are found out, but not until they have filched enough value from their lying investment, to make the punishment seem relatively minor.  There is no point in going on and on about what a terrible sin lying is, because it will never stop. It's been done since "Eden" if we're looking for origins.The beauty of human instinct, is that no one is really fooled by liars. Like termites, we humans have the natural ability to know what is going on inside other human beings whether we want to admit it or not. We are never very far from our basic animal genes. There are creatures who are much better at recognizing this ability that we also have, if we give it enough thought and effort. But we love to play the game and accept lies mostly because we all do it in some form or other at some time or other. It's part of what we are. Liars.

Chill The Pill

We all take pills of some kind be they "natural" or otherwise. They're all pills to "fix" something. Pills are things prescribed by those who know about them. In ancient times, the local herbalist advisor who was usually a person very knowledgeable about the effects of herbs and other forms of medication told one what substance could help. They might give out such items but often they merely advised which is about what family physicians do today. What we have to remember as takers of medications no matter where they are sold or from whom, by whomever, we are the final decision makers about what goes into our bodies. And if we make the decision to begin a drug therapy program (all medications herbal or not are a form of drug - look it up) it should be monitored closely. Putting a chemical, and all substances are composed of chemicals, into our very complex and delicately balanced systems is no joking matter. You don't pour some kind of random thing into your car engine without careful thought, so why do a similar trick to your body? I was shocked today to see an ad for a pill you can stick into your precious child's mouth that will take care of its ADHD. Yikes. It is an over-the-counter stuff that can be bought on line to keep your kid settled down so you can take a break and watch your favorite TV series without interruption or maybe sleep in until noon on Sunday. What kinds of parents are there who would do such an irresponsible thing? Wouldn't it be better to take that child who needs an extra amount of energy to deal with, out for a run or ball game or hike? Would you then, have found a better and more humane way of helping your offspring and  bonding you to what you have produced into society, other than a pill? Kids need your time, not a pill. It's something to think about when you are thinking about when you enter the parenting realm. People say things such as "all my doctor does is write me a prescription". Well, yes, you complain to your doctor and want a quick fix. What else do you expect the doctor to do in the fifteen allotted minutes for your appointment? Sure, you're going to walk out flapping your miracle prescription in your hand and smile. All your troubles will be over now.  The doctor can't sit there for hours and listen to your whining as it was for mental relief in the old days. The doctor has a hoard of other people sitting in the biggest space in the place, all waiting for their turn. But before you take the pill, think carefully. Do the research on line with reliable sources, not the nutty kind that tell you to take their pill and pay their way cheaper price. Ask other people who take the medication, how it went for them and if you decide to take the pills, do report any small nasty effect, to your doctor. Sometimes it is necessary for us to replace what nature took away and that's fine, but it upsets your body chemistry, therefore, be aware and perhaps a little wary, and sometimes, chill the pill if things aren't all that bad.

Lashing Out

What is it about eyelashes that is so intriguing to us? Their purpose is to protect our eyes. Or is it? For some reason, batting eyelashes is supposed to be sexy. Have you ever wondered why? Psychologists would have an answer, likely, but I suspect that there is no particular reason other than fashion or history or whim aping. We human creatures are selective about hair. Some of it is welcome while others of it (?) are not. It depends on where it is: heads, legs or other places. But eyelashes, like wigs and toupees and tattooed eyebrows, have become the latest thing to fake onto our bodies. When I go almost anywhere: a store, a reception desk, a restaurant, a service counter, I am bound to be gazing into fake lashes. They are things that look best from a distance because, unlike stage lashes, they appear obviously not what nature put there. Far back in my memory, I recall a particularly pretty aunt who, before going out on a date, would apply mascara, which in those days, was put on with a brush shaped like a small ax. The user, spat upon the little brush and then scrubbed it back and forth on a block of dark substance before artfully smearing it onto one's actual natural lashes.  Then after that application, the matter of removing the excess blobs of it involved a painful process of avoiding stabbing ones eyes to get rid of the mass of unwanted black material. The idea was to end up with longer lashes, ones that darkly stood out from their usual boring brown. My little girlfriend, Joycie, and I watched with fascination, and not a little envy, as her big sister, Pat, applied her mascara before going out with her beau, Fergie. Ah, we sighed, how lovely to be a big girl and put on mascara. And then we grew up and used it and found it to be a great big nuisance. But everyone else did it, and we followed. These times of adding to our bodies or taking away anything natural to look more like our idols has become normal. For two hundred dollars, you too, with a fifty dollar a month budget for replacements, can throw out the ten buck tubes of wondrous promise black stuff and get the glued on kind, so long and curly, they could kill mosquitoes. In the summer, they might even cool down your face if batting them fast enough could be accomplished. As you can tell, I am not a fan, NPI,  of the fake lashes. Still, they do catch my attention. I have been known to tap my card and be so mesmerized by the clerk's eye fringes, that until I am home and onto my computer budget, find that I spent way more than I intended. Perhaps, with more caution, I could have saved enough to buy a set of the fascination fringe flappers for myself.

