Better Warring

 Wars are nasty things when one faction, forces and threatens another faction to bend to its domination. I maintain that the warring folk are going about it all the wrong way. If you want to charm another country or group to go your way, as is said, "you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar". That saying is all wrong, too, of course, because if you have an influx of fruit flies in your home, for example, you get out the nice red wine vinegar, pour it into a little jar with a tiny  hole in it big enough for a fly, and it's a fly trap. It is very effective and all the little insects have smiles on their faces having consumed large amounts of their favorite nectar. People are not flies, and you have to convince them in a better way. If one country, a mythical one, for these purposes, is it not better for it to find a way that doesn't involve putting a lot of military time, effort, people and money  to charm away the folks you want to conquer? It makes more sense to tempt your enemies and avoid the blood shed and all sorts of destructive behaviours that only hurts both sides. A potential conqueror might offer a package that is so good, it makes the former enemy, want to join up. For example, you can put forth a much more advantageous situation than the one that the other side is in. You could work hard at making the offer convince your former opponents of such a better lifestyle and future than the one they alread thought they had, they want yours. It can't cost more than warring. Few people could deny that upgrading their lives and  making them feel safer and more hopeful and joyous than the ones they struggle in currently would be nice. Most of what we call patriotism lies in an ideal existence that is beneficial rather than aggressive or  punitive, thus flag waving and pointing out heroes is mainly to show how great life has been and that one wants to continue down that pathway. It hasn't much to do with a piece of cloth but rather what it represents and that it is desirable to continue remembering it in the colours on that fabric. Patriotism  has to do with the word "pater" or father and in describing that strength which includes mother and father or that of a family. Family is a place of safety and security. Too bad war can't be turned into generous power, love, a much stronger than military force that causes humans to flee.

One Button

The other day, I lost my wonderful all-day music that I get via wifi from my TV server. I am a one-ish sort of gal. I dislike change but do change and then stick to it. I dislike buying anything that says "new and improved" because it isn't and hasn't. This sort of tells  you what kind of old lady I am. When I screwed up my system the other day by pushing the wrong buttons on my remote for the big, really big,  TV, I ended up with a screen abounding with what looked like another language. It asked me questions that led me down another path to where somehow I ended up ressurecting my set back to what is called "store". It was like fresh off the shelf now. I called my server company. This is major. First I got someone who is really no one, and I was asked what the problem was. Did I want a text. No, I hate cell phones. The phone I used said she would help. It didn't. I pressed zero and said agent, agent.  It worked and I was told that I would be called back on my number and not to worry because they'd give me three chances to answer. Later, I got someone in another part of the world who I doubted knew anything about my android seventy five inch TV on her desert island. She told me (I think) to look for the buttons on the side or the back of my TV. I told her there is nothing on the side or bottom and if I have to move it away from the wall, I could die if it fell on me. She said all TVs have hidden buttons. I moved the TV out. No buttons. Her voice snarled "all TVs have them". I repeated "there is only one button and it is for off or on". I hung up. Much later when I somehow solved the problem, having gone to Youtube and asked about the one button thing. One button does it all.  My music is back as well as all the other delights that make up my only entertainment. I don't go out. The secret is to hold the button down and magic happens. A screen appears and you tap the button lightly to move up and down and then hold it to keep. Simple. I told my server company, a huge one, to inform their tech agents through the little doodle in the corner. It  never gets it. It said, " please reword your comment; I don't  understand".  I replied, "Of course, you don't understand. You aren't human. Good-bye." 

