Online Dressing

 I'll try to be positive here but it's difficult. I can think of one particular North American outlet that boasts sales that aren't really sales. If you have to buy two of an item to get a discount, that's no sale. Another well known shoe company with comfort sneakers, simply raises their prices on line to accommodate the discount that ends up the same net price as the regular ones. To me, a sale is something that is the regular item in the regular size, discounted. Sales tactics are used by some unscrupulous sellers. One soon learns who to avoid. Their "tactics", just as in wartime tactics, are tactics meant to tempt you to buy more than you planned by making you think you are getting two for the price of one. Uh uh. Don't do it unless actually, you want two of an item. This particular store also boasts sales but when you go online to purchase, the sales items are in remainder sizes not the average. Very few women wear an ultra tiny size in anything, although I have had the misfortune of hearing some women in change rooms next to me, loudly asking for sizes far smaller than the average.  I always assume by the volume, they've aced some kind of diet and are out celebrating. At any rate, as we mature, women frequently change sizes up rather than down and that's natural and okay. No one wants to live in a gym or diet all the time. It means finding the right fit and forgetting about the numbers. Cut off the sizes if you must but let the garment fit. When I think of someone who got it all wrong, I recall a certain very attractive mother of four or five who had gained pounds.  Her mistake was buying garments that were her dream size and not the actual one. I prayed that she would find a wise dress clerk and get a size that hung well and was in a design that flattered her true beauty. She looked stuffed. We are told over and over again that the fashion magazines no longer use models who are having eating disorders. Not so. While there may be a token few larger models, the pathetic, skinny ones who are evidently starving themselves, abound. When I see skeletal young women with wan faces striding down a ramp like gangly ponies, I don't see the dress, I see an self-abused woman. Jutting ribs and hollow legs spoil the effect of the most finely engineered garment. Most of the fashion ramp clothing is not what humans would wear at any rate.  Perhaps so on Fifth Avenue or Rodeo Drive where the you-know-who film people are photographed sashaying along with their dangling three thousand dollar handbags and an Afghan or a French Poodle in hand. I guess the bottom line is find a sale that is a sale and not one where the merchant has hiked the tag as a sale when it's not.  When you find a store that does reduce its regular items regularly, it's a keeper. And you'll trust it and return. Shopping online has hazards and one pitfall you don't want to step into is the offshore ads with styles that look very attractive but when the item arrives, it is not in human fit or fabrics that are wearable and washable. One learns. The last time I erred in that direction I thought I would outsmart myself and order an XL to avoid  getting an "average" size that a Barbie Doll would reject. But the garment that came called XL, truly was more like a tent for a family of four. That's when I gave up taking a chance on some glitzy online company and decided from that moment on, to stick to the tried and true.

Reading King -The Outsider

Review - The Outsider 

As a King addict, of course, I enjoyed it. What I always find fascinating about the author, is his sack of endless ideas. It's also uncanny how he makes his people (they are more than mere characters) live. I suspect it is the dialogue that does it and the reason why his films are pretty much perfect matches to the books. His work comes alive, and not always in the ways you expect, and that's good, when the tale is character driven. You hear them speak what's going on. I found the struggle scene with certain animals and others (no spoilers here) utterly amazing since I have attempted to write such, and just give up. What also intrigues me, is King's complete attention to and comfort with correct language. Critical readers hate coming across even one error. It blows a whole book. King's scenes may be rough and tough but decent grammatical usage isn't something you have to trip over on his pages. Of course, get the book, and do savor every chapter, however long his books are getting these days. What isn't to love?

Temptation

 Most of us can resist temptation. To a point. Lots of times, if we are tempted enough, there's something about us that wears down and we stand on the brink of falling or failing and are tempted. Sometimes the temptations turn out as satisfying and at other times, they trouble us. "Out there " in the present land of online shopping, we are pegged. Once we enter into that realm and shop often on favorite sites, they know us. They know our likes and dislikes and if we linger on certain items, or go often enough to them, view certain styles or colours or models, our gazings are recorded. It takes a modicum of courage to resist all the little nag ads that we see inserted into other sites we go to. Aha, there's that sweater we thought about once. Or wow, how did that company know that I passed up this item. Hmmm, maybe now I can afford it. Or perhaps, riled, I think, "that's the last time I'll shop on that site and furthermore, I am going to unsubscribe!" In surprise ads, our first names are frequently used and we are reminded that the item we looked at previously, is still waiting for us. When we shop anywhere, on the street or in our homes, we spend a deal of time sorting and looking and pondering about what we are about to buy. Or should. In a store, we can leave and go out the door, but at home on our computers, where we spend a lot of hours lately, our cyber retailers don't forget us. We can click off but it doesn't end there.  Online sellers have memories that are one hundred percent. When you shop online, joining a site or enlisting in their promos such as newsletters or discount clubs, you are going to hear more. You're on the sellers lists. I bought a cast iron fry pan once and there is no way I can contact this company to stop sending me ads. I don't need Texas barbecue equipment or a bevy of big old cast iron anything.  Actually, they go right into my spam file now and that's easy enough.to empty. On your daily emails you'll find things like "we still have that bleep you looked at" or "we see you bought bleep and you might enjoy this similar one". Your first name is used and you are flattered as one of their "best" customers. One of the largest online shopping sites, has a subscription aspect that offers you the "convenience" of  a membership, with a new bleep automatically every month or so. Not a good membership because that little item will be there faithfully and you'll have paid for it whether you ran out or not. To unjoin is a hassle. It's a bit like my printer company that very kindly offers me their ink just about the time mine they surmise runs out. I didn't join because I don't run out at that rate.  And, as with any persuasive sales gimmicks, you learn to say a firm "no". My emails are too many and most of them, admittedly, are shopping sites, not friends or family. And that's okay with me because I am a window shopper. But I am not easily tempted. You could call my addiction, that of window shopping, Screen Peeping, Online Lolling, Mouse Meanders or some other such term. Being a Covid insider, it's merely a friendly stroll along a world shopper lane with no money spent. Anyway, who always buys  what they need only? We don't need automatic toothbrushes or rice cookers or cleanser toilet lids or scented candles or fairy lights. The best part of online advertising is that you can click it off very quickly. It's not like those annoying phone calls that take you away from what you're doing because you think it might be an important call. Hanging up on the caller who tells you to Stopwhatyouaredoing! is easy enough to stop. Let 'em leave a message. Your time is your precious choice.  Temptation is expensive but it's all yours, and its banishing is as easy as one click.

Tree Stories High

Trees tell stories. Every morning, rain or shine, you will find me on my deck with a mug of honey coffee in hand, staring at my "sentinels". The sentinels are seven very tall cedar trees, not on my property, but on the one adjacent. One of the great trees is the grandfather and he is the highest. Within his huge fronds, since the last wind storm, I see that long ago, his trunk split and left him with three stout arms that continued to become taller and taller as the decades went by. I can see a space there, and it's where, in my deckdreams, I build a tree house, a place in my mind,  I can go to find peace and see the ocean below. The other sentinels are younger and learning as they lean with the sea winds and snows if we get some, and tolerate man who comes and cuts off their lower limbs because they hinder the lawn mowers. When there are high winds, the sentinels protect each other and think how foolish man is to "thin" trees that need to  hold each other up, and then man wonders why they fall. Their roots are shallow and reach far around but not deeply. When I sit on my deck sipping strong coffee, they don't see me, but I watch them and learn every day. Some days, they shine in the sun. On dull days, they sigh. Their sighing doesn't make a sound, it is seen only in the movement of their needles, as breezes wander. The tightly woven fronds wave up and down gently as together, their branches of meshed needles say hello and good-bye to the invisible air passing. This is the sigh of the cedars. When there is a storm, it whips the branches and their small cones and old used, dry twigs snap off and fly. They make crow nests one day. Their tree dance is not angry, but a chorus of sound and fury, exciting and telling a story of nature's controlled violence that is, and needs to be. If you have seen a tree enveloped by fire in a forest, it blasts into a terrible flame, the same dance but it changes the great growth and it doesn't come back the same. Until later. Fires are something a tree knows of. Some throw cones or re-live or stands and fall to feed the earth and what is to come. Trees understand. But my sentinels have friends. A little further away there are two fir trees, a different but welcome breed to them, as all trees, and these are what I call the scouts. They see a different angle of my sea side town. Their needles are spiked and shiny, their cones fat and full. There were three scouts once, but no more. Someone built a concrete tower much like the others rising into the sky here, but not as beautiful and living as the trees. The one gone was cut down. The fir scouts are taller than the sentinels and they remember that they are trees of wood. Their brother was sawn and sold for lumber. The trees tell me it's okay, because that means the tree doesn't die but only changes. It makes an even closer relationship with Man as his shelter called a house or furniture or warmth. Trees bear no hatred or envy or scorn. They can't, though they are alive like us. They simply grow and accept. They are without curiosity or ambition. Today, the sentinels told me a short story about youth. The end two sentinels are young and reaching up and up, not thick and secure as the chief sentinel, but slim and flexing in the winds and making a happy dance to welcome birds who want to find a perch where they can look all around and check out where to find the best people garbage where today they can feast. Birds use thin, young sentinels to scope out their enemies: rivals, small hawks or large eagles or perhaps to dance and  charm one of their own in a song or pretty furling of wings and tail. But the eldest cedar standing silently by, shows, not tells, that to grow old and stay tall, you need the protection of your own branches to fend off the rare but possible storms whose imposed dances, whip you around and around until you cannot stop the snap of the center of your being, and your stem breaks you to be, not one, but two forks or more to the sky. The old sentinel says nothing, it stands and shows the way as all trees, to tell tales.