Friends? AYK?

When I made an infrequent visit to my cyber site yesterday, I found that I have the potential of an endless number of new "friends". Most of them, I've never seen before, nor do I recognize their names even though some seem vaguely familiar. They appear to be nice people, well most of them. Some are dogs and cats and scenery while others are mere shapes. (The latter mystify me, since putting your name up for one of these cyber sites is about as un-anonymous as neon lights.) My actual list of friends is pathetically short since I make sure, they are or could be friends of the real kind. One of my friends has friends galore, in fact the numbers are so vast that I never could or wanted to, get to the end. But my friend, I thought, must have a lot more talent or charisma or whatever it takes, than I do, to reach out to that many people. When I clicked on one of her friends, suddenly I was onto her friends' friends and when I clicked on her friend's friend's list, I found enough friends to fill a small country. If I were advertising something, there would be no need to hire an advertising agency. The whole world almost, was  right under my index finger. And privacy, if there is such a thing these days, was out the window: mine and a lot of others'. You can learn a lot about someone by perusing their site. Their life style, their interests, their likes and dislikes, their beliefs, their family resemblances, their location, their travels and on and on are easily available.  Putting someone's "stuff" all together, you begin to feel that, yes, indeed, you could be called a kind of "friend" for all that you know about this stranger: where he or she grew up, went to school, their work and their kids and grandkids. Their faces are their proof. But, wait a minute. Some of the faces you see, are not the same ones with the names under them. Masks can be slapped on easily by removing another face and placing it where you want it to go. Good-bye Botox, fillers and face lifts! If you aren't the perfect face and figure, not to worry. You can be all you want to be in a few seconds if you know how to do it on your computer/tablet/phone. Even if you are gorgeous or handsome, you can hype yourself up a bit more, with a little computer photo genius. Kim K is just not all that perfect without her helpers to snick off a little here and add a little there, to matte out some of this and add a glow to that. And she doesn't have to go under the knife. Not yet anyway. The world is no longer un-beautiful, it's becoming perfectly flawless. Or is it? AYK?

Paper Doll Politics

Before three dimensional Barby and Ken, we had either or both, baby dolls and paper dolls. The paper kind were a sort of transition from the bisque baby dolls to a more fashionable venue in our child  play. Our paper dolls or "cut-out dolls" had to be snipped carefully from books with their attire and accessories. Kids sat on the floor or carpet with the cardboard dolls and an array of their gorgeous clothes and in their young imaginations, went places and did things that only the rich and famous could do. Hours were spent taking Scarlett O'Hara  and Brett, Lana Turner, Betty Grable and other notables to balls and dangers and on tours to exotic places and gala parties. We did the scripts and the dancing and all the things we heard on the radio and read in movie magazines about their escapades and achievements and made them ours. These joyous times made us, as children, what we could never hope to be. Today, the "paper dolls" are the royalty and the top politicos and the actors and the comic book heroes. But they aren't made of paper; they are real, and their lives are vicariously lived in the everyday lives of modern adults. The paper medium that was for the dolls is now the media and for hours we peruse the news, the e magazines, the screens of various kinds and drool over the Kardashians and Meghans, and Batmans  and The Trumps and the Justins of the planet. They are ours. We live  in their mansions, exercise and eat their diets and savour their wardrobes and jewels. We excite over their heroic mis or adventures and weep over their filmed roles. They are us secretly, and for some who sadly forget their actual world and become overwhelmed into a kind of worshipful fantasy that the icons love us the same way we love them, their stalkers. The latter is dangerous and to blame in part, are the purveyors of the media who try to bring to us every tiny detail of the current paper dolls' lives. For the average person who denies they care a whiff, inadvertently, they become a model. These idols who are filmed and interviewed and pursued  brow beatingly, in an attempt to eke out every tiny private iota of their personal trivia to feed the hungry public that surely must have no life of its own. Every small aspect of each of these nouveau paper doll creatures' existences become news. Hungrily, what Meghan wears if at all affordable is grabbed up for purchase. The Kardashian fashion, if it can be called fashion, is copied and emulated.  Melania's latest dress or killer heels become news flashes. The fans of the royalty defend fiercely any negative report of their idols. People will spend hundreds of dollars to sit, stand or wave their cell phones in a gigantic space to watch a hologram of a completely unreal singing sixteen year old created dummy. Ohh! I wonder where that shoe box is, with my old Diana paper doll. She was real once, and I miss her.