Shedding

 Animals shed. People don't shed; not even pounds. How many times do we encounter ads about doing various things to lose weight?  Do we really need to take the popular pill so that we can continue to stuff our mouths with ugly foods, I use the term loosely, that make us load on fat? No. Do we really need to take out gym memberships and either go there four times a week if not more, or only once? No. Do we really  need to pick a diet to follow and then give it up via boredom? No. Do we really need to go to a weight loss clinics for scary shots and pills and weighers and tape measures? No. Do we really need to talk non-stop over the cafe table with our pals and bore eavesdroopers? No. Do we really need to cry into our pillows at night when the party dress or pants won't fit? No. So what do we do, if you're so smart? Stop stuffing yourself with things that you know will make you fat and stop making excuses as to why you need to, and stop fretting over the bathroom scales. I found  the perfect way to lose weight and it was so easy  and unplanned that I didn't notice that I had lost weight until my jeans fell off, even after I did up the top button. How did that happen I wondered? You know that little angel that sits on your right shoulder? She told me something my mother of long ago used to say constantly. "Don't eat unless you are hungry. When you are eating, the moment you are no longer hungry, stop eating no matter how much is left on the plate." That's the "diet"! Most mothers force us to eat all that's on the plate but that's for little kids, not us. I am not hungry after my first cup of morning coffee with honey and a dash of cream. I am not hungry really, until early afternoon. Really. Strangley, I began prepping a nice mid day dinner about that time every day. It takes an hour or so to do a mini gourmet.  When I did sit down and eat a lovely, but small dinner, as soon as I was no longer hungry, I quit. In the evening now when I like a snack, I have a treat. That's all there is to it. Don't laugh. Try it. 

Someone told me that was fasting. Whatever it is it works but then, I am not even thinking about shedding. That's not for humans. 

Atlasette Ninety

 The drawing of Atlas holding earth is classic. Although the tale means the strength of Atlas having to hold up humanity on earth and the sky, he is the epitome of being inhumanly strong. When you are eighty-five plus, it's the time when you have to be stronger than you have ever been in your life, been. Some may say, that's not true because here I am rearing a bunch of kids and working and surviving all of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and there you are with a guaranteed pension and living in your own home and all you do is sit around all day. You've heard it all before. While it is impossible to convince the younger gens that my theory about the aged having to be stronger than they once were, it is a truth. You can, as an elder, give up and let your kids or your "home" or assistants do the maintenance of your living a long time, or you can buck up and do it all yourself. No one is going to thank you or even notice. To do it yourself takes almost inhuman grit. Facts are, that you still have to clean house and garden, endure daily natural pain with aging joints and  muscles that have been working for far too many decades. They are rebelling but stiffening or aching without an ounce of sympathy is necessary.  You just have to get on with it and there is no time for pity parties. You don't have a car, you live alone, you need groceries, to see you doctor perhaps, go to appointments and manage a budget that decreases with time and there is no cute hope of getting a raise in pay. You still have to pay income tax, property tax, insurance, house maintenance, groceries, transportation,  perhaps a mortgage or rent or condo fees and levees. Yep, it doesn't end when you "retire". You might retire, but nothing else does but the job that once paid you money with the possibility of increases. You have to manage on  shoe strings. And you know what Charlie Chaplin did with those. He cooked shoe string spaghetti. Now they call it cat food. Or spam if you can find it. Oh yes, my dear, better be Atlas, very strong and positive if you want to live to one hundred.  

Good, Bad, Ugly Shopping

 It's good to have on line sites to visit for purchasing, finding info and browsing. Having door delivery is marvellous. Lately, when I try to shop on line I have to go through a security hassle that makes me want to give up. When I have shopped with the same online business for years, I don't what to have to take my time to enter codes or delete computer history to sign in and shop on their site. I am an honest person who has never cheated a business and it feels as though I am a criminal suspect when I try to shop these days. For me to receive a code, I have to switch from one site to another which takes time and if I don't get back in time to enter that code, I am told I have to wait another period of time before I can try again. Now what is that? If they want me to switch from their site to my email site and back, I need  more than a few seconds. Give me a break. I shop for groceries in an online store that I have used for many years with no hassle. Suddenly, without a warning or notice or reasons why, now I can't enter the site without all this nonsense. When I call their head office they can find  me and enter me into their system. When I try to enter on line again, I have to go through the same long series of filling in blanks and receiving codes and they have to contact my bank. I was told I have to call my bank. My bank is very busy and it has no time to call me back. All this, I am told, is because there are some bad people who do cheat  stores on line. That is not my problem. That is their problem. If online stores want me, a loyal and long term customer, to stay with them, they are going to have to deal with their problem and make my purchasing from them easy and pleasant. If not, it's  good-bye.  It would be fine if it were just the one time, but it is every singlem solitary time I go to that site and all the others now.  Surely, once a person passes all the "gates" without trouble, one ought to be trusted. This whole mess that used to be good, is now bad and ugly for we honest people who used to love shopping on line. Fix it or lose us. 

