Gingerbread House

Gingerbread houses are made of cookie dough and icing. They are pretty and sweet and fragile. Real houses are big, beautiful and strong and today, cost a huge amount of money that few are able to pay off. Ever. But they must be had. They look wonderful in their neighbourhoods all in a row with sidewalks and driveways and rules to keep them painted in planned colours, tidy with well kept plantings. The front lawns are miniscule and the back ones, small, because no ones uses them. There are no side gardens because one house is almost joined to the next one. There is a decor styled back patio for pretty barbecue parties. The garages hold one car and space for another one in front. RVs and boats are not permitted. The people are real and not made of gingerbread but they look extra nice when they pile the kids into the cars in the morning and take them to school or the babysitters. No one is home all day unless there is a nanny or the grandparents are installed as such. After office hours, the cars with the house people come home and the children enter with their stylish backpacks now emptied of the popular nutritious lunches but holding homework and assorted screen devices. Parents bring their various styles of briefcases and device carriers in through the attractive doorways.  Inside the house the real family scramble begins. It's time to get dinner going, do homework, ready for activities to attend, and later watch favorite screens and perhaps family interact. The backyard is not used. Everyone is too busy. After dinner, it's playdates and sports and lesson events happening.  The cars are out again and equipment loaded on, coming and going until bedtime. Going back in time, the quieter more relaxed times, the difference is remarkable. There were no gingerbread houses then. Homes were bought with cash. Someone was there most of the day. One salary seemed to do. If there was a mortgage it was paid off or would be. Front yards were exactly how you wanted them. Most had a tree, if not in the front, in the backyard, which was big then. One tree had a swing and sometimes a fort with a ladder up into the leafy branches. Neighbourhood dogs roamed freely and everyone had one. Cats were there too, but not always seen. In your backyard, you could dig holes, build odd structures, climb the unkempt trees, some of which were fruit trees with scabby product. Sometimes a vegetable garden took up a corner and tomatoes and peas grew there amongst weeds. The dog had a house  that dad or the kids built. The lawn was cut not on schedule. The front yard was how you liked it and the front of your house was the way your family left it. Cars, if you had more than one, parked at the side because the garage  was jammed with hockey sticks and baby carriages and boxes of old things. There was a basketball hoop over the garage because of its patch of cement. Brick barbecues at the back smoked because they used coals. The smell of steaks burning dominated Sundays. Hot dogs, the cheap kind, were done in the firepit that dad created in the middle of the back lawn and in the evenings, the family and neighbours sat around its embers and talked to each other.

Keeping Christmas

A few years back, there was a silly move to eliminate the word Christmas from the season. Why I am not sure but someone got the silly idea that it was offensive. Everyone, no matter what their background recognized it, as a time of happy greetings and gift giving, family celebrations and for many, a spiritual experience. I couldn't see how my personal time was anyone else's business to meddle with. I felt that, and still do, every people should gladly celebrate their traditions because it is important to one's culture, for the progeny to understand their pasts so that they can find their place in the present. It's not an offense for anyone to celebrate who and what they are according to law in this fine country. Christmas is part of my culture and tradition and it is just as important to me that it be called its traditional name as for any other people to have their celebrations. It is called Christmas. I am not making excuses for what I am or apologising to anyone for my beliefs.  Just as everyone else, it's only me a human being living on this lovely planet and trying to do what I can to enjoy life in my way. I respect other Canadians and their beliefs as well. Christmas in my life was the one time when the whole family got together even if they lived far away. I can almost smell Christmas with its piney, mincemeat aromas, the roasting turkey, the candles, the waft of fresh snow scent when the door opened and in came the hugs and cheery greetings, the sounds of carols and  the paper crackles of gifts being unwrapped. As a child, the magic of Santa Claus and the telling of Dickens, Disney tales and the after dinner surroundings in the living room of the warmth of relatives who made you feel the love of being part of a family was Christmas. There was also spiritual wonderment in the songs sung around the creche: Silent Night, Oh Holy Night, O Little Town of Bethlehem. The jolly ring of Jingle Bells, Rudolph and Frosty lent a spirit of joy, too, as the little ones played with their new toys. Boxing Day was spent mostly at home and visitors in the neighbourhood came over and partook of the left over turkey, pies and the ever present and greatly feared, Christmas Cake. The fruit cake was either adored or hated but everyone had a piece because each piece meant a lucky month in the year ahead. In our family, there were no strict traditions. It was simply a time for family, all of the family. We visited as many of the aunts and uncles as we could squeeze in but at the top of the lists were the eldest members: the grand and great grandparents. They were revered and while often made jokes of in the nicest way, were dearly beloved because we knew their time with us was limited. It was a time of memories as we sat in the living rooms of our relatives and recalled other happy past times and recollections of Christmases past.

Christmas: It's In The Bag

Gift giving has to be one of the hardest things to get right. Some people send out a list of what they "want" and that helps but that's usually within the fam.  This year I thought about how to get the gift business fixed early, so that not only my giftees but also I, could feel satisfied about it. I am not into expensive presents because most of us are grown up and being urbies don't have space to "put" things at any rate. In passing, I read The V Mag which I get free online because  no one I know has mags coming in the mail - or anything else, actually.  Just for fun, I gazed at what V recommended as last minute seasonal gift suggestions. On perusing the photos, I wasn't sure whether I was looking in the comedy section or Mad Mag on leave. I knew it couldn't be Mad, for it's no more, so I guessed that V was probably serious. The Magazine's "serious" is my laugh-uproariously. The fashions in it are mind-bogglingly ridiculous. Nothing in some of the styles could possibly be worn on the street by real people. Well, if you are top royalty or a movie star, perhaps or your last name starts with a K. I ask you, who is going to grab a 2000 dollar purse at the last minute for  their  BFF no matter what a good F they are? The one item in the piece I drooled to dream on was a pair of gold and pearl earrings. They were a four figure bargain but I had to turn them down -I am not six feet tall. I jest. A mere thousand? I guess that's thrifty for Park Avenue NYC.  Then there was the weird white vase at only half that. Still way too much. It was a definite no to the fake leopard coat in the triple zeros. Back to reality. Last year my wonderful career granddaughters gave everyone shopping bags. Ho ho ho! Great idea. I bought some bags very early on: one for each of my giftees. This year instead of noting what I'd go back to buy, I popped in and picked up the item right then. When I arrived home, without using wrapping paper, in it went to rightful bag. The bags have been sitting in my den on the couch in a row. Slowly, they filled up. I buy small items, but nice ones I hope. Some are sweets or a pen or a gift card or a  cosmetic item or a container of something the dear one mentioned they loved. It has been the easiest gift buying year ever. And my giftees will be getting a whole lot of little things I think they will enjoy the whole year through. A gift can be anything someone favours: an exotic jelly or chocolate, a sack of responsible tea or coffee, a jar of jam or sauce, a soap or candle to float or pretty paper napkins. You know your people and what they love. And not only you are shopping without last-minute pressures, you get a lot of little smiles as you go thinking about the person who will be receiving.  Best, at gift giving time, it's all in the bag.

Party Lesson

Having very recently suffered an obligation party, I learned a party lesson. Don't go unless you have a personal reason to. The food was wonderful and the company elegant but the so-called party lacked planning and was thus, to me, a disaster. I stayed a short time and spoke to a few of the guests, all of whom, I sensed, felt the way I did. We had to be there. But I, being at the age and stage of doing nothing I am not enjoying, time being the issue,  I thanked the hostess quietly and angled my way out the door after half an hour of trying hard. I don't think anyone noticed and I have no intention of asking. It wasn't being rude I am certain, but just in case, next time I will think before entering. When I arrived home from the so-called party I felt greatly relieved. I made the right decision. It was sad because it could have been enjoyable. What went wrong took some time to determine. The party had problems. First, there was no focus to the event even though the festive season seemed the most obvious one. It's too easy to have a celebration on one word: the holiday word solely. Some kind of extra reason must be thought up. When people arrive they need to find a place to go after the initial greeting. It could be the table of goodies or one with photographs and souvenirs or a fireplace or somewhere to gather. For one thing, it gives singles a place to head toward and perhaps connect with others of their ilk. When you are a single, be it a widow, a divorcee or an unattached, it's different than being part of a couple. When you're half a couple, there is someone to talk to and sit beside. When you're single, it's like being in a canoe with no paddle, and don't give me the eyeballs to the ceiling; I am no social butterfly who can make up a ho-ho with anyone or use false flattery or pluck out a line from mid-air to get a chat going. The second need for parties, is having a lot of bumping going on. Standing is a must. If you must have chairs, do not line them up along the walls. This disaster I attended  did so and when you sat, you had only one person at the side to speak with. They were heavy chairs so they could not easily be formed into friendly sets. The third must for a party is to have an active host. That person needs to be aware of what's happening in the group and to act as a catalyst to fix it if needed. Subtly, they can  keep things going, seeing that mingling is going on, seeing  that there is no lagging of the event's pace. Also, the party needs the host to direct the event: give it some kind of indication for the general times to partake of the food or special drink or toasts, to open and close the event and to make sure that things are moving. It doesn't always just happen on its own. A party is like a good stew that needs stirring. The final party rule is to have music somewhere. It doesn't have to be ear-splitting or specific to any style unless you know everyone wants it. Music adds a sweet tone to the evening giving something to comment on or somehow blend it all together. Next year when this party is announced, I might dress up for it but wait until it is underway and then, take a peek in the door. If those miserable chairs are in dining table formation again, I am going out somewhere else, sequins and all.