Geog Lesson

 Geography never appealed to me in school, therefore, I opted for History.  Neither, in my day, connected the Whys over the Whens and Whats. It was a matter of memorizing dates and major wars. Now after the schooling days are over,  we see the flaws in the lessons. The flaws are relatively harmless. The dates we memorized faded when we left school and we recall little about our years of cumbersome lessons. The fault is that the lessons didn't go further than mere names and numbers, times and locations.  Geography school lessons, when later, you travel the world, become the reality that was needed originally. Travel is the true geography lesson because it puts you in an actual place and lets you  feel and absorb  the environment of a place. It's the true geography. The "geography" of a people, nurtures those within its sphere. Where you are in the world, holds the people who live there, literally off the land. You experience what they eat, what the land and water produce according to the weather of the area, and how the people work on its "skin" or under it. You breathe their air and drink their water and sense everything that their surroundings permit, according to its use. We learn that people are so close to their geography that they are it. When they are taken from it, they are never comfortable and yearn to return. They may want to escape the politics of their country but they love their land. The land is not little lines and blobs of water that must be coloured blue as in school lessons. It is not about the dots to memorize, that are cities and towns and the black dotted or wiggly or straight lines that are rails and roads. The actual places live, they move, they have scent and sensation. They crawl with the humanity that made their histories whether denoted as good or bad. Places or land,  can't be erased like the lines on paper we worked on in our books, that determine  boundaries. We learned in school that as wars came and went, boundaries changed but the geography remained. If somehow when we are "educated" we could see more than numbers and name, but the ways of life, the work and the culture, we would perhaps love more of what we learn and hunger for more. I think that teachers who do this for their students, are truly teaching something that matters in forming our young to see and make the world a closer place. Why we are so wrapped up in dates and names and memorizing them to receive good marks, is ridiculous when what the people were like and why they were so, matters most. You can easily carry around with you a historical time line that shows you the numerical data. We all forget most of the dates of our essays at school anyway. I recall seeing checked off in the margins, test points toward getting an A the more dates you could drum up. They were soon forgotten.  What did impress us was when a teacher, if we were lucky, showed us the importance of the times and events that occurred on the land, to the people who lived on it and why they did what they did, in creating their histories. To hone in on what life was like as a serf or a king or a slave or an aborigine and what the true meaning of that lifestyle was to those who lived there is what is most interesting.  Until movies came along that portrayed the truths we didn't touch in schools about those who lived on the lands, we drew maps of or took notes on and memorized numbers, we didn't truly realize what it was like to be oppressed or ruled or regaled. The best entertainment films later, brought us right into the lives of those who went about in their lands and made history. From them we learned that the people grew out of the very soil. It formed them as they were forming their lands. The people are the lesson.

Ignore The Snore?

 Ignoring snoring is impossible. Millions, nay billions, would support me in that. Maybe the snore sufferers wouldn't publicly admit how much they abhor the night din, but if you stepped into bedrooms or those next to bedrooms in which this offensive noise occurred, you would find the harsh truth of the infliction. The truth about snoring is that it is however much hidden, a very real hazard. The hazard is to marriage, friendship and groups of people who share sleeping spaces. As a young married, I used to wonder why my older aunts and uncles had separate bedrooms in their homes. These were often called "the guest room" even though it was usually the place where the lady of the house went when the night noise became too much to tolerate. We all need our eight to ten hours. I would say that most people snore whether they admit it or not. The way the human body changes in the aging process if not before, makes snoring as natural as dental decay and about as ugly.  There are all sorts of gimmicks that are supposed to stop the annoying sound but few of them, if any, work for very long. Surgeries of the laser kind or otherwise might help but most of the world simply either tolerates the racket or finds a way to escape it nightly. Most of the snorers are male but I happen to know of a female who outdid any male snore I have encountered. She flatly refused to believe she snored but her volume was enormous and although she accused her husband of making loud snores and even taped him, hers beat his any day. Or night. I know because they slept at our house occasionally and our sleep was impossible as the two did their duet down the hall. Where I live in a concrete building, and I live alone, we have a snorer. I have yet to learn from which unit the chorus is coming from but it is not too far off. When I sat on my deck during the summer and Covid kept us all at home, this individual evidently slept during the day. Not only did the horror of the noise dominate the day at times, it also happened at night. I like my window open at night but now, it's open only a crack because of Mr. or Ms. Snore. To end snoring when sleeping with a partner, the starting method of making the noise stop is to jiggle the bed and say sweetly "you are snoring". When that doesn't work the bed is bounced and the words are the same but louder. Poking or other physical efforts come third, but should be employed only if the first two don't work. Physical moves can lead to "I am not snoring" which is legendary, or some sort of retaliation later in the day such as being victim to great loud sneezing or nose blowing or interesting words. The final and best solution is for the offended to move out of range of the snoring offender. Like off to the guest room, for example. Why no medical experts have addressed this common abhorrence is beyond me since it affects everyone regardless of colour, race, religion, age, socio/economic or any other standing, and causes grief and consternation amongst all. My sun deck snorer used to drive me from enjoying the day until I brought my speaker onto the deck and found it soothed my desire to go down or up or across and bang on the noise-maker's door to awaken  Sleeping Beauty and stop the ado. That method is not ethical so I invested in a head set and music and that works well. I tell myself, the snorer might decide to move out and that comforts me in some small way. In the meantime there is always music.

The Other Country

 The other country runs along our border and we are said to be "friends". For a very long time, we thought it was just like us but as simply another piece of ground to the south of us. This other country, is larger in many ways and older. We found it exciting in their history and learned with great interest about them. Theirs and our history is of course, a new one because both original peoples and their history has superior honour and worth. Those to the south knew little about us other than thinking we were always found under piles of snow and ice. It didn't matter that their states right next to our provinces, directly across the border, shared exactly the same weather. The theory remains generally along the border. We seemed to them to be, if noticed at all, amusingly backward and less fashionable or interesting. In lots of ways we were "backward" in that the nature of the citizens in our country is and was, more conservative and thoughtful. We admire their verve and showiness, their gum chewing and Hollywood colourful ways and fashions and yes, even their government's systems that were largely two party as most generally are: liberal thinking and conservative thinking but played out in different ways. We felt they were big brothers and sisters to us. When I was a teen, because we lived so close to the "American" border (this term to be discussed a bit later), I went shopping for certain kinds of fashions to wear to high school. Some of my better off friends, did all of their shopping in the States as we called it, and emulated the garb of the young stars as much as possible. Their music and art and design was  admired and emulated,  their behaviours and music and style. It remains so today. We looked up to the "Americans". The term "American" bothers me because anyone residing in the Americas: North, South and Central, is American. The folks to the south of us adopted the term "American" as theirs, and refer to themselves in that almost-misnomer as "American". They are those of the United States in North America, they are not the only Americans. But that's my take on the subject. Furthermore, it appears that everything the "Americans" do, we here in Canada, admire and often copy. Gradually, we are developing confidence in our own large, beautiful country from sea to sea to sea and are very proud of that uniqueness. We learn from those in The States just as we do from all those on every other continent. And while we may look like Americans and in many ways behave similarly, we see ourselves, not as clones of those to the south of us, but as a people of  special character just as all other countries do of their own good people.  We are friends, but as equals, not as those a step behind the "Americans". More and more we take pride in our country. Our identity is proudly Canadian and solely so. We appreciate the foreign people to the south in their special ways, too. We two countries with all of our differences live peaceably side by side, and cooperate in most ways. Neither side of the border brags to be better in our differences. We are much alike and much different, but it works. The latest election was of great interest to Canadians and we hoped that however it turns out, it will be something to please and benefit the "Americans" to the south. Of course, we care about the results, but we are not of that country. What we or they do in our interactions, is important and even though what happens may have some effect on us, we have our own systems and ways. We are not about to change merely because of what happens in other countries, but we are interested in their changes and will decide our actions for our Canadian systems. The world is one, as are we all.