Step Over It

 Today I attended a gathering to decorate Christmas trees and I went. I am not one of the usually popular types but that's okay with me. I go anyway. When I got there no one spoke to me, but I began a needed task and went about my business and ignored the cheery greetings I gave that no one responded to when I gave them. I  pretended that all was fine. And it was. I learned long ago that if you are a person who speaks out  the truth when those around don't want it and have attitudes toward you that are unfriendly and even hostile,  you need to ignore their ignorances and carry on. I have learned to trust myself and go about my usual ways in my own way. I am not unkind, but as someone misguided, said to me, "It's not the what you have to say, but the way you say it that offends." I answered by saying, "That's not how I do it, I speak the truth plainly, with nothing offensive about it ." I remain an advocate for plain, straight forward, not rude language but truthful, direct words and that is how it is with me. I do not enjoy listening to someone speaking in cloying terms about a simple truth. As the event went on, I decided on doing what someone in my vein told me to think. He said, "It's like crossing a fast running stream. You pick out the rocks that are solid and true and get across stepping on those." I did. I crossed the "stream" today and was able to enjoy myself while ignoring the rude people who wouldn't speak to me. They enjoyed gaslighting terminology which is not my style and in ignoring their rudeness, I had great time. I met someone there  and we had a terrific conversation. These sorts of people are always to be found. There is always someone like yourself with whom you can discuss in real terms, what truly matters without rude of offensive language. When I left, I waved good-bye to the gathered group who once again ignored my friendly farewell. It did not bother me one bit. I have learned how to cross the streams in life to find those solid rocks that take us across. This is my advice for plain speakers. We speak the truths without shame or reticense. We just have to find the good rocks. 

Farewell Jamie Dixon

 Some people have a natural gift and the world is a better place for it. Sechelt's Jamie Dixon had a laugh that might from now on, be heard in the clouds on a thunderous but beautiful day. Jamie's laugh could be heard for blocks. It came from the bottom of his heart and his was the best of "hearts". Jamie worked for the school district and when he came into a classroom to check the heating or some other system, he shone. His smile was sunshine and every little head in the room, turned toward its warmth. One of Jamie's greatest talents was being able to laugh at himself. Now, that's a big heart if it can abide being the butt of a joke but still be able to find laughter over it. Playing friendly, fun tricks on one another was one way, in our small community up the coast, that people had fun. They weren't mean fun, they were a kind of "okay it's your turn but next time, it will be mine" sort of jokes. When Jamie joined the school district maintenance staff as a young man, the joke on him was a "project" to count all of the flourescent lights in every classroom. Off good-hearted Jamie went, clip board in hand proudly, to his first job task. When he entered my classroom of little ones, it was with a combination of pride and shyness, that he might not interrupt the goings on. He stood at the back of the classroom and diligently counted and then noted on the clip board, every bank of tinted flourescent lights in the room. Then, nodding and smiling broadly, he closed the door behind him to get onto the next classroom. Later, out of curiosity, I asked and learned, that at the end of Jamie's tour of the few schools, at that time in the district, it was Jamie's jokey initiation, but also, seriously his introduction  tour of the many schools he would be working on during his employment. When Jamie learned of the joke, they say his laugh could be heard across the whole peninsula! Today, it's good-bye to a fine man who gave his world, and ours, a gift. His gift will long be remembered by those of us fortunate enough to have heard that laugh. We need more of them these days. Thanks and fare thee well Jamie Dixon.  