Mars Sweet Home

Life in a flower pot isn't just for plants. Viewing a clip on line recently, there was a minodoc about houses made of Martian material and designed to accommodate the Red Planet's erratic climate. The house looked exactly like a terra cotta vase with artsy cutout windows. Currently, in real time, it sits near a charming stream rising four stories  and in a 21 foot circle of space. Its inhabitants have signed on for four hundred days to test the structure for its liveability. No doubts that here on earth, it would be an interesting experience however merely another tiny but tall abode. Climbing four stories to get to bed or make one up every day, I see big problems. There are other issues to life than the possibility of building such a structure on Mars. Given it can be done with the 3 D robot gizmo gooping it out before the residents arrive on M planet, once they get there it's the lifestyle adjustment that worries me. First of all, the idea, should it some day happen, means that having ruined Earth, we are now extending our destructive habits to another planet when we can't solve the huge one we have here and now. The proposed plan assumes mega conditions. Ifs are rampant and invade any sort of common, logical or scientific sense. Besides the hard-cast living environment including waste systems, storm and  meteor fall issues and psychological aspects, there are the unplanned social ones of medical care, security, consumerism, education and other institutions that are needed to meet human needs. Life isn't about a house. Housing is one need of the many that our kinds of beings require. I suppose one could get used to looking out through that thick bit of glass called a window, onto endless, plantless red, dry gravel or oohing at earthrise in the evenings. But there's more. Storing enough gravity accommodating clothing even, in a tiny tall house could take up a lot of space. And what if the roof leaks or a marsquake cracks the family flower pot? Flying space objects scarring the landscape might just destroy the house and possibly the whole neighbourhood not to mention their puncturing the walls that are supposed to protect one from undue pressures that harm delicate earth bodies inside. The urge to live on planet Mars would be rare indeed when the realities are considered and Flash Gordonism leaves its comic book pages to become everyday life. The idea is very romantic but like going on holiday, no matter how lovely that is, getting home is what we really want. Like the new outfit or the tiny house fad, the love affair simply doesn't last. Real life is messy and emotional and funny and hurts and loves and laughs and cries. Getting real, living on another planet would be immeasurably worse than taking up residence in Death Valley if you've ever rushed through on a just-because adventure in that forsaken place. While the dream is fascinating perhaps on paper, no thanks. I'll take home. HSH.

Eighty, The New Eight

There's a lot of downgrading old age but the secret is that it's actually quite wonderful. You can say to your eight year old great grandchildren, should you be lucky enough to have them, move over kiddo, it's my turn. Sure, you begin to do some forgetting. Others are far more embarrassed than you are over it. The best thing is that you and everyone else in the world knows these things naturally happen. Even the Einsteins get old and forget. So why the guilt and surrounding snickering as though you're the only human in the world that is "losing it"? It is because human nature thinks it is immortal and will never age. Eighty year olds have that worked out.  The fact is, you are not losing anything. Aging is perfectly natural and ultimately eternally common. My tack is take heart and enjoy it. Like an eight year old, there are no holdbacks; you are what you are and you love it. No longer do you have to get up in the morning and go to work. Work, as one of my friends reminds me, was a waste of time. Not money. Time. Work takes up a lot of other things, too. It costs much to appear at "work". Work demands special attire, attitudes, expensive training and or equipment, and in many cases, a university education. The latter is a box to check on your resume. You go to all that time and money to get the degree, it's merely something to get you in the work world door. No, it doesn't make sense but, well, you know what I mean. Then again eight year olds, spend most of their time, having fun. If you are eighty plus or minus and you aren't having fun, it's your fault. Fun is free. You don't have to spend three days a week pounding it out on a tread mill or suffering on a skinny diet. Your life is without guilt or excuses.  Sit in the park and watch the crows or squirrels or seagulls or people as long as you wish. My mother and her husband spent many days a week driving to the park, parking in the right spot and while  having a car lunch inside cosily, people watched and when they tired of that, took a little nap. They were having fun. Like eight year olds, you don't need a bunch of the latest toys or adult supervised games. Give a little child a big empty cardboard box and you'll see fun happening. Give an eighty year old a big screen computer and they'll have a ball. The nonsense about them not using computers is a fallacy. Eighty year olds aren't trying to compete or shouldn't. They don't worry about wearing the latest styles or sporting the nuttiest running shoes or carrying the latest technotoys. They can sit and gab about the past with their cronies or tell family tales to the grandkids with endless joy. When my mother told and retold her yarns, we reminded her that we'd heard it a hundred times. She'd reply, I don't care, I like hearing my stories and if you don't like it, don't listen. Of course she also retorted with similar dignity, when reminded that she got a birthday wrong, when did they change it? The pressure to find a suitor is no more an issue either. Elders who live alone, find it quite enjoyable. They have only themselves to take care of. They rise when they want to and retire the same way. They eat what they wish, when they wish. They watch and listen to what they wish and if they choose to turn night into day, who is to judge? They are as free as eight year olds. When you see eighties anywhere, forget pity and cooing at them. They are having the time of their lives being eight again.

Music Wallpaper

None of my walls are papered - yet. Although it's an old place with new stuff mostly, its present decor is mainly music, in my case, of the classical kind. Informal popularish music just isn't my everyday love. Jazz appeals but not quite as much. Then again, it's a classic in its way. When I was a small kid, no household didn't have a piano. In the days when there was no such thing as television and radio was the method of in-home entertainment, the piano, usually a great hunk of oak and mellowing ivory and ebony, sat like an elephant in the living room. When you had company (that's what we called them) come to visit, you gathered around the big oak, to sing while someone thumped out chords to the old tried and true songs we all knew.  Don't laugh. I hear the young singing together in the car, their favorite songs, earbuds in place.  Every kid, then,  had to "take" music and sometimes tap dancing, too. My parents faithfully paid Myrtle, my professional piano teacher, aged eighteen and with a certificate, to take us through the rigors of the conservatory with its scales and exercises and piano books grade by grade. My sister wisely opted out demanding to be switched to the popular music vein so that she could sing and play and be the star attraction amongst the aunts, uncles and endless cousins who came to see us. I sulked because no one could sing Mozart or Czerny and I couldn't sing anyway. I knew the wiles of Harmony III and a sour note when I heard it, but my vocal chords didn't know an A from an E flat. How I survived my choir years, was to the credit of my pal Joanie who had a hog-calling voice and the will of Elizabeth the First. She dragged me into the alto section and sang into my ear and that's the only reason I was able to don the little black fur cape of The Penguins, our choir sponsored by the local fur coat store. Even though I was supremely jealous of my beautiful sister who had a gorgeous voice and talent for entertaining, I am eternally grateful to this day, for the tedious piano lessons that make me appreciate those who play it so well. Every day of my life, I am surrounded with the sound of music within my walls wherever I am. I love the orchestras, the instrumentalists who play the classics because when I enter their sphere, I am transposed into a world of beauty that they create for me with their hard work and talent. I am taken away from the stresses and pressures and ugliness of a world that seems to dig up dirt with a need to smear it, while saying they are making it a better place. Is it a better place? Better than music, all music, that is understood around the world by all of its peoples no matter their religion, colour, culture or race and needs no language training to comprehend? We owe a debt to musicians who spend most of their lives training to make a music world, a place of refuge by their efforts while receiving very little for what they gift us.

Blending Colours

Once I took up painting while in a course that exposed the class to the whole range of  art from the colour wheel to the intricacies of oriental brush use. I found the colour part, while fascinating in the range of its variety, the least inspirational. I had assumed that our special breed of  artists was filled with the creative angst and easily, instinctively slapped on gobs of paint and everything worked out from there. It wasn't that simple. There were methods of application, construction of materials, rules of design, costs and time involved. There was mixing and cleaning and a general mess to contend with that went along with all the esoteric matters of creative endeavors. At that point, I gave up, and swung my course load over to Literature. It was much easier to read someone else's hard work and dabble at my own word efforts than with sticky, icky paint. Which brings me to the point I am trying to ponder. We as a global society are in the age of colour,  mostly to do with skin colour. What the colour of someone's skin has to do with so much is mystifying but that's the way we humans are today. If someone has skin that is unusual in their surroundings, the first question is "where are you from".  They can be from down the street or across the world but why does it matter enough to ask? It is because we are currently embroiled in the aspect of colour. No longer can we sit smugly in our little colour pod whatever that might be, and say to ourselves that it is our world. It is what it has always been, everyone on the planet's world, only we weren't so close to seeing skin colours in all of their true human glory, as we are now. We can be anywhere on the globe in a matter of hours and the fondest wish of anyone I know or have heard of, is to see the world. If we want to see the world, we have to live in it and that means being part of its wondrous variety much like the possibility of an artist's easel that can see colours mix and blend into amazing numbers and kinds. Humans who are uncomfortable with skin colour are natural effects of a changing world, one that doesn't have hard lines any more in anything, but those that are slowly coming together in exciting ways. To some, colour is spiritual and to others, it's societal or historical or cultural but it doesn't change the one fact that we are all human creatures together on one earth. One day, the way we are going, we will get it, but for now, we are in a great struggle not really about technology, but because our sciences are forcing us to accommodate all humans no matter what their differences. And it's not easy. It should be since we all have the same stuff under our skins. But Technology is forcing us to make it a start if we would just allow it. Like giving up Art because it was too hard, and now regretting it, I hope we don't give up on each other. We need to stick together as human beings and learn that all our varieties and differences are age old and natural and then finally find ourselves. Earth, all that we have, is our easel and it's waiting.

