Dyslexia Or Excuse

 Dyslexia is used far too often by people who have not been tested for it, but who use the word as an excuse for their poor language skills. Perhaps they have learned that they misuse terms or misspell  words or make too many grammatical errors. The first thing that pops out of their mouths is "oh, it's okay, I am dyslexic". What wants to pop out of mine, is "have you been tested or are you using that description as an excuse for your mistakes?" We can do almost whatever we want to do or say or be, but there are limits. Limits are either legal, moral, political, social,  intellectual, on and on, but I prefer the word "why" when it comes to the interpretation of "mistakes". Why do we need to spell or say a certain word in a certain way. The whole mess of what's right and what isn't, was, in our language, more or less, invented by a man, Samuel Johnson, whose passion was the English language. He, in fact, compiled enough words in his time to create A Dictionary Of The English Language. If you want to read more about this astoundingly energetic chap, you can read Boswell's The Life Of Samuel Johnson. Johnson was an academic who lived during the 1700s. Apparently, Mr. Johnson took a peek at the French Language Dictionary that took forty years to make, and did his in only eight.  Samuel was a fellow who had the energy of a hive of bees and surrounded himself with mountains of books that he read and referred to. He was also an interesting person to view, for he had a series of nervous tics and jumping behaviours that did not stand in the way of his amazing brain that produced astounding amounts of literary works. You can visit his burial site in Westminster Abby not far from Shakespeare whom he wrote extensively about, if you wish. Back to grammar and the spelling of words. These days with spell check and on line help to do it, few people make mistakes. There is also AI coming up.  Usage, is quite another matter, not that many give a flying gerund about it. I once sat on a plane counting the number times I had to hear the word, "like" spoken by two young women off to another country to work. I hoped it weren't in a school. (Look that one up.) Cell phone texting is likely one of the worst enemies of  English usage due to its need for brevity,  but it is, to me, very interesting to see that a new language is, and can be invented. Beside my computer, I have a listing of cell phone terms just for reference. But I'm still and advocate of syntax. All teenagers since the beginning of time, have invented their own language thinking that we adults in their lives, have no idea of what they are saying. We don't, but then again, we don't care. We are too busy filling out the tax forms and job applications. They have that aspect of the language yet to learn. I have been told that the reason there are spelling rules, is to effect understanding. Ahem to that. Having taught English in schools, even  spelling doesn't cut it, when good writing and correct usage is absent. If  you don't believe me, give a listen to radio broadcasters who at times make errors that are blushible. Is blushible in the dictionary? 

What's For Dinner?

Christmas dinner is, in my life, a turkey with dressing or stuffing, cranberry sauce, gravy, mashed potatoes, yellowish vegetables done up in a casserole and Brussels Sprouts. The rest is sidebar. It was a different and rather hectic situation this year due to a lot of things. It behaved much like the little glass orbs we shake and watch as little snowflakes whirl about the scene inside. We earthlings are whirled by chaos everywhere we turn, and fight not to allow it to enter our personal spheres and spoil our lives. Our natural resilience  has us trying to fix it through kind acts and positive thinking and ignoring the media hype that tries to convince us that it is a hundred percent their vision instead of the three.  After all that negative press effort, we have weather. About this, we can do nonother than listen to the warnings and do in our environments what needs doing. My Christmas dinner, as a minor example, has been long in the planning and this year, it's a dart board. I have a dart board on my front door inside the hallway where often I shoot badly while, once in awhile, I get a bull's eye purely accidentally. Fortunately, the darts and board  don't damage anything but one's ego. This year trying for the traditional Christmas dinner, to find a turkey was like my dart board: iffy.  Thinking that getting one via online shopping which is all I do, would avoid the hassle of a last minute rush. The order came, however,  turkeyless. And the prices for big birds was huge but desperation came first. No early turkey. Then I opted for turkey rolls in all  of its ugly forms. No luck there either. Okay, I thought, we'll go red meat. Two barons of beef came that were nothing I could curtsey for. Two small chunks of baron of beef that isn't a tender cut arrived. My final attempt for a bird, was a ham and two long salmon filets. The golden goose left home. Maybe in fear of being on a platter soon. The plan, now only two weeks from the dinner, appeared to be a platter of fin, fur and bristle, no feather. A week before the holiday plan, voila, the store "rained" turkeys and finally I got my dream turkey of the brand I love. My stuffed little freezer is almost falling over with joy.  But, and that little word is a biggie. But  now to challenge my dinner, was the weather that came along and said, ha ha, you thought you had it, right? Uh uh, lady. Gotcha! Mom Nature strutted out her ice storms and snow drifts and shut me down, or almost did. Planet earth's mother presented us with her new game. My turn, she said. Is it her revenge? Now what are we pompous holidayists going to do? Aha. We are resourceful two legged creatures; the eons prove it. We made the calendar to fit nature, but we know how to bend it to our needs. Now, that I have my turkey, nothing, but nothing is going to stand in the way of turkey dinner even if it's served in January. 

Jaded

 Jade, the English term coined a long time ago, is an old horse well beyond its useful purposes. I feel jaded these days and maybe it's because I am old, a place we all achieve like it or not. Jaded means someone who, in my terms, has had it up to here and doesn't have the power to change things. I feel jaded. Most of what the media feeds me, us, is all the worst news there is. Oddly, we eat it up as though it is something  tasty. Does it make us "jaded"? Yup, it does. The other day while watching TV, I went to what was advertised as the most popular show "everyone" is panting to see. Click, and I watched on the big screen a brilliantly coloured forest of trees, hearing a burst of  beats that some might call music and a voice began to speak, not sing, lines of words that flew in the face of everything decent. The figures in the scene were writhing in openly sexual moves, almost nude and without a semblance anything that could be called dancing. The words spoken not sung, were shocking and they actually lauded violence against women in terms that used language I am surprised got past the censors.  What I was seeing and hearing and feeling  portrayed a kind of "hell". I turned it off. Sure, I could be charged with being jaded. But hey, I am only an average viewer who heard that the world is changing to being more open and generous and working toward equality in all ways. Being old fashioned, being uncool, being old, but living and being in this time, not the future, sorry, this kind of slime on television is not acceptable and those who make it should know better. As humans. If it must be done, put it behind locked doors, please. Being human comes first.  In our human idealism, we made changes with new  laws and political strategies to better the planet. This show was negative to all that we hoped would happen. It is only one example, but when the planet is telling us, the end is inevitable ahead, is this how we want it to end? Do the hopeless hide behind their worst scenarios and show their worst sides and try to engage us in it? This particular show might be someone's choice, but it's a horrific one. All the pillars of morality have almost disappeared: fun holidays, cars, decor, chic attire  are the priority, along with spas and gyms and beauty clinics,  and entertainment. Where is what really matters such as health care, respect for those who deserve it, attention to being a real family, ousting the false junk on our faces and bodies, chucking the detritus of electronic gizmos we don't need, getting  rough living off the sidewalks, making post-secondary education free to build our country, care for those who can't care for themselves? What have we become that we can't see it, and are exposed to the kind of disgusting show I witnessed, touted as being something to watch at Christmas time? What happened to all that is good and beautiful, natural, and true? It's in us waiting, and we need to get it back.

Wacky Tacky Christmas

 I don't have magazine Christmas decor. It's not that I don't want it.  When I go to my dear friends' places, the ones they remodelled to be all white and airy and full of marble and interesting area rugs and pale leather furniture, I wonder. When the holiday season arrives, I wonder how they can add to their open spaces anything that might disturb the ambiance of their new shiny homes. But their places look even nicer with the holiday decor all matching and such.  Now, my place, being small and cramped with furniture that is so comfortable  I can't part with it, not to speak of the white grand piano in the corner just in case someone wants to play on it, if there are any people left who play. And while I love their houses, I am happy with my wacky tacky Christmas decor. And still they come over and they love it, too. I am a keeper, not a hoarder. I have a couple of carboard boxes that manage to hold everything that means Christmas to me. I know that being the Canadian I am, I respect all other cultures with their celebrations, too, that make our country the "mosaic" that it is. My holiday now is called Christmas and I love it just as they do their special days, because we have memories connected with our celebrations, ones that are close to our hearts and pasts. In my house, everywhere you will see wreaths and little figures and decorations that don't quite blend, but somehow do, and music out of the speakers that few people recognise any more. The singers peal away as I put out the tiny clay figures of the creche, the old tree decorations when we had real trees that didn't come from the corner market or inside a plastic wrap. The balls were made of glassy stuff that broke when the family cat batted them or little ones' fingers dropped them and they cried. And others that we made at school: a Santa that has funny eyes, angels whose halos have bent and broken ones that aren't ashamed of their missing bits. As I put them out lovingly on the mantel and edges of other places I find, they bring back the sounds of childhood voices and laughter, when presents were wrapped maybe with last year's paper left over, and  hand made cards with printed verses not quite poetry but with heart. Reading the words written in early printing by those now old or gone, have precious meaning that something slick from a designer store, cannot replace no matter how fashionable. I look around when it's all done and I can almost hear the door opening and voices coming in stomping snow off feet. They are the people once here and once needed and loved. It may be wacky and tacky in my place, but wow, it's where I belong, and I wish that feeling for everyone in this, my holiday season. 