City Dog

First, I have to say, I am a city dog. I am a slave, but a beloved one. I get no pay but I do get food and water. The food isn't my choice but that of a professional who is well versed in what dogs need. Not what they want. I live in a space that I am told by dogs who know, is far too small for comfort. We dogs apparently, love to run for miles in and out of forests and fields but I have no idea what that's like. Where I live, there is a fun stretch of a few dozen feet of floor among the furniture legs and a carpet which I have to avoid when wet or dirty. I seldom have a chance to be the latter since I am not allowed to roll in places that smell like they would be heavenly for it. I don't get very wet other than my paws which are usually on cement or, if I am lucky, into the occasional puddle. Because I live such a protected life, I don't have access to wild herbs for medicines I somehow know would work. I need to have other attentions by strangers because I am not a wild dog whose nails and coat and teeth are "done" through natural means. Mostly I live a boring life inside a few rooms and some I am not allowed in. I try desperately not to bark even when I really want to when hearing a noise that intrigues me or at other dogs outside or things that need to be barked at. I do go outside, but only on a short rope thing that I have learned must be obeyed or my owner jerks on it.  When nature calls I have to indicate somehow that it is an urgent situation because in a people place where the people have facilities, I don't. My owner isn't always happy about this but she doesn't want what she calls "accidents". Sometimes, I am tempted and like my old friend down the hall whom I have not seen lately, to just do it right where I can find a patch of floor that looks okay, but I'd be hit with a newspaper and yelled at. It's something I learned not to do when I was a puppy. Now, I am not complaining. because my owner, yes, I was bought, makes noises that indicate I am loved. I have learned what to do to amuse her. She's all alone with no other dogs er people around and moans and cries and makes noises and hugs me a lot which assures me. I know that I must be doing something right and if so, the meals will keep coming. On schedule, of course. Sometimes, I have to go to jail and not see my owner at all. It's awful but there are other dogs there that smell wonderful and wow, do I get a lot of news! When my owner comes again, I am truly happy and make a big show of it. I get a leather thing around my neck everyday a couple of times and we go out for nature's call and exercise. But not much and on schedule which is hard sometimes. What I really want to do, is run after some of those loud engine things running on the tarmac, but my rope is jerked if I try. I hear from other dogs  that there are wonderful places where you can run without a rope as long as and where you like and be with lots of other dogs. It is my fondest wish and true nature to be with other dogs, sadly not just the nice lady who owns me and keeps me in her hardwood floor place. She's not a dog. She's nice to me and I do have a big mat where I am allowed to sleep which is what I do most of the time. What else is there?

Cats Over Dogs

I like dogs and have had them, but the cats in my life, were the more interesting pets. And at last count, even though one at a time, my cats over the years, add up to more than a dozen. Only two ended their lives at the hands of a vet. The rest challenged cars on roadways and lost. A cat isn't exactly a pet because they do not allow themselves as dogs do, to be fully tamed. They will do their best to try being pettish or petty (?) but they never entirely slough off their wild nature. In fact, I have met and even had a cat or two that attacked me. A feral one in particular, did it during a camping outing and was cause for me to see a medical clinic for a rabies shot. The stray had lured me into patting it and then, thinking itself quite hilarious, showed me its true tiger-like nature by deciding my leg would make a good dinner.  Most cats in an effort to maintain an acceptable dignity in honor of their keepers, will deny themselves the natural expression of displaying their bad temperaments when stressed. They will growl, yes, cats can growl, and display their claws and spit, but usually they back off and run away with their ire. Once in a while, however, their wild natures, get the best of them and they bite and scratch before dashing off to hide their embarrassment at revealing their true volatile sides. Old cats are more peacefully inclined. They have come to realize that the best course of behavior around humans is to be pleasant and purr, so that they will be allowed upon a warm lap and be stroked. In their dotage, they forgo their real selves for the sake of practicality. Cats must be stroked the way they like stroking. One ought never to do it the wrong way or the feline will be forced to give you instruction in the matter. And it could result in a slightly bloody education. Cats like warmth and will seek it out in any possible manner. If there is a sunny ledge, they have the engineering ability to align their bodies to exactly conform to the patch of sunshine available. If there is a furnace or fireside or human body conveniently near, they will seek it out. They sleep a great deal but never completely. Their true selves are nocturnal. You can't sneak one over on a sleeping cat, and if you do, it's only with their private permission. If you try to discipline a cat, they will get even with you when you least expect it. Their laughter on these occasions is wisely withheld from your hearing range while other cats within miles, I suspect, will prick up their ears and privately enjoy the moment. Or so, I believe seeing the smugly victorious demeanor of a cat whose revenge had been thoroughly sated. I could swear on that occasion, she actually smiled, though subtly. I can give an example. The visiting Reverend lady who was in our parlour, holding our delicate bone china tea cup, told us upon seeing the Siamese cat Dara, enter the room, "Oh my, I am allergic to cats. Tee hee."  The Siamese who had been tossed outside earlier in the afternoon haven taken a stroll on newly painted door Husband had worked on, decided at that moment, in a need to avenge herself,  to leap upon the cocktail table and examine the little tea cakes laid out for the Reverend's call. Before anyone could stop her, the cat, the table, the cakes, and the Reverend's navy blue suit all met in an explosive situation when Husband entered the room and loudly cursed the animal. The visit was cut short, apologies notwithstanding. The Reverend  lady suggested, that from now on "May we take tea at the manse?" Ah yes, a cat is a cat is a cat.   