There's Blaming and DIY

For some reason in our affluent society on this continent, there is a rash of blaming going on. It seems as though most of the troubles are someone else's fault. And not only that, from what we hear, money is the cure. Some time ago, in my travels about the globe, I heard a tale about  remote island dwellers who were isolated in their poverty. There was no work available and only tourists such as we who savoured their home-made seafood treats during our brief time there, offered this unique group, any small financial resources. The islanders blamed their poverty on the closest regional government for its lack of attention to the plight of their people. Something, therefore, was said to be done about it. A shipload of laying hens was dropped off at the island so that they could be used to sell eggs in the mainland markets and to start the people into the business of raising more chickens. This, the city fathers and mothers, thought was a good way to improve the economy of the islanders. When the team of advisors returned to the island community some time later, there wasn't a chicken to be had. There had been, however, some joyous days of feasting, during which, indeed, the islanders revelled at their good fortune in having the chickens. I suspect this tale is fictional since it's one I've heard over and over again in different parts of the world. But while the story is but a story, it does speak.  Blaming is easy but it doesn't do anything. Also, asking for help isn't a one way street. Both the blamer and the anticipated helper, have to make a plan to fix whatever the problem is and both parties must be there and ready to listen, cooperate and often make compromises. There must be a plan of action. It's too easy to blame or make a demand  but how, realistically, given that there is only so much tax money, can it be carried out?  It's crucial to look at the "big picture". It takes patience. What can't be done immediately, may be accomplished in installments of both time, money and most of all, participation.  Blame doesn't work. It is merely an expression of emotional frustration, not a solution to a problem. It can be called, perhaps, the first step toward a solution. Sometimes, as has been proven in many Third World areas, what is really needed is working out a DIY plan and for the aiders to stick around and help get it started up and running well.  If the islanders of the story, had been mentored sensitively by those who "dropped off" the chickens, and that they helped the people to get the business going along with monitoring it, it may have been successful. Mouths are made to plan not whine and hands are made to work, not beg.

Art of Email

Emailing has become an art just as the old letter writing once was. There are nuances to the matter of pecking away at a keyboard and sending off a few lines, or more, of text. In the days of yore, one was identified by what was seen on the envelope according to the penmanship style thereon. I was a prolific letter writer in-the-day and while I tried desperately to do something about my almost unreadable handwriting, it just wouldn't settle into any one legible pattern. As my scrawl went from page one to two and sometimes onward, its forms became more and more unreadable. The trouble was my thinking which tends to accelerate as I run along the paths of its global style and it often shoots off into multiple directions that become lost in the scramble of ideas. When I hand-wrote other pieces for articles or editor submissions, I could barely read them myself. Needless to say, I learned how to type, but being a self-taught endeavor as it was, I never did attain the speed of a steno or the acuity of a true journalist. Even today, flying around a keyboard which is something I do habitually, I make myriads of mistakes and spend a good deal of time backspacing in correcting to where I have almost worn out that key along with the "t", "i" and "r" and"e". ( Perhaps there is an acronym here.) I am sure some of you know how that goes. Then along came emails, and I fell in love with the whole concept. But, I wrote the way I did when I wrote letters. I am verbose but the ears and eyes of my beholders don't always match my love of length over strength in expression. I was told politely and otherwise, that my emails were cumbersome or to put it gently a "bloody waste of time". I had to do some fierce editing or lose friends. I began by using maddening short forms of words and mere letters to depict whole ones. I employed the dash rather than punctuation. I even tried the criminal keyboard act of using capital letters only. My reformed style was so personally embarrassing that I had to quit and reverted to doing my usual long-winded approach but editing it afterward and cutting out any extraneous words or, indeed, sentences and it worked rather well in the beginning. I have currently eliminated the editing and do it now, as I go along. They are still messages more lengthy than most persons' but both I, the sender and thou, the receiver, are much happier with the result. I think. I am still bothered when I get emails that have rampant usage mistakes that no one had bothered to correct. Incorrect spelling especially gets to me as do things like capitalizing words in the middle of sentences for no reason whatsoever. I see on-line that there is free help with this if one is able to find the very lightly underlined marked errors they do. And there is Spellcheck. Since I may have gone on far too long already, I end.

Out Fitted Sheet

Sometimes innovations in the home, don't work and fitted sheets are one. When they came out I thought they were a fine idea. Advertised to save time for the busy housewife whatever she was, I a working mother and spouse, bought them thinking they would be wonderful.  As time went on, after years of putting up with struggling fingers and wrists getting fitted sheets onto the new big mattresses, that war is over. The fitted sheet and I were enemies from the start. As I say, the idea is wonderful, but the people who make them can't be. Simply put, they skimp on their measurements which means I have to either buy fitted sheets that are too large or fight with the "right" sized corners to get them to stay where they should stay. Now, reformed to a flat sheet fan, I prefer to fold neatly the unfitted bottom sheet smartly into its corners with a quick tuck. When I want to remove sheets on wash day,  I can  whip them off and into the washing machine in a jiff.  No more walking to the other side of the room to  say "please" and beg each fitted corner to come off.  One good tug or two of the straight sheets and we are off and into the wash basket like a bar of wet soap. Also when I empty the dryer of its weekly load of sheets, I no longer with flat sheets, have to search to extricate the small things that lurk in the stitched corners such as stray socks, washcloths and knickers. Nothing can hide from me when flat sheets come out of the washer and go into the dryer. Or out of the dryer to be folded. Folding fitted sheets to lie neatly in the linen cupboard was a battle that I never did win. And I doubt that anyone ever has, due to a fitted sheet nature. I must confess that latterly, frustration with the fitted sheet led me to the laundry criminal act of cutting one corner so that the thing would lie flat on the bed. Most of the time I got away with it, but sometimes the guilty corner wandered somewhat and wrinkled up the whole mattress field. But overlooking these small mishaps, the plan generally worked quite well. Today, my horoscope said that Mercury was in some sort of phase that would bring pleasant surprises if I handled matters well. I did. I put all of the fitted sheets at the bottom of the linen closet and all of the flat sheets on top. I will use these lovely flat sheets until they wear out and they won't for years since I believe that spending good money on such essentials as they are, pays off in the long run. As to the old fitted ones, they will be used as floor wipes, paint and dust covers and car washing rags.  But from now on, no more new ones will appear in my house. That, of course, poses the problem of where to buy flat sheets all by themselves and not married badly into a set. Although it will be a challenge, somewhere, some store will sell me one flat sheet to a package and if so, I will be there with an open wallet and a smile.

As A Kid WWII

Being born during WWII meant that the fear of invasion was something you lived with. My uncles who came to visit, wore rough kakhi clothing and you felt its roughness when they hugged you hello or goodbye. They were late getting into the end of the war and didn't go overseas, but they had the boot camp training and took it without complaint. Complaining which is a daily news event these days, was unheard of then. The matter of war was always at the back of everyone's mind. It was the first piece reported on the radio and when you went to movies if you had enough rationing stamps to get gas and go there, you saw the first hand film of what was happening "overseas". The little books of rationing stamps for food and fuel, were valued and protected. We kids saved our pennies to buy war savings stamps at school and proudly put them into our stamp booklets. We all knew about margarine that was white and because it was rationed, not having too much sugar or butter and donating all the "silver paper" we could collect for the "war effort". Socks were knit for soldiers and boxes of food were sent to war torn countries. Today we buy poppies to remember the wars and the sacrifice of those who died in them, but then, we lived war every day - and night. When we said our prayers before bedtime we always put in our wishes for the troops and for ourselves, a safe night. Women went off to take jobs hitherto unknown to them and did it without complaint. We did without a lot of small things for the "war effort" and did it because we knew people who got one of those terrible telegrams that no one wants ever to receive. None of us were spoiled about having to do and wear and eat things that we didn't particularly like. No one was spoiled or demanding. The fear of possible invasion kept everyone from being "spoiled". My mother and her sister worked for a time, taking a "man's job", in a plywood plant shuffling around huge sheets of the stuff with their bandanas tied around their hair. My dad, who was too old to be "called up", was with his friend at night after work, on Air Raid runs on their bicycles up and down the streets to make sure the Blackout rules were carried on properly. In our homes, we had to hang blankets over the windows to be sure not to show any light that might possibly be seen by enemy bombers. My dad's friend was the neighbourhood Air Raid Warden. He was a British expat and knew all about the terrors of bombing. WWII was reality, not a movie but movie theatres showed glamorous Hollywood pictures to help everyone have a way to lighten up in the dark days. In 1945 and I was ten years old, when it was announced that the war was over, it was a gigantic weight lifted from the shoulders of everyone and with a magical joy, we all went down to the main street of town and joined the joyous crowds of people who were hugging each other and waving flags and celebrating the end of fear and tragedy and things that made us very sad. I remembered seeing former soldiers with missing limbs and still wearing their uniforms. Women and men who lost family members cried and shouted with joy all at the same time. And then after came a sobering and sometimes confusing, period of what to do next and all that it meant. But the great WWII fear was over.

