Toothsome

Used to be, a smile was something that happened naturally to cheeks and chins. Teeth showed, but didn't require sunglasses in their glare of snowy white. Now it's all about colour, or rather, the lack of it. You see natural tooth colour and shape, almost nowhere these days. No longer is it bra and hip size, hair implants or colour that make for ideal appearances. It's the whiteness of your teeth that counts most. Well, not actually, your own teeth but the ones your dentist either enameled, capped, implanted or replaced with the same kind of plastic that makes nose cones for  rockets. Those of us with natural teeth daren't smile widely. We are no longer, no matter how much we visit our dentist or hygienist, quite sure that we look our best with our usual pearlies. We spend a lot on our dentistry and keep up the regular appointments, but those who use up their inheritances, savings and lottery wins, walk into clinics and come out with smiles that could possibly defeat Darth Vadar in their dazzle. The media set, flash their  artsy smiles with a whiteness that puts all natural incisors and cuspids to shame. Snow white got there with her skin but now it's whiter teeth that reign. Anywhere. Everywhere.  One of my relatives once known for her shy wit and pleasant looks, got her mouth redone and updated with a set of whites that cost almost as much as a small car. No longer was she a bashful soul, but emerged like a butterfly with her new set of whiter than white caps. From then on, permanently she set that rack of whites into a big square smile whether something were funny or not. Probably also in her sleep. Adding  salon eyelashes, gym routines, a dot or six of Botox, a shot of lip enhancer and she might have outshone a Hollywood starlet. I tell this out of sheer envy due to my shamefully boring, natural  teeth that are four shades less white and will stay that way. There is something stubborn in my psyche that simply will not agree to the cost of someone digging about in my mouth to support his or her classy new waiting room with the designer walls and potted palms. But my tone, merely shows how envious I am. What has happened to us as human creatures? The things we do to our bodies to emulate modern day icons and idols are not only ironic they are dangerous. The pain, the cost, the fakery is ignored in pursuit of achieving what magazines and celebrity show as the ideal. We want to be perfect. No one is and even avatars have problems as seen in the famous film. Vanity is marketable and doing well even in bad times. Most of the substances that we slather on our faces, remove, insert or apply to our bodies lie. They don't make us any younger which is the ultimate goal of anyone over twenty-five or six. This is the age group that sees the first tiny line or wrinkle, perhaps a grey hair or a freckle. Told that youth will ensure your love life will be enhanced, your opportunities widen and your social standing expand is a lie. What really occurs is massaging the ego, as well as reducing the income. I see people enter the place where I go for a pedicure, who come in regularly for eyelashes, finger nails, hair removal, piercings, skin treatments and tattoos for which they pay as much a month as their grocery bill. It makes them feel better about themselves, they smile with their whiter than white teeth.

Bumps In The Night

It's a well guarded secret that there are "bumps" in the night. Living with a snorer is a big "bump" in a relationship. Most find a way to overcome sleep interruptions that happen when this physical phenomenon occurs. In elder age or before, both men and women for various reasons, develop the problem of snoring or, on the other side of the bed, having to put up with it.  Most snorers deny that they, in fact, do it, but their sleep mates disagree vehemently. Losing sleep can drive the non-snorer to a state close to dangerous lengths such as whumpings, kickings, shakings, shoutings or finally, abandonment out of sheer desperation. One needs sleep. It is a right. Sleep disturbed by the noises made by bedmates is no joking matter and most of the time it ends up with separate bedrooms. Barking dogs, traffic squealings or construction racket, is no match for the dire stress of hearing, night after night, the din emitted by a formerly dear nose making it only inches away. I have heard widows moan that they recall their lost loved one's snores and how they wish they were back because they would just adore hearing those darling noises once again. I don't believe them. Supposedly, there are cures for this situation, but most of the time, the guilty party either refuses to go to such lengths which are often minor surgical ones or dietary regimes, and after trying the less drastic solutions that don't work, give up entirely and trot down the hall to the guest room forever. There is no love of snorers. If you don't have Snore in your own life, you may have been in a hotel or plane or hospital or dormitory where this horror exists and been kept awake by it. Or maybe unwittingly, you are the enemy, the "bump" in the night. My mother constantly went on and on about my stepfather's "musical evenings" and how impossible they were, and that they robbed her of her sleep. When the two of them stayed at our house, we learned that her "music" far outdid his. When gently I hinted at it, she was outraged, and you didn't want to outrage my mother. Fortunately, changing the subject saved the day. Her nights were something else. Sometimes kits are provided on airplanes or sleeping cars that contain ear plugs for the purpose of getting a good night's sleep in spite of the snorers in semi-public venues. They are not a solution. Snoring seems to defy walls or fences or ear plugs. When my neighbours who live above, make floor thump noises, I have tried earbuds and my cell phone for movies or music, and these do help but only to distract,  not entirely, dull sounds. The subject of snoring is seldom cited as cause for divorce, mayhem or murder, but it must come close.