Is It Going To Kill You?

It is going to kill you to have one glass of wine? Is it going to kill you to put a sugar cube in your coffee or maybe real cream? Is it going to kill you to quit the calorie counting or dieting yak in front of others? The answer is, it won't! There is a thing today where Google or your favorite other, tells you what to eat and do and you do it. For no particular reason at all. Here's a tiny piece of advice; just because the topic gets a million hits, doesn't necessarily make it real or true. Get over that stupidity. If you think that popularity stats will get you anywhere, recall your high school graduation and how far the recipients of the honored state of elected valedictorian went. They are or were the kids thought to have it all. They got the honours, the looks, the awards, the marks and the notice, but the day after the big grad event, life came along. While at school, the vallies likely turned down a lot, thinking it might "kill them" during their pleasant school days when they were the icons of the wannabes.  When they hung up the tux and gown to hit the real world, none of that high school jazz meant anything.  And it still doesn't. But reverberating still, are echoes of "oh, I can't eat that" or "oh no, I can't order this" or "I'm on a diet" or "that's a no no" or "I mustn't indulge" or "it's not on my list" or "does it have carbs in it?" We're not in the school cafeteria, but in a lovely restaurant with a fine reputation. Let's eat!  The other day, I lunched with someone very nice and when the seafood order was given, I asked for a Chardonnay and got the fish eye from my companion. "What?" I asked. She simpered."You drink wine for lunch?" "Yep, it's quite civilized to have white wine with seafood." I felt defensive. Six ounces of wine, does not an alcoholic make. But I felt as though my friend thought it did. Now, I was oozing guilt. Yikes, one tiny glass of white makes me a sinner? When coffee time rolled around after the light chocolate mousse disappeared, I plunked into my coffee, two cubes of brown sugar.  Oogly oogled at me again. I started, "What? You don't eat sugar either?" She smiled. "Oh no, I am counting calories on my cell and my carb limit will hit the sky if I have it in my decaff. Hand over the packet of the white stuff. " I didn't groan until now. I liked my lunch friend. But really. It wouldn't kill her to drop in a lump of natural sugar even if it is into decaf that is, incidentally,  processed to pieces in its process. Look it up. We got through lunch but one of us, me, suffered post-lunch-guilt. Next time I shall choose a partner who enjoys lunch out. I want to concentrate on the sheer enjoyment of what I select and not be forced to sit in front of a lovely plate of fresh, well-prepared food to see my companion pushing all the good stuff to the side of her plate. This slender, suffering lunch companion will not have to witness my "over indulgences" again.  It wouldn't kill her, or me, to simply eat. It's only lunch out.

Seventh Sense: Humour

Without a sense of humour, someone is just another face. It doesn't matter how rich or famous or beautiful, a missing sense of humour makes one forgettable. Very much so. Okay, you say, but how do you know you have one and if not, where do you get it? First of all, saying that, means you must have one. Second of all, I don't have a clue how to or where you can find it. I guess part of having a sense of humour, is to be able to laugh at yourself. Most people can make awful mistakes and sooner or later, laugh at them. It might take a long time, but the ability to look at past mistakes and push them away, giggle and move on, is at the bottom of finding that seventh sense. Those who take themselves too seriously are in need of finding a way to look at life and see themselves as a mere players on the stage, and not the whole stage itself. I know a chap who is extremely serious, polite and soft spoken but someone who never laughs at anything, and certainly never at himself. We named him unkindly, The Zombie. I had a great aunt, then ancient and in a wheel chair, who had an unkind affliction that caused her limbs to fling about. In those days, your relatives came to visit and stayed at your house for a spate of time. Aunt Mabel had been wife, mother and a rather good looking woman in her day. She had means and made sure that all her many relatives had an opportunity to visit with her when she went on tour to survey the masses of us. We all dreaded her coming, especially we younger children who were terrified by her condition. In the day, parents didn't take time to explain things in detail and there was no Google. When she came to stay with us, at one point, when my mother was out, she got stuck in the bathtub and I had to assist her out of it. I was eleven years old and had no idea of how to accomplish the task, but did my best. Aunt Mabel was calling out loudly so the neighbours could hear. A soapy, slippery and constantly moving Aunt Mabel was more than a handful, small as she was, and bony. But when she and I were both doing our best, covered in soap suds and she in little else, struggled in the extrication, we both started to laugh. We laughed so hard and long that we barely got her onto the chair and wrapped in a large towel. From that moment on, old Aunt Mabel and I were friends. She had a sense of humour in a bad situation and I never forgot it,  or her. The other soul I knew, the rich man, The Zombie, who couldn't laugh at himself or anything else, needed to find what Aunt Mabel had. We are rather amusing creatures all told, and there is always something we do that is kind of funny however serious it seems at the time. Finding when and how and where to laugh is a gift. It's a seventh sense we need to foster in these serious times.