Frat Brats

I thought sororities and fraternities were dead and gone. They should be. It is obvious that in this broad minded world, exclusive clubs have no place. They are lauded to provide brotherhood and sisterhood but they do so only for those invited. What their true meaning is, is gangism in its sneakiest form. The members of these organizations are gangs that in becoming a member to their exclusive halls means passing certain tests in order to remain a member. If their laws are broken, members are juried by their peers and after review, either remain in the group or are ousted. What is this? In our democratic society there is no place for invitational, walled in one way or another, be-suited or be-pinned groups in or near schools. We are all spouting philosophies of mosaic-like acceptance of everyone and in this day of global brotherhood there is no room for this rot. It doesn't matter how "good" or not, such a collection of persons are, they exclude those who either won't or can't abide by their rules or standards or whatever cover-ups they care to choose. They are closed, not open and to join in, one must run the gauntlet so-to-speak. When I was a teen and went to a high school meant to educate those choosing to go on to university, it allowed in practise, invitational clubs. The clubs were like fraternities and sororities and one could not join; one had to be invited. The kids in the school who wore the club sweaters or pins, were considered the coolest. All the students greatly admired them and secretly yearned to be them but the numbers were restricted and they would have to pass the tests. Most of the teens in the clubs came from the city's wealthiest and locally most famous. And while the school itself did not own up to the fact that most of activities of the clubs verbally and behaviourally happened within its walls, but met outside them, they, too respected these kids a trifle more and bent more to those wearing the symbols of these exclusive clubs. The town worked that way, like it or not. No one spoke of it. Relationships occurred mostly within the clubs that operated exactly like fraternities and sororities that these people would encounter when they left the school to go to higher education. At the top university, they were welcomed. Their families were donors after all. They had an "in". Let's not fool ourselves. I wasn't one of the rich kids and was not invited to any of the clubs, nor did I see on philosophical grounds the sense of these clubs. It didn't mean that I would have loved to turn them down if I were lucky enough to be tempted. I wasn't, and I suffered inside for all the years there and somehow felt unworthy. When I arrived at this high school, my well-off friends got into the clubs immediately but I was left out. They didn't notice because I gave out an I-don't-really-care attitude but I did care, and a lot. As a result I had to suck-it-up and find new friends and believe me, it was hard. I lucked out finding the best ones that I still have. I had to join all the other non-invitational clubs that were the real and best ones, open to everyone who wanted to work in them. In them, I learned about democracy and open mindedness. When we have reunions, the exclusive club folk, still sit together and behave as though the rest of the world doesn't exist. It does, and it's the real one.

Dear Kids II

Passion is a luxury. Deep feelings are one thing but putting a passion to work for something or someone is quite another. The young woman who is generously giving her time and energy to her cause and finding a welling up of peers who feel as strongly as she, is very brave. Most of us admire what she is doing and the best part of it is seeing how strongly the young are demonstrating their passion about the future. What these young people are demonstrating over is good and beautiful and true; there is no doubt. But we live in a democracy and a philosophy is one thing but how to go about achieving a cause is the hard part. In this world, we have governments that through the voting process, determine how our countries work. Youth knows this, but what is misunderstood is the patience it takes to get things done and continue to remain in power in our governments. The people speak via their vote during election times. The hurdles are enormous in making major changes to a system, but that's the way we do it in a democracy. If we lived in places where action is determined largely by one strong, usually a man, leader, that leader can merely say the word and the deed is accomplished. This is not what happens in our free country. Climbing a mountain is not the wish to get to the top, but the work in doing so. If you have ever tried such a thing, I can say that even, sometimes after a long, hard climb, it feels both good and bad to look a few hundred feet ahead and say I know I can't make it, but it's okay, I got this far and that is my accomplishment. It is something you never forget but each time you don't get your way the way you wanted to, you think about how far you came and not about what didn't happen. While right and good should rule, it does mostly but not always. The beauty of being a teen ager is that while knowledge is present, it is so fresh and young and pure, it doesn't see the pitfalls. It doesn't have to because it doesn't have big responsibilities that include supporting a family or dealing with employment or health and aging issues. Youth has energy and will and determination and desire, but all that is not experience. Experience is the good and the bad coming together in life and the ways that each person deals with it in order to survive. Survival is how human kind evolved and remains on earth. Some of it is positive and some, not. In a democracy, everyone has a voice and makes decisions and governments by the people are comprised of all kinds of opinions, some not very wise but each may speak. It's our way. Simple, right system changing ideas don't work simply.  Sure, the clear result is what we want and work toward, but getting there isn't simple. It should be, and we all want it to be, but that's not democracy. Commerce, social issues, world problems, tax burdens all present stumbling blocks along the way to saving the beautiful globe we live in and on. I wish it were as simple and easy as carrying a sign that says "How Dare You".

The Media Party

Marshall Mcluhan, an Edmontonian originally, went East as most young men did in the day to "get ahead" and made a name for himself with his invention: "the medium is the message". The media is the message. The Media has evolved into an enormous "party" worldwide that can control what happens to all of us. Its strength has overlapped right into our very homes which depend largely on media sources. If you don't believe this, you are naive. Every item in your home and especially the electronic ones was born thru media advertising and reviews presented through media sources. Everything in our today world depends on the media. How the entertainment world works, how you are influenced is measured, sold and used. How elections are won and lost happens through media sources that not only report, but influence. The bigger the spin or hype, the more we want it because we are tapped constantly by media servants called reviewing and advertising sites. Media is hired by sinister means to help or hinder political systems. And it is so powerful that when denied or questioned it can control what is published or not. You think you are getting the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Think again. Why do you think its top mavens sit around the daily table to discuss what they will allow on air or how to call it and who is best  to present it: how large the pictures and of what, who will do the pieces, in what manner will it be coloured and so on. To forget that the media has everything to do with everything we do, is foolish. We love it, too. Fashion magazines tell us what is fashionable according to what the "stars" wear and how. Photographers and ad men and women, image folk and set makers and thousands of media off shoots are hired to make saleable impressions on buyers from the top down. They know you. You hope you can trust them. The media has principles and ethics as do all those truly invested in the system that runs all of our media sources every single moment of our lives, what we see on our small wares that sit in our hands, pockets or bags. The very origins of the electronics you use are according to the businesses that can afford to pay the highest prices to make the most appealing presentations. The proof of its power is  Black Fridays. Hmm? We assume that media sources are ethical and honest but how do we non-media creatures measure that? During the last election, how much a candidate could afford to pay for media which it drags along behind itself like a dragon with a powerful tail, determines its destiny. Media today calls itself "investigative journalism" and as such has become not only a tin god, but also a detective and along with that, whether we like to admit it or not, prosecutor, judge and jury. How you play the media has become fodder for the new as top shelf people called "assistants". "Seeing is believing" and all you have to do is go onto a certain well-used form of the amateur media to see how  ridiculous that adage is. Fake media is here and some people love it and use it to their advantage. Oops, there goes ethics! Marshall Mcluhan, a media guru himself, left us all too soon.

Easier Said Than Done

The old saying as in my title is especially true at election hype times. The air is daily infused with promises, promises, promises. They're roiling about like the pages of old dailies flying in a windstorm. We indulge ourselves in their delicious solutions that will solve all of our problems: pollution, economics, social ones, education and health and child care. You name it. If all the political leaders formed a team to work as one and their solutions to those problems all came true, we'd be rich, healthy and smart. But it is all fantasy and no one cares. Apparently. It's just part of the pre-election game and everyone plays along. We discuss for hours, one over the other of the promises. We debate amongst ourselves, which ones will work or not. If we are confused we can refer to the media for help. A couple of days ago, I read a comprehensive listing of issues along with an analysis of what each of the runners for Prime Minister of this country promised in fixing them. The golden solutions to each of the issues were laid out in clear, concise sentences and not over many of them, so that we, the voters, might be clear on each. Thus, the author hoped, we would be secure in placing our one little vote in the right place and go away confident in thinking that we had done the right thing. As sure as you'll find a needle in a haystack without a magnet, it will happen. Right? Here comes another old adage. If "ifs" and "ands" were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinker's dams. Promises are just that. They are easy to make, and even if you present a plan that appears clearly to allow them to happen, they must pass a huge number of trials before they  remotely can become actual events. Only dictators can make promises and force them to happen. We have a democratic society and parliamentary system in our country that makes us believe what we voted for and "won" will actually happen. It will happen only if it can get through the complex process of parliament.  And our governments have exactly, as we do in our own budgets at home, whatever kind of home it might be: a castle, a mansion, a three bedroom, an apartment or a hovel, one pile of our tax dollars to shift about to make the promises happen. The money goes only from one pocket to the other. Pre-election palaver is mere hot air and we know it, but we all love to gather around and warm our hands on it. After the big expensive party of election fury is over, is when the storm ends and we have to pick up the pieces and get on with it for the next four years.

Bullying Murders

The latest and most tragic case of bullying, one that ended in murder by the bullies who have not been charged,  has me not only angered but remembering a few young students when I taught, and how hard it was to try and control their similar situations. For some reason certain young people are subject to being bullied. One example, was a young chap, although it happens to girls also,  in my school, who was bullied from a very early age. He was typical of many who are subjected to it. He was thinner, delicate in sensitivity and frame, lacked the average behaviours that most his age had in favour of his own ways, dressed unlike the others and seemed almost to participate in his own misery by ways of inviting the others to tease him. He often made fun of himself to amuse them. The other boys jostled him and verbally abused him continuously. They did physical damage that was minor but very insulting. The staff made every effort to stop it by interacting, coaching and teaching and talking about the situation, meeting with the parents and children but it went on and on and became worse when there were no adults around to protect the young fellow. And he had to be on his own some of the time. He suffered this torment right through to the end of his school years in varying degrees, but after, managed to find a profession that was satisfying and rewarding. While then he appeared to have a normal life, he never really forgot about the bullying that tainted him for the rest of his days. I speak to him now and again and feel badly that his life was so affected. It seemed wrong that he spent those years in pain. Now that I am not in the teaching realm, I ponder sadly over boys like him that I knew of and wonder why we couldn't have entirely stopped this dreadful matter that continues today for so many unfortunate children. These youngsters who are targeted by bullies often take on a role and seem to accept it as their given fate. If I had such a vulnerable child, I think I would consider home education or remove the child and find some other source of peace in education for him or her. Parents can't always afford this and here is where the system must take early action to provide for and protect this kind of child who has a right to an education. It is their responsibility to see that these special bullied children receive the attention they require, to remove the child from the danger  and find ways of going ahead with  a suitable educational environment that fits their special needs just as those done for children with other learning difficulties. Bullied children are special needs children also. We need to take immediate action not just go to meetings and take courses. It could save lives.