Garbage Now and Then

 When you've lived a long time, you have dumped a lot of garbage in your day. There was a time when garbage went into a kitchen bin taken out by Dad when it got beyond Mom's tolerance for odor. Dad put it into the "can". Those were the days of yore. We didn't call it trash then.  It was simply The Garbage. Mysterious folks came along in the early hours, absconded with it and left the empty bins at the side of the road. The local dog who collected can lids often took ours, but eventually the lid found its way back. Perhaps it was run over and misshapen but it remained able to pretend as a lid. The lid, although flattened, continued in its use but was now ineffective in keeping out the raccoons. Putting a large rock on the tin meant only that the raccoons would tip it over and the world could then see everything about your secret life. Everyone passing knew what you ate and everything else at a glance. The only way to discourage the raccoons was to keep your cans in the garage until garbage day or get a large vicious dog. Garbage day was loudly obvious every week in times when the men who collected it shouted to each other even though they stood inches apart. They reveled in making the biggest noises they could possibly muster. Today's garbage men seldom set foot on the outside pavement what with dumpsters that do a better job but certainly make twice as much noise on their own. When we lived on the waterfront long ago, the method for dumping garbage, since we didn't have such luxuries, was to row your ten footer out from shore and empty the garbage into the ocean. Most of it was dug into the garden but the rest went on a boating trip and I am not sure even today, if it weren't a better method. There weren't a lot of us where we lived and we made sure that to be fair, we filled the bottles and cans with water before watching them descend down into the inky blackness. The water was so deep we didn't know where that was. No one seemed to think it was wrong. The water system hadn't "come in" yet and every one had wells. When the water did "come in", we all began filling our wells with the garbage. Everything went into the old wells which hadn't provided very good water in the first place. It didn't take long to fill up wells because everything including small pieces of furniture and other household detritus went in with the wet garbage. If someone dug the wells up today, they would be the middens of our times. Garbage now has become a rather exclusive commodity. Where I live, the trash is a vital matter and everyone must do long division. The wets, the paper, the glass and plastic and anything else has  the correct bins. The regular garbage whatever that is, goes into the dumpster. The dumpster lid is so heavy that only Charles Atlas could manage to open it, therefore, it is propped up precariously with an old tree branch.  It has become a social event putting the garbage into the various basement bins. The composting bin smells very strong, the paper one is pregnant with on-line purchasing cardboard, while the bottle boxes have are the most interesting scents. Condo status is determined largely by their liquor and wine bottles. Not everyone is very ambitious about rinsing cans and bottles and the alcohol fumes can be rather overwhelming in that area by the time the trash men come along. On a designated day, early in the morning some invisible people come and thunderously roll the bins out to the street along with all of the other invisibles up and down the street who line them up at the curb. Occasionally, the infamous black Mercedes Benz woman comes along with her bottle grabber and goes upside down in the bins taking out with what she can to stuff her nice black vehicle before driving off. She isn't supposed to do this, but so far she remains elusive. I guess it helps her with the luxury car payments. The other day, I bought a cute little pink garbage container for my kitchen. The lid opens when I come near and when I shut the under sink cupboard door presumably it closes. It's a bit like the fridge fairy that turns the lights off and on therefore, I have not been able to catch the closing of the lid. It happens only when the door closes. I guess. Garbage has come a long way.

Old Ladies And Make-up

 Old ladies are no longer sweet smiling little apple dumplings dressed in pastels. They are retired women, mostly now single and leading active social lives. Whether they have retired as homemakers or professionals makes no difference. Not all of them do Bingo twice a week, knit and sew quilts and even if they do, it's something they enjoy. How they look is quite another matter. Some say, I want to look "natural" and others say they don't want to look like painted hussies. Secretly, all of them want to look fabulous and would love to meet up with the impossible creature that will once again, turn them into someone "in love". The realists among us, know that Prince Charming of whatever form he or she is in, simply don't happen. I know because I've been there. The princes I met were old chaps who blabbed about their health problems that men are more akin to than women. They aren't the guys in the Love Mate sites who are seen sailing their boats into the wind or riding their ponies up mountainsides. They are the ones who you meet at tacky coffee shop of his choice making it clear that it's Dutch Treat. As every older woman knows, with most dates of this kind, it's "purse or nurse" the old guys are looking for. So what do you do? After a few of these hopeless ventures, you begin to truly appreciate your single life in which you make all the right decisions and do what you want to do when you want to do it. No services needing rendering. And you take a look in the mirror and say, I am doing this for myself. Part of that "myself" is to look your best because you simply want to look your best. And regardless of what your kids may think of it - never do what they tell you anyway without thinking hard first, you are not a child - go out and buy yourself a nice pile of make-up and practice with it until you look terrific. Because you're old doesn't mean you are ugly. The rest of society may write you off as over, but you know better. You know that you haven't changed a bit inside no matter what nature does to the outside of you and you aren't going to sink down into that state of mind and give up. Start with getting those eyebrows in shape and using either a razor or depilatory to get rid of the extra hair you don't need on your face. If you use a razor it's okay and no, you won't grow stubble no matter what the "beauty experts" tell you. Then buy a nice jar of moisturizer, a liquid or dry powder in the same basic shade as your face but warmer, a tone darker to contour your face and give you those cheek bones you don't have, a much lighter base for the upper brow bones and eyelids and under the eyes, some eyeshadow for the corners of your eyelids, some rouge to use sparingly and last of all, eyeliner and lipliner. Now you're ready to practice with a magnifying mirror.  Go online and find out how to use this stuff. Go strong at first and then lighten up until you feel it is just right. It takes work and never ask your friends or relatives if they like it. Your opinion is all you need.  Remember your hair. Never perm or cut your hair like a man because it's "easier to keep up". Let it grow to a nice length no matter that it's grey. Grey is good, but frizzy little curls and man cuts are bad. My ninety year old grandmother had a sign in her front hall. "This is my house and in it, I'll do as I dam please". She got tired of her daughters telling her what to do. When you get your face all perked up, go out and spend money on one good set of clothing that fits you. Never wear a size that's too tight. Cut off the labels if that bothers you and wear what hangs well. The British queen has it right and always looks fantastic. She glows, and so can you. You are a queen in your own right. You matter and make-up is your friend. Use it. 

Last Best Friend

 I had one last best friend. Shirley left us a day ago and the world is no longer quite the same. There's a certain colour, flavour and sound that is missing. Now that Shirley is gone, my life no longer has the same texture. Of late, she and I didn't keep in touch much but when we did, I knew there was someone in the world who understood me as no one else could. We were contemporaries. We met in the sixties doing the work we did and that's a long time ago but time doesn't mean much between friends. You can be away for months and even years, but when you hear that voice, you and your friend are back. This friend of mine and I had our snits and our very close times. At one point in life when things got off track, she was the one I could communicate with and we knew what we knew the only way friends do. We knew how the other felt and what to say and what not to. We weren't hugging friends, we were laughing friends. When times weren't very nice, we found a way to make fun of it and come out giggling like crazy. We shared private matters that no one else knew or would care to. When angry with each other, we didn't speak ,or if so, only used the most terse of terms. Like the time, we were taking sea canoeing lessons and she insisted that the person who guided the canoe was the one who sat in front while I had been told the opposite. It was one of those yes, no long drawn-out arguments that ended in silence. We were in the canoe, on the ocean, amongst the waves and silence is how we continued. Well, sort of. We got to a nice little cove and I said we should transfer positions from the front of the canoe to the back, passing each other as we had been instructed. She said no, definitely not. But I wanted to do it because we were near the shore in a shallow little bay in Jervis Inlet and it seemed quite safe even if we tipped the canoe. I started the move, all the time hearing her say, no, no, no. But I assured her, ah come on, it would be fine if we just did what the instructor told us to do. The other members were somewhat off, and it was late summer, therefore the water wouldn't be too cold. About half way along at the point where we were to transfer, somehow we both fell into the water. It was a surprise and fortunately the canoe didn't tip. Suddenly, I found myself looking at the sandy bottom with strands of seaweed wafting around me, Under water, I saw her swimming around not far off. When we surfaced she said, thanks a lot, my keys fell out of my pocket! I have to do another dive to find them. While she did that, I towed the canoe to the beach and waited. She found her keys and we got back into the canoe and caught up with the others. Silence ensued until we were at the place to disembark. We were both dripping wet. There is a term "mad as a wet hen". My friend fit it perfectly, and when I saw her face with her hair hanging down,it was the picture of fury. And for some inexplicable reason it  made me laugh. I couldn't stop laughing and in the car all the way home, I continued to laugh each time I looked at her. I tried to apologise but I could not stop laughing.  She didn't. And I didn't blame her. When we got back to our homes, next door to each other, she stomped inside without a word but I continued ha ha. To add further insult, I got my camera, went over and said, we should pose for a photo of this moment. She was a good sport and allowed it. But she and I didn't meet again for a week or two. Eventually, we got back together and I apologised profusely, this time not laughing. Now, all I have of us, is that picture. But I kind of think, she might be the one laughing. 

1984 er 2020

 What it's like to live in a sci-fi world, that's us. We've all seen and read the tales about pandemics hitting the earth and people having to find shelter and avoid others who are the "enemy". Well, folks, here we are in it. Being in a scary sci-fi movie isn't so bad after all. Sure it's changed us, but let's hope for the better. Let's hope they can find a way to stop it. We don't know that at this point. We hope, we think, we pray. But it isn't a sure thing. This virus has made us more aware of the enemy, the bugs, and how serious they can be. A tiny creature, smaller than we can see with the naked eye and mostly out of range for anything else we have on hand to identify it, has taken over our lives all over the whole world. It has, in an odd way, united us because the same virus has attacked all of us. It isn't some long legged creature from another planet arriving with lethal large metal airships, it came from right here on our own planet. And like the lovely creatures we are, the hopeful, never endingly wishful, we are coping with it. Well, most of us are. There are still some odd individuals who don't believe this is really happening, but isn't that one of the roles in the sci-fi movies we watch and watched? It's real and real things are happening. It's killing people. The old for now. This bug has us re-thinking our lives and what matters and what isn't all that important. It's making us choose what we do daily. Should be go out or stay home? Should we shop or order on line or by phone? Do we really need to slap on the make-up or get our hair or nails done or can we actually live without doing that? Do we need to go to work, when it can be done at home? And what about these little kids we had and what to do with them all day when they aren't going to school where there are free babysitters who educate them because that's what they are really supposed to be doing? And Gramma and Grampa, we love them so much and they mean so much and now we cannot go to see them as often and how we want to. We want to be with them, to feel their hugs and hear their stories about our parents. Now, we can't and sometimes they die and we didn't get to tell them all that we wanted to. How about our friends we cheered on games with? What happened to the fairs and festivals and big celebrations that are no more? Will they ever come back? I want to play Bridge or Canasta or Gin Rummy with my old buddies but now we do it on line. You know that run we used to do and see who came out of it with the blue ribbon? It's not on now but we can still run only not close enough to smell the sweat and know that's what we smell like or hear the groans and pants and know that's what it is like to run. Do you remember the clubs and how we all hopped and danced and caroused and laughed and got a bit out-of-it together? No more. It's an unworldly world and we are in it just like the old movies where people got sick and didn't survive and became enemies to each other. Even the biggest leaders in the world get this bug because it doesn't care how important you are, or how old you are, or what you have done or how famous you are. It just wants to get you. Be careful. You live in a sci-fi world now. 