Joy Of Alone

All the "lonely people" are among the luckiest people. They live by their own plan. Having recently removed myself from a too-close relationship, I can say that I appreciate my solitary self much more. I know now, the benefits of independence. It's a freedom that takes a long life to discover. After the rigors of having to meet the needs of another person even though well meant, taught me the  value and privilege of alone-ness. During this strange couple phase, however platonic, in which I thought I could live a more "normal" life alongside someone else, I also discovered the need to buy an alarm clock. My life was no longer just mine. The days of arising naturally in the morning, suddenly became having to don runners for the morning walk fest. Afternoons and evenings became dates to go somewhere, to do things, or eat out or shop. At the beginning, it was heady. Wow, I could walk alongside another warm body and laugh, if that ever happened, over a mutual joke. I could sit across from another person at the table and chat. But as the weeks went by, I began to yearn for the days when I could lie abed as long as I pleased or watch the TV programs and series that I, alone, liked. In this relationship, I had to share space and time and do a lot of compromising which started to bore and frustrate me. I suppose most unions, however casual they are, require a massive amount of change, but for me, it was too much of giving up my personal freedoms. When one is young and in love and hoping to find Number One for purposes of marriage and family, it all works out beautifully and lasts for decades. But when all that is long past, and you in your life as a single adult have finally found the you that is you and kind of like that you, rolling back what independence you achieved, makes sharing it a difficult task. First of all, you have remember that at your age, to love what you are doing is paramount. Second of all, it has to make sense to the new mature you that you have discovered. If it doesn't, it can become a constant sore spot and eventually, call for a curative ending. Endings are easy if you do it in anger or vengeance or boredom, but if you simply need to make a change backwards to the life you had before the new relationship, it's tough. There is another human being you might hurt. But it has to be done. You aren't moving off to some other shore, you are just wanting to "go home". I have heard of mostly males doing this, but seldom, females. Most of the single women I know my age, seem to segue into groups doing crafts and hobbies and they are content with that. As they learned, old men want "nurse or purse", an amusing take women say when hoping for an elder romance. I don't need to join something.  I just want to live and enjoy my own life. There isn't a lot more to go, and after all this time, I am not willing to give up the joys I continue to seek, find and love in this beautiful world that is so troubled, but so worth loving. Doing it alone is just fine, too. In fact, finer. 

What's Art? What's Not.

Having slugged through Art courses given by artists, slapping on the word art doesn't impress me. And it surely did not turn me into an artist even though I loved the time spent dabbling at it. Art is anything. Truly. A tree whose leaves have fallen. A bird that sings gloriously to our ears. Clouds and sea and land that grips our hearts and has impact when we look at it, is art. Art is fun to do and recreational and soul searching. But "artist" is not merely a word like "art" we can toss around. The courses in drawing and painting did not come near to making me or most of the other students, artists. It introduced us to the love of doing those things and an appreciation of what a true artist is. They are the few who had genuine talent, did the work learning how to become an artist and then went out and "did" art and some went on to evolve from their learning to develop their own styles, to do their own art and hone what that became. Some created items that were of their own minds and spirits. To many, they look simple. They didn't look at other true artists and say, "Aha, I can do that" and flew out to buy a stack of paint tubes, go off to their "studios" and slap on the colour and call themselves "artists". Those are the overnight roadies. The true artist emerges from a very long pregnancy of their muses after they have accomplished all of the necessary background in techniques and practice and sacrifice. So, years later,  made a dot and called  it art or piled a bunch of squares cleverly arranged or made horrors of paint slapped everywhere or dripped or smeared or globbed on a piece of canvas or wood or leather or a wall. But before they did that thing which they call their development in the field, they did the work. They didn't smugly look at someone else's creation and say, "Hey, I can do that." Of course they can, and some even get away with selling their art knock offs, but it isn't art by an artist. That stuff is called "craft". There are those who defend their artism by spouting off their theories but no, sorry, you must do the work and it's hard work and years and years of it. The people who know true art, know the difference between playing an artist and being one. People will go to amateur art shows and enjoy what they see and buy the pieces, but let's not kid ourselves. It's kind of fun art done by those who don't want to do the work. They like to sit down and have fun painting or sketching or cartooning or drawing. They are having a good, easy time and loving it. Many of them could even be great artists, but unfortunately true art isn't something you can trip into and become, overnight. Your doctor has mega years of training before he or she can be called doctor. The architect studies and works and does years of education just as teachers and accountants and scientists and so on, do. They are the professionals because they have proved they know the nitty and the gritty of their titles. Anyone can do art, but few are artists.