Off To A Home

There comes a day, for many elders, when it's no longer desirable to be on their own in their own home. A home is many things: a house, an apartment, a condo, a mobile and so on. Every home requires upkeep and maintenance and cleanliness. When it comes to the point where the safety or health of doing what one could once do effortlessly in younger times, is impossible. Pain dictates the rule for others. When that happens some hard decisions must be made. While a loving  family is entitled to suggest various plans for the elder, the final move is up to the aging individual. Only he or she knows what is truly wanted. If there is an illness involved, that makes close planning imperative. There is government help. This inevitable move is difficult on all sides. Usually, we elders put up with our aging problems until it becomes obvious that continuing to make the effort is just too much. Aging is not a sin, it's a fact, one that no one escapes. Some people can go on longer than others to care for themselves adequately and independently and others are forced to seek earlier assistance. An age number has nothing to do with it. Suffering is not heroic. Heroism is taking that huge step to a home away from home situation in all ways: physically, financially and emotionally. Some families bring the elder into their homes and it works out well, while others assist to set up their elders in a place where they will continue to feel independence and have a sense of enjoying their senior years. I see some very attractive new facilities and on looking into their costs, they are sometimes prohibitively high. The newer venues that advertise all sorts of beautiful programs, amenities and accommodations are pretty much out of reach for the average person. Unless one has access to a large sum of capital to purchase or rent in these flashy buildings with elegant facades, dining rooms and programs, they are out of reach. For a one bedroom unit, for example, the cost begins around five to six thousand a month. When I calculate this cost, it makes more sense to bring help into one's own home. No matter how the hype is advertised as to what you can save,  the savings you make in taking on their plans, are just not feasible. There are however, less glitzy places that are pleasant and affordable, thus possible. Even new, top drawer buildings have their situations no matter what the spin. Some people choose to hire helpers who offer care in their own home on a daily basis including housekeeping and driving. While it is not cheap, it can be far less than some other more glamorous spots. What is important is how you feel in the facility and some allow for a stay to try it out. Best hunting for all. Happiness is much more than the newest highrise down the street.

Where Is Hollywood

Hollywood used to be the taj of most young people interested in acting. Los Angeles was the destination to star watch, tread the sidewalks adorned with glitterati names and hand prints and perhaps catch a peek of some successful actor in the Hollywood area. Maybe even be discovered and become one of them, too. Now, with the crazies who grab at actors or throw things and yell at them, or bug them to take selfies, those days are over. They've ruined it for themselves as well as others and don't care. The body guards get more star time than anyone else. I come from times where there were "movie mags" now replaced with a thing called People. In its pages, we see reams of face shots of the rich and famous who look unbelievable and are, with their nips and tucks and lifts and shots. In my day, as a child I saw older teens with rooms papered in colourful pages filling their walls with  favorite stars and signed photographs of their heart-throbs in frames on their flouncy, skirted dressers or bureaus. There were dolls and paper dolls and dishes and yes, cutlery, sporting the faces and forms of Hollywood's latest. The stars were to dream on. Glamour was key and the sparkling, beruffled, gargantuan musicals we thrilled over, filled the movie theatres so that fans could watch them over and over, speak the lines, sing the songs and try to dance the dances. It was all flash and film and glamorous fantasy. Some of it had stars talking to actual people on the street, who went to their movies. Today, in some of the best films chosen, young actors take on roles that must be physically excruciating to play or fun or tense or those calling for deep commitment. It's now a private, often secret and serious business, one closely guarded and supervised and cultivated. It is no longer simply fun and it wasn't all back then either. The darker roles then, became later, the drama icons for actors today. Much of the glamour is found now, in style. It seems that fashion and film have fused into one big runway show every time the red carpet is rolled out. The big fashion magazine that glazes the stands, is now a movie star publication. The cover borne actors are first groomed to lose weight (which seems to be, sadly, part of a current resume requirement in spite of health first) and then made up and adorned with garb that costs as much as a year's rent. None of them think it up themselves. Most of the Hollywood darlings, male, female and so on, are groomed by a highly competitive crew who run about frantically adorning the dollies of Hollywood. If we, the real people, saw them as they are, we would likely not recognise them even if they dared to trod our public sidewalks. Many fly in and out of drug addiction at some point, marry grandly but temporarily, are ridiculously rich, can't appear in public places even to bag a burger or remotely hope to step onto the sidewalks of their own towns. Where is Hollywood? Inside behind bars. Their own.

Dear Protesting Teens

Dear Teens: I find it a profound pleasure to know that teens are backing what we adults, including the politicians that you berate today, are attempting to make happen. Today, teens like you are taking to the streets to show deep concern for the environment: particularly the climate crisis that we all face. At the same time, I hope that you, personally, each and every one, see this as a life commitment not just a day off school and time to celebrate after with your peers. What I hear on the media is that we adults are blamed for not doing enough for your future and that politicians and big business is not doing the work of change fast enough. Your angst is correct. We all, old and young, feel the same frustrations. While you are genuinely worried about the world and its lagging changes apparently due entirely to man's insensitivity to its biological delicacy and also to feed its greedy habits, please know that we elders, also inhabitants of the planet, are just as upset about it as you. We admire that young people are stepping up and supporting all that we are trying to do. But. Carrying signs and shouting and singing slogans one day, does not do the actual job of effecting what you seek. You know this of course, especially those of you who do not pollute by tossing beer cans for others to pick up after grad parties or chuck your paper coffee mugs on the sidewalks or spend hours driving fast cars going nowhere. Those in the crowds of you, today, who are going to, later, celebrate with  friends and congratulate yourselves over the global success of your planned day of "protest", have, however, something to take away from it. Your protest is way more than one day of promise and commitment. As those of us you blame for ruining your world to come, who recycle, who either ride bikes, drive electric or walk or take public transport, pay our taxes for your education, medical care and practice responsible consumerism and have a vote, know. We don't carry signs or sing and shout. We are too occupied doing the job. It's a great struggle being the ones you blame. Sure we are not perfect but we do our best because we love you and do it for you every day of our lives of going to work, caring for our families and being the best we can be for a better world. It's not easy. What are you doing? Make a list. Saving the world is not a one day protest, it's an everyday protest. While it's joyful to demonstrate, there is a tougher side. Do you make sure the clothing your parents pay for is made by responsible societies? Do you frequent food outlets and grocery stores that are responsible businesses? Do you do the recycling in your home and see that all of the products there are those that agree with responsible consumerism? Do you walk or ride a bike instead of tool around in your car? Do you help in your home by ensuring your parents get products with "green" ingredients? Do you work alongside your family to make sure your home is environmentally clean? Or not?

Colouring Books

I am flesh coloured. But now I am told that I have done a whole lot of bad things to people who are flesh coloured also. When I started school in a milltown community where my dad worked with people of all flesh tones, I didn't know about different coloured skins. No one in our house ever talked about it. When we went shopping in the city when I looked around as a small child, there were lots of people and that was it. I didn't think to question who had what coloured skin. They were "people". At home we had a wood pile because we burned it as fuel in our wood furnace. I could read before I started school and had my friends over so we could sit on the top of the wood pile while I read them stories from a fairy tale book. There was Clark, a boy from Ireland, Mahinder Singh whose dad worked with mine, Joycie who was rich, Dawnie my cousin and Roger, the French boy who lived next door and had 12 brothers and sisters. We bought wonderful bread from Roger's mother who yelled at her kids all day long. We learned how to say "be quiet", "come home"in French. We also had a vegetable man who sold from his truck and had a long braid that hung down his back. They were all my neighbours whom we lived with happily. We were all just people. We kids, played in the trees and bushes on our property that had a little brook that I learned later was Brunette Creek. One day in Grade Two, I came home and told my mother that Mahinder was crying because someone took off his hat. No one told me it was a turban. It was simply part of who Mahinder was. My mother just said how mean and sad, but did not go into the racism that was evident in that action.  But the school brought up the subject. It was my first knowledge of racism. I didn't know about those kinds of "differences". When we went shopping in the big city, I couldn't help staring at a man who had no legs ( it was wartime) but skin colour hadn't enter my head. My dad had friends and fellow workers from all nations. They laboured and sweated along side each other and at home, there was no talk about some being better than others. I know that it is unusual now, but then, it just didn't seem to matter. The first time I found out that there was such cruelty was over poor Mahinder's experience. Racism and colour prejudice is obviously learned behaviour. It must be something learned early for another child to do that to my friend. It is tragic for our young because children accept all that is around them as natural and normal. Think what a precious opportunity it is for parents to offer their kids the enlightenment and the joy of loving all humans regardless of their skin colour or race and to appreciate them for their own stories. Each one is unique. I am called white and sadly, lately, I am blamed for my so-called colour for things I didn't personally do or think. Like everyone else, I can't help my colour. I am only human and flesh toned. I don't want to be called "white".