Shooting For Turkey

 Trying to shoot for a turkey to roast for the holiday season is like out finding one in the bush. Once we saw in the woods some wild turkeys and they look nothing like the grand birds on a farm. What we saw in the forest, wouldn't feed three people adequately. And they were well feathered which was about all they had on their skins. I have been hunting for three or four weeks now, and haven't seen a turkey of the grocery mart kind at all. I began a couple of months ago. Remember Thanksgiving? That was hard enough and what came in my grocery delivery, the system I am addicted to, looked much like a chicken out of  a prisoner of war camp. It was the only choice I had, other than the huge birds that looked like something out of Jurassic Park. The latter cost about as much, as the movie birds, too.  I decided on the small turkey or hardy chicken-like animal, if you wish, and when it came, it appeared to be one of those turkeys that was so small it escaped the grading. It was about the size of the old capons that my grandmother bought cheaply in the markets and boiled mercilessly for a couple of days in a huge pot.  She felt it could be more edible that way but it always ended up as soup.  Happily, the small turkey I received, managed to feed the four of us adequately, and surprisingly gave enough for making a few sandwiches the next day. With the upcoming December holiday, I thought I would order early, and perhaps have a nice  turkey bird to put on our festive table if I got it ahead of the rush. It has been, in earnest, about three weeks now in trying, and all I have been able to bag (literally) is turkey bacon sliced into what looks very much like pale plastic bacon. Somehow, I don't think it would be palatable as turkey slices on my guests' plates. Turkey slices don't come in bacon shape.  It was a learning experience since I had never heard of "bacon sliced turkey". I opted in the next online order to bend my hopes to a have turkey roast instead. The roast is turkey breast all string wrapped much like ham. Out of stock (OOS) was the response on the day the roast was to arrive. At the same time as the turkey roast, I had also stooped to order the "back hind quarter" of a turkey as well, thinking that my guests might like a bit of dark meat with the light. OOS again. Another week went by. Okay, thought I, stepping down from my pride ladder, I will  submit to the frozen boxed turkey rolls. I went for the turkey roll with dark meat. That would be okay if disguised with enough gravy to make up for the format.  OOS. On the next order, I armored myself,  thinking they must be selling out too soon so if I order right away, I will get the turkey they show in their ad.  I made an order right after the first order but opted for the huge bird that is close to a hundred bucks, because who is going to pay that much for one dinner plus all else. I would be sure of my turkey.  OOS. I give up. This holiday season we might have to trade wing for hide or fin instead. And then there's always meat loaf. Maybe.

School Sit

 Society, especially city society, depends upon schools as babysitters. And why not? Schools are safe environments for kids, as well as  places where they socialize, learn, play, are entertained and very often, eat. Teachers are expected, not only to teach according to government laid out programs, but also do add their own personal "colour" to make the experience for kids, palatable. They teach, but they are also surrogate parents. I know that teachers have codes of ethics, but what else? Children learn not only what they see on the board or in a book, they also closely observe their surroundings, the behaviours and appearances and all sorts of details that we adults often know nothing about. Families are with their children a good part of the day, but actually, how much of it? Do families ever add up the time in actual hours, they spend with children? Do they plan mother and father or whatever combination their family is comprised of, family time together as a unit. And we shouldn't count the sports activities outside or the paid-for lessons or the play dates with other families, but the person to person time when your family gathers as a family, around the meal table or other place you do it. Do your children have much of this kind of time with you as models of life that they can take away to use as their future lifestyles? Ever think about it? When I look back many years ago and my mate and I both worked, there wasn't a whole lot of time as family together. And we lived in a rural area with not a lot of distractions. There was always a rush in the mornings and when the end of the day came, there were home things to do and homework for kids and everyone's out of the home social life as well at the end of the day. Lots of pressures. Working parents have to work to own a house, but it also means building a home of a house. Or does it matter? I hear some parents speak about their concern as gangs seek to enlist members. The gang age is reaching down to pre-teens. Are children needing to look for something like a family in a gang. Is it the place where they can share openly, their thoughts and plans  and dreams and concerns and themselves among people, other than their own, who say they be trusted?  How much of their time is spent away from parents, with other people who are not family at all? Just asking. Teachers are with their classes of children probably for more time than the parents of those same students in their own homes. And that's fine because the teacher is with the child for ten months of the year. The teacher is safe, the child can go to the teacher for support and reassurance as well as lessons in the academics. The teacher spends a lot of time learning what a teacher is, and does, and how to do that in a professional manner as well as conferring with the parent, not just score numbers and letters, but any personal needs of the child. They both "care" about that young person. We need health care in our world, but we also need the kind of care that is now largely expected of teachers as surrogate parents. Do we put enough interest and money and time into where our children, spend much of their day and are influenced in that place by a school's mandates and their teachers as models of adulthood? 

Find Your Happy

 Holiday season is approaching and for some, it's a sigh and not a happy one. Why? For some it's a sad time due to loss. Loss is funny. Instead of distracting ourselves, we often enshrine our loss. Most of our "unhappy" is self inflicted. When someone says "oh, move on" or "hey, drop it" or " aw, forget it" , we can't. Sounds easy, but isn't. Finding a new happy is the answer. It's out there waiting; it's just a matter of finding it and that begins with looking. What stands in the way of happy, is often what others think it is for us. No one knows our personal happy, but us alone. For me, it's the social season. I love the colour, the stories, the joy. Not a party person, I like my people one at a time. When party time rolls around, I shudder. A party is where no one seems their real self. The dress, the location, the food, it's all for me, difficult. Some love it. Family parties are best because you can't fool your genetic pool.  Another example of fun, not fun, is mom who spends her pre-holiday weeks preparing for everyone else and telling everyone that she or he is delighted to do it all even though they collapse when it's over until next year. That can change with the short word, no. Then, there's the currently overworked purse where expenses of the holiday are a huge hurdle. Putting the traditional turkey that now costs almost as much as the entire grocery bill, into the oven, doesn't have to happen. It's not all about turkey. Feasting menus can change.  Travelling also, to that far away beach or fantasy land, is not essential to finding happy. Some families might pool ideas on how staying home can be fun. Togetherness is laughing together. One family started a tradition of reading to each other along with nice snacks and no screens. For your elders, go visit. That is their gold. We once spent our Christmas eve driving an aunt into the neighbourhood to see the lights. She was overwhelmed with joy. Her happiness was a best gift to us. Discount what stores say is  most popular to buy. For them, maybe. Gifts are your decision, not theirs. You know what's best for your people. Buying presents could be changed from items made of plastics and electronics, to non-perishable edibles. They are luxuries we don't buy for ourselves.  Costly decking out the house can change, too. Go simple and make it less demanding on the earth. It's up to your happy. What the neighbours do is their happy. Last, if you have no one and nothing, there is still happy for you, too. It's there and waiting. You'll know it when you find it. 

Going Home

Homes, as they politely call places to stow old people that no one wants to put up with, can and as some are doing, be changed. Of course, after reading an article about a home that purports to spend extra millions as an experiment, and making changes - minor ones that I could see, and I, trying to make a comment, the censors of this so-called comment invitational site, zapped me out. That sort of mindless discrimination. But that's a topic for another day.) Back to The Home. Being familiar with The Home while visiting relatives installed in them, and rightly so, because their next of kin really could not care for them, I noticed many things that should and could be changed. And it didn't seem they would be expensive. First change is the smell of these places. Why? Surely, someone can plug a scent maker into an outlet somewhere. Second, the hallways are ridiculous. Who needs to see someone's jigsaw puzzle in a frame? And certainly not the memorial plaques everywhere or  the lit candle for the dead. Yikes, how depressing is that? Third, the clutter. No thanks to the hallway bins overflowing with diapers, stained bibs and piles of used bed linen. And please take the carts full of dirty dishes away. No one wants to look at that. I hear my mother saying, "DO the dishes." Fourth, the room decor. Do we really need misspelled little blackboards reminding one who is on duty? We have speech. Most of the signs in the rooms need to be read once, not hang there forever. Also, the lists of what NOT to do or the last inmate's, colouring book pages still hanging on the wall long after the former has died are trash.  And who arranges the furniture, the cleaner? It seems the whole room is for the benefit of floor washers. I could use the word inmate instead of resident here, because that is exactly how it feels when you are put into a scheduled, controlled environment in such as a "home".  Why call it a home? Fifth, the weekly or monthly program, complete with menu item, Friday Hot Dog Day or Pizza Party should be tossed. If you have to eat wieners or a frozen pizza, don't make a party of it. And let's have a bar somewhere or Happy Hour. We are still adults. So how to fix it?  First rearrange the room furniture in the way that the patient finds appealing. Ask. The resident basically pays for this "hotel". Second, how about a buffet  or cafeteria style food service in which there is  choice of time and food. DO NOT serve anything in a little paper or plastic cups. What real home does that? Toss out the clock which forces residents to a schedule that is for staff and not paying resident. Again, ask. Then there is the quasi entertainment. If I have a Master's Degree, or a journeyman's diploma, do I really want to listen to some bad school choir, worn out comedian or the nice old fiddle player who volunteers. No, a thousand times no. Ask what I like. Most residents go these childish events to be nice and look cooperative for the report to the the family when and if they come to visit.  And the exercise class with some cute young student doing a physiotherapy unit, cooing, is not fun.  All this may seem unfair comment, but really, I've been there and seen there, and these are the truths of the matter. Not all are this bad, but....  When I go to a "home" that will never be home to me, I want to be considered a normal human being of long experience and education, someone who can make her own decisions and choices. Please, just ASK.