Whining

Sorry, for the term, but it behooves me to read in the daily news that some who are lucky enough to have escaped with their lives after a bad experience take their worries to the press. It makes headlines but why? Sue fodder? Do dollars really pay for it?  Personal trauma seems to me to be a rather private issue, one that is kept within private circles, not blared out to the general public. A broad public tragedy is naturally public business but individual ones are certainly not of my media interest. It's okay for the people who spend their lives moaning and groaning over things they can do absolutely nothing about.  I guess coming from a place where, in The Day, we had to grit our teeth and work out our own ways of dealing with bad things and found that, eventually, "getting over it", worked.  Everyone has experiences that are unpleasant and sometimes downright tragic, but where the "getting over it" takes place is within our own selves. And yes, we are strong enough to do it. It is a natural strength built into all human beings to call on. If we wish to. No matter how many visits with psychiatrists and weeper shoulders, the solution to a bad time, ends up with the sufferer who decides to stop wailing and get on with it. I am not a fan of the "just get over it" clan because, of course,  it isn't that easy to do, but I do think that given too much crutch time, one becomes dependent upon it. I know a few people who spend their entire lives trying to "find" themselves in going on retreats and to forums and counselors and doctors and gurus. The ending of their on-going problems is taking on or throwing off their burdens all by themselves. Too much navel gazing can't be stepping over the discomforts of trauma and finding your feet. Sure, you are going to dream about it and re-experience the event but that's natural and the stuff you have to live with, and it's okay. With patience, your "cure" will happen naturally. Pills and hours of yakking with someone else helps perhaps, but the day will come when they don't work and you either accept that the bad thing is part of the past, not the present or you go on crutching forever. You, alone, own it and cling to it, and no one else can fix it but you. And you can find a way all by yourself by being kind to yourself and believing in your own beautiful and strong, self.

Sister No More

At this stage, it isn't unusual to see your relatives die of old age. Everyone tells you "they are in a better place" and other platitudes well meant. No matter how old or young you are, you miss your dear ones who are no longer around. You miss them when they are gone as much as an amputated body part.The ghost limb remains. A sister, and I suppose, a brother, not that I had one, is a unique relationship. Men might go about wrestling and competing in sporty ways as brother boys but sisters tend to cling smilingly to each other. A sister as close as mine was in coming into life, was always there. She was the face I saw most during my days and the one who was with me, beside me for the next decades. We grew up together. We shared all of the fears and joys and struggles and achievements and failures and loves and likes. There is a bond in living together in sisterhood that is like none other. We have friends who come and go but sisterhood is much like being one person with two sides. There are no mysteries between sisters, no politenesses, no faking. You can't play mind games with someone from whom you are always an arm's length away. They know you as well as you know yourself. There are the usual sibling rivalries and spats but when they pass, you are both still there and needing and wanting to resolve what appears to separate you. Older sisters have the role of always being responsible to "take care" of their "little" sisters and younger sisters always resent that role. Younger sisters resent that their sibling came first and appears to "run" everything and be the achievers they don't perhaps in their eyes, come up to.  Older sisters envy their "little" sisters who are the darlings who are funny and cute while they must maintain their "educator" selves as examples to their younger siblings. My sister was not a year younger than I. We shared a room, we slept in the same big bed. We talked about and discussed things that only two females can. We shared life later, as we lived it. Our lives were closely entwined until we left puberty and became young women. Somehow, social and other events got in the way of being constantly close as each of us trod our own paths and made choices in our own ways. No one says you have to be alike in what you do and where you go and with whom you associate. But no one ever can break the bond that sisterhood has, no matter how life plays out. You know that your sister is always there when you need her. She knows it, too, no matter how far apart you are. You both know that you are sisters as long as life lasts. My sister's life ended rather suddenly not long ago and she slipped away as I watched the process day by day. We spoke of our life as sisters and about death and somehow it made what was to be, easier. She was still warm, even though she had left life when I kissed her good-bye, and thanked her for being my sister.