Meateaters

I read a brief article that was written by an individual I suspect is a vegetarian. The author says do not eat meat; it's bad for the planet. I was a vegetarian for ten years and only missed meat when frying bacon or hotdogs with mustard, ketchup and relish were within smelling distance. It didn't make me any healthier and latterly on that kick my body complained about not enough protein. Originally, I stopped eating meat when, while travelling the highways south of the border, I saw truckloads of animals in bad cages and great discomfort being hauled off to slaughter. I couldn't bear to eat meat after that. Like many meat eaters, I usually make a small silent thank you to the creature on which I feed, for giving up its life to nourish me. I imagine the little worms that will eventually consume either my flesh or my dust will not be doing the same for me, but that's life and an ugly or not, truth. We end becoming part of our Earth in some way and it's an only and a good thing. Lately, there is a big push by some people to eat nothing but plant based foods and find multiple ways to avoid eating meat of any kind as a way to help the planet. Anyone can live without meat as has been proven many times but should they prefer to eat it, remains a choice. Personally, I eat and do what, after some thought, seems just, and the way that works for me. Others have their right to do what is best for them. While some feel they must instill their ways on others, that, too, is a right I suppose. I eat meats now although not a lot, and find that getting the right amount of protein is not a problem. Some eat almost nothing but protein to get skinny and I find that amusing when there are starving people on earth. While there are those who make diets and dieting a large part of their daily life, I am not willing nor interested in doing it. To me, life has many aspects and I enjoy partaking of them as I feel will fit into my needs and wants as they present themselves. Life, and living it, is entirely flexible and requires a kind of ability to adjust to its demands and suggestions. It's a process that has varying routes to good health. There are trained people such as doctors both medical and other forms, to advise and suggest also, but the best decision maker is your own body. Your body needs to be listened to. If a food hurts and some do, what does it tell you? If you feel unwell after downing some kind of substance, what choices do you make? If you care for your body, you know most of the right answers to your body's questions. It doesn't always take a hoard of tests to tell you what to stop doing or eating or thinking. Often times, you know when to stop and when to go. Our bodies are very sensitive to their environments. What makes you feel well and good, not just good, counts. The tomorrows after the day befores tell you. The surroundings and people that affect your body, tell you. Just listen.

Stuffing

Now that we are spending time in our homes wherever and whatever they be, we take more notice of our stuff. Contrary to minimalists who love their glass, stone and white walls, I like my stuff and will not get rid of it easily. My things are close. I do not have the luxury nor want it, of viewing  vast floor spaces of wood, marble or tile. For one thing, they keep my little robot duster far too busy with me hopping around to dodge it at work. For another, I have big stuff and small rugs that I like to shift about according to mood and season. The newish, only last century, white grand keeps its hardwood floor yardage spacious under its workings, but the rest of the place is a here and there collection of old tree wood, black leather sitting places, glints of crystal, big photographs of trees stranded on beaches and sea bird mock-ups. But I also sneak into my stuff list, the family grandfather clock, born in 1830 of Mr. Leadbeater. It has become moody in his very old age and when wound up, sometimes quits the tick, the heartbeat of my place. My old stuff is my fondest, including a mingled mangled pile of kitchen and other tools that are twice my age - and that's a lot! One of them hangs on the wall. It acts as a room thermometer but the stains tell more. It's a long wooden brass-tipped thermometer that was once, every Spring, stuck into  British soil to test its temperature. If it was just right, the long gone father and grandfather knew he could plant his prize pansies and perhaps win a Chelsea blue ribbon for them. He often did. Another few pieces I use all the time in my kitchen, are a quarter cup tin scoop, a wood handled metal potato masher, a tiny scraper and a collection of odd vegetable carving bits my mother loved to surprise people with. She got a great laugh when we had to eat her carrot folk and fruit monsters, not to mention the other weirdly sliced veggies. The mother-in-law's advice was always plethoric but her little tin (yes it has lead in it) scraper I inherited as she wouldn't let it out of her sight any other way,  is one of my best friends next to the scoop. The scraper is the only one that will actually remove without a trace, burnt on bits from the bottom of a roaster, gunk on the window and act as a last-ditch effort on the barbecue when the bitsy round of formed latest-gizmo, doesn't. Then the scoop, something I panic if it becomes displaced, because I loathe using measuring cups. I prefer my hand which has all the same measures but when feeling fussy, I like the quarter cup scoop. It dips, without spills, into the flour or sugar or rice sacks easily and accurately and it rinses under the tap in a snap. I have fixing tools such as the ancient woodworking ones with a grandfather's initials stamped into the wood handles and there is nothing that beats the small wood saw that even ladies can use without breaking a nail. My stuff makes me smile when I think of who held it and perhaps will also some day when I'm not around.