What Matters

Matter cannot be destroyed we are told by scientists. If we take that to heart, it means  there's only so much matter to go around.  Nothing gets much beyond the upper layer of earth's clouds other than the odd little piece of space aluminum and  light metals and plastics that view, through cameras, what is in outer space. Or as some would say, the vast vacuum of eternity or infinity. It's pretty hard to deny science for long, even of the most hard core spiritual individual or religious enthusiast. We can stretch our beliefs only so far before they snap back to reality. Faith or not. And faith is a very good matter since it, like legends and lore and fairy tales, goes a long way toward positive attitudes even if based on pure speculation,  coincidence or just plain stubbornness. The older I become, the less I know while trying to piece all together: what I've heard and read and seen and been, over multi decades. Sometimes, the present generation which actually is still mine, since I am living and not on the other side of sod, wonders why we elders are so coo coo. Trying to figure out what our lives were is likely the reason we seem kind of nutsy. We have seen the old merry-go-round of life pass by too many times, and the brass ring, we never caught and that looks like gold, and  probably isn't even brass, is after all only a ring. The ring of truth. There are some truths such as "matter cannot be destroyed" that become very mystifying. If matter can't be destroyed and at death, we humans are turned into ash, where do all the new humans being born, come from. Furthermore, out of where did their elements arise? Yes, we come from the bodies of other human beings and they consume nutritional elements that are out of our earth itself. But does that mean earth, having attained its maximum supply of human kind, according to those who study these things, is full, and that there are no more  elements left on the shelves to make new humans? You see how confusing this all is. Then again, since someone stated The Law of Conservation of Mass and his name among others who stated basically the same idea, was Antoine Lavoisier in 1785, it does become moot. Oh, you thought it was Einstein who said it, didn't you? Sorry. Einstein said that Energy Cannot Be Destroyed, not mass, but  the energy it, under conditions, emits? But Einstein also said, that energy can be changed from one form to another. Hmm. Since those days, a host of other scientists added or changed these theories about physical matter and their list grow longer every year. No wonder we ordinary folk are confused. At present, we are wrapped up in trying to save this dear old planet from falling apart before the crawling masses of human kind consumes it entirely, or they, each other. I think of a poem that I can't find but it was something like this: when man has consumed all: bird, bark and beast, then man will eat man. Apologies to the original author, but that's the concept. None of us living, are likely to witness any such thing, but the way it's  going these days, makes me wonder. 

Staff Of Life -Bread

 If you do nothing else for your kids, grandkids included, teach them how to bake bread. One of my favorite tools in the kitchen is an old bread maker that I use only for mixing dough. Today's bread at my house is hot dog buns. My recipe book is You Tube and I found a recipe for hot dog buns that look, taste and feel like store-bought ones. This kind of bun is perfect for all kinds of purposes besides housing wieners. They also make, if sliced across, perfect little bases for your canapes or for hearty appetites, hamburger and chili holders. Or chicken/ turkey/ham/beef sliced delights along with sprouts or lettuce and tomatoes and onions. They  make a meal in a bun, and heated with mayo and cheese, a melt: tuna, salmon, prawns. You and the children can be creative, maybe even let the young ones build their own from a library of goodies you put on the counter, before them. Your bread maker is your best friend. I have never used mine to bake bread owning to the disastrous results, but it does take away the boring effort of kneading. Some people love to knead and if you need to do that, you can take the dough out of the machine after mixing and for fun, DIY. Having the aging joy of arthritis, I no longer find kneading fun but I do adore how many different kinds of breads I can make using my mixer. You can add fruit and a bit more sugar for sweet breads. Don't forget onion/cheese bread or garlic/parmesan or all-grain breads when  you toss in, now and then during the mix, some oats and other grains you enjoy. Herb bread is delicious and don't forget the exotic lavender and ginger varieties as well. You can convert any bread recipe that is not one done in a mixer, by first adding the hot water, sugar and yeast into the bottom of the mixer pan and letting it proof, next dumping in your egg, oil and/or butter before turning on the mixer to make dough after adding the flour. Peek and poke at the dough now and again to see if it needs for a nice soft, pliable dough, perhaps a bit more flour or water or oil. A good baker knows the importance of feeling the dough. You will learn the best texture with experience. This is where you and the kids can discuss the art of breading. When you teach your offspring how to make bread, you are doing them a huge favour. They will never starve at college or while living alone if they have a bread mixer and an air fryer besides the college room microwave oven for perfect popcorn and hopefully in the kitchen down the hall, an oven for baking. Carbs are satisfying and keep one from dangerous all-fat diets that usually end up adding more fat than before but on you, not on the plate. There is no harm in a slice of bread or two a day with lots of good things on top. Kids love to toss in the ingredients for bread making because the mixer does the hard work and when that dough comes out, a little kneading and shaping can feel, for them, very grown-up artistically satisfying. The smell of baking dough is a joy and an invitation to make friends over a slice of warm, buttery bread, fresh out of  your oven. 

Footie

 Not about football, but about feet. No one wants to talk about feet, but they are the most used spot on our bodies, the body outside, at least. Not sure if it's because their location is rather distant, and seen seldom other than fleetingly, that we mostly ignore them. In the days when I didn't mind spending a small fortune on pedis and manis, I loved the attention my feet received. The dear lady who made her living at tending gently and thoroughly, my feet, spent almost an hour pampering them. When the bill for tending to nails and toes didn't somehow fit my budget I gave up the mani and pedi parts of my life. Now, doing the job myself, I quite understand the cost of such treatments. Just getting down there is work enough and lately,  I am seriously thinking of reopening my monthly date with my dear lady of the pedi kind. Many feet are squeezed into the five minute shoe for parties, heels that defy gravity, shoe toes that pinch and finally, at are last comfortably stuffed into favorite slippers or worn ancient sneakers. What puzzles me about the whole foot matter, is the mystique of feet. When I was a teen, my friends bragged very politely about THE shoe store in the city where they bought their shoes. While I had rich friends whose parents didn't wince when the matter of new shoes arose at the dinner table, mine did wince widely, and told me to save up my babysitting funds if I wanted to buy the kinds of shoes my friends had. Food came before foot wear at our house. It's where I learned that the fancy shoe store dumped their left overs for the annual, much-sought-after sale that even the rich secretly attended. I was there every sale with my babysitting money clutched in hand. My rich friends had lots of shoes, but my closet held one pair of regular shoes that sat next to last year's pair along with the cheap fake version of the latest sneakers. As to fancy shoes for dances, a regular pair had to make do. None of the present teen generation knows what this is all about. We didn't do credit cards when I was a kid. What came home in Mom and Dad's pay was all that there was, and we were lucky to own our house which is a rarity these days. Then, house and food came before fashion. Today is different. Why do we ignore our feet? Most people have some part of their foot or feet that they deem to be hidden from view.  I inherited a bump on my foot that plagued my aunt who had hers removed at great discomfort, but she didn't mind. I do, and simply hide my bump as best I can. I have been know to take a strong pair of scissors and neatly and hopefully hidden, do things to my shoes that invisibly to others, make them more comfortable. Also, like my mid-European body that is  wider, so are my feet to match. My elegant rich friends, who, for some reason have impossibly narrow feet, prove that the richer you are, the more skinny are your feet. I wear a very small size but wide, and their feet are as long as skis. It is as though, their feet have somehow been pulled to great lengths while others are left to be their comfy little wide selves. Of course, I make no outward comparisons but I do pamper myself with that thought. As I age, I don't worry about shoes or that only the most expensive kinds are narrow. I buy what fits with an ahhhh. It keeps me in a good mood. 

Shame No Cane

 Used to be centuries ago, that walking sticks were very fashionable. Both sexes held them, not due to aging situations, but as an accessory. They were very visible and decorated elaborately. In Louis The Fourteenth's day they were bejewelled and their taps on marble floors were considered  the rock music of the day. When grandmother wanted a cup of tea, she struck her stick on the carpet and the heirs came running. Most were sported by the elderly and respected as sensible, useful additions that  helped persons go about in a dignified manner. That was then. These days of replacement surgery at a wink, canes are largely used only during rehabilitation after surgery. Those of us who abhor surgical procedures unless absolutely necessary, use canes and we are very grateful for them I will have you know. But there are people such as rather close friends, who look askance secretly at being seen in the company of a caned individual. If their aging situation is not the same. One lady, who fancies her golf sporting skills, however limited, considers it embarrassing to be with other ladies who carry canes. She is able to skip along lithely she thinks. And more power to her. This person's aging challenges are of the hearing and seeing variety. These don't require highly visible aids such as canes or walkers. Thus, they can hide their hearing aids and wear fancy eyeglasses and feel somewhat superior. Canes are a great assist to one's self - confidence just as hidden hearing aids or contact lenses. In either case, a fall can become a serious problem. I have a wardrobe of canes and walking sticks and feel no shame in their use. I happen to have nothing wrong with eyes or ears but I have one bad knee that I've been assigned in my particular aging repertoire. I've already had one minor operation on the thing, but now other conditions have arisen. Surgery, however, to me, is a last resort. Most of my friends are astounded that I don't just dash in and get my knee bones sawed off and a piece of metal stuck into what's left. They tell me they did it and look at them. Apparently, in many instances, once is not enough. A second hip or knee could be necessary to continue age marathoning. I prefer to keep my bones intact until the situation becomes desperate in spite of all their enthusiasm saying "why not just take the surgery and be done with it." My first cane was a joke. I was the family eldest at a reunion, and on the last day, the relatives presented me with a cane. Lots of laughter about it. But I am really smiling now because it's a boon to lean on the same cane, a rather sensible black one but a jolly nuisance, too. It isn't the cane so much as its proclivity in falling over with a loud smack when parked.  Also my deaf and half-blind pals who skip around like teens find it embarrassing to be with someone caned who looks "old". They are in fact older than I am. The other day, I went to my garage storage cage and there was my mothers walker. I took it for a spin and wow. The walker, compared to a cane, is like a jet plane compared to a red wagon. I can walk straight up and sit down when I please and roll along at a good clip. And no falling stick that makes everyone jump when it hits the floor. Good-bye cane, hello walker. Maybe. 