Selling The Farm

In the Why Not department, one can ask, why not make old folks' homes, farms? Some of my favorite recollections were holiday times on The Farm. The Farm was where my grandparents lived in Maple Ridge. In those days, it was called Haney. When I grow old enough to need a "home", I would love it to be a kind of farm. I don't mind living farther away from malls and hospitals and city parks. With transportation these days, no one in a rural area is very far from those so-called amenities. Give me The Farm again. I don't mind waking to the crowing of a rooster or the mooing of a cow. Going out to collect warm eggs from under a hen would be a pleasure, even if it were in a wheel chair or a walker. Watching or participating in morning cow milking with a little squirted at the barn cats, would be a delight to see. Watching breakfast being made in front of my eyes and those of my fellows, seeing fresh baked loaves taken out of the oven and pie crust rolled and filled before me, would inspire tears of joy in the memories of my little pioneer grandmother's busy hands. Rather than sitting at a table for four in a "home" no matter how cute and pretty it is, is simply not the same as seated at a long table covered in oil cloth with simple bowls and plates sans the fancy napkins, tablecloths or horrors, the tacky bibs! I care not for gazebos and tidy banks of roses and geraniums and trimmed hedges and groomed grass. Give me a verandah that overlooks a vegetable garden surrounded by an old wood fence with climbing beans and peas and a yard dotted with fruit trees of hanging apples or pears or cherries to pick at will. To smell hay or fruit tree blossoms or even the barnyard would be heavenly. Sitting on a bench next to a field of grazing cows or sheep or goats or horses, is the best relaxer there is; better than your spas and physio therapies and oxygen tanks and pills. Someone someday will get wise to constructing a farm setting for old folks, a place that you could not only enjoy being in, but also partaking in. Elders, even those with certain unfriendly situations, can help prepare meals, fold laundry or do some gardening if the beds are raised. Helping oneself and others is far more appealing and constructive than crafts classes and counselling. When a monthly stay in a "home" costs in the neighbourhood of five thousand or more dollars, it seems to me, changes of this nature would not only be cheaper, but also be much more conducive to longer lives, and to peace and enjoyment during one's final years. Why not?

Hire Older Workers?

Many companies begin to treat their employees who reach middle age, with a certain amount of careless deference. They begin to make comments about aging such as "you look tired today - everything okay?" and "if you can't get it done today, take a break, we can ask one of the new guys" or "hey, you must be looking forward to retirement in a few years". The older worker takes the sting and laughs it off, but it does sting. They are generally by-passed, if so, on promotions with aside excuses such as "jaded", "tire more easily", getting near retirement", "slacking off", "need a rest", "too well paid" and so on. Bosses tend to pander to the young and willing because they give more of their free time and effort beyond normal so as to ensure their jobs. It's natural. But the the younger worker frequently looks down competitively upon the older worker as someone "doing the job too slowly or without a lot of enthusiasm". How many times, do we hear around the coffee table that the older worker "slacks off" while the younger speaker says "I can do the job much better"? The fact that the older worker paces him or herself  which can look slow, but which is things more aptly and carefully done, is a learned method, not a fault. Speed doesn't always have a good result unless there is a deal of caution against error.   A younger worker has more energy to pour on, but experience is, for the most part, better. Zip and zap are two different aspects of accomplishment. Zip does it fast that sometimes flops, and zap does it with the invisible steady magic of experience. Both can be fine, but "zap" is more stable while "zip" often fails. The older worker knows that he doesn't have to rush and why should he or she want to, when stress, self applied or not, has bad effects as seen in mistakes that cost the company money. Younger workers always have another opportunity in mind and will leave one job for another without losing much. Also, circumstances such a a spouse having to make a job relocation, can lead to them leaving their own work with little notice. The older worker stays on because of invested pension funds and time and loyalties to the company even though he sees retirement approaching. He or she also has established a stable relationship with the employer and plans to stay with it, good times and bad. A younger worker will not, and cannot. Hiring older workers is also a good move. They need a job to keep up their lifestyles and this often results in a willingness to give more to their jobs than the younger staff who still have a lot to learn, not only on the job but also with the ability to put the job and all that it entails, into a reliable perspective. It's finding that balance to keep on the tried and true worker, while respecting the vital place in a company for both young and older employees.

A Beginning, Middle And End

Story telling is as old as we are. Good stories are told with the three elements however styled, to have a beginning during which you find out who, what and where. The middle usually develops the how and why, and the end, ties it all up with a satisfying reason for the telling. It used to be, in "modern" times that when you tuned in, either on the radio, at a movie house or with The Box, you got your storytime time. Someone in the entertainment world, once found out that you could pull in more customers and keep them in their proverbial seats, if you drew out the tale for weeks on end. I think you know what I mean if you are one of the souls who sits in front of the television until one in the morning, to find out how the series ended. The serial approach is designed to entice you by dangling a carrot hint of what could be coming in the next episode. Often times the producers who don't know what the ending will be themselves, until it is born out of their creative staff resources, base their work on taking your viewers' pulse. The pulse is frequently the silly thumbs up or down or star system which  guides them in furthering the plot. This tactic is common knowledge. And while the story goes on and on amusing us like the seven veils, it can be frustrating because most of us, simply want to get to the conclusion without having to agonize for weeks on trivial end. When I browse to find a movie, one that does have a one-evening tale, I become annoyed. To find a piece that is not done in language subtitles or is that of a series, is becoming rare. My viewing system tells me what the film is about in general terms, unfortunately often misleading, but it always neglects to say whether it is in my language or some other. My only clue is the long list of film companies that rolls in endlessly before the main event. When I see that they are in a tongue other than my own, I try to quit the site. That used to be simple, but now you cannot just click left and be out of the situation, you often have to leave the site completely and re-enter to do the the process all over again. Just saying!  The point is, why not make it simple. In the film blurb, would they please state the nitty and gritty of format instead of a plot sentence about what I already picked up in the visuals and title? And I am not going to bend to the trite excuse of "generation gap" in feeling this way. The bottom line is for a production to be thoroughly pleasurable. To do so, it should tell a tale that is worth the time it takes to view it, not how long they took to make it.  Not a lot of us want car chases, sex scenes, blood and gore meant to stimulate our emotions. All we want is a story well told, one with a beginning, a middle and an end.