Goodbye Stuff

Getting rid of "stuff" if you're an amateur collector as I was all my life, is almost traumatic. In the process of getting-rid-of, you feel as though you are grieving. When it was time to re-enter the storage I had for many years to see things that were more than mere objects being removed to throw out, was like opening a crypt. There were the pictures, sports items, old toys of  family, lamps and other pieces of furniture that were put there when they became unused or outdated. Now, this day of reckoning, all of what I was looking at seemed to be waiting, having expected me to bring them all back to life. Each time I went to storage and deposited something else, secretly I promised it was only temporary. Made me feel better to lie. I tried to ignore the memories that came rushing back this day of removal.  So many people associated with my stuff had died and all that seemed to remain of them, were things they had given me or shared with me or left to me and now they would be taken away by strangers to the dumpster or a thrift store and I felt unfaithful. There were the small door carpets that lived in my hallways and greeted all the feet that stepped on them into my many homes. Here was the violin that an old man played for other old men and women and delighted them. It  lay inside the  worn leather case, now silent. And there on that table, was a large carton filled with the letters that my former high school pals sent to enter their biographies in our reunion magazine fifty years later. How could I send this precious box of once real lives to the garbage? Here was the little table and chair set where  my child and that of his children sat  for snacking and painting and playing games. The marks on it were made by little hands and toys. Now it would be broken up and gone. Over in the corner, was an antique chair and lamp, both over one hundred years old and ugly and worn. No one wants old things any more. Everyone young, wants something white and turquoise and brand new. "We don't want your old junk" is evidently the reason. The young don't have space for "junk" in a functional world. Understandably. My "old junk"  is, however, full of memories: the tea sets that were put out proudly during wedding, baby showers and birthday parties. No one cares about fine china or elegant tea pots or floral trays or cut crystal. Today, everything is served in pottery that has to be en tone with the decor of the room or what is currently in fashion. And if it doesn't match it doesn't go. And not too much of it, please. And that's okay. Times change. Out are the lovely little statues of ladies holding flowers in big skirts and little dogs and birds in colourful glazes. Using silver tea services for special occasions went out with having to polish them. These days everyone is too "busy" to bother hand cleaning. It must be instant or not at all. But I love to remember how cleaning the tarnish while doing it together with relatives and friends, made it an occasion and we delighted in planning the party while we polished. Other "stuff" such as skis that no one uses any more or can't, the fishing gear for dammed or dried up streams, or the small carpets that are still good but don't "go" with anything: all  have to leave. Boxes of papers: estate material, manuscripts that weren't sent, piles of letters in the days when we used stamps and the writers were alive then, boxes of baby shoes and clothes that still smell of baby, a husband's favorite shirt and a memory shoe, one he had re-soled over and over because he said it fit him too well to get rid of. It  all has to go. When all the "stuff" that has to go is stacked up against the storage room wall ready for  pick up and discard, you know you can't be there to watch. You'll wait in the car as it's put into the truck and tell yourself that nothing can take away your memories. They are so important in this one life, that they don't need to be present to keep always.

Writer widow: Way More To It

Writer widow: Way More To It: It's common all over the world to see protesters. They are usually those who have just stepped out of youth into young adulthood and are...

Way More To It

It's common all over the world to see protesters. They are usually those who have just stepped out of youth into young adulthood and are often well educated and knowledgeable about the topic they are dealing with. I have had friends over the years who brag about their younger days when they were part of  demonstrations and carried signs and felt togetherness with their fellow protesters. What I always want to ask them is what they actually did about their issues rather than merely carry signs and shout slogans. The reason I wonder, is that with a lot more experience under my belt, I know that most demonstrations are a benefit to Media because the Media is the "message" and is also, the reality. The major part of any demonstration today, is to be seen and heard and what better method to spread it far and wide  is to enlist The Media. Of course everyone knows it, especially the professional Demonstration Mavens. Still and all, those who carry a sign, are not all wanting to see themselves in the news, but are doing so because they believe in what they are doing to the point of making a personal sacrifice to demonstrate their sincerity. I admire this small segment. To those committed folks, it isn't merely the thrill of marching about with a sign, elbow to elbow with those of common ideas and afterwards, sit to around and gab about what a wonderful day it was. No. If you believe strongly in something, it's much more. Today I saw media coverage of those who were protesting homelessness. They were very young people holding signs and shouting. None of them, obviously, by the clothing they wore and their haircuts and nice healthy bodies, knew what it was like to live in the ways they were protesting against. Sure, they may have spoken to those people or listened to their helpers, but the sign carriers didn't match their cause. They  live in homes and have families who pay for their upkeep and education, and take care of them when they need it. After  they go home from the demonstration and celebration with their pals, to sleep in clean beds in warm places. Do they think to make a true commitment and invite the people they speak for with their signs and shouts, to share their lives? What do they actually do to solve the problems they point out to others in personal real terms? To do that is the hard part. There's way more to it than demonstrating with signs and noise in the streets. There's way more to it than their excitement of seeing police enter the scene. The police are there putting their bodies on the line to protect everyone at the location. Demonstrating is no temporary thrill for them. When emotions flare up, they have a job to do and they must do it even though phone cameras are catching often unfairly, of the action in a situation. Sometimes what is photographed by onlookers show the down side viewpoint and send it on for their personal online "fame". Hits glory. Amateurs are only that and can do what they please with their pictures; professional media cannot. Apart from the emotional kicks that some demonstrators get, there remains at the crux of it, those of the cause who often receive no benefit. The way more to it means that you have to do way more than carry a sign and yell to be true to your cause. Causes are personal and up close. What is your way more?

Writer widow: Serving Robbie Robot

Writer widow: Serving Robbie Robot: When I got my robot vacuum, I believed the ads that promised I could twiddle my thumbs while Robbie the Robot Vacuum did the floors. Being a...

Serving Robbie Robot

When I got my robot vacuum, I believed the ads that promised I could twiddle my thumbs while Robbie the Robot Vacuum did the floors. Being a keen sci-fi  fan, I felt that my step into the latest technology in housework would free me from tasks I really don't find very interesting or creative. Vacuuming is one of these, and dusting is the other. "Real" cleaning when I see things that are dirty in the true sense of the word, are what I would rather do. Mopping up spilled food spots, wiping down door frames and light switches, washing the windows or scrubbing bathroom fixtures are jobs where you can see what you've accomplished. Dust is almost invisible and thus more elusive. Robbie, my robo vacuum usually hides under a chair quietly biding his time in the dock he feeds on when he's not working. Today was his time to get at it.  I poked the "clean" button and obediently he began making his effort noises. He couldn't seem to back out of his resting place. I had to help him leave. Apparently, he was not pleased and went right back in. He proceeded to give his own little spot under the chair a repeated circular and thorough tidying up. When I found he was overdoing his own housework, I had to encourage him to get busy on my floors. I have to admit that before I allowed Robbie to start work, I went around and made a trail for him such as folding back rugs and picking up little items that he might become tangled in. The door stop is very small but for some reason, Robbie finds it a great toy and loves to play with it until I am forced to intervene.  It's something like a dog and his bone. Next, I  had to follow Robbie around because he finds certain areas that he enjoys and if I don't give him a little push away from dancing endlessly around certain pieces of furniture or little bumps in the floor, I fear he might wear the pattern right out off the engineered hardwood. When Robbie is at his business of keeping my floors clean with his little brushes out the side and his powerful motor that can be heard two floors away, he likes to bash things. He bashes into my small end tables with such gusto that they skew from their sites to others he favours. When he's done, my room looks like a crazy show. And Robbie is a bit naughty about being under things where I cannot see. He lingers in them like under beds, couches and tables for undue amounts of time. Eventually, however, he exits looking quite innocent and tootles on to other venues with me following close behind. He plays the odd trick on me, too.  If I don't watch it, he will go into a bathroom and somehow close the door staying there pretending to clean it, but I think he runs around in circles hoping his "dock me" light will come on and he can get back to lolling under his chair. What I do is spy on him. When he gets near the bathrooms, I stand guard to make sure the doors stay open so that he can't get behind them and shut them. As I said, he is quite strong. If I forget to take away the little step ladder tucked behind a certain door, I will hear a loud crash. Robbie likes to hit its metal legs to make it topple. One of my jobs to help Robbie, is to put anything up that he might knock over. I know he can't smile but when I follow along behind him often guiding him into or out of a room, I have a feeling that if he could, he would. Once when I was in the process of directing him out of one of his obsessive circles and into another room, I caught my foot on his edge and over I went. This doesn't happen with my other light robot floor mop but Robbie is a big boy and doesn't direct easily. The neighbours say they hear banging sometimes on the walls. My usual protective answer is "Really? How odd." Finally, at this moment,  Robbie is back in his port with his charging light on, happily resting after a morning's work, but I am exhausted. 