The Reclusive Life

Most advice for reclusive types like me, is that it isn't healthy being home a lot. You must go out and about they urge or you aren't well. Why I ask? I've always been a form of loner in spite of a long time, enjoyable career in Education. I suspect there are many people just like me who simply love being on their own, doing their own life their own way. I am the same as everyone else: I shop, I visit, I keep up with world events, I game, I stay in touch with relatives and friends. What I don't do, is go out every day or sometimes every two or three weeks. You must go walking I am told. Fine, I walk but not out on long pointless meanderings thank you very much. I find that boring and would much rather read a good book on my Kindle or play online Bridge or write on my keyboard, rather than go to parties or clubs or teas or restaurants that some of my acquaintances fret that I should do more often. Why? Having been a kind of loner most of my life, until I met another loner to marry happily, I find being alone, not lonely. I like it. I like it a lot. There are no arguments or disagreements or space discomforts. Yes, there is still cooking and cleaning and managing it all, but the decisions are by one alone.  Me. A loner needs carefully to consider matters that most other people talk over with their buddies or spouses. But life is simple and clean and peaceful, alone. With a computer and all that it offers world-wide, how can I be bored? Ever. All the " but it isn't right that you have your groceries delivered and do almost all of your shopping on line and that is sad and worrisome". Not to me. I have the world to shop in. I do everything on line with good security. It offers me games to play and endless information.  Sure, I have family and all the rest, and when I do go out to clubs or social events, I enjoy them enormously. But they aren't what ensures my complete happiness. I am out on my sundeck every day to enjoy what I see and hear and sense. My world is small and beautiful and I surround myself with items that have meaning and offer stories and are beautiful objects holding memories of world travel and adventure. In short, my home is my world of the past, present and future, all set up in one place that I live right inside, and I love it. No thanks, to the white, gray and silver hardwood space lengths with nothing to feast your eyes on or tell people who you are, that is the current decor. My grandgather clock is right next to the modern metal mirror, the antique desk holds orchids along with the two ancient ink well dogs that gaze up at them. My new black leather couch, has behind it, a very up-date art piece of a woman contemplating or meditating. She has an aura that bespeaks mystery. Some of my tables were once very old trees that lived and breathed in a forest. My favorite books line some of the walls. No, I am not a minimalist. This is my alone world, my planet, my carless careless life that I love. No argument about it, I am a confirmed recluse. Well, sort of. 

Golden Age? Humbug

 Being a "senior citizen", a kindly word for aged, is certainly not golden. Gold is a beautiful expensive substance that is proudly displayed. Why the word "gold" is used to describe what it's like to be old is ridiculous. There is little "beautiful" in terms of the present day meaning of "beautiful",  nor is age proudly displayed other than the thought of achieving a long life. Being of the so-called Golden Age is actually a time that is, for most people, uncomfortable. Aging brings challenges. If you are a woman, you either give up or you try too hard. Out comes either wearing the give-up and be granny dress or else the spa memberships, diets, hair dye, the "procedures" in an attempt to look younger.  None of them work unless  you like fooling yourself. Nor has everyone the money to do it. And for some, aging it is a painful, lonely experience they never thought they would suffer. Our society worships young. Sure, we all lie about how great it is to build "all your wonderful memories".  Really? When the door is shut, it's another tale. In some cultures, old age is respected and even revered. The young of those groups listen to the aged for their own benefit. In most Western cultures, age is ignored, ridiculed and/or feared. I am being honest here, and it is uncomfortable to be honest. Truth hurts. The endless jokes about aging begin age fortyish with receiving cute emails listing all the ho ho ho about it.  They're cute. And "cute" is not necessarily a word for pretty. You wake up one day and say to yourself, oh oh, I'm an an oldie. My my back, my knees, my whole body tells me. My hair is thinning, falling out, turning white. The way people treat me is as  a fragile, mindless wreck to moan and coo at. They "help" you when you didn't ask for it. I see movies with duded up old guys paired with women younger  than their daughters, while the old female actors are either not hired or relegated to roles as the witchy bosses. And if the female actors are seen with younger men, they're called the name of a dangerous animal. So what to do about the aging state? One solution is to believe that younger people hee hee, are going to be where  you are shortly, if that's your comfort. It isn't mine. Or, you can ignore the ignorant comments and mores that don't see you as what you truly are wrinkles and sags notwithstanding.  You have experience that younger people have yet to earn. Theirs will be different, but experience is what built our human history. We learn from each other. Do not give up the importance of your contribution. Be steadfast and hold your head high to blast through all that silliness and be You. You are still you with all you've lived no matter what is going on with your wearing down body. Even if sometimes forgetful or slower or don't hear or see as well, you remain everything you did before you found yourself "old". You experienced what no one else has or ever will, and that's what makes you, you. What others say about memories is absolutely true.  You are a naturally aging human being who has enjoyed the beautiful, precious gift of life on earth. That's the gold.

Book Club Blues

 My book club is important to me, but like every organization one belongs to, changes take place. As new members enter or leave, it's natural. So far, we have been able to keep it going and doing very well. We are all satisfied with how it's working. We don't use one book together, but bring to our gatherings, what we have read and that which impresses us enough to talk about it with others. Since we all have specific tastes, members of our six or so, enjoy learning from each others' choices, about a book or author,  that we would like to try. But also, as in any other book club, some of the routines we made in the past, are either escalating or declining and the time has come to discuss them. I am going to avoid being specific to our own book club, but most of what happens, does so in all of them that are long-running. When you have six personalities, you have six egos and six needs and six histories and six hopes and six tastes. Well, six everythings. That's what makes it interesting. In our book club, we live or lived, in the same condo building, and our ages and situations are somewhat similar. This is good and not so good. The good part, is that if we have a glass of wine, we don't need to drive anywhere to get to book club. It's just up or down the elevator and/or hallway. Although we live in the same building, we aren't too close personally, so that when we go to book club, we still learn something new about our fellows. But, since we all live under the same basic roof, we are inclined occasionally to talk about "what's going on in this place" and that is not a good idea to get into. Fortunately in our group, we aren't afflicted with a dominating person who wants only to talk about itself or attempts to determine what we should and should not read or do. That would make life difficult!  What does need changing, and what often happens in a close group such as ours, is sometimes dwelling too much into personal matters of  individuals. Of course, we have empathy for each other and our situations, but it's something that needs control. We often digress for too long.  If it becomes  too personal or time-consuming,  it can overshadow the true purpose of the book club. We are there about books and reading. Number One. In some groups, I have heard, there are individuals with strong egos who dominate the group irresistibly and wield power in such a way,  that it is hard to control. Everyone wants to be "nice". But the democratic process rules. When situations arise, hopefully, book club members will be open and frank but respectful  enough to discuss problems and how to solve them, in a peaceful, understanding and generous atmosphere. When a book club strays from its original purpose, it takes courage for the group to bring it back to be what it needs to be. Problems that can sink a book club might be  gossip pits , deep therapy sessions, individual ego shows, over elaborate food and décor opportunities and others.  Any matter than causes the group or a host, stress is unfair.  Book clubs are wise to assess from time to time, where they stand, and how to make changes that will work.  Only then, can we readers, continue saying, long live our book club. 

Crushing Comment

 As many of you, I , too, read the daily news on-line offered by our tax-payer funded media. I enjoy learning what reporters are doing and their presentations of what and how they see goings on.  Many of these show a kind of personal or professional bias the arises from the plethora of "investigative" staff who are very often free-lancers selling their "stuff" to whatever media will buy it. When this kind of "reporting" happens I feel that the reader should be informed that they are seeing a certain bias which is fostered by certain reporters who firmly believe that they have sniffed out some kind of injustice and want the world to know about it and receive money for it. All well and good, but what happens is that it lends authority to the reporter who has put itself into a very crucial and judgemental position. People say, "well, if it is written, it has to be true." And that's okay too, as long as the audience is aware of their "slant", if there be one. The media giants who buy these articles should be aware of something called democratic opinion making. I often comment on articles I read, in the area where that is made possible and also, often, I am deleted by their censorship folk. I agree that distasteful comment should be removed, but often what I comment on and how, is not distasteful even though it may present an opposing viewpoint other than the article's. I try to make my comments respectful and naturally, without the use of rude language, but with an opinion perhaps not of the reporter's. Sometimes it is what I consider a better perspective. I find it frustrating when my comment that seems just as fair as others in the string but that which takes a different stance than others that are permitted to remain. In fact, I find it downright disrespectful. Reporters ought to appreciate this. Sure, there are always differing sides or points of view in every situation regardless of how perhaps  unpopular they might be. And when commenting others are permitted to disagree. It all should be fair.  To be swiftly denied making a comment, however, tastefully presented but with a different view than the writer of the article, seems to be flying the face of what reporting is all about. A true reporter is a writer who presents a picture of what actually happened without colouring it in any way, while often reporters do the opposite and write the piece with their own take. That is not reporting, that's essaying. If not actually "essaying", it can also be a push to become popular with others who may hold the same  opinion and thus they, be recognised as a "buddy" of that philosophy. Do you see what I mean? Writing to pad up one's popularity by adding more fuel to a reporter's fire, is not challenging free thought which should always be at the bottom of every reporter's efforts. That doesn't mean one should be stirring up an audience ire, but neither should it be pandering the writer's ego by merely underlining what is a already a popular opinion. A comment on an article, ought to be welcomed and treated fairly, even  if it is an opposing viewpoint. If it is tastefully written and comes up with a unique idea, I feel another writer should welcome it. My reason is that often times I see, perhaps being older, a longer perspective than that of my own nose, one that is a considered and not something that simply underscores an already trite one. That's as stupid as counting one's"hits" on line. The hype of that trash is ugh. We all need to think critically and while perhaps opinions by non- professionals isn't important, it ought to be aired for freedom of speech and opinion's sake if nothing else. 