Building A Fort

Sadness or what is called depression is a condition. A condition apart from the medically treated kind, is not truly cured by outside substances or methods that are actually mere bandaids from a bottle or a bag. Most normal personal conditions are something we can control on our own. What causes them usually can't be fixed, thus the condition. Taking it back a step, since we own the condition, we may find a way to build a "fort" against it. Everyone has a favorite method of making that fort. To get through conditions, I call on my imagination. My imagination is powerful. Everyone has one, and it can be made more powerful with practice. You, as I, will find where your imagination can take you in building your fort against depression or sadness. Sometimes it's a place or people or things, but it's always somewhere that makes you feel good. When you get there, you may see the ones you loved or the setting you wanted. You can shut the door and stay there for a happiness time. It's often called "daydreaming"and maligned by teachers, but it's a pleasant occupation in the right places. It is not the classic meditation which asks one to think of nothing. And while that works for some, it doesn't for me. In my imagination, I go to a place that is absolutely mine. It's peaceful in its solitude. There is music that can't be written or played and colours that are impossible to describe, but while there in that fantastically beautiful place, everything else goes away and I am in perfect happiness. In my imagination, I often go to meet the people who died and when I am with them, we smile and talk and feel the warmth of our previous times, renewed. I have an active imagination space, too. Sometimes during this place, my "thinking time", I imagine what I can cook or sew or decorate or write. Everyone has a "thinking time" during the day or night. Mine is early morning when I first awaken and before I arise. It is dark and quiet and rested, the perfect place to watch ideas form and grow. The ideas don't always take root but they seem not to need fruition. They simply float about aimlessly and that's okay. Behind the fort that denies the bad news, the unpleasant tasks ahead, or some other invader of  private thoughts, one can make it an art, not a pain. Your fort, the one that keeps out negative things, works if you let it. You are in control. They are your thoughts. What they are, belongs to you and you can use them to make your own place of goodness and beauty and truth.