Aught For Nothing

As one does in elder age, I began adding up all the routine monthly expenses that I paid in the sixty or seventy working years in my lengthy lifetime. I thought it would be interesting to see what kind of  money I spent and actually never used. One of these situations for which I have received nothing for the most part, is  insurance. My insurance over a  lifetime, adds up to thousands upon thousands and from it I received nothing but a promise that was largely an IF. If the IF amount wasn't used, why didn't I get a rebate or maybe some kind of discount the next year or perhaps a Christmas card?  Nope. Nothing. And furthermore, my insurance cost this year, is increased instead of being reduced even though I haven't used a cent of it. But with not even a thank you note, it will be more this year.  It was used, I assume or they tell me so, but not used by me. I don't smoke, I don't have accidents, I am cautious and careful. My insurance money was used for a whole lot of other people and they didn't send me a thank you note either. When I began totalling the whole amount up, I could probably have paid for the the possible things that might have happened. The only insurance claims I ever got didn't add up to much. I guess I am one of the enormous numbers of people who never use the enormous amounts of money they pay in insurances that they never use or receive for it, a bonus back or a reward for paying all the other people who use it. Talk about doing unto others! Luck? Yes, luck is what insurance is all about.  When luck is involved, isn't that called gambling? Of course, buying insurance is a gamble. Anyone with good sense realizes it. But sadly, the only time one can win at this game, is if something bad happens. What if it doesn't? We accept but seldom ask questions about this kind of thing. Why? 

Leaving

Trees lose their leaves or needles every year. Yes, even evergreens that look ever green but lose their "leaves" too, just as all trees do, naturally. We humans, as we age, lose as well, but more slowly and as some, less gracefully. I don't take the negative thought route, but appreciate all the small losses that we elders discover, as natural sheddings, just as trees shed their leaves. Trees will grow new leaves, but we humans, inspite of our hubris, don't reclaim our youth or "new leaves". Still, we can find grace in how we give up our "leaves". We can leave with humour, smiling or laughing, even, at what we believe are losses. The losses are natural and understandable and can, if we try, be accepted. Unfortunately, there are elders who refuse the opportunity of graceful aging and rant and rail and make attempts to try in vain, to look or behave or boast about not being able to do what they once did, or how once beautiful, they appeared.  And that's okay because, it's what some need to do. Not everyone regards getting on in years as a bad situation. It's a natural situation and is much easier if felt, as does a tree, in dropping it leaves. One by one in beautiful colours the tree leaves fall and display their event of aging and the former joys in perfect autumn golds, orange, red and yellow before they become the sustenance of the next generations' foliage. Our human hearing, sight, and all the senses we valued so that we could work well and quickly and efficiently without too much effort or pain, do gradually fade and their loss can be as easily acceptable, because our bodies are simply wearing down. Trees in spite of what some think, age and die, too. Think how many beats your heart has had to work at pumping fluids in your body: days and nights and months and years and decades without a thought or effort on your conscious self. Think of the nerves and muscles and tendons and joints and layers of skin that have served you year in and year out since you were a tiny infant. We should smile instead of frown, over wrinkles and sagging and layers of rich fat that once gave us energy to work, rear familes and attract loves. We had such happiness even over the bad stuff, didn't we? Now it's time to let go, but still try to look and be our best without bitterness,  like the trees that we see in all their glory this late autumn.