Rock On

 Not a big fan of hard music rock, I don't mind a little soft rock. But this isn't about music. As I've said before, I go out every single day: rain, shine, sleet or snow to have my first coffee on the deck. I love the time sitting in my basket chair just rocking and sipping. There's something about not only being outside no matter the weather, and that "something", is rocking. This morning, while gazing at the great sentinel cedars rising nearby above these city roofs, and watching the birds beginning to gather and flock as they do in the Fall, I rock. I call it my meditation time, and it beats medication. I had some elder neighbours once, who took sleeping pills and seldom made an appearance before noon. How sad is that? First of all, those who believe they have to sleep a certain number of hours a night and at certain times while they are retired, have it all wrong. When you don't work, you can sleep any time you wish. If you sleep away the morning, the best half of the day, you are missing out. If I happen to wake up at three in the morning, I think, what a great time to do some reading or maybe writing on my computer. Who cares about the clock or the silly questions elders are asked such as "who is the prime minister" or " what's the date"? Learned people put a lot of weight on these questions. Do we care? Nope.  I have news for  you. Seniors have given up living by the clock or calendar other than the necessary dates and times required for appointments. And even then, we don't always take them seriously. If we err on them, hey, that is a senior "normal". Being out on my deck in my rocking basket chair, can be at any time of the day or night and it's always a joy no matter when. I can see only one bright star at night, due to the scathingly brilliant lights used for "security" by my neighbours. Thieves don't have wings and usually go on foot, so what's the point in lighting up a whole sky?  Keep those things shining down where they belong. Please. Back to rocking. When we are babies, and need comfort, we are rocked. As tots, we love to have a toy to sit on and rock. The rocking motion is comforting due to our being inside our moms as they moved about. The rocking motion makes us feel safe as we were then.  When we are small children we head for the park or back yard swings because, there again, we love to rock. It makes us feel like flying and being free of gravity that is constantly at work pulling us and everything else ever down.Those who are afflicted with certain mental complaints often rock to comfort themselves. How else can they express this need for comfort? Rocking seems to be something that everyone loves, and many people save their old mismatching rocking chair to rock in. We need, in this stressed-out world, to find comfort, and what better way than to rock. It's free. and makes on feel free. Rocking back and forth is not gazing at the TV black news or silly cell phone and being addicted to plucking away at it for no reason at all. Put these things down, and get into a rocking chair, a swing, a swinging basket chair hung inside or out, and rock your cares away.  As you rock, just rock, not talk, not worry, not stress you'll fee much better. Try it and  you'll see. 

Air Fryer Little Liar

 An air fryer doesn't fry, it sizzles because it's really a tiny convection oven and doesn't fry at all.  That's the "lie" or the "lay of it".  Before putting out the money for the one I eventually bought, I did some research on this kind of relatively new kitchen appliance. Most of the air fryers are large and do take up counter space galore. They're a bit too heavy to pop under the counter, so likely. if you have one, it will sit on your counter top. Mine is right beside my glass topped stove and when I use it, I simply set it onto the stove top and therefore have access to the fan as well. By now, you know that I appreciate my air fryer and use it often to cook meals for one. But it would easily do for two as well. Or just for snacks for a busy family. Youngsters can use the appliance with a little training and supervision of course. Paying close attention to what I learned on the net, You Tube advice, I bought one that is highly recommended but has only an oven part, no glass or multi racks and other do dads that don't actually do what they say. All you need is the oven kind and I would say, buy the one that may not look as cute, but is deigned to work better than they do. And don't buy a bunch of racks. They are just not necessary.  My AF is so easy to clean, it's ridiculous. When I take out and set aside, the cooked product, I put the oven with the handle into my farm sink (the large no divider type because I like space in a sink) and fill it with hot water,  squirting in some detergent. I leave the no-stick rack inside and let the fryer shelf sit for a bit before washing it and drying it and putting it back into its "garage" on the fryer. No heavy scraping and cleaning necessary. Today, I piled some fresh cut potato slices, green beans and onion rounds in the centre of the rack and circliing them right out of the freezer, chicken wings. Of course, I rinsed the potato and dried the pieces and dredged  the whole mess in herbed olive oil before popping it into the fryer. In less than twenty minutes, I had a delicious, fragrant meal of meat and veg that tasted great and was not overdone. The air fryer doesn't mind you popping open the little door and checking occasionally. Yesterday, I use a frozen burger patty with a thick onion slice on top and enjoyed a home-done hamburger for lunch with lots of lettuce and tomato on top. If you live alone in a small space, I  highly recommend this as a vital tool helper that will do just about anything an oven will. Herbs and spices are highly favoured to make meals done in your bitsy oven that also roasts as well with timing you can set. It also turns itself off if you forget. While it may cost you what seems a lot at first, it is an energy saver because doing small items using a large stove oven is like heating a mansion when all you really need is one warm room. I would also suggest that you buy a quick touch thermometer to make sure your final temps are safe when doing meats. I AFed a marinated steak the other day,  and it was perfect.

The Power Be With You

 Love my radio and the other day, someone berated the no laundry outside rule as environmently unfriendly. She is right. No one wants to see Aunt Matilda's bloomers wafting in the breeze but what if it's only her towels and sheets and nothing intimate to offend the eyes. We are after all trying to reduce our footprints and that must include socks. Some of the drying racks these days have sock clips on them. How very clever. Taking these matters to heart, my deck which does, indeed, have glass panels, but which I cover with lovely cross hatced bamboo panels for the image of greeness in this city I love, I aimed to put some laundry outside in the sunshine. This morning , instead of loading up the dryer that takes most of one's hydro supply and cost, in a household, I took the washing basket out to my deck. The things inside the basket are almost dry what with the mega spin on my washer. I found my old laundry rack that fortunately fits below the level of the deck railing and loaded it on the deck, with hand towels and other non-offensive personal items. Who could be offended by a towel? Then I took an unused expandable bar about the size of a shower curtain holder and stretched it between two of my little wrought iron deck chairs and draped a folded sheet over it. Ah, I felt like being back in my rural seaside home where I lived for decades up the coast, and had a real clothes line that I loved to watch with white sheets floating in the wind. Will they smell as sweet with city air as they did by the Salish Sea? Likely not, but it's all air no matter where. I hoped. I felt somewhat guilty because there are condo rules I live by now, but because I live at the building rear where no one can see me other than a few friendly crows and seagulls lofting by. Would I be caught by the laundry police for putting sheets to the wind? I feared I might find, under my door, a dreaded white envelope. It could  tell me I am being fined for breaking the no laundry on the deck rule.  Well, said I to myself, they'll probably give me one chance since I am one of those LOLs, little old ladies.  Or will they, whomever "they" is. Not all my laundry can fit on the small drying rack, and some is, therefore, going round and round in my dryer. But this illegal laundry I hang out with a smile, see that the sun is shining on it. Will it smell beautiful when I bring it in, even if it's the last laundry ever to grace my deck? In a fit of positivity, I ordered some clothes pins, stainless steel. so they won't show up outside. I really wanted to buy the ones that are all colours, simply to glorify my washing efforts for the globe. I am now an underground criminal of the condo laundry kind and must, shhh,  operate surreptitiously. If I am found out and receive my warning letter from the "they", I determine for the good of the world,  to use the laundry rack beside the window inside, if nothing else. And of course, there's always the bathtub and my big walk-in shower where the laundry rack will fit. I am going to do my part, no matter what. There are fans in bathrooms to take out the dampness should there be any. Electric heat in my unit, is too dry anyway. 

Cell Of A Phone

 Phones that "do everything" are what we call the gripped thing in your hand, the bit of plastic that is never out of your sight or mind. In Dick Tracy's day, they were invented. Dick spoke into his wrist or shoe phone to solve crimes. Now, they do a lot more: to watch movies, make them, banking, baby sitting and love matching, plus dozens of other tasks including shopping and reading books. The word "cell" is appropriate because those using them are certainly in a phone cell. They are trapped. Few of these "prisoners" have "land lines" for back-up. Anyone who loses a cell phone is in a panic. It's kind of like carrying a Hope Diamond around and never daring to let it out of one's sight. I am not in the generation that insists life is impossible without the cell phone, thus connected to every aspect of  business life including social ones. Being in my generation doesn't mean I don't have one of the things, it simply means it isn't my life blood.  I use it when I go out the door. I don't like cell phones, but I don't hesitate to like the humans who have them even if, semi attached to their bodies.  The whole matter of cell phones has even, garment folk, who add pockets to skin tight gym wear and build ugly towers in beautiful places. One can't they argue be out of contact or coverage. They must be able to speak to their friends every second of the day- and night and do business even on their days off.  When there is no cell phone, most of these addicts can't function. Well, they could, but they are addicts after all, and can't bear waiting to make a call. They laugh at the other kind of appliance called a "land line". Most of these cell folk,  consider it grossly uncool  to have such. As you can tell, I am sick of seeing cell phones in hand everywhere and used non-stop. Heads are down as humans walk down the street, eat at restaurants, wait in line-ups, shop and talk into the air not paying the slightest attention to what's going on around them. Most don't need to chat, not the word means conversation, but are merely having an inane blab with some other nutty cell user. These devices are not all bad, well, none of them are, but their user' habits might be. When I was between condos I did all of my business thankfully with my cell phone. There was no other reliable communication system available. My mail, my correspondence with acquaintances and my entertainment were all done thru the cell phone. Had to be.  It worked for what it was made for. Most users of the cell are those don't need to but want to be in the habit of never being out of touch with their people. Often times it leads to grief because it's an impetuous form of interaction.  It isn't a need, it's a choice and there's nothing wrong with it when used the right ways. What it does do, is disallow one, just as being in a prison cell, any outside contact in other random human situations. It disallows humans listening to outside sounds or exploring anything outside one's own small circle.  A cell phone keeps you in a cell, in short. Parents also keep their kids in the same cell and often their pets and houses, too. They never take a break and get away from the grind. And worst of all, those who are nunned to their cell phones, don't discover what's out there besides what's inside their  cells. 