Burdens of Age

The burdens of aging are mainly the indebtedness of having lived. Lived at all. The burdens aren't the things most people consider them to be. Some feel burdened by things on the down side, but I feel wholly burdened by those people and times I loved and continue to love. But in a different way. I almost fall under the weight of love, my love of the life I have been so privileged to possess for a time. It used to feel like a very long time but looking back on life's pathway, it's rather short now and filled with beauty and affection both received and given, of memories of small objects and scenes and seconds you remember that become clearer and clearer. Wealth or comforts or possessions, once yearned over, don't really count for much. For some reason all of the bad stuff disappears and only the personally fine times of feelings and people and things, shine. It makes it quite wonderful to have these images to hold and sort through and savour.  It is pure joy. The incredible number of changes over time, the advancements in science and art and humanity, of generosity and modelling, are those that become huge and awe inspiring. Our so many human wonders to admire. The down sides, once intense, sort of drop or drift away as we approach our farewell date and what makes the brilliant "light at the end of the tunnel" is the good and beautiful and true things of our lives. It has nothing to do with riches or fame or status. All of that flattens into a great, sweeping plain like a two dimensional poster with your name somewhere on it. Everything like that doesn't matter at all. The things once we thought were so very important are mere print. That's why seeing your friends who are still alive and to remember with them, is so great a pleasure. They're not two dimensional.  It's why sillinesses such as "the best and the latest" are not that which you find most appealing as once you might have. Gradually, you see what you didn't see previously. You, in your aging, are equipped quite surprisingly  with a sense of new reality that those younger have yet to gain. They don't know about it. You do, but you aren't going to tell them. You want them to discover it someday just as you have this joyous moment. They, embroiled in the impetus of its day-to-day rigors, don't have time to sit and stare into the past as we do. This vision erases what was once so bothersome or challenging or we thought, vitally necessary for happiness. Happiness, now, is very simple. It's very easy and present. But it's a secret that only the aged share.  A lot of it is remembering those small moments that were rather fuzzy then, but are now so vividly coloured in mind and so suddenly important. "Ah", you think, "So that's what it all meant."

Why Oh Why?

We don't need frustration in our lives. Why oh why don't manufacturers make things that work without failure and difficulties built in? When my old metal sewing machine developed a problem, I turned it in for a new model that did a whole lot of things I didn't need. I wanted to fix things, not create them. It looks swish but if it falls off the table or a little bit of its plastic this and that breaks, it's over. My mother could take her old machine apart and put it back together. Why oh why are these machines still not made of metal and made to last? My washing machine broke down yesterday. Apparently, if you don't pander to its need for a "balanced load",  it kills itself. I can't see inside the thing when it's going because some designer decided the lid should lock. Bang, and now a service call that will cost half of what the machine is worth and likely he'll tell me I should get a new one. It's not that old. My mother had her mother's washer and she offered it to me. Not that I wanted it but it still worked.  I don't need ones like the latest, that access from the front on  hands and knees. Or ones that use two inches of water and pretend to get things clean. Why oh why? My glasses and sun glasses have a habit of losing their screws. Can't the screws be sealed in there so they won't sneak their way out. Seems simple enough. I don't want to use my polluting car to run down and have someone screw it back in, free service or not.  Why oh why? Then this morning I had to open a vitamin bottle and the lid was child proof, and also adult proof. You have to contort your hands painfully and push down and turn at the same time which children seem to have no problem with. When you are with arthritis in your pinkies, the opening contortion is well nigh impossible. Why oh why? Recently, I bought a steamer oven. It was foolish because how hard is it to plop a steamer basket into the wok and carry on. The new oven has lights and buttons to press and read outs and pictures of what it can do. After studying the manual written by someone from a place where English is exotic, I gave up and played with the display window. I learned the first lesson: how to make toast. The rest, unless I can find a translator, will have to wait. Why oh why? My cell phone has all the bells and whistles and I love it for various reasons, but to text on it with fingers that are not made to hit the miniscule letters, makes it scary. Some of the typos are insulting. My step father, Miron, got tired of being called Moron not to mention some of the other insults. I had a phone once, now out of fashion, that  had a stylus attached. No more like that. Why oh why? The younger set tackle everything with great ease and enthusiasm but that changes when they have an aging body that insists on its own rationale. Every single human gets to that stage eventually, and designers could make all of it easy to manipulate sans pain. Why oh why not?

White Jeans Don't Care

Apparently, The fashion mag that has high fashions no one would dare to wear other than to the red carpet, tell us that white jeans are okay all year round. What a relief! I do it anyway and wear sandals all year round, too. The nonsense of paying attention to fashion "laws" such as no white after Labour Day, don't make sense and likely originated from commerce need and greed. It gives them a reason to come up with so-called seasonal garb that among the posh rich becomes garb-age later on. Jeans are popular mostly because they are said to be comfortable, but in truth they are not as comfortable as trousers for men and women made of other substances than USA cotton set with classy USA labels. I note that The fashion mag now brags of sustainable wear and inclusivity as voiced by the bob-haired queen of fashion herself. What is hilarious is that while the garments may be as touted, you need to have a sack of money to buy them. What is inclusive about that? A jacket made of sustainable fabric they advertise could cost you thousands. The inclusivity amongst the models is fine, but it is nothing new. Maybe they're paid more now and have higher opportunity. I suppose one must tolerate the biomass of the hype we are fed.  But back to the white jeans. I refuse to abandon them until Spring again. I like them because just about anything can top them: a sweater, a hoodie, a blouse, a jacket. And they aren't black leggings. Fall Fashion can be in fall/winter colours, but don't please give me bright green or dark brown. The brunettes seem to have it lately and we blondes don't. The fall faves are fashionable "ethnic" gear and a touch of snake skin. You never see, in snake prints, the dangerous end of the creature. It is as though someone skinned the lowly reptile and all we get is its back pattern in the dresses and tops and pants. Snakes are beautiful creatures with their elegant length and movement and their patterned sleeknesses are adopted by the loomers who see them as beautiful purveyors of Nature's art rather than fearful images of danger. Thus no fangs or tongues are permitted. But the colours are mostly brownish and that's a colour I dislike. Each fall, sadly, the pretty shades of pink and yellow and blue disappear and out come the browns, navys and purples. Black works for me but not the other dark colours. They are great on brunettes who are fashionable with their yards of long straight tresses. Still, I prefer my good old white jeans with sweaters and white sneakers, not the neon versions that look like regatta boats with do dads that dangle and sparkle and have three inch soles. When you are blond, short and carry those ice-cream pounds, you have to hibernate I guess.

Politically Correct Nonsense

Who came up with this term: "politically correct"? We are all aware of the matter of good and bad taste in what we say but, at times, the raw truth needs to be stated simply and clearly along with supporting proof. It doesn't involve name calling or false or rude crudeness, it means just being able to speak the truth without someone yapping out the words "that's not politically correct". We are not politicians who  have to be concerned about that.  There are some issues that politicians may have, for their reasons that are always vote influencing dodges, that we members of the public should not feel fearful of.  No issues are so"delicate". A spade doesn't have to be called a grave digger but it is still a shovel. Poet Parks said "a rose is a rose is a rose". And that's what it is. Period. Like you, I refuse to use unkind  name calling but no group should have to shy away from telling it like it is. Recently, some government reports showed errors and their corrections were done in a manner that was considered surreptitious. So what? An error is an error. Change it and get on with life. We don't need to hear about it endlessly. There is so much worry and concern and hype about the smallest of things such as governmental myopia  about how someone looks at someone else or whose hand they shake and how, or what they were thinking or hinting at or implying. Every word and expression is examined minutely and interpretations made that become nit picking to the point that one groans before x-ing out a news item. It is facts and results after actual actions that matter to citizens, not promises or apologies and visitations or what someone is wearing or if their eyebrows are plucked or their socks are matching. It is time we put politics into perspective. Political ploys and pictures and positions are not what the voter with its one paltry vote needs to make the decision to plant an X in the right place. Perhaps you, too, are insulted and weary of petty hen peckings by one politician over another or media photos of this or that face and expression. I want facts and plans to peruse, not griping and complaining and whining and spit-fighting. It's not recess on the school playground, it's real life and adult voters want the nonsense to stop and the truth to out bare, plain and simple.

Eat Garbage

Garbage day at my house is about eating garbage, well, almost. Sometimes when things in your fridge are too old, you throw them out even though there is still hope. I had some apples that went into the fridge early last summer and there they stayed. I didn't panic because I remembered that on my grandparent's farm, apples and lots of fruits and vegetables were kept in the root cellar and although not as pretty as when they were plucked or foraged, they were edible. They were food. And they were used. And they were delicious. One of my peeves is throwing out food. Hope it's yours, too. My four apples were destined for a cobbler using that quickie boxed biscuit mix for the topping. Enhanced of course. I didn't peel the apples due to my belief that it's where the flavour lives, and taking out the little bad spots, quartered and cored them, slicing the whole into a bowl with  lemon juice.When I cut into one, there were two little white worms about half an inch long, whose home, the core with seeds, I had just destroyed. I ugh-ed a bit and then admired these little beings for living so long and obviously healthfully inside the core. Such resilience! The rest of the apple looked firm and juicy so I removed the core along with the little worms whom I now admired for their tenacity and wrapped their tiny white lengths in newspaper for the composter where I hoped they'd survive.It made me appreciate that as long as we have such creatures in our environment, it must be viable. No poisons hurt the little guys and I certainly wasn't going to do anything other than establish them anew in a landfill somewhere.  Also last summer, I had a couple of baskets of strawberries that began to turn mushy. Into the freezer they went at the time and now out they came. With cinnamon and the brown sugar and lemon juice mixed with the apples, they'd make an interesting cobbler. When they were done, topped with some sour or ice cream or yoghurt, they'd be yummy! I guess the point I am making is that we should try to use leftovers because they are not only real and useful food that is still nutritious,  they also help save the planet. When I go into the fridge determined to use up what lurks in the back somewhere but is still good, or find the murky packages of food that separate the other things in the freezer, I want to use them. They are food. My son, a single guy now, says he hates wasting food. He does soups for his Garbage Day. And they are easy and tasty. My strawberry apple cobbler is sending fragrant reminders of summer throughout my home and my heart is happy that I didn't just throw them out.  What do you create at your house on Garbage Day,  the day you decide to clean out the fridge or cooler and dutifully use what's there?