Author Ego

 Authors, especially famous ones, often are bloated with egos inflated by their fame.   Yes, they are read. Yes, they are adopted and adapted in their style and topics, by the world at large in various languages and at media hype events. Most of the world's noted authors are humbled by how they "got there". They are famous but fame doesn't necessarily mean excellent writing. With as many writers as there are subjects, one can find the famous in the Canadian penning arts: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, biography, auto-biography.  Each author writes about his or her topic and becomes notable in that particular genre. I listened to this well-known author  today who was being interviewed in a podcast, whatever that means other than "the radio", and while I will not divulge the writer's personal information, I will say that it led to learning that the age of the writer who is in the mid-eighties greatly offended me with its sheer ego. I am concerned with agism as most of my fellow elders are because it is the new and sadly ignored latest prejudice on the globe. It is also the one that the world has decided to turn its back on due to a rampant switch in human concern to finances over humanity. Nonetheless, this famous author didn't help the situation in pointing out on air, that great writing in Canada began with their particular works. This person, this individual's self- praising rant was difficult to fathom. I was horrified that someone who carries a certain load of responsibility as but one of our famous Canadian authors, should so  blatantly display such a dearth of conceit as thinking itself as the acme. This writer gained, to be blunt and honest, most of its fame through entertainment cameras out of the US. While the guts of the shows to do with this author's work are the author's ideas, indeed, one must credit the entire media including the actors and advertisers and other writers who plumped up this author's book to allow that fame that happened, to be given the credit. I was embarrassed by the writer's tone which bespoke an inflated egotistical overage, as the conversation ensued at the interview. I have read many of our finest Canadian authors, past and present, who are in the same fiction genre, as this author and are certainy equal and even surpassing the talent of this particular writer. For any author to assume such obvious self-adoration publicly offends my Canadian reader's sensitivity.

The Gang's All Here

 Whoop de doo, the gang's all here! We all have to be part of "the gang" to get along socially, but wait. To be completely "the gang" isn't ideal. There is always a tiny part of us that remains secretively, just us, and no one else. It's not a bad part, it's a very good part. Why? It's the part that keeps us who we are while at the same time, measures out what it takes to be so, and how much of our true selves, we are willing to give,  to "the gang". It's a place in us that we share only with those we trust completely : our best friends, perhaps a parent or a mate.  It is what we own about who we are, and we are proud of it and nuture it and try always, to make it better and better. One of the down sides of elders having to go to a home, is preserving that element in ourselves. We don't want to lose it, but we would like to share it with some others.  Aging can make our circle of "gang" shrink as friends and relatives and mates, leave our lives. Sometimes, we are left with ourselves only, and it isn't easy to make another "gang" to be part of. Smiles with, and nice questions of, others that we, ourselves, would like to hear, help. Having opportunities to find a new "gang" is the key. That's when we choose activities, even if they aren't our favorite things to do  to help us find some new companions. That sounds easy, but if you aren't mobile having a vehicle or if you live alone, it's a challenge. Most condos are places where you can join a group that is within the walls of the place: book clubs, game groups, exercising, regular coffee breaks or happy hours. If your place of residence doesn't have such groups, you can always start one.  Hopefully, the activities offered are not the kindergarten kinds of Arts and Crafts that adults of any age would abhor. Please no cut and paste or dab! We elders are not brainless, nor are we children. If you are in such a group and it needs to change, speak out and hope to make positive suggestions. You have rights. Go find your gang or make one, and be happy. 

In The Mood

 Those of us who live on/in the mood lane, are singles. We have the luxury of doing pretty much, exactly as we wish to. I prefer to say "as we like" but I try to write correctly most of the time. I do, however, love living "as I like". No one guilts me into having to eat meals at certain times. I am not a slave to the clock. Any more. Most of us, in my world are single women and they want to stay that way. They' ve left the family wife/life behind them and now they are moving into a lifestyle that is of their own making. Some ladies are still joined to their children which is fine. My younger genetic people,  are on their own and into their own work and times and that is dandy with me. I don't expect them to be around all the time, unless we jointly arrange it. I have a life, too! I live in the mood: meaning that in my food, my condo, my clothing, my social life, I do according to how I feel about each. One day I have a yearning for salad, the next day, soup or stew or steak or stir fry. Times, I like to wear white or brown or pink. It all depends on my frame of mind. I go out or don't go out. My way, my business. Lately, I arise at eight, but in the summer when the mornings are light, I might be up at six or earlier. Again, according to my own personal clock. If at night, I wake up wanting a drink of water, I might stay up and read until three AM and then go to bed again. It's a life free of tick tock. The real tick tock, not the how many likes can I achieve with very little, that the other one begs. I email, not text. I have a land line which sends others into gales of laughter or spiteful eyeballs. Do I care? No. I don't eat until I am hungry which is great for losing unwanted weight because our bodies know what to do and sometimes our minds get it wrong. One meal a day seems to suffice. Single men widowed usually try to find a woman to marry. Why? I'll let you ponder on that one. Single women don't want to marry. The answer to the previous query. It is just after noon and I have idulged and enjoyed making banana pecan pan cakes with butter, no syrup. Ah, my dear lost loved ones, wish you were here, but for now, I love it on this side. 