Incredible Shrinking Groceries

 There was one sci fi movie long ago and another recently that told the tale of people being shrunken down to a minute size. Their economy in doing so almost paid for the process they suffered to get that way. I'm not sure what their end results were, but hopefully they somehow returned to their original size to match everyone around them. That could be called a happy ending. Looking at my grocery delivery today, it wasn't a happy ending. I'm not going to join the plethora of complainers, suers and blamers out there, but I sort of want to today. The turkey for Thanksgiving is no bigger than a roasting chicken that would have cost a lot less. When I saw what has to feed six adults this holiday Thanksgiving weekend coming up, was laughable and those who live on the floor above and below must have heard my laughter  of hilarity when I saw this tiny, little Grade A bird that looked like something from the land of the shrunken people. The sack of stuffing croutons was bigger than the festive bird. Since we usually have to send everyone home with turkey meat and find containers for such, I comforted myself with that thought while in wonder over the tiny turkey, a mere icon of  our big ones inThanksgivings Past. There would be no left overs this year, and I will go easy on the stuffing mix and use half of the cranberry sauce in something else. Both dwarf the bird. Later, I saw the little bag of flour that used to be big at the same price, I'm not sure if I will use my bread flour for indulgences such as full loaves and perhaps make buns instead.  There were no brussels sprouts, the fresh kind so I may have to opt for frozen, if I can find them. My usual root veggie dish with carrots, turnips and parsnips would make up for it. Or so I thought. When I put away the carrots and parsnips, both  at luxury store prices, I searched for the turnip. Rutabaga is usually the size of three or four oranges that I no longer buy due to their high cost and low quality now. At the bottom of the paper bag, there was a little hard thing the size of a mandarin orange. Lo and behold, it was my turnip. I didn't know that they grew miniature ones. This was one and it certainly would not hold its own in my root veg casserole. Another order for turnip would be doubled to make up for the shrunken turnip in spite of its  giant sized cost. When I extracted the baby turnip from, the bottom of the sack, once again my peals of laughter could be heard far and wide. Other than the big box of cereal that has so far not been shruken by today's economy I noted that the jarred items had certainly gone the way of sci fi. The little squatty jars were so small they looked as though they belonged on the shelves of a play house. The mayo and the cheese spread that is my fave comfort food, will no longer be slathered onto my toast. They will be knifed across with speed and agility, to become but a slight flavouring of their former selves, rather than a nice squishy delight that pushed out the side of a sandwich as it once did. What used to be ten paper bags for recycle,have been reduced to only half of that. That's the good news. The use of paper is thus reduced, but my grocery bill is not. It goes up and up, and ever up but never down. 

Our Garden

 Let's talk about "god" or "God" or whatever name you give yours or not. For some, their god is the job or the career, money or a lover or ambition or greatness, sometimes evil. For others, it is the love of their lives and their families and their friends and their neighbours. And some say, there is no god or perhaps that there are many of them. It is their freedom and their choice to do so. The older you become, you see things no more as a child who has been directed in a certain way, but with aging, you've gone a long way on the path of life and you form your own ideas of what it's all about. Age and experience can change what you once thought or  believed in, to the point where you're not sure entirely what it all means. Many question their very existence. That sounds confusing, and unless you are "old" and can deal with questioning your life without bitterness  or blame, it's an okay time of searching. We elders don't mind speaking our minds, and we do have them, and in spite of what some well-meaning  folks think about our "minds" deteriorating with age, we are pretty good at knowing. But we try to be quiet about matters and truths since we have come to believe, based on our many years of life, that we know something younger folks don't,  as yet. Something I began to think, the other day because death has visited others I am close to, far too often, is the "god" matter. It kind of comforts me in a way to think of it in a new light.  I began to see God or the Supreme Being or whatever  your spiritual head is, as a gardener. The Gardener prepares life, the soil, waters it and makes the sunlight shine on the garden. It, The Gardener, whom none of us has met, nor likely ever will, but might want to, does a great job of making sure that where the seeds, us as humans, go, to have the best chance of living and growing. The soil has everything we humans need for living a good life. We, the seeds begin in the soil and everything that happens from then on, is solely our doing. The Gardener looks on and is always there to continue nourishing us and watching. But not doing for us. That is up to us and becomes our good fortune or bad. Seeds don't always grow well and some might be twisted either at the beginning  or later on, but we all start out the same way. We are seeds, and do what seeds are supposed to do no matter what. We grow.  How we grow often depends entirely on ourselves and where we put our energy and strength and desire to be alongside others. The Gardener is happy when we grow well and thrive and produce seeds and add support to all the other plants around us. I am sure The Gardener is saddened when some plants don't put out leaves or flowers or seeds and could while others, sadly try, but cannot. The Gardener hears the rustle of  leaves in the wind, the snapping of seed pods flung out to grow on their own,  the breaking of stems and falling and failing of flowers or petals on dying plants. The Gardener hears and sees but does nothing. It can't. The Gardener sees the loss and pities and continues to nourish the soil and send the rain and the sun and the wind. It's all the Gardener can do. The plants bend and raise their buds to The Gardener hoping for some help, but Gardeners can only sense; they can't help growing and changing and dying and living because only the plants can do that for themselves and The Gardener is not a plant.  The Gardener is just there.  

The Gift of Death

 We humans can't help thinking and believing that we are going to live forever. We avoid the subject of death, but it's inevitable. No one escapes, just as birth, the entrance into life.  Here we are, on our planet, growing, working, dreaming, longing, loving, fighting, praying, suffering: all of it, but for only a limited time. What we do here, might not live on. Most of us are remembered for only a couple of generations.  Humans who have become through their works and times, can be famous or infamous. Even then, there are limitations to those fames because it all depends upon who wants to remember them and their acts and who doesn't. The living control the earth and our dead famous are only reminders of what was, be it good or not. No fairy tales or great deeds or spiritual beliefs or wants or hopes or wishes, will change the fact that no matter what we do, we all end.  But it's not all bad. We do, after all, live. Life is the greatest gift we own. No matter how brilliant or creative or rich or poor or good or evil, our time will come. And when the time comes, death, either quick or not, we have only one opportunity to live. How the ending turns out, long or short, often seems unfair, and those who believe in fate say  that our time and work is written to happen no matter what. We respond, okay then, I'll just sit back and let it all happen because if it's all mapped out for me, why should I fret and putting forth effort. Others, like a certain very old lady I know, tells everyone that she will be living to one hundred twenty because it's her decision. Some folks do, in fact, get pretty close to that age. And why shouldn't she plan to live "forever"in spite of fatalists? Her karma, she says, is of her own writing, thank you very much. But death comes along in its own time, self karma  or not. Death  isn't always quiet and peaceful. If you have been beside someone who is dying and there is a struggle, you know the thought we all have. "Please just let 'it' happen."  Death is one of the realities we don't want to look at.  When I say the "gift" of death, it's the one where someone chooses to end ones own existence. They want it to be their choice, just as the old woman who plans to live  until one hundred twenty, they want theirs to end before the "bad stuff" happens while dying.  Family or friends  sit about their loved one's last days, in support. The  time is called The Vigil. If you've been there, often you wish for a faster, easier release for the person and now, there is such relief as their personal choice. The legal implications, however,  can be challenging. A  matter of self-ending, is not suicide which is something entirely different but is one chosen by those who have a mortal illnesses and/or aging complications and don't want to suffer pain.  To people who have chosen that route for their dying, it's a choice that is theirs personally and they feel it is, along with their supporters, personal, humane and sensible. Even if the documents are signed and permission given, sometimes, the legal "formulae" doesn't fit. Because they have unexpectedly had to become involved in medications that remove clear communications, they are not able to have relief via their choice of time to die.They, therefore, are not able to have their wishes, carried out. I find this doesn't  make sense. The personal choice of the dying, if it's  known should be adhered to as planned. Someone who plans such an ending has followed previously all the rules as laid out. Life and legalities don't always match. I am left hoping that this problem, might one day soon be remedied. One's life, is, after all, one's own. It seems that self-ending, should be a human freedom that should include the ending of life be stated and unless at the last minute is denied by the chooser, it go ahead as planned. It can be for many, the  Gift of Death. 

Clothes Horse

 The "clothes horse" is galloping away and landfills are full of them. Most of us load up large bags and boxes of clothing and shoes to give away occasionally, but much of it ends up in a dumpster and then goes to the landfill. Attire can be inexpensive or not, according to what we can afford to pay. Even babies are now laden with fashion trends and demands by moms. Young mothers come together with others, and want their baby to look sharp with the latest togs and equipment lables. The baby could, of course, care less as long as it is comfortable. But by the time the child goes off to pre-school or day care and school, he and she, have been indoctrinated into how one must fit into style or not fit at all. The shoes have to be a certain kind as well as the body wear right down to backpacks including what goes inside. Youngsters are burdened with our adult goofiness from birth onward until some of the bad stuff, is sadly ingrained. Fashion rules. If those who create it, could, in some way, adapt, it would be beneficial to the world and all society except fashionista addicts. First of all, cheap means cheap and sure, you can find what looks a good copy of classy designs, but the fabrics show it after a couple of washings. I know, because I don't always want to put out wasteful money and having no compunction about buying cheap, I do it but often regret it. I like classic design, very good workmanship and excellent fabrics that wear well and stay looking newish.  But, this "like" is expensive, and most of us save  to get one or two essential pieces only, ones that will last a long time. A basic  tailored blazer, a tailored coat, a pair of pants that fit well and maybe a little black dress that will go anywhere, anytime, are usually what costs most, but they become the best investment. One wishes, somehow, manufacturers of clothing would use only good materials along with simple but changeable designs. Also, at good prices. Why not a blazer, skirt, dress and pants that can be converted to dress up or down? First of all, fit is essential, therefore, adjustable sizing helps. A blazer is loose and looks good over almost anything. Jackets could have easily replaceable buttons for example: gold or silver, ceramic or woods,patterned or not. A waist adjustable skirt that could be a mini, average or maxi hemline as well as detachable pockets, belts, and ties.  A plain, easy fit dress, one that has differing hem lines, over-skirts and detachable additions might work. Outlets could make a business of selling interesting garment  accessories rather than garments entirely. A basic coat for whatever climate one lives in, with, again, additions of collars, pockets and panels, for a change could be fun. Instead of scouting stores trying-on piles of clothing, one might feel better earthfootprint ways, shopping for accessories for our sustainable basic fashions. Care for basic materials such a cotton or wool, is often more simple than maintaining synthetics.  I don't iron, but steam which takes the labour out of laundry day. No lugging around an ironing board and whizzing iron. The garment is on a hanger and a few passes with steam do the trick. If we change our thinking on wearables, we'd keep the landfills down and the closets less crowded and our consciences relieved. Change is possible. 