Writer widow: Commenting On News

Writer widow: Commenting On News:  Online news reports invite comments and while most of them make sense and in themselves, present a different viewpoint on an issue, some ar...

Commenting On News

 Online news reports invite comments and while most of them make sense and in themselves, present a different viewpoint on an issue, some are corny or mean or blatantly party political. I take my news on line because I can actually read a fairly full report with photographs and unfortunately annoying ads sometimes, but the writer of the article gives a name and background. I find this an open and honest way to learn what's going on in the world after the "breaking news" and a chance for the scribing reporter to gain some feedback. I respond here and there, almost every day mainly because I feel that if I were the article maker, I would find the comments a chance to hone my work. Not all of the comments are kind and sometimes that's well deserved. The article writer is writing an article and in so doing, is perfectly within its rights to add a personal slant. What the comment makers write is controlled to an extent, by guidelines. The rules are plain, but some of the hacks who read the pieces, call on their trite old grudges that are plainly not comments that make sense, but are mere sign carrier mottos groaning against their same old same old gripes. How they are permitted is a mystery to me because there is nothing more behind that kind of blast than what we have to listen to in "demonstrations". A lot of noise of only one or two words over and over again.  It's enough to make one stay home. A few of the commentators' texts are comprised of their hackneyed cat call words that most readers and writers ignore at once. But they, too, should have  an opportunity to do what they do. It's called freedom of speech. I am very fond of reading the articles and the comments and I frequently add my own. What is amusing in this activity, is how some of the responders are responded to. They are often giggle inspiring in their clever simplicity and humour. Before making comments, you must register with the media group that owns the site and when you comment, you are tossed into the "loop" to receive in your own email invitations to see any further comments on the subject. It is all very well organized. If you make a comment that the censors (I presume) judge as improper, and there must be many, the comment is not posted. In fact, you could be denied access to do so for some time. Once I was blocked and wrote to the media company saying that my comment, I cited, did not break the rules and, in fact, was much tamer than many others. I gave examples. I received a very pleasant e mail back and afterward was able to continue commenting. To me, being able to make comments on news reporting is a democratic form of participating in the global community. It gives the citizen a chance to feel that its thoughts can be added in support or denial and that kind of openness is what makes a democracy. While comments won't change things that have happened, it does colour what the average person inflicted with the daily news, thinks on the issues presented. If I were an article writer, I'd be pleased to receive even the silly or nasty comments because it makes up a spectrum of the audience opinion you are addressing. I enjoy the thoughtful comments, the ones that say something and offer insight, rather than the ones that are merely blatting out rude slams. Try it and feel that you count.

Writer widow: The Gens: A to Z

Writer widow: The Gens: A to Z: There is much word about Gens. Gen X is the current one apparently. In conversation the other day with one of the latter, I was spoken to in...

The Gens: A to Z

There is much word about Gens. Gen X is the current one apparently. In conversation the other day with one of the latter, I was spoken to in this way repeatedly and with a rather patronizing smile: "In your day...". I hear this often being on the plus side of the eighth decade of life which designates me evidently as someone to be cooed upon.  My "day" as it is described by those of this very same "day" is about those days and not the ones. you and  I live in now. "Those days" are no more for me or you or them or us or anyone. Those days are over and done with and we have all moved on to this day. Today. The only people who refer to days as belonging to the people who had them, are the people who didn't. Hey guys, I am here. I am in this day. When I was in my forties and worked in the career I had been doing for a long time, my age group was spoken about often as "tapped out", "jaded" or "dated" if not plain "old fashioned". Nope, folks. We were not any of those. I learned that what worked for me, worked and what worked for the newcomers worked for them, and that we should both have spent more time lauding our successes and working together to achieve the main goals of our profession. There is no "in your day". Today is today. Every living individual is in this day, not days long ago. We eat the same foods, sleep the same nights, shop the same things, deal with the same daily issues and ply the same streets and neighbourhoods. We vote, we participate and we pay our taxes.  Being born in a different year or decade or series of them, doesn't have you in the past somewhere. Whether you can touch your toes, drink a dozen beer or build a rocket, you are here and now and should be addressed as equals in society and by it, not as some broken down hasbeen. Well, maybe a bit broken, but most of us have something a bit broken to work at.  Of course, there are some aging people who do get stuck in their pasts and can't seem to move out of it. That is too bad because they happen to be living now and times have changed and it takes all of us to improve society. Sure, it's more comfortable for anyone, including the young, the middle aged and the ancient, to live amongst their kind and exchange tales of the challenges they meet with their peers. Nevertheless, they live now and life is what we have and what we all share. We all work toward making life better for ourselves and others. We all try to be responsible citizens and help our fellows who and whatever they are. We are people of the planet earth and we are all important and have a purpose however seemingly small and insignificant. Whether we are small babies or teens or youth or Gen x, whatever that really is, or very old, we are here and now and what we do and think matters. We are not a Gen, we are a human race.

Sweat The Small Stuff

When my nephew was dying of cancer before he got to forty but having lived a life of some variety, was told by his nurse in the hospice ward when his morphined fingers couldn't open an ice cream cup, "Don't sweat the small stuff". He laughed. And that works for someone who has the huge matter of dying at hand. I say, Sweat The Small Stuff. The Small Stuff is usually the origins of the big issues. What is the Small Stuff? It's small, seemingly insignificant things that don't cost coinage or ask for far away places. When you watch a spider building a web, you're seeing the "small stuff" that is so gigantically important that no one notices. If all spiders stopped making webs what would the ripple down effect be? If there were no spiders, what might happen? All natural things are only part of something much larger and essential to all of the other ones. Man appears to think he has control of all of it, but we are learning that Man doesn't. Even though Man has a good grip on trying to. Natural forces disprove his dominance over Earth. A virus, for example, can take control of the entire globe. Natural "disasters" that are disasters to Man but normal in the natural world send Man into paroxysms of media yellings. Movements of a changing earth send Man into spending its resources from its over use of and destructive management of, some parts of the planet into building fortresses against others. It acts, thus, against itself.  But it's not all bad news. There are those who care about what happens, but aren't the kind who rant and shout, carrying signs and screaming at other Man. The ones I speak of are people who do Sweat The Small Stuff. They take time, and lots of it, to walk in parks, not to admire the arranged gardens with their weed killers and bug deterrents, but to look at the tiny insects that live there, the small animals on the ground and in the air that few notice.  Who stop and look and listen and feel without a gizmo stuck in their ear  having to know what their friends are doing every second of their lives and experiencing nothing but canned life. There are  people of the earth who care, truly, what happens on earth in a "cellular" way. They don't have to diet or gym or read  or watch or earn or learn or create. They know what to do and what not to do naturally, and they choose to live as close to the natural and small truths of life on this beautiful resourceful planet responsibly without making great commercial hype or media attention in the doing of it. They are people with no particular amount, if any, of money. The don't need to dress up in the latest  costume or run the fastest car or go to the best resorts or get their hair done. They can sit in their backyards, on their decks or window ledges in the middle of a large and busy city and still see and hear and feel the small things that matter: the cloud formations, the moon, the birds, the greenery, the sun, the rain, the wind.  They are the ones who, no matter where they are, stop to see an ant and its fellows carrying eggs from one safe place to another and through it, the small stuff, feel the movement of the universe. They are the ones who listen to song birds and their callings or watch the waves coming over the sand or hear
the rain fall or the wind in the trees. They sit for hours, just sitting and waiting for something small to happen and almost always find it and its importance. They see the moon still round and white and silent "moving westerly" in the morning sky where it seems to have lingered too long in its night. They see a bee doing its work on the blossom of a bean plant. They watch the baby breathe and see its eyes move and wonder what the dream is. All these and billions more treasures await those who are willing to  Sweat The Small Stuff.

Too Many "Authors"

Thinking I would stray from the usual habit of reading tried and true fiction, thought I would take up one of the free kind offered by my book supplier who likes to help out the newer writers just entering the market. Big mistake. The newies who have not bothered the expense of hiring an editor, but have  bashed off their works straight into the on-line publishing machine ready to make their millions overnight, are rampant in supply. They are fresh out of their degrees from the U and off they go into the world to offer their genius. Their books are cheap to be frank, and also to be frank, they are mostly dreadful. Why? Listen in. In the book I found on line, the ad with the plot idea sounded great. On the reading membership, it was free, after all. I opened it on my reading device and hoped for the best. Rarely did that happen with free or cheap books. I began to read. The famous or infamous as it were, "hook" was there to draw me in. But on the very first page I found three avoidable juvenile grammatical errors that while I tried to tolerate them, found I had to give up the book by the third page. I am sorry but I cannot abide bad writing, and bad grammar makes for bad writing. There is no way around it. You can't an author make of a person who merely wants to write. You can write your fingers off but that doesn't make you an author. You may find hoards of "writers" but few "authors". What's the difference you demand? The difference is writing well which is what authors do, and that includes doing good solid justice to the literary muse. Cute language doesn't work nor does the ability to write reams of verbiage or dream up complex plots. You have to write. And do it well.  The book I was trying to read had misplaced the modifiers in so many places, hopefully inadvertently, but I suspect habitually, out of ignorance as to what the rules are, grammatically that it was painful. Split infinitives cause me to groan aloud. Things such as "I was quickly skipping" should read "I was skipping quickly" . The hard and fast rule is to keep the subject and verb together. Right together. Next door to each other. The descriptives shouldn't be jumping into the middle. They go on either side or where you please, but they should never, never be stuck between the subject and verb. The  mistake in the  first "skipping" example given, tells that the writer was in a hurry to get skipping while the second, the corrected one, means the writer was performing the action of skipping quickly. There is a difference. When we speak, we don't always pay attention to these rules but they have to be in place when we write. If they are not, we are not writing well. Clarity is important to meaning. What most new writers assume is that their brilliant stories don't need editing. They've corrected all of the spelling mistakes and added some darling coined little words of their own darling invention and that is all they need for their tale. Oh no! Spelling and punctuation are the easy ones to fix. We have programs that clean up that mechanical mess rather well, not always, but most of the time. The words you choose matter. When you toss into your writing little words you created for yourself when a perfectly good ordinary one will do, you are in danger of messing up your story. It is like a perfect lemon pie meringue that someone thinks would be better if froot loops were tossed into it. Thanks, but no thanks. If you don't want to mess up your story, if it is worth listening to at all, keep it straight. Don't try to cute it up with little quips and pips along the way. Night school writing instructors tell you to do that. Don't. All that does is annoy the reader who has to stop and worship your little additions and doesn't want to.  Tell the story. If it is good enough as a story, it can stand alone. That's Lesson One dear writers.

