Harvesting Animals?

 What? A recent article that tells about a rare, new bear cross between the Grizzly and Polar Bear, speaks of not being able to "harvest" one of this kind of bear seen in the north. I had a hard time believing this "scientific report" I was reading. The glib word used: "harvest", seems a pretty term for "killing". Since these are very  rare bears and their DNA is needed, the science reporter writes that they are killed and taken or "harvested" for study. There are sadly very few of them to "study". The photo shows samples of the same bears  proudly mounted and stuffed on display somewhere.  A couple of similarly stuffed elks look on in the background. Sometimes, I wonder about being a human being with our peculiar need to kill things to study them. But, then again, I am often glad that I have not, like the animals, been shot and put on display for all to gawk at in some museum. As you can gather, I am not in favour of Science, whatever that is, that kills to study, and therefore prefer to look at films of our beautiful live creatures rather than see them stiffened in a plastic viewing window somewhere. I am also against, while I rant, at those who latch collars on creatures in the name of study. How natural is it for a poor old wolf to run around with a big collar hanging off its neck? I would much prefer that wildlife be left alone. It is struggle enough for them with burgeoning hoards of developers out there,  thrashing about trying to find yet another place to slap some money-maker up to call it a "haven for nature lovers". Nature lovers don't approve of, in any way,  scientists, so called, who chase in helicopters, terrified animals running to get away from the mechanical loud enemy in the sky, one with iron feathers. Of course, we want to learn how to protect and further animal life on this delicate planet that is in it decline, but is this the way to do it? Kill and pursue and heavily collar and set up cameras on the animals in constant surveilance where it has absolutely no privacy whatsoever? This kind of thing embarrasses me as a sensible human being who cares about our Earth.   

Wilt Not Flowers Do?

 Everyone loves receiving flowers other than funeral ones. The latter are sometimes depressing rather than chocolates or box of cookies that would be much more appreciated.  But I adore being given flowers. It isn't all about the flowers, but more that they become  beautiful little friends with whom I may share my attention with daily in my home. The first thing I do in the morning is to tend to my new florals. They lie patiently at my sink as I clean their vases and clip off what they do not need: dead stems, wilted leaves, spent blooms. When I replace them in the aerated cold water, they seem to breath again. Which blossoms are the showy stars and which are the important companions that enhance them with their shy petals in the background? The gentleman greens stand on guard at the back or loll drooping dangerously as grassy fronds adding shape and space to the bouquet. The joy of re-vasing the flowers becomes pleasant work before morning coffee.  Daily I place them somewhere  to complement and compliment the space for their time with me. My bouquet stems are clipped daily, at first generously and later with caution. I want them to last as long as possible but remain fresh looking. It makes me sad to say farewell to the ones that are over but I have learned something new. When it comes to the point of there being no more stem space to deal with, I decide to float my flowers in a bowl. If their petals are drooping, they don't mind spreading once again in  water. Today, I have so few, they are in one of my favorite black mugs and  lie in water as though in a warm bath but a cold one! Another trick I use often is to add some false blossoms or dried additions that are so well done, they look fresh and real and perk up the older ones. Fake ivy brightens up any corner in a room and few bother to question their imitation abilities. Sending someone flowers, sends light and love to a person whose day will then be ashine. 

DIY Old Folks Home

 I am gradually making my own Old Folks Home. I have no intention, since I am not "sick" of going into one of those places called "homes". They are not homes, they are very nice prisons but ones of one's own choosing. Their cost is enormous and the life style while great for those who truly need it, is devastating for those who don't. None of today's elders listen to their kids or others who persist in recommending the life in "homes". They haven't lived there. To be told that life will be a lot easier and that you don't have to worry about all of the things that bother you if you live on your own? Nonsense. Elders are not inhuman helpless people who need to be babied and cooed at. We are still human; and forget the age number if you are one of those who use it as an excuse to put an elder somewhere where YOU don't have to worry about them. Your worry is yours, not theirs. In a "home", every day and every hour is not one that you plan. regardless of what you are told. You eat on the hour, recreate on the hour and have your care all scheduled. It is not done out of cruelty, it's done because "homes" are a business and business costs money to run. As part of it, the receiving end, you have to fit into the schedule so that the business runs smoothly. If it fits for you, fine. I want to be in my own home and I am prepping it. I keep canes, a walker, a wheelchair, grabbers and light meds for pain, comfortable elders' furniture around. It is all my own choice of style, use, colour and placement. I cook from scratch, I buy online almost everything I need because I chose not to have the expense of a car. I use a taxi for transportation when an appointment comes up or I want to visit someone not in my area. I am not amubulatory friendly and I will not be talked into exercise classes when I can do that on my own. I have friends and social life when I choose it. I am about as happy as I have ever been in my life. I am still human though facing my nineties, and enjoy conversation that treats me respectfully so. My family does,  and I love them for it. 

How To Live Longer

 Living longer seems to be the mantra for those who ply the paths and jog the trails and pedal the tarmack not to speak of those who spend countless hours lifting metals and plying machinery in a gym. I admire these folks enormously especially since I have no interest at this age in doing any of it. I looked into the whole matter of exercising in an artificial manner, today, and found out that if I did daily exercise of a rather intense kind every day I might live a couple of years longer. First of all, who can prove that, and second of all, do these statisticians know when I am going to die in order to make their numbers jibe? I had relatives that never thought about exercise because they were too busy going to work and looking after a number of children they had in the family. Going to the gym meant cheering  their kids on as they used balls of some sort in a large, expensive school hall. They all lived well beyond  eighty for the most part, especially the mothers who reared and fed and cleaned up after their hoards of family members. It is clear that their exercise wasn't looking at  little plastic cyber watches, then jumping up in the middle of a social event and bouncing up and down on the spot. I kid you not, I saw it this week. Today's parents spend much of their time driving the children to games and school and to play dates where they will be playing together at screens with more little plastic items held in their hands while putting the other small ones they held previously in their hands, down unless they buzz and need attention. No, I am not being cynical unless reality is just that. It follows that humans who dress up in skin tight elastic garments and go places to ride bikes to nowhere fast or lie on mats and pull their muscles to painful limits or dress loosely and run on cement sidewalks for miles with wires in their ears, need to do these endeavors to live an extra two years. So I am told. When I get to my final two years, I doubt I will be recalling when I played tennis every morning before work or sweated in a dance class. Maybe I should check my little watch that tells me if my heart is beating or not?