Biting The Bullet

Costs are soaring and we are all trying to find ways to cut back. Got rid of the car that I hardly ever used except to keep the battery charged. Driving was silly when I travelled only locally. The car sale price easily paid for an electrically charged cart  that gets me to the mall and back for nothing other than a pleasant ride along the sidewalk. Taxies and transit are much less expensive than owning a car. What stood in the way of making that move, was mere vanity. Some elders, agonize over selling their cars. They say,  it's a loss of my independence. Nonsense. Young New Yorkers do it by the thousands. A taxi is much cheaper and picks you up at your door and drops you off at a door.  Plus you can rent your parking space out. Aging shouldn't be embarrassed doing what needs doing, but we think we must jump hurdles along the way. I don't jump. One of the imagined sillinesses about old age, is pride.  For some strange reason people are ashamed of aging. They make corny jokes about it and expect you to laugh along with them. No thanks. Life is a serious matter. Groceries are a heavy expense now. That one is easy enough to reduce. Instead of steak or chops, there is ground meat. Same thing, different shape. The cheap lettuce is just as good as the greener fluffy stuff. Get a regular cabbage, forget fashionable kale and friends. The old reliable brown potatoes make just as delicious dishes as the coloured or tiny taters. Same thing, different form. Your body doesn't know about organics - or care.  If you can find a farmer's market that is real and that has inexpensive produce, not these rhinestone cowboy "markets" with hiked up prices, you are doing yourself a favour. Buy from the head, not the heart. Canned salmon is just as good for your bod, as slabs of the fresh. Try baking your own bread instead of getting the costly loaves that are exactly the same thing but with sprinkles. You can sprinkle, too. Give up those little packages of handy dandy food quickies with their long lists of preservatives. Do it yourself. It takes no more time to roast a little metal bound bundle of veg and meat with a squirt of oil and a dash of herbs, than doing the pre-prepared junk food in packaging.  To save money, stop whining and get busy and shop with nutrition in mind and a willingness to make changes for a way to better prices. My airfryer that is nothing more than a tiny convection oven will do miraculous meals for one. And it is a power and time saver. Air fryers also roast foods.  Up with the chicken wings and french fried carrots, cauliflower, yams and potatoes in your air fryer. Yay for spinach and cabbage. Yum for melons and local berries. And congratulations if you are willing to make changes that will save you coinage and allow you some fun DIY.

Best Kid Holiday

Don't think that kids need Hawaii or Disneyland for the best holiday ever. You can either go with your child or send your child to a farm. It's worth it. But make sure it's a real farm, not some cutesy dude ranch. What children will learn living for a week or two on a farm is about "themselves". They may learn to do what they don't want to because it is part of what everyone must do to be an "everyone". They'll learn that milk comes from a cow and eggs come from a chicken and meat comes from an animal, not bottles or  boxes or plastic trays. They'll learn to leave the electronics by and take a look at what really matters in human lives. I make no apologies for harking back to my past on The Farm because we don't learn everything from the present. Life on a real farm isn't about pressing buttons or calling for Mom or Dad to do it for you. You do it yourself or share doing it. Farm life is a DIY setting. We were sent to our grandparent's farm when Mom and Dad went off to do their holiday. On this farm, electicity and running water were absent. Impossible you say? No. The battery radio went on once at night for Grampa's news. The newpaper was the Sunday one, that had to be picked up in "town". We always went, riding on the back of the flat deck truck holding on for dear life. We knew an ice cream cone each was next. We all shared the comics, our reading lesson of the day and loved all week.  My cousins went to the farm and all at once. Sometimes six or seven of us at a time. Our grandparents loved us and knew us to become self-trusting enough to look out for horse's hoofs when we helped dung out the barns, to stay out of the bull pen and not eat anything wild we didn't know. They said, if you go climb trees in the orchard, make sure there isn't a bear in it first. Otherwise, we went  everywhere we had the courage to go on this beautiful section of land outside the village of Haney. There were streams to wade in and fish in, to try and catch with safety pin hooks and rods we made ourselves. The farm cats and dogs were not for playing. Sport, the "watch dog", was cranky but looked out for us. We tried to catch the barn cats but they had too many escape routes. Gramma did all the cooking on her huge black wood stove, milked the cows in the evenings and took us to gather eggs warm from under the hens. We could climb onto the horses backs using their manes as reins for riding.  No one said to stay out of the garden with sweet carrots, peas on vines, green onions and radishes to nibble on. There were endless wild berries to pluck, and trails in the woods with streams to bathe in. At night we had bread and milk laced with honey before card games with Grampa. We all slept together in a big bed, lying across it and telling eachother  stories. No one told us when to go to bed or get up. The loo was a tiny building down the hill with an old Eaton's catalogue on a hook and a pail of dirt with a trowel in it. We were taught that good manners were please and thank you and respecting elders: Gramma with the dishes and Grampa in the barn. The books available were the classics only bought once at an auction. Later we read them as Literature in university. Life on The Farm was freedom and lessons nowhere else to find.

The Ultimate Perspective

When we learn that we have a limited life, such as those to whom a medical issue, a mortal one, is announced, it's not all bad news. It's the worst, while being, also, an opportunity. This idea sounds obnoxious, but in truth, while it's something seldom regarded as "nice" there is an up side.  In the elderly, those who can see the endings of their times, it becomes a rather pleasant space in which their lives can be reviewed. I recall the in-laws, whom we cared for at their endings, sitting in the living room of the house we shared, going through their photo albums hours on end. They sat opposite each other in their comfy old chairs, talking about their past friends and places and events as they turned pages. Most of the day, each being very old and not able to move about, enjoyed at length, bringing back memories of their long, sweet lives. They lived through the first and second world wars, they remembered the Great Depression, their  moving to Canada and making it their home, and rearing their family and becoming responsible citizens in a new place. They led in their time, "easy" lives but they worked hard, and at the same time, were comfortable with their place in society.  They contributed by volunteering and becoming an active, quiet part of their chosen world in a new country.  During this time, they were fortunate to be able to consider their good times and bad, their places in family and community and their love for each other. The latter had gone on beyond a sixtieth year of marriage. Not everyone has a chance to see their entire life, one's own, with that kind of perspective. Often impatient younger family are annoyed to hear their stories over and over but the stories are what builds family. When a life-ending announcement says that you are going to die, not pass, but die, and be gone forever, it can be a great sadness. You will lose all you have ever known and loved. But it does awaken something else. It's then that the many scenes of your life come alive again. Even though it's not, for me, in evidence at the moment, it is going to occur in my relatively short future, and that gives me pause, now, to think about my life. I have the dubious good fortune of being able to contemplate it, in my early morning coffee-on-the-deck sessions. Your memory lane has it's place also. These times bring, surprisingly and randomly, certain scenarios and we have time to analyse them to find some kind of reason or value. It's as though one can "fix" what one didn't like about them and then be able to move on. Of course, one can't really "move on" because it's too late, but what one can do, is allow a second look and perhaps form a second opinion that wasn't possible before. That's the "luxury" of memory recall.  Those younger, sadly, who are shocked to learn their lives are going to end before they thought they would, are not only dropped into a sudden maelstrom of medical treatments and grieving social surroundings, they are given little time to meditate on the full length of their lives and times. They are thrown into a sudden pit of conflicting sensations and it's very difficult to concentrate on anything. But when we are alongside someone in this particular place, and there is relative peace, we can help by listening, just hearing and not adding to it. There is an advantage, strange as it may seem, that this person is able to find time to look down the wrong end of the telescope of life at its precious parts  to see some or all of that life, and learn its value. It's an opportunity to sort through it, relive it, and perhaps to find a little gold in it to savor and smile over.

B Button Future

 We all have a B Button as we call it, or properly, a navel. Most kids ask what it's for and the answer can become rather complicated, but we all have one and they don't do anything but make a tiny statement that says we are human. No one that I have heard of, ever got away without having a navel. Since most of us keep them covered and a only a few move them around  surgically:  fashion models, who are occupied with appearance only. They, or their handlers consider the B Button perhaps needs to be higher up or lower down: a style photographer's idea of what is needed for a good shot.Tut tut, just like visible rib cages, one must never be seen to be "ugly". We cover up all the other bits on our bodies that are deemed not to be shown and that are widely considered  "ugly".  Artists are the only folks who like to show what the rest of us don't. We need artists  for that kind of work. They keep us aware of our whole selves, good and not so.  There are B Buttons that are innies and outies and round-abouties, narrow ones and deep ones and stuffed ones, but basically, they are just there and as usually completely ignored. They serve no purpose. The world today, is more or less plugged in, what with all the small electronics that the entire population seems to have about its person constantly. These little gadgets, hand held or lapped or desk topped, or under or over or up or down or shelved or anywhere one looks, rule much of our lives. They get us up, calm us down, send us places, help us communicate, show, tell, annoy, amuse and help. Or make trouble. The down side is, that if one is "out of range", or batteries are dead, the device breaks or the power goes off, one is up a creek. Sometimes when on a hike, literally. Perhaps some day in the distant future, although futures have a way of being right around the corner, we will need to find a bodily location to insert a device so that all of our cumbersome other devices hand held, pocketed or otherwise,  may somehow be coordinated.  And since, it is also becoming more and more important that devices of all kinds are tinier,  it seems to me, with a little adjustment here and there, the navel might become a useful place on the body to put one. Instead of  it being a seldom seen  do dad just waiting for a use, the navel could be convenient for a"connection". It's out front in plain view, accessible, empty and only a waist away. Take the brain for instance, it sits up there on the top of our heads mostly never considered a burden inspite of its weight, doing what no computer could ever do, while remaining costless to run, taking no special towers or wires or outlets or buttons or dials or keys to push, and yet its work is essential to our daily lives.  And no batteries are needed.  Our bodies pay little attention to our brains that go on and on doing their electrical work faithfully, year in and year out, for undue amounts of time that our wonderful electronics, no matter how marvellous they are, can match for length of use, economy and scope, no matter how hard scientists try to invent ones that do. (Now there's a run-on sentence!) It is my contention that with a little belt, band or obi, and whatever else scientists can come up with, the navel might find employment. At last. In the meantime, it sits there patiently, hidden most of the time, with only the odd yoga gazer contemplating it. It's about the only part of us that is seldom considered seriously, but who knows what fame our small human scar, the navel, may earn in the future? 