Dear Adsters

Ads have to be there, but if you're like me, you pay little attention to them. If I could write a letter to the ad folks, it would go something like this. Dear Adsters, I find most, nay, all of your ads unappealing. It isn't because of the product necessarily, or the cost you go to in putting out these things. It's the interruption that gets me. Your nuisance ads that are shown during commercial television runs, are so repetitive that not only do I either get up and go away, or I mute them. I have given up on all of commercial television because, really, I prefer the stations I have to pay for. It's all because of you. One day recently, while baking bread or some other kitchen matter, and to ease away the kneading and prep time, I turned on regular television.  I haven't watched it for months but because I thought I'd dip into  Dr. So and So and that ilk, to pass the time, I might  see something new. Nothing was new and the ads between the few minutes of the actual "show" were insultingly rampant. They were like basketball shots: fast, colourful, numerous and too iffy to have any real meaning. Another session during which I was waiting for the dryer to finish, I sat down to pick up one of my past favorite series. Much as I once loved the sitcom, I had to stop and and return to my pay channel where I am not bothered by continuous ads. I simply couldn't stand the interruptions where ads  nagged at me every few minutes taking away any pleasure or purpose in watching for an hour, a half hour show. Why should I waste my time being forced to look at the same ads flicking away repeatedly every few minutes. Talk about water drip torture! The bottom line is I DON'T CARE for your ads and I DON'T WANT THEM.  I care even less for the product because you, insult me. Once is enough. I get it! When I go to my computer and click on a news or other  video, again, I have to suffer through x seconds of ad before seeing it. Dreadful, that a vital world report or issue, before you can access it, has an ad attached. What is happening in the news industry? It can't be taken seriously when beer ads precede an insurrection or tragedy, for example. While I wait to see if a war is occuring or a rocket has blasted off into space, I have to view a fashion magazine ad with a couple of airbrushed  twenty year olds whose eyes look like dead codfish. No, I don't want the fashion magazine and even if I did, please stop with the faces. Ugh. Ad people, if you want my support for your product, advice is: overkill kills, don't entertain, inform me, once is enough. Now to watch a blue-ray movie - without interruption. Oh, was that an ad?

No Guns At All

What would be so hard about a No Guns At All law? Sadly, nay tragically, the outrage in a country that says it doesn't like or want guns, would be enormous. Some would cry that they need them to protect themselves. But the same people only think they need them and they "need" them only because they think they are being threatened by them. This isn't a gun happy country that has laws saying it's your right to have guns. A gun is a killer. It's only purpose is to cause death or possible injury. For some, such as gangs, it's meant as a threat mainly.  Gangs brag about their weaponry as though it is their strength. Those who fear join gangs for powers they think will give them protection in that company in the name of its gun use and gun power. Gang motivation is to rule and it's not done with brains or brawn but with killer weapons. The reports of gang shootings are becoming a daily event. It is increasing, not abating and spray bullets can injure the innocent.  Sport hunters, too, are no longer necessary to the world of "sport". There is nowhere in this country that requires one even to kill animals for food. In fact, it isn't safe to eat the stuff any more. Wild meat is not inspected for disease or vermin and it doesn't taste very good either. I have tried it. Yuk. I know of no one who has to kill for meat. Hunters kill animals because they get kicks out of killing and being with others who love the same silliness. There is no other other excuse.  I've been to the farthest reaches of this country and if you have a kitchen or home at all, there is a store of some kind in reach. If you have flour and oil in the kitchen, there is no reason to hunt, you can buy farm meat. Even if you like wild tasting meat you can buy it where it is raised by responsible farmers, therefore that's no excuse. Guns are just not needed. Law makers and conservation officers may need guns but that is largely because there are illegal guns. Police and security people have knowledge of all sorts of other ways to get control in a situation over using guns. It's part of their training. Really, what would happen if guns suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth? The answer is simple and true. There would be fewer gun shot injuries and deaths, riots, gangs, wars and mindless killings.

Likes

How many "likes" or "friends" are to some, the vital sum of their popularity. For whatever that's worth. And what precisely is popularity worth? Being a favorite of many doesn't mean anything, really, at least not to the "friends" or the "likes".  It means something only to the individual who is busily counting the checks to pad up their egos. In high school, as it often turns out, the popular students whom we all strive to be, on leaving, often don't amount to anything. They, the spoiled darlings of the school, can't hack the real world beyond the brick walls. They find that the university, for those who can afford it, is a huge place where a high school charmed face and popular status, don't mean a thing. In my experience in high school, the prom kings and queens, no longer worshipped, often dropped out of their universities, opted to get married and begin families, took jobs they didn't need years of expensive student loans to access, went into businesses that either failed or struggled along. None, that I recall became famous. The nerds and geeks, however, made it and had the courage and stamina to get the loans and work hard for their educations to become in their ways, those with fellowships in fine institutions and a few actually did become rich and famous.  Counting "likes" does not a king make, nor a Prime Minister nor a billionaire. It takes talent, luck and sometimes parental money but mostly, it's just work, work, work. Being an original thinker is key. Some of our cybersphere young who, at school are thought of as nobodies, spend time dreaming up games or other artistic or scientific endeavors and quietly strive to achieve those dreams. They don't do it out of being popular amongst their peers or ensuring that they look and think exactly like the rest of "the gang". They are more. Often branded odd and loners, they are too busy pursuing their real ambitions to bother about opinions as to "what" or "who" they are. Their positive dreams absorb their attention and the way to achieve those dreams becomes their mission in life. It doesn't mean that they ignore their peers or shun their company, it simply means that they have learned a balance in their lives and how to gain  their goals that override popularity and "fitting in" by wearing the latest garb or behaving in the most often copied ways. They are different.  While they are branded and often pushed away, they determine that what they are going for  means more than a few years of high school hype. It reaches beyond  to a lifetime of what really matters so that they can become positive influences, however small or large, in the broader world. "Likes" don't count.

Cool It

Most of us of an age, live in condos and most condos have windows albeit large, only on one side of our homes. (Yes, a condo is a home but one whose ownership is the entire building, maintenance and all.) No cross drafts to be had. Now that we know air-conditioning of some kinds, emits carbon into the air which is something none of us want to do, we learn the secrets of keeping cool in hot weather. Everyone has his or her favorite solutions but mine is to go to bed late and get up early and sleep during the hot parts of the day. I have fans, four of them, one that goes back and forth and the others are placed in strategic positions to distribute air evenly around my space. I open all the windows in the morning to allow the cool air to enter my westside unit. When the sun comes over the deck, I open my umbrella and shut all of the shutters. During the early afternoon, I take a nap or what our southern friends call a siesta. Not only is it mentally refreshing, it allows my body to use little energy thus alleviating hot weather stress. The siesta also gives me extra awake time to spend during the evenings or nighttimes when I sit on the deck after the sun goes down behind the building next to me. I do any work in the mornings but none in the afternoon and I seldom go out to ply the hot concrete sidewalks. That is for mornings and late afternoons when the sun is down. Well, not "down" but you know what I mean. I dress in light, cool wear preferably cottons. I wear sandals or sneakers or go bare footed. I try not to do anything that causes the blood pressure to elevate. I banish stress from my life. We don't use our mind control often enough to heal whatever kinds of stresses we own. And we do own stress. It's a choice, even when our situations are dire. Stress and heat don't go well together and finding a way to relieve the first, helps with the second. Move slowly if at all during the hot days and if possible, find a fan to waft its breezes over you. Your body perspires to cool you off and a fan will take care of that. Do drink a lot of cool water or juices of a non-alcohol kind. I love cucumber water with celery added but you can experiment with whatever berry or veggie suits your taste buds. I am not a fan of lettuce leaves or what I call rabbit food but I do love chunky salads with cheese and nuts and fruit under a mayo that I herb or sweeten with honey or vinegar. Again experiment. Your taste buds will tell you which mix sits. Enjoy the sun, however, but briefly so that your Vitamin D is the real thing and not something you read on a label. Sooo. Whew! Warm. It's time for the nap.

You The Farmer

We're all farmers in some way. Each one of us being responsible for the planet we live on, have taken on, whether we like it or realize it or not, the role of farmers. A farmer grows things be it animals or plants. Farmers are nurturers of continuation. Our job in a concrete jungle, the suburbs or in the wilds of a province can also nurture nature even in the smallest way. I live in a city, so, I say, how on earth can I be called a farmer? What I, personally can do, as one thing, is, on my deck provide a small container or bird bath or other object that holds water. I watched a bee or wasp come to share my lunch the other day. I didn't make any move to prevent it doing so, but when its hive mates were alerted and came also, I moved my food indoors to eat. They left. My policy is to harm none of these creatures that are also inhabitants of earth and have their needs as I do. Without swatting them which could cause them to defend themselves and sting, I moved slowly unlike an enemy and we both passed in peace. When I came back outside to enjoy my coffee, I watched a bee go to the edge of my bird bath and delicately sip a drink of water. I had put it there for butterflies, bees and other insects so that they might survive and pollination will continue. Not only bees pollinate blossoms, but also do other insects. On my deck I grow a "hedge" of small cypress trees and while it is work watering them when they need to drink, they provide shade and privacy for me but they also allow shelter for small insects such as spiders. I don't remove all spider webs but allow small spiders because spiders feed on aphids that eat on my herbs. And I do love my tiny collection of herbs. I have very few, but I use them fresh in small pieces.  It pleases me to feel that I can grow this tiny amount for myself. Again this year, I planted runner beans to savour not only the taste of the few that thrive but also the sight of their gorgeous red blossoms and amazing vines that grow so fast and go everywhere they can. Fascinating. My pot of herbs are slow to come ahead but when I receive my packet of chive seeds, there will be a competition to see which will win. I am not much into flowers but my tall, exotic and very leafy white lilies that must be related to Jack In The Pulpits are in the summer holidayed outside. The long white spears spring up and surprise me with their rapid and rampant bloomings. Another delightful tiny star-like white flower is the sweet alyssum that when it establishes, comes back year after year. I like to plant it to collar my small hedging trees.  The scent is delightful and they bloom continuously. I am too old to fuss with big pots of blooms and complicated florals, so I keep it simple. Composting is also being a farmer for earth as is avoiding the use of things that harm the air. We farmers know what to do. We just have to make sure we are good farmers.