That Noise Issue

 One of our biggest complaints in human society, is noise. Natural noise, no matter how loud, we can tolerate. Human noise is another matter. Noise can be traffic, industrial, human feet, voices, certain kinds of music and others, but it is an important feature of our environment. Noise can be good or bad depending on its purpose, its qualities, and our tolerance levels. Noise can be too loud, too high, too low, too much, too little, too prevalent, or at the wrong time. Music can be all of relaxing, recreational, irritating and lovely. Our ears, a very sensitive part of our very existence, while unique, can absorb only certain volumes or pitches or ... the list goes on. If you live on a busy street, traffic could annoy or, if as my friend who lives in the city in a condo beside a popular recreational area knows, can be insufferable. We all have our level of tolerance specific to our own ears. I don't favour the too loud boom of bass speakers, thumping footsteps on my ceiling, screeches of  machinery, back-up signals in construction, a baby constantly crying. What are yours? Each person has a tolerance level. For example, if you live in a condo, apparently footfalls are the worst problem now that carpets are out. It seems no matter how often people are asked politely to wear appropriate foot gear to eliminate the situation, there are those who just won't stop. For some reason, if they don't have the problem, they don't understand it. Traffic noise is a bother for some. Before they buy a home, they need to test traffic levels. When  on a plane, there is a child whose ears are in pain due to pressure, cries endlessly, it can be very distressing. In a small boat, engine noise is destructive. Noise can be a real and present  issue that requires cooperation in finding a way to mediate it. Mr. Leafblower, for example, annoys all of us but he has  ear muffs so not to lose his hearing. We don't. We must do something about offensive noise, with understanding but also with the responsibility of protecting our freedom from too much of it. Noise is real. Noise matters, and for our ears' sake, noise demands the cooperation of those can make it reduce to better levels, or to stop it altogether. 

Too Much Of

 No one can have too much of. Everyone is a collector whether they think it or not. One of my grandaughters collected tiny stuffed animals. They  filled her bed but she knew each one and spoke to them and loved them. I often wonder, now that she is grown, what happened to all of her little pets. She has living ones today. Another person I know, collected tiny jugs. One of her walls was lined with them. She could name all the countries in which she and her husband bought them. Another friend had 100 shoe boxes with photos of what was inside. Many men collect tools or cars or ball caps or when boys, military toys. Barbie made collections fun for some children. I am a collector, too. I have all the English royalty mugs from Victoria  to  Charles III and tiny spoons of world travels, but most of all, I love clothing. I have been called a "clothes horse". My fifty cashmere sweaters of all colours, are babied like Midas's gold. Clothes Horses are looked down upon by collectors, and yet there are few women I have ever heard of, who don't hog closet space with their  garment fetishes. Why? Okay, I give mine away bit by bit with the rule of "if you add one, you must subtract one". Someone called me a "fashionista" which was entirely incorrect. Those persons who come in every gender, are special folk who care about labels. I don't. I like fit, especially quality of fabric and make. That's my rule. I'm not interested in impressing anyone and I seldom go out.  I dress by mood. I  go to my tiny dressing room with the bench and the full length mirror, and look  at rows to decide what fits the day. It's fun and a bit of a hobby. I also collect recipes. I can read recipe books that are now passe, with the same reader delight as with my fave writer Sue Grafton. I can almost taste what I read that goes into baking, cooking, frying and barbecuing. Now, I am hungry. Off, in my off-white cashmere, to the kitchen.