Home Sweet Home

Self-isolation is no news to me, but it will be to lots of people these days. I've never minded my own company and have found many ways to occupy it. I am not perfect nor a perfectionist so we get along  together just fine.Today for example, I bake. I do it from scratch not only because it's cheaper, it's also healthier and, best of all, more fun. Get the kids involved if you don't mind taking the time and patience. Sometimes kids doing their baking solo can be a horrid mess some think is darling, but it's not cute for the person cleaning up after. Kids are very smart and the best of learners, therefore, and they can learn to do their cooking in a tidy way just as adults do. There is no reason for batter to be all over the walls and floors. That is not cute, and I feel it's an insult to kids to allow it. A clean kitchen is the first lesson and it begins with prepping. Get out your recipe, the tools and ingredients first. You don't need the darling little bowls you see on the screen, filled with exact amounts. That's done for TV filming speed only. Bags of flour and other containers are easier set on the counter or table and can be just as easily removed later. Of course there is accidental spillage by anyone and it's excusable and maybe part of the fun. I use mixers simply due to age, but they aren't necessary for a good product and some folks just love getting in there with an arm work-out while kneading bread or stirring up a bowl of cookie dough. Clean hands, hair hidden, and lots of washing if eggs or meat is involved. Bread making is creative and I like multi grain flours, but fruit, nuts, cheese and herbs make for unique loaves or rounds. I don't bother with tins for bread personally, but like to form simple rounds because I am somewhat lazy. Furthermore I like the way a small bun or large loaf just looks traditional thus appealing. Round bread bowls for chili and stews are useful, and what you scoop out makes for a lovely balsamic and olive oil bread dipping piece. Then there is pie dough. Again, tossing in the measured products and whizzing them in a mixer for a wee bit, gets you quickly to the little patties or cups or fold-overs you hope to see baking in the oven window. The scent of cooking especially if it involves herbs and spices, waft through your home making it home. When you have a lump of pie dough, you can make fold-overs stuffed with small amounts of just about anything you love. Even parts of your favorite chocolate bar or spaghetti sauce or cheese or jam. You are the baker and even if you have some disasters, it's worth the journey. You are learning with each and every mistake, and what else is life all about but learning? When the baking is done and you have enjoyed and laughed over the experience or bragged to your pals on the phone or computer about your latest efforts, you can plop down on the couch with your fellow indoor "cellmates" and get out the old board games or dice or cards and become a family again. Or perhaps you will simply re-introduce yourself to yourself. No need to be lonely. You have you! Solitaire has many faces and there are loads of online free games.

Like It Is

There are a lot of social pressures abounding these days. Shaming seems to force those who care, into doing things that they might not really want to do. Sorry ( to use a Canadianism), but I am neither impressed over these dictates to be "in the loop", nor do I intend to let them enter the sphere of my life choices.  I like looking at The Loop but I maintain my independence even if it looks a bit nutty. I wear white jeans and sneakers all year. I read Vogue magazine as something to snicker at but to admire it's myopic enthusiasm, in a way. I do the news everyday and comment to the point where I am Google stopped sometimes even though I am never rude about it. I write a blog with a following of less than thirty but they are regular and likely relatives who won't admit it. My journal is my best friend with my computer as a close second. I am rather stingy about spending, but love nice sweaters. I do not attend a gym for old folks. I don't go for walkies every day, nor do I own a dog as inspiration or companionship. People, if you can find truthful ones, are much better. I go out seldom because I am rather used to my own company and we seem to get along well together. I do not crave, at this age, to find a mate or house companion. I like my own life on my own terms. I adore my family but I don't bother them with constant calls and requests for assistance. I go to the doctor as little as possible and mostly for prescription renewals that are only for minor reasons. I avoid taking pain killers, unless absolutely crucial, even for arthritis that seems to go with the elderism. For the latter complaint, I don't push it with the exercise classes. I am all for stretching gently but no thanks to the theory of "no pain, no gain". If you like pain, go for it. I don't, I won't. I do not diet but eat fresh and normal. I am given sheets of paper for routine blood tests but I usually try to forget about them unless I am not feeling well. I do this even though I am told it might prevent a problem. I don't see the logic of that contention. I spend a lot of time meditating informally: long sessions on my deck staring into a tree and loving the sky, reading constantly, playing on-line and computer games and ebooks. I watch adless TV, mostly movies old and new. I'm pretty much out of travel other than remembering the world wide countries I have been in even though for only a short taste of them. I review my life working and home and family memories at length. I adore cooking for myself and dreaming up new flavours to enhance even the smallest dishes. I do housework on demand: sneezing indicates a need to dust, wiping up occurs when I see it, use of robots to take care of the tedium of vacuuming works for me. I socialize only with people I like and am polite with the others. I am extremely patient and kind and forgiving but I do not tolerate rule breaking if it affects me. I will definitely remain and an active consumer advocate. I love beauty and peace and truth. All in all, when my time comes which isn't all that far off, I'm okay with it. That's like it is. How about you?