Old People And Their Babies

 I know at least two old couples over the age of retirement, whatever that means, and they are daily taking care of their grandchildren. They love their grandchildren and evidently like doing the job of babysitting most every day. It bothers me more than them. I love my retirement after thirty years of working with kids. My grandchildren are grown up and once had their own babysitters hired by their parents. I suspect when I see one of the elderly women in my building, taking a baby under one year out every day for a stroller walk she must be tired. The baby is dropped off early in the morning and I assume goes home when the parents pick him up in the late afternoon or evening. During the day she and her husband do the bathing, feeding, changing and supervising that parents are responsible for. The couple lives in an adult condo building that has bylaws against persons residing who are under the age of nineteen. Some of the other residents are becoming concerned about this child and others now, who are being babysat by their older grandparents. The baby age of one and grandsitter's of seventy don't seem to describe the regular grandparent span. Another younger couple owns a very fine home a short distance off and their kids are , babysat every day after school and other days including many when they sleep here. The building is not made for children having no playground or playrooms, therefore the children run about the floor making thumping noises for neighbours below to hear. And while the grandparents dearly love their families, the matter poses an interesting question. When both parents work, why are they not hiring a private babysitter instead of burdening their parents and those who live in the adult building? When they are taking advantage of the affection of their parents is it fair to expect elders to be caring for children so that their grown children can meet mortgages and other payments for their expensive tastes? Grandparents their love families and say they want to do it, but what toll does it take on the elderly? It is different if there is a needy situation but neither of this particular set of individuals meets this designation. And what about the other people who bought into an "adult" building because they do not want children around all the time? It isn't that they didn't love their own families and also love all children as well, it's that they have done that job and need to find other things to do in their so-called leisure life now. When you are over sixty no matter how "spry" you are, children are tiring and no, they don't "keep you young", they tire you out. One of the couples after a day of looking after, cooking for and cleaning up after and entertaining their two grandchildren have to go to bed very early when the kids go home. They do nothing else all year. They are up very early the next morning to take the children to school, back and forth. The floor thumping runnings  of little feet are like drums on the ceilings of other residents in their building. These grandparents  must either constantly warning the children not to run or be trying to keep them occupied constantly. Babies make noises that are natural and often loud. They need space to run and play. This is not the place. My proposal is that there should be consistent government institutions such as schools are, for all day and additional evening care if needed by parents so that grandparents and parents don't have to take on small children again in their lives. Visiting with grandkids is fun and productive and valuable but babysitting is not grandparenting. It's work. If parents must work, it would allow for proper child supervision that parents can't or won't do themselves. Schools are not babysitters even though parents incorrectly consider them so. Grandparents should not have to be babysitters when they have already reared their children and now deserve leisure in their old age before they pass on. They will deny it out of love, but their children are not listening to what is really happening.

Americans?

Everyone who is a citizen of North, South or Central America is an American. The word American applies to all peoples living on these continents. There is one particular country that persists in designating the word "American" to itself and thus identifies itself as "American" thinking it alone is such. It is, of course, not. It refers to the word American and perhaps could be offended if reminded that everyone who lives on the Americas is an American while it is the United States of American actually. I don't know what other name it could be called. United States? USers? United Statesite? That would be up to it to decide. In fact, the so-called Americans are, in fact, Americans but not the only ones. They are but one of the American peoples who live on the two large continents, North and South with Central America between. This term used by the citizens of The United States of America meaning North America, bothers me because it is a misnomer in some ways.Only habit causes us to use just part of the true name and nothing more. Why this habit continues and is used by other world citizens is simply not correct or at the very least, is only partly correct. And perhaps it is time we stopped and updated and corrected the misconception of who "Americans" really are. When you travel in other parts of the world, the US people are identified, and identify themselves, as "Americans" and when I say "yes, they are but we Canadians are also Americans", I get some funny looks. And the surprised looks are understandable. When the "lookers" finally get it, they make no comment or change to their incorrect use of the word "American" in reference to those who belong to a country called The United States of America. The United States is only part of the Americas and not the major part, unlike its personal opinion of its size, both in area and of population. There should be no frowning or yakking about it because the situation happens to be the truth, and, in my opinion and perhaps that of others, it needs to be changed for clarification purposes if nothing else. So okay, what do you think the United States of America will name itself? If it says "American" that is correct but since they are but one of the Americas, it begs some kind of specific designation.  On the other hand what happens when you call Canadians, Canadian Americans or you call Mexicans or Brazilians, their country name with American tagged on at the end. It seems that ever since the Aborigines welcomed, or not, others who came to their shores to make it what we have today, this matter was overlooked. How many people of other countries yearned to come to "America" where "the streets were paved with gold" to find freedom in a new way of life not dominated by a royalty class system. Many of them forgot about the designation "American" that was misunderstood somehow and they landed at Ellis Island and not Canada or Panama or Peru. Who are Americans? In truth? I think it's time we got that straight and identified which "Americans" we are talking about.

Funny Money

Funny money is like Monopoly paper. It is when the value of the "money" is not based of useful value. It's hiked up by individuals who don't know or care anything about economics and what happens to everyone when artificial "value" is attached to what we call currency. Money is way too easy coming and going, these days. It is not something you hold in your hand and count and see go out of your pocket. It is a blue, maybe gold, flash of a plastic popped into a little machine that either takes it out of a bank account or slaps you into the red.  This day, as I speak my condo is valued up and up and I haven't done a thing to make it more "valuable". Somebody sold one here for more than they were asking, and it caught on like a disease. Everyone in the building suddenly wants to sell and they can ask almost anything. Fake value has become reality. I live in an old building and the price since I came here about a year ago has almost doubled and by, who knows, the end of the day, it may have gone there. It is ridiculous when an almost forty year old place that needs  a hundred thousand dollars to renovate, if you are lucky enough to find someone who will do it at that rate, is being valued purely on a fairy tale. They excuse it as Market Value. Market means whatever you can get for it. The people who bought in here years ago are making big bucks without having much to offer over what they paid for it twenty or more years ago. But. And there is always a big one, I am told. Those who move out of this beautifully located building that offers large units and self- management and cautious maintenance, will have to find other accommodations and to do so, they are unlikely to find the same space, peaceful self-management or location where they purchase with their bag of money. They will, if going into one of the towers abounding nearby if they can afford it even with their bundle of cash in hand. They will find lots of showy stuff such as concrete, marble and glass but they will also find assembly line construction, security up the arm, pages of bylaws and rules, hard-nosed management and lack of neighbourly company. And don't believe the classy flashy little brochure that promises the opposite. It is not worth the ink. I speak from experience. Sure there are gyms and pools and recreation facilities, even bowling alleys seldom used, but you won't find anything warmer there socially, than the marble in your bathroom. And the prices are unreal. Truly unreal. It seems that prices are put up at will. In this building I live in, you can't tell me that a unit grows in value two hundred thousand dollars overnight. An elder I know, is planning to go into a "home" for the elderly. You are looking at five thousand a month and that does not include dish soap if you are lucky enough to have a sink to put it in. If you need medical care routinely, up goes the bill. You still have to buy your groceries and personal items and maybe get the grandkids a gift at Christmas or whatever holiday for your kind. Most nice places in the city, range at six thousand a month. Or more. Now add that up. How come you can live in your home and pay for it way less than that and still keep your investment. Who can afford over sixty thou a year when elderly? Oh yes, the person who sold their home for up to and more than a million. A million is but the average home. So that's how it works. What happens, I ask, to the elderly who cannot do this? Where do they go and how?  And why are housing prices moving up and up and up as well as other costs? Let's hear some reasons. Butter used to be three bucks a brick a few weeks ago and today it is five. And chickens must be wealthier, too, because three dollars a dozen eggs are history. Why? Is it better butter? Are the hens wearing diamond earrings? Nope. Someone simply decided to charge more. And did. Who's to ask? That pound of butter used to be called the study of economics. Funny about money.