Silly Easy Health

Being healthy isn't hard to do. Eat fresh foods, don't over-do anything, move about lots and seek peace. Simple. It doesn't need rushing to stores or gyms that push products supposedly to make you healthier, lose weight miraculously and fix all of your complaints. It's a waste of time and money and yes, effort, to listen to such tripe. We have weekend markets with wonderful selections of fresh and delicious goods, thousands of lovely walking areas and relaxing places to do some meditating of the normal, natural kind. Shutting off the electronics and just listening to bird song, the wind in the trees and enjoying the greenery around you, are ways of getting your bones in order. When was the last time you took an avocado, diced sweet onion, tomatoes and peppers and mushed it all up with some salsa and mayo? Try it. Put a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and when they're done, quarter them to use as "chips".  No butter. Dip them into or spread on the mix and you will be having a treat and a treatment in goodness. There are so many ways to use fresh vegetables straight from the bins at the market. Adding fruit in season, as dessert, caps the whole experience that is easy on the digestive system and completely usable other than what's left for the composting. Meats that are inexpensive products such as ground pork, beef and poultry, used sparsely, puts the protein into your body that needs it to build muscle and there you have the magic formula. You have the perfectly balanced diet. And it is not costly. The kids can have fun making their own versions of the dips or spreads and using bread "chips" instead of oily or greasy crackers or crisps. You will be eating in the right direction. Where? Toward a more healthful and less wasteful world. The main ingredient to long life, is less stress. When you have the pressures of constantly having to use that cell phone or ear buds pounding music into your brain, there cannot be a method of relaxing. If you think so, you are not thinking. At least, try the other way for a while. Normal isn't doing what everyone else in the crowd is doing; normal and right, is doing what is the hidden inside of you. It's finding the real you without the barrage of requirements dictated by your group. Sure, your people or your group are part of your happiness but you are the main event in happiness. Are you truly happy? What makes you happy? Taking time out away from the stresses that are all around, is part of the journey in re-locating balance and being close again to that being who is you. A new lease in eating all that is really good and pure, a break from pleasing everyone but yourself, is finding a way back to the peace that is YOU.

Brain On A Hook

The first thing I got when my husband died was a tranquilizer. It was offered by a doctor who meant well. I didn't ask for it. I am not criticizing the doctor because that's the usual move, I hear from other widows. That I still have the bottle of little capsules, having taken perhaps a half of one in eight years, but for reasons other than the loss of my former husband, is moot. Are we expected to need tranquilizers when stressful situations, arise? It's an issue? Does society in general, simply segue into a fuzzy state of mind when things get tough? And do we end up in a mind fuzz which is supposed to fix it all? This attitude disturbs me. I had been indoctrinated by my originators to believe that meeting head-on, life's hard happenings, made character  the solving of them, or at least, the means to harden ourselves to accept matters we could not cure, to find a way to survive no matter what. If I thought that all I had to do to make trouble seem to go away, was to take a pill or drink a glass or smoke a bit of vegetation to make it all better, seems an artificial choice.  What I need to do is shake my head, make a plan, carry it out and take the blows while I do. I think of my pioneer family who came to Canada and tilled the soil by hand and built what they hoped was a better life than the one they left. All their lives, even to the end, they accomplished only a family, a big one, one they fed and nurtured and hoped for. It wasn't a huge success financially,  but they did it through hard work without fancy holidays and houses and other accouterments. Their offspring did not become heroes or named among the famous. They remain very ordinary people today, struggling with mortgages and jobs and kids that are not going to become stars. They are the Canadians that form the basis of the citizenship of where we live. They are the people of the land we say we love and belong to. They didn't smoke dope or take pills or go to hot yoga, not there is anything wrong with it. They just live their lives the best way they can, and make the mistakes that make them love their familes and know that they must carry on and be content with who and what they are. They try to fit in with all of our other peace loving Canadian immigrants and First Nations with whom they labor daily side by side. None of it needs dope of any kind. They face the tough times by hanging together, not hanging their brains on the hooks of  cannabis or alcohol or any other kind of hook but life itself.