Viral Verities

We are all in fear of The Virus. It has earned its capital letters. What sci fi lovers read and watched and shivered at, has become reality almost over-night. Those of us not touched by it, are reeling and don't know what to say or think. We feel helpless and afraid but don't talk about it.  Soap and water appear to be the best prevention other than avoidance of places where the virus might lurk. The world is in a state of shock but is gradually learning how to deal with this terrible tiny creature that arrived suddenly and with a viciousness that makes The Thing, The Alien or The Creature From The Black Lagoon look like a flock of chickadees. At least victims of the fictional beasts ceased when blasted with rays or guns or sunshine, but this microscopic enemy defies everything so far. It has put the entire earth into a united mode that rises above wars or political insurrections or the ridiculous Hollywood mentality. It unites all humans in a true democracy, working together in a way that is awe inspiring. It arose out of necessity where most beneficial things occur and forces countries to cooperate as never before. To say that good things come out of bad would be inappropriate but if it were a truth, this could be an example. The enemy of a world is a pandemic. The virus is free of prejudice other than those elements physically able to combat it. Our bodies are used to building antibodies to take a wee sip of something not friendly to our being, and run off to its inner factories to build its weapons. This time, something crept in suddenly, much too suddenly to give human bodies a chance to do that work. The only way to win is to run. And run we do by avoiding places and people and symptoms in our environments that might invite the disease in. If we are afflicted we try not to panic, but to tend to our health as best we can to push the bug away and come out of the sickness,  healthy. Hopefully, once introduced to the enemy, our bodies are wiser and more knowledgeable for the fight, but it takes time and some just do not have that advantage. Isolation or hiding from this miniscule enemy seems the best way to avoid its ire. As when the movie monster arrives in the neighbourhood, we batten down the hatches, latch the shutters. board up the windows and doors and crawl under the beds. Figuratively. It's no fun being stuck in a torturous "nine by twelve room" as one victim of a quarantine complained, likely inaccurately. But to that person, as it would with most of us, it was like prison. To him, and others we are immensely grateful for their helpful suffering because it is a form of suffering done for our behalves. These people came close to their own ending and by doing what they do in quarantine, they become our "army" against this fierce virus. They are our heroes and we thank them for their sacrifice.

What It's All About

Until you are almost at the end of your life, you won't know "what it's all about". I don't mean that you will walk around being a smart apple telling other people that only you know its meaning. It is that, about your life, you will finally know "what it's all about". Especially, if you are the mate who is left alone after a union of some sort that lasted a long time, you are finally able to fully understand, and put together all the loose pieces like solving a jigsaw puzzle. You have hours and hours of time to ponder over what you are to be leaving behind. You have no idea when, but you know it isn't long off and that it will always be a surprise and something that, for once, you can't control. You re-live so many experiences which at the time of happening, seemed not to matter. Now you are able to examine them in detail and find out that, yes, they did matter a whole lot, not only to you, but to others as well. This time of reflection can be dangerous for you have to remain positive, otherwise guilt could creep in, and it can be ugly. When guilt sneers, you chase it away with recollecting the good times and things you did that create the counterbalance. Balance is what a good life is truly all about. There is good and bad, and you have seen and been both. Images flood in. The loves you had are back at those first moments as you  encountered each with all innocence and idealism and an open mind. You have, again, those sweet memories because now there is time and peace and stillness to enable them.  All the colours and sensations, sounds and feelings come back and make you smile and yes, shed tears. You have  knowledge that every single event, large and small in your life, is slowly leaving: your physical and mental abilities are tapering down but nothing, nothing takes away those dearest, closest memories. They are what is golden and truly makes The Golden Age. Your family comes back vividly, and all of the delightful moments you had together when time was no issue and life was a daily joy. Your childhood games and small friends are there, and you are running and jumping and playing in the parks and woods and camps. You are swimming recklessly across water waves and racing along streets on your bike and crashing fearlessly through leafy bushes and running through wide farm fields. You're riding  horses bareback and climbing  trees and hiking mossy mountain trails. Your furry pets, the dogs you loved and romped with, and how they smelled and felt and those eyes that loved you back. The cats that made you laugh when you played string with them or the tiny blue parakeet that clung to your finger and learned to "talk". Then there are the candled birthday cakes your mother baked and how the ice-cream parties always had a crisis but they ended with everyone saying good-bye and sighing in happiness for such a wonderful beginning to another growing-up year. Your wedding, all of your houses and the babies, how they felt as you held them, how they looked at you in wonder as you fed them, how they trusted you and how, oh dear, sometimes you let them down a little, and now, how that hurts. But putting it all together, it's  your life and this is the beautiful time of it, being old and reliving what soon, you will be leaving. It's a sad song but a deep, sweet one.