Immortals

No one is immortal. Why do we strive to become immortal? The answer is obvious and has a lot to do with death. Death is not something we need to dwell on because it is going to happen no matter how good or brilliant or creative or beautiful or rich or famous or talented or, or, or. It is going to happen and does. There is no need, therefore, to think about it all the time. When you are old, and I am, you avoid thinking about it mostly because it's just around the corner and one day something is going to happen and you will know that your time is up. Being old is actually a very interesting experience. The body you have lived with your whole time on earth is changing and while the changes were rather gradual once, they are now not so. You can wake up one morning as an elderly aunt of mine did, and find that you can't get out of bed. What happened, you ask? Age happened. Aging is a natural process and it is denied by most of us until the denials don't remove the symptoms. You can try to slow it down by doing a whole lot of things both cosmetic and medical and physical and psychological, but come it does, and often times it is a big surprise. For most, however, it is a slow progressive state. It takes great patience to grow old and if you fight it with anger or frustration, and these emotions do arise, it only turns you into a cranky old geezer. Like having a tooth ache, it doesn't go away easily. There is pain involved and it's not something you want to speak of unless you are with another one of your ilk and there is some comfort in talking it over a bit. Listening in to elders talk about their complaints isn't something to attempt. I find it best to avoid the subject altogether and even the latest jokes about aging don't work for me. Aging is no joke. Pain in joints happens and there is all sorts of advice to make it stop. The advice that gets me is that of younger gym and yoga types who don't know what aging feels like, but who think that if you just do blankety blank, you won't feel the pain. Oh really? What do they know? The best exercise is so gentle that it's almost not there, but after a nice pleasant easy stretch it does feel finer. Not perfect, but finer. I have a friend who trots out briskly every day after a bedside routine and highly recommends it to everyone else as being the right thing to do. Just look at her and you will see, she brags. She does look good. But I am not her. Then there is the guy of great age who believes in yoga classes that are what keeps him so young and handsome. Probably gazing about the roomful of moving youthful bodies helps.These two are the lucky ones and those who have no idea what most of the rest of us fools  are experiencing. And you cannot convince them so. They, the lucky ones, have the answer. Luck is involved in a big way in aging. Some of my smartest friends ended up with Alzheimers. Others, once healthy and into sport, were stricken suddenly by various cancers and yet others had strokes that rendered them with no memory or speech or movement. Deafness and bad eyesight make wrinkles look tame! All the botox and injected cow fat and creams and lotions and plastic surgery to fend off aging don't work long. These all are supposed to convince us that age doesn't happen to "me" in our MeMeMe society. Aging, I think, is fascinating and even with a certain amount of pain and change, I am still alive and well enough and am loving every second of it. I don't want people cooing at me or baby talking to me in that tone they use on elders. I am what I always was. I am not half dead, I am just as alive as before in my life, and breathing and loving and hoping and wishing.  I get and do the cyber thing, the electronics, have a reasonable memory, hearing and sight which adds up to the fact that I am okay. So far. Life couldn't be better in my lane.

Breath of Fresh Air

 Has the world gone crazy? The latest foolishness is vie-ing one Province against the other for virus count cases. BC has lost its place as the winner apparently in once having the least number. Oh dear! What kind of reporter digs up topics like this? While  reporters are said to report, supposedly, it begs the question, do they also colour and embroider on their chosen subjects. Of course they do. They are writers. Journalism is competitive perhaps more so than most jobs. It's more than an art being a journalistic writer. It's a commitment to the art as well as to presenting subjects that tantalize the public. Selling ink is always the end goal. And that's okay, but into the mix "good taste" is essential. Or so we are told. Sadly, some reporters don't have it, therefore, the poor editor has to make the final decision. Not an easy job. The world at large, needs a breath of fresh air. We need to rise above seeing and reading and hearing the bad news. There's something about us that loves bad news. We kind of crave it, but I hope mainly because we are empathetic creatures who care about each other. Crows, as an example will gather and loudly proclaim their concern when one of them dies. You know what I mean if you've ever witnessed a crow funeral. The black wings appear as if from nowhere and collect in dark clouds to find resting places in which to caw their witness to a mortal ending of one of their fellows. We are slightly akin to this behaviour. These days we are immersed in counting how many deaths, cases and cures there are of the pandemic nightmare we are living world wide. Other recent disasters such as the huge explosion that affected so many people or latterly, mass murders or accidents seem to add further gloom to what is already claiming thousands of lives by the tiny, stubborn virus. We are stuck inside our homes, and if we do go out, have to be muzzled behind masks that are cumbersome and uncomfortable. We fear for our families and their safety from an unseen and unpredictable creature called Covid19. Children are no longer perfectly safe from its clutches and the elderly are in possible as anyone, in danger if venturing into public places. No one knows how, other than staying inside and out of contact,  to  remain perfectly safe from the virus. There is no cure and so far, no vaccine and some people for strange reasons are planning to refuse to be vaccinated even if there is a sure one invented. This flies in the face of all logic to me. Countries are bickering amongst each other over tariffs and borders and immigration and refugees. Oh my, oh my. Don't we ever need a breath of fresh air! And since we are told not to go out into the actual "fresh" air unprotected by bits of cloth on our faces, even that has its limitations. Fresh air? Where can we find it and in what form? It is there, and there is hope. We have minds and choices in how it all works for us. We can rise above in our own minds to think of positives, to read and watch and speak and do what is positive. And millions of the thinking populations are doing just that. They are discovering new  activities that use the oft maligned internet to keep in touch with loved ones. They are smiling and being kind and responsible and taking what they have, however large or small, and projecting their goodness onto and into it. Once deemed petty, the high fashion industry is making stylish masks, commercial outlets are bending to the task of doing business even at a loss, art is reaching out in ways never believed to happen before, education is stretching its own learning to accommodate those hungry for it, militant nations are using personnel to help in fighting an enemy they were never trained for previously, politicians are providing leadership and guidance and ordinary people are kinder and more concerned about spacing and gathering. That's our "fresh air" and it works. We just have to keep on breathing it in. 

Silly Subjects

How many of us struggled in vain to do well in a high school subject we abhorred but "had" to take? I know there is a heavy movement for kids to adore Mathematics and I completely agree that it can be enjoyable if taught well. And it is a subject that can be fun. Up to a point. Algebra is problem solving and achieving a solution can be a satisfying experience. For many. Not all. I was an educator for many years in a high school as a librarian and teacher of English. I listened to a large number of students who draped themselves across the library desk and poured out their laments to me on having to learn certain subjects, mostly Math, specifically Trigonometry,  that they disliked intensely and were doing poorly at. Some had to attend summer schools or tutors to get them through. I empathized entirely since Trigonometry, that I "had" to take and did poorly on, was the one subject that almost prevented me from getting into a university. I loathed it because, to me, and it wasn't the marvellous teacher's fault, it made no sense in my future life plans at all. Oh yes, it was a discipline but one that I would rather have done in an Iron Maiden than sitting in a class agonizing over something that was a mystery to me. The reason I found it so impossible was that my direction lay in Literature and the English Language, in Art and Social History. Every single Trigonometry class I was forced to attend was an embarrassment and  torturous experience. It was like the time, my parents insisted I take swimming lessons in the ocean. The water was so cold and I so tense, that I sank to the bottom and learned nothing but shivering 101. After only one single session in a heated pool,  I was hooked and even learning the useless Australian Crawl, while it made no sense at all unless I wanted to race in a regatta, I found it tolerable. For a great many students Trigonometry is "cold ocean water". It occurred to me that a good many high school subjects, since the new approach is to taylor the subject to the student and its abilities, could be further  divided into more useful, pleasurable aspects that a student could develop a passion for. Had someone come along to me, that high school student I was, and proposed learning a field of Math that made more sense, I would have flown there from Trig class.  I would find  Home Budgeting, the Art of Finance including mortgages and accounting such as the difference between a debit and a credit, would have been a class I would almost run to because it would help me in life. I found Chemistry fun and Biology delightful. Chemistry uses algebra extensively and perhaps that route would have been more palatable. But sitting in a class with a large tome of logarithms, poring over reams of numbers that would never be useful to me, seemed a ridiculous burden. History should be of importance to one's everyday life by showing the connection to our past and how it pertains to the present. It would have been refreshing and fascinating to learn about my West Coast life but memorizing dates about Roman wars and British royal lineage was a waste of my time. After the history classes at school, I still didn't know anything about the West Coast and it's exciting past, about the aborigines and their history and importance. I had to learn these after high school. Hopefully, things have changed and students are able to impart their personal educational needs to the system and what is meaningful to them. More importantly, what makes them passionate about learning during their few short years in high school. "It's a discipline is not the right answer."