Phone The Doctor

Some doctors don't see patients person to person, other than by special request. That's the way it is now. The inanimate receptionist person says, once you call and  get past the list of doctors and clinic hours and that you are important to them but that they are busy and will get around to you as soon as possible - click - music.  When you do finally and gratefully, hear the human voice it usually says , will you hold please - click -music and finally and later, a  voice that says, sorry to keep you waiting. Only then, can you say that you would like to make an appointment. The efficient voice comes back on and says yes, in two weeks, you may with your FAMILY DOCTOR  and he/she will phone you at such and such o'clock on such and such a day. You are asked also, if you wish to make an in person appointment. That's the second choice. Most of us settle for the phone call, because it might be  simply to ask a question that requires a brief answer or perhaps to seek a prescription renewal. If you are taking blood pressure medication that is on-going, you are asked by the doctor over the phone, what your blood pressure is, you being the one who takes it regularly.  When I had a swollen throat, I needed to see the doctor to presumably have the swelling felt. It was a privilege apparently to capture an office appointment.  One person I know of, without ever actually seeing the doctor,  received in the emergency ward, the news by the hospital doctors who were very present, that the diagnosis was a malignant cancer in the last stage. When asked, how long,  the person was told by the emergency doctor, that it would be about two years with or without chemotherapy or surgery. The patient opted out of chemotherapy so that the remaining time would be less miserable but the family doctor was away on holiday, therefore, he could call his doctor on his return. I will say nothing of the condition of the hospital ward but it is not somewhere I would want some I loved to be. When a ward bathroom is filthy and flooded and it take six hours to clean up, it's not a pleasant place to hang out.  The person has yet to sit actually in front of the family doctor due to the doctor being on holiday far away. No other doctor is available to replace the holidaying doctor who well deserves the time off. Nevertheless, the doctor did at one point call the patient with the cancer. The patient, not the doctor, asked if it would be all right to call the doctor during his remaining time and if it would be okay to "keep in touch" once a month. Well, not actually  in touch  physically, but via  phone calls, please. The doctor gave the patient permission to do so. Now, I realize there is a shortage of doctors to go around,  and there are walk-in clinics and emergency rooms where one can sit before a real live doctor eventually and eventually, is often a long time,  but my concern is, as a mere patient, the growing number of  regular phone-call-doctors. Perhaps I am old-fashioned as I am told over and over again, being the age I am, but to me a doctor needs to shake my hand, say hello in some way, and sit opposite me to be my own personal life-saver when it comes to my health. I like to think that there is a professionally trained and experienced human being who is taking time to talk to me, to look at me and speak to me personally with whatever is the medical situation we are dealing with. A phone call is something that comes out of a plastic speaker on a plastic thing and sounds like plastic.  It is not the voice and presence, of a warm blooded, caring doctor who has seen me through numbers of health issues, knows all my personal junk and who cares enough sit and kindly chat with me during my fifteen or so minutes in the little room. It makes me, as a patient,  feel happy that someone very special and knowlegable is my health care friend. The doctor knows all about me in a way that no one else does. The doctor advises me and when I hear that voice, I trust. I know that I have the best help there is because it is my family doctor. And we all trust our doctors. I don't trust phones much. 

Snip It

One of a lady's best friends is a pair of scissors. Why do they call it a "pair" of scissors when there is only one piece. Aha, there are two blades crossed to do their work. Off the aside, I inherited from a dressmaking mother, a number of wonderful pairs of scissors that I found when emptying the house she no longer needed, and use them in ways she may be horrified over. Mom was very particular about her sewing supplies and I fear, I simply do not have that stitching gene. Sorry Mom wherever or whatever you are now. It's my turn to be an elder. Since I have given up plying the sidewalks going on window shopping ventures due to mobility issues called "a bad knee", I make the most of being someone who loves being in her home with my computer friend, discovering delightful ways of making it my "happy nest". And it works, because I am not a butterfly lady, flitting here and there much to the consternation of my gallavanting friends who shake their heads at my love of being in and not out. Tut, tut they say, it's not healthy to be in too much. Oh really, I nod and smile, but it's my choice and I like it. Having given up short sleeves, due to arms that are not the smooth ones of the distant past, I was excited to learn about something called I saw on line, called "cooling sleeves". You pull them onto your arms as you would,  socks. They look like long sleeves in part and are quite smart looking. They also cover up.  These things need not be purchased, since you can convert your old hose into the same things that sell for around five or six dollars each. Simply cut off the leg parts about thigh high and at the ankle. Pull on the "sleeves" that are light and stretchy, and voila, cooling sleeves. Golfers wear them and archers or anyone who doesn't want to take on too much sun. I like them for cover up.  Lots of people, don't mind flashing their aging arms, wrinkles, spots, floppy bits and all, but I would rather not. My choice. Stockings come in all colours therefore, if you are ambitious, you can make these things that I call "armlets" yourself . A fun DIY and recycling process. Other scissor tricks are to cut off the tops of old dresses and make them maxi skirts. I have also given up dresses which are not always flattering when the waistline goes on permanent vacation and the lumps and bumps appear from nowhere to show up on you. Older age has many surprises and all need a good giggle instead of a tear! Some of my old dresses have charming fabric and when they are cut off and elastic placed at the waist, they make  freewheeling maxi skirts that are fun to wear with bright tee shirts and sandals in summer. Skirts are cool and feminine and freer feeling than pants.  Sometimes, I add skirt pockets made of the sleeves from the discarded dress tops or  little matching hand bags. Snip snip. Another scissor use is in the kitchen. I've tried herb scissors that are great for herbs and poultry scissors for chicken, but the best kind are merely ordinary dressmaker scissors. I use Mom's favorite one in my kitchen and it's terrific. Anything you want to cut up: celery, green onions, pieces of meat, lettuce, whatever needs cutting up in a way that scissors can, you'll find that ordinary scissors that are sharp and have user friendly finger holds work well. I must be careful for my fingers using Mom's best German made blades. Ouch. Did I mention, I also cut my own hair that is longer, to keep the ends from looking frayed now that I take pride in the healthy silver strands I once blonded and that I enjoy more now. I have come to appreciate the wonderful uniqueness of old age and treasure it. I take joy in finding ways to make my last chapter in life, the best one. Mom's scissors help. 

Second Storey

 In my condo eras, after a few house experiences, I learned about the floor hierarchy. "What floor are you on" became a determining social factor. Every unit in condos is pretty much alike with some having more " furniture margins" ie. square feet, than others. All of the new condo towers boast white on white, marbled or stoned, you might say, decor and have floor to ceiling windows and no room for a set of drawers in the bedrooms.They all have steel electric apps and a bar with stools being the only allowable curves present. Bathrooms of course, are the highlight after the walk-in closet that is never big enough but has a lot of shoe shelves. The bathtub has become more important than the couch. I like being clean, thus a walk-in shower pleases me. Who has time for a bathtub and who wants to loll in a gradually cooling warmish soup of cast off skin cells? Oh yes, there is a balconey to put your bike on, which is illegal according to the bylaws. Your tower life barbecue is a rarely used and is for appearances, an essential piece. Vegans hate them. "Don't send me your dead meat smoke!" Electric ones make little smoke anyway, because condo "barbecueing" is much the same as frying on a kitchen stove. With similar results. But you must have one that actually looks like a real barbecue. It's a requirement. Of course, no one smokes cigarettes on the little deck,  because law demands smokers be seven feet away from a building. On a condo, that's death unless you live on the first floor.I don't live in a tower, but I have visited them on invitation. It's hard to say, "wow" because the new ones, regardless of price,  all look alike and are decorated alike and truth-be-told, mostly all have the same sorts of people in them. Today, you cannot be unique; you must go along, to get along. I live in a old, old building that is only three storeys high. There are about two dozen owners of it, unlike the thousand or more  in a tower. Owning this property, however, is a struggle. It's age costs in repairs and replacements.  Living on the second storey, I am in a sandwich, you might say, but it is very comfy. I don't get the same cold as those up and down from me, in winter,. In summer, I am insulated, again , by my dear neighbours. The view above me, which you pay up to hundreds more for, sees the ocean as a little silver paper strip way far off.  But the best part is, that, in this old place, our windows and balconies don't look directly into someone else's windows and balconies as happens with clustered tower life. The property, a corner lot, has large trees and balled up shrubs the "gardeners" tend to do, and actual grass that our blower man loves to play with at top volume. It's heaven until the levies for such as a new heat pump, come along. Old buildings like old people, begin to fall apart and some owners who complain, in a self-owned place, don't realize that condo ownership is yup, owning the whole property and paying for it much as having a house. There is no landlord to complain to. It's yours, Baby, all yours. Our lowrise, didn't opt for professional management.  We opted to run our home place, ourselves. If you don't like something here, you talk about it, and the resident volunteers who actually want to do something about it, make the fix as best they can. Those elected are called The Council and they are volunteers. It's not an easy job and there is no pay. The new towers meet the need for living space as our populations grow. They may offend the eye but it does meet the need. A long storey.