Ambi D Useful

In times previous, schools tried to change left-handed children into right-handers. It didn't work and certainly confused the poor youngsters who suffered under this kind of treatment. While it was meant to do no harm but used, they thought, to help the children cope in a right-handed world, surprisingly it did just that. I know individuals who can use either hand or arm to bat a ball, deal with a tennis racquet or badminton one, to swing a golf club, or among other things, to sew a seam. Those of us who are right-handed don't have to think about it much. Scissors, bats, golf clubs and a host of other tools are made for right-handed use. If you don't believe me, pick up a pair of scissors and try to cut some paper with your "other" hand. See? It can be done, but your "other" hand has to get the technique down first. The children whose left hands were converted to right, may be those adults you know who when driving and finding a locale, are told constantly :"No, it's the other right". There is  evident confusion. But the same children learned that there are many common tasks they can accomplish using either hand and sometimes both.  There are also those of us, as I am currently, victims of injury situations called muscle challenged, rotator cuff or shoulder spasms  and because of the pain, are forced to become ambidextrous. We don't want to, but it's easier than not being easily able to reach the honey jar on the shelf or the back container in the fridge or stir up the pancakes  without nasty pain. I have learned to use my left hand to either assist or to carry out tasks usually done with the right. I can't say that I do a perfect job of it but I do try and as awkward as it feels, it works and I know now, it can be done.  It's amazing how adaptable we can be if only we try. Granted, it isn't comfortable to learn to use both hands, but it's first, the mind that needs to be changed, not just the handedness movements. When you think of all the people who have had to learn how to walk again after an accident or use a limb prosthetic or after a stroke, to regain use of limbs or digits, we learn that it is not impossible to become both handed or ambidextrous. Again, convincing your mind that you can do it, is the first step. Attitude changing is a skill that's useful in many ways. Once you find you can change your attitude easily, there is little that you cannot deal with. I've learned how to iron, mix batter, hammer, use a screwdriver and handle cooking tools with my "other" hand. At times, I am so accustomed to it, that I kind of forget and use whatever hand happens to get there first. We are born with two hands for a reason.

Retro Me. Please!

"The world is too much with us, late and soon", Wordsworth's poetic take on his times seems to apply  to us this day. Mass killings of the innocent,  leaders of countries drunk with power, a collapse of morality in the name of "freedom" and, well, take the world news. If you dare. I want to retro into times when it was not so. Yes, there were most of the dreadful happenings then as now, but they were not as much smeared in our faces with moving depictions and emotional comment as there is now. We could read about them and hear about them in reports but in a time frame that allowed for consideration. There was time to absorb and adjust and contemplate the meaning and how to reconcile the feelings that affected our own lives. Today there is "too much with us" and a barrage of horrors at us constantly in full colour and sound. Stop, I say. Stop. And then I realize, I am the one who has to make it stop and it's very simple. It lies right under my fingers. I can turn it off and turn on something good and beautiful and true, or go outside and look into a tree or over a stretch of grasses and flowers or just gaze the blueness or clouds in the sky. Even the feeling of rain on my face. I think of the days when kids had no plastic or television or computers. Education happened at school where the desks were in straight rows and we did what the teacher said and loved it all. Our parents didn't bother with us when we went into the yard to play climbing trees and fishing in the little streams or going down the street to talk to neighbours or into stores to buy penny candy. We laughed at the cartoons in the thick weekend newspapers that were long and had full articles that were written in fine English and we loved our leaders because that's what was done. We didn't see people in categories, they looked different than us but that's the way it was and no one argued about it. Sure, I grew up as an ordinary kid in an ordinary neighbourhood and maybe that seems privileged but I loved it and I loved all the people around me because no one told me about hate. I didn't have parents that told me how to think. They took care of us, my sister and I, and most of the time we were left to make our own plans and days. When we graduated high school we got jobs and decided on careers and had to work if we wanted to go to universities. The cost was something that could be earned. When we found our life's work, we started at the bottom and tried to get to the top. We lived at home until we could afford a place of our own. Our employers liked us and we liked them. We stayed until it was time to retire with our gold watches and cut glass bowls in hand. Along the way, we met the person we loved and would spend our lives with to become good citizen parents and grandparents. Okay, death came along, too, but it was all natural and sort of expected. It was all very simple. Then.

Age Discrimination II

Further on aging, I hasten to say that it's like any other time in life: just as challenging and varied. To make statements that generalize about a race or gender or age is quite simply prejudicial. Because one sees  elders with certain behaviours, doesn't mean all aged persons possess them. It seems that cartoons are drawn, photographs taken and attitudes formed about the aging state that not only lack generosity but are blatantly, flawed. We dare not paint all teenagers with the same brush about their "angst" and that same democratic approach also applies when we refer to aging. We've been brainwashed into thinking that elders fear change, can't adapt to the electronic age and have nothing more to contribute to society. Yes, they use cell phones and computers, continue to work and volunteer. The kind of negative attitude about aging, that is rampant in many societies must stop. It's called age discrimination and is of the last and worst kind. There is no authority to prove that all elders are on a dysfunctional path. Naturally, some of our elder population does not want to engage in the computer age and may even bitterly oppose it. The operative word is "some". One ought not to generalize about any age group. Truly, there are those elders who are ill but illnesses affects both the young and the old. Some, but not all elders are inactive due to physical factors but they, just as any other individual with a handicap, rely on the latest mobility aids. There is no shame at any age in using mobility carts, wheelchairs or any other devices. The sad part is that far too many older people feel pressured, whether by their peers or those close to them, to bend to stereotypical means. They are told to give up their independence and either go to live with their children or to enter a second rate facility that caters to the elderly. The reasons are not always diseases and afflictions that some elderly  suffer. Many of these lovely people comply with the pressures put on by their advisors because it's an easy solution or they are told by "experts" that it is the right thing to do. "Everyone else does it" is the argument. That argument is just not reliable nor is it true. Entering a senior's residence is not what it used to be, however, if a good one. Many facilities do not force deadly routines on people or subject them to childish crafts classes and exercise routines that are embarrassing to thinking people. Residents may  keep their cars, have their own wifi and come and go as they please. It is not true that all old people cannot function on their own. It seems there are factions of our society that continue to harbour elder prejudices. Elders are not children to be pushed around because they fear the embarrassment of fighting back. They need to maintain the same dignity we all expect, alongside a natural need to make independent decisions without the antiquated stereotypical pressures put on by those ignorant of our rights.

Mother You Should

This is an aging population and most of us getting on in that way, keep silent but we shouldn't. No one really understands any situation unless they are in it and sometimes "being in it" is impossible to get across to others. It's that way when you are elderly and beyond what anyone gets other than those in the same place. Even those who make geriatrics their life study can't actually know how it feels. They learn all about neural, emotional, physical and other aspects of it, but their advice and recommendations often "stink". I am being frank here because it is time we elders stopped being nice about it all the time. The truth is that old age hurts. It hurts in lots of ways and older folks try to hide it behind their apple pie smiles and sweetness. Some get old and cranky but others of us see little value in that position, and go the other way. We love our offspring and call on patience. We tolerate the aches of rainy days, getting up and down stairs and chairs and having cramps in the night. We look at ourselves in the mirrors and ignore the signs of aging. We seek peace and quiet and reveries. We want nothing but to see our children grow up and find happiness. We need very little to be happy. We try to be tolerant of the doctor who is much younger and tells : "Mrs Blank, we need to quit on the sugar, the sitting around watching TV and all that sleeping a lot". He or she recommends strongly, eating whole wheat everything, quitting the coffee and wine, giving up sweets and butter on the toast, meat and pain pills. They say going to regular exercise classes where some cute little thing in spandex shows us how to bend and bounce will make our lives better. All the advice is wonderful especially for those giving it. They feel they're saving us from an early grave. We will live longer and better and even grow younger. They don't know the fuss of getting ready to go these things, nor of the aches and pains while doing it. Sometimes even injury. Advice of that nature is just another mother-you-should in my book. It's my life and having lived it decades upon decades, I think I know best how to do it. Let me make my decisions based on my wants and needs, not what the author of a how-to says I should be doing it. For him or her it might work but for me and a few million others, it doesn't. I am perfectly happy with that and if not, I will ask for input. I lived with my grandmother before I was married and she was a fine woman near eighty who lived to 102, who didn't cook well, ate whatever she pleased, never exercised, watched television most of the day and went to church and funerals as often as she could if someone gave her  ride since she never did get her license. She did have a bit of money and that always helps no matter what anyone says. When her children, my aunts and uncles came over to tea and her dreadful dinners, they entered the somewhat cluttered house and went about saying such as: "Mother you should get rid of this junk". It was junk but each piece of it was a memory and she did not hesitate to tell you about them repeatedly. If she was told "Mother you should not tell those stories, I've heard them a million times" her answer would be "I don't care I am going to tell them as often as I want to". When they harped about her doo dads, she'd merely point to a small plaque on the wall near the coat stand. It read "This is my house and in it, I'll do as I damn please".