Good Things In Small Packages

The "little things" that have come upon us, the virus critters of the pandemic, have changed us wholly and I doubt we'll ever revert back entirely to what we were. Like you, I unconsciously stand back from others when around them and wash my hands like someone obsessed all during the day. I gasp when I find myself touching my face and diligently wash my hands after opening packages that are delivered or when returning from being out. Few routines engendered during the first weeks of the pandemic, will return to the way they were done previously. Special pandemic measures don't feel awkward any more. Wearing masks is no longer embarrassing and standing on the taped line is done absently, keeping a distance from everyone, even relatives isn't creepy now. Some of what we've learned is good. Learning how finally to get along with family in close quarters has found its level as it must, and the forced habit of amusing oneself may have opened doors into hobbies or games or activities that are keepers. Many people have become cooks in the home and are much more involved in creating or changing recipes, finding old ones and re-doing them. Bread making is now common, especially trying out Sourdough bread. I haven't achieved that accomplishment and doubt that ever I shall, but I greatly admire those who do. It seems kind of cumbersome to me but it's a novelty for the newbies to it. Parents who took on the role of teacher, at first found the job onerous but as the lessons went on, they discovered that they are more part of their children's lives in ways they hadn't thought of before. Maybe there is more understanding between parent and child on a different level. Kids have learned too that they have responsibilities that are new and while sometimes difficult, are indeed possible. They have learned a new kind of respect that is mutual. In the fall, we're told that schools will open in their entirety but there are hoards of parents who don't want to chance it and are considering home schooling. Others are not, but are finding ways of coping with how to protect their kids going back to the classroom. People who wouldn't touch computers and their kin, are now, having been forced to learn them, becoming rather adept at using them and actually loving the technology they have sworn to continue. The fashion industry has become more aware of sustainability and a return to more practical styles. Beauty experts, for example, are recommending ways of skin care under masks. With a mask, there is no need to slather on coloured bases and gobs of highlighters or enhancers with colour. There is a large move of forgetting about body hair removal. The women I saw during my pedicures that I miss terribly, who came and went with all sorts of additions and subtractions concerning their bodies are now finding natural means and effects while still feeling fresh and attractive. Workers doing their jobs at home, who originally found it hard to accomplish but with time, now prefer working and being at home. A few people I have spoken to, who do work at home, miss the companionship of their buddies on the job, but are rather enjoying the  pacing of their day their way. The swinging door that most homes once suffered while  everyone in the family flew in different directions, off to games or courses or work or social events, are now spending more time together involved in actually living with their kin and finding a new tolerance.  Without time frames that are rigid, minor daily tasks seem to be done with ease since there is no pressure to fit them to the clock. We've all made more contact with people not seen in a long time. We  read more, watch more with better discrimination, write more, cook and bake more, clean more and tie up all those pesky loose ends that needed doing for a long time.

Little Dab'll Do It

Long time ago, there was a hair gel in the days when men did ducktails with their longer locks. A certain product that had a catchy "little dab'll do yah" radio ad theme, was popular amongst the chaps.Very cool thing ducktails. To keep man hair where they wanted it, the guys had tail combs sticking out of the back pockets of their strides in those days, very dangerous looking they thought, and would whip them out to display their talents at ducktail artistry. It was accompanied by Elvis hip gyrating and come-on smoky eye looks and then like a cool cowboy, the Elvis wannabe slung his comb back into the hip pocket and swaggered off.  Ooh, so cool. But that little dab of hair product, isn't the one I speak of, even though nostalgia is hard to put down. The dab I think of today, is from one of the tiny bottles of paint you see in the local drug store nail cosmetic section. These days of salon nails that could scare even the tiger and its claws, the old nerve nibbled digits of my highschool days are no longer to be seen. A good thing. They disappeared with circle skirts, petticoat crinolines and bobby socks. The bottles of colour that festoon the drug store aisles in all colours you can think of, and more, are what I speak of.  A household hint I stumbled on happened when my bevy of watch straps, mostly purchased on cruise ships in the ten dollar shop, began losing their colour in the "genuine leather" that I think was actually tanned chicken skin, began to lose its gloss. My collection of cheap watches put rainbows to shame and instead of throwing them out when their edge shades wore down, I hied off to the local pharmacy and matched up their tones with what I could garner from the nail polish shelves. Suddenly, the old tatty watches took on new life. Chicken skin or not, they looked dandy with a new coat of nail polish paint. This conjured up other ways of using my find: nail polish as paint. While you can't do an entire wall with it due to cost, the paint is strong and stores well and if you are clever, can be mixed to match any shade you please. When I scuffed my favorite handbag, I took it shopping with me and matched up the colour with what I found you-know-where. Yes. On the nail polish shelf. So, you're tired of those old sneakers or maybe new ones need a cool look, try nail colour. You can do dots or flowers or name its. When my keyboard letters in white, the popular letters wore off first, out came the white nail polish. What I re-did doesn't look perfect, but it works. No new keyboard necessary. You might scoff and say, pretty expensive paint, my dear. But if all you need is a little dab, it'll do yah. Black and white, readily available at your corner drug mart is the handiest. My baseboards that the robot vac loves to take its revenge out upon, no more has its paint scraped from the whiteness of its corners. My black pasta bowls that somehow have chips around their bottoms, don't any longer, thanks to my nail polish discovery. When I wanted earrings to match something, and couldn't find the colour I needed, off I went to the nail polish shelf at the supermarket and chose the right shade. After, a short session of painting over a pair of earrings I no longer liked, I had a new pair in the perfect colour. And when the door in the house got chipped, guess what? Right! The chips are no longer to be seen.  A little dab'll do yah!

Requiem To Innocence

What happened to innocence? I should leave it at that because the guilty one, the thing that murders innocence is Time. And who can fault time? It just happens. Innocence is a man-made ideal because its definition is too obvious. The things of true innocence are natural. Only Man corrupts innocence and over the centuries Man has done a pretty good job of it. How? Man took what is pure and natural and twisted it to meet its uses. Most of the time it tried to replenish what it used and perhaps there are souls who continue that method but greed got in the way. What Man began to depend upon, it had the mind to improve it and to ensure in any way possible, that it would flourish to meet its need and more. If there were more, Man could trade it for what it wanted beyond what it needed and reap great benefits to add to its wealth. Too philosophical? Almost. We as Man are continuing this very practice thousands of years after we first appeared on earth. Every society began by making innocent principals and all, even the greatest of them, turned into what its greed fostered. Ideals and principals and scruples, tenets and laws carved in stone and written in clay and on paper were duplicated to ensure that all Man would follow them thus building a perfect society. Also formed, were those who saw that these laws were kept. But between the lines, in the little spaces between the letters that laid out the principles of innocence, crept Greed snaking its way, growing like an evil ivy  and finally hiding all of the goodness until it became blocked by its own rampant growth. I revel when I read or see or hear about the masses of innocents who give their time and ideas and efforts to be good people. They are the angels. No one hears the details of their quiet non-famous lives while we hear all kinds of verbiage about the famous angels, those who had the fortune of  conditions of wealth, protective loved lives and were fed the best and learned the best and went on to invent and create and manage and rule and all that goodness became well known and admired and emulated. Of them, statues and great monuments and books and paintings of them exist. But there are the innocents who will never be known. Their contributions and unselfish acts weren't recorded or remembered by the masses. Their time may have been short, very short and remembered only by those who benefitted from their generosity. They may be the old grandmothers who took in the children who were loved and fed and comforted. They could be the young men who gave their lives to defend an ideal. They could be children who during their brief time on earth allowed someone to love them so dearly. Or the strong who fought for the weak. Or perhaps they are the poor who share the little they have with others. The ones who do the work that no one else wants to do or abhors, but who give to others who benefit from it. These are the innocents, the ones we can trust but know nothing of. What happened to innocence?

Stay Out of My Genes

It's bad enough with cameras everywhere dictating everything we do via the cell phone, of late, our very centre of being is being spied upon. About the most personal thing we as human beings own, is our genes. Today's penchant, nay, obsession, is to examine much more than our innocent navels, it's to sneak into our genetic make-up to see if we, genetically, could hold statistically  some kind of unacceptable disease somewhere in our past history. What kind of nonsense is this? Oh it's not nonsense, the ominous creature called They, says, it's something important that we should know just in case we might have a certain cancer or remote chance of a deformity in our body or have a weakness lurking in there somewhere. The operative word is MIGHT. For some odd reason, we appear to put more faith into correlations than actual facts and reality as it stands. Why? I suspect it is our superhero bent that is encouraged by the film industry. The latter dictates just about everything we do and say and even think. It starts in us as infants when we are exposed to movies that model our morals and later, our fashions and manners and attitudes, our very language expressions. Movie and music stars are richer and more famous than royalty, and certainly far more influential. I recall my hairdresser who had a tennis pro wannabee daughter sending her down south to a posh tennis player high school. She might become one of the world's tennis stars. The kid begged to return home where she wasn't laughed at if she didn't have a Coach handbag or wear the top fad sneakers, not to mention how her hair was done and who did it. All this, she suffered, over and above playing tennis for hours every day. Now, babies are honed before they are born. They are peeped at with rays and needles poked into their little homes, tested for any kinds of risk and sometimes, sadly, ended before they take a first breath. For the satisfied modern parents, there are Sex Revealing Parties for the tiny human being seen in early pregnancy. And when they grow up sans a lot of things they are thought to have as allergies, they get nose jobs as pre-teens and boob jobs as high schools kids or diets that would scare a goat. Their parent need to brag of their perfect children. If they can't get same into the "best" schools, they are a failure. Every bit of food that goes into these super kids is closely controlled and their play time minutely planned to elicit the most educative venues and brand name environments.  And if all that isn't inhuman enough, now the parental genetic background is being exhumed and autopsied. Your ancestors matter. Apparently. I know of one perfectly seemingly "normal" family where the daughters learning that their grandmother died of breast cancer, seriously contemplate mastectomies. What have we become in this technological age? I suggest that rather than have babies, this sort of person might consider having a perfect robot built. It could have a brilliant computer  brain, a body that had quick and easy replacements plugged in if necessary and an emotional framework that withstood any kind of disease or attack or pressure of outside forces physically or mentally. It would be programmed for success in everything. Just dial in the profession you want it to follow. There would be no genetic harm because there would be no genetics. Furthermore, it could babysit itself which would be welcomed by all the poor exhausted parents like those who are "having a very bad time" with their kids around all day during the pandemic. With this kind of "child", they could lock it in the closet when they got tired of it. And forget schooling. Just buy the Oxford or Cambridge chip. Or look for it online.