Don't Gen Me

 Okay, I'm ninety. My brain plays Bridge online and if the cards are right, my partner and I win at this Almost Chess game. I shop for groceries for my "scratch" cooking, I do my own finances, I sold my car but have a license in case I need it, I have no health problems, I avoid pain pills even though the body I ride around in has natural pain. I move about just like anyone else does: hear the news and see the show. I love my past, present and my future. I live in THIS generation that considers itself a letter of the alphabet rather than what is  accomplised daily. I live today and I am part of today and all that is happening on earth today.  I, and all of us, belong to Gen Now. When I hear pod casts that separate people into generations by age, it annoys me. It appears in this false gen theory that whomever is an age IS and the rest, WERE. Not true. We all contribute to now, not then. Let's look at this fact. In my time on the planet, I was  always the "now" gen. It had nothing to do with a time period divided by human age, into an era where it took credit when only a few greatly contributed to the arts and sciences, and it still doesn't. We are all part of this, or the Now Gen by means that are not direct but by paying our taxes, listening and participating in every day life. We are part of it all Now because we are not of the past, we are of the present, and every single day, we are the Now Gen. As someone of my years, my widom of actually having lived during certain periods that were miraculous or horrific, made me a part of them. I felt them, I gave to them in my small way and you yours as you do also now by simply being here. And now. Time belongs to no one, certainly not to the old or to the young. Time moves as the world turns and it can't be stopped and sliced up in any way that seems more important than another because no one knows what time will bring in the next second. I shudder when I see and hear words spoken that frame me as being aged in a negative way: useless and past, rather than thanking me for over those years, time, paying my taxes that supported what is was happening in that "now".  I think "does the world not know, I am here, I am human, I matter even though I am very old".   "Does the world yruly believe because I move slowly, am grey, have skin lines and need to rest, that I am not part of this vital world just as every single human being that breathes today is, the now?" I am this generation until the moment I die. I am what all the world's humanity or gen is: the Now Gen. 

Wisdom of Moon

 Wouldn't it be a wonder to wonder, if we had the wisdom of the moon? The  moon, earth's constant companion and earth's alone, could relate the whole history of this planet for us to contemplate. If we had brains over what we depend on from earth's elements in imagining we are superior with our ever developing pieces of plastic and metal and electricity, things that stand or fly or run along or seemingly entertain us and educate us and protect us? Do these pieces we create really make our lives better or do they as ever, make it increasingly complicated?  Luna, the moon, has been here since our beginning. What is it that the moon could tell of all that it has seen until now, and even now. Will it, if we could understand it, make us wise, perhaps wiser? Could we  knit together all of the past and its lessons to teach us what we have never seemed to learn? What it sees over the millions of years, is fact, not fancy or faith, but hard fact with no judgement attached. It saw truths and only truths. There were no conclusions. What were the most important truths would we learn that could fix this crowded place with its happenings and ills and mistakes and tragedies and wonders and joys and great beauties? Would we need to know, if we saw at last what  shape the earth's plan ought to be? Would all humans on earth finally come to some kind of agreement in appreciating life in the only place we know that gives us everything we need and to realize finally, that without it we perish forever? Would we then gain and follow what we gather, as being more important than gold and the power that some sad self destructive humans attain with it? Would we see our own follies and forgive them? Would we know what we are in being human and that all else is secondary? Oh Moon, Silent Moon, when we look in your face, will you tell us? Will we learn to be one as you see us, or will we go on as blindly as we have?

Brain OK Car Old

 Being as old as I am, it's hard to explain to others not as ancient, why you are having pain. I tell them it's like riding around in a body that is a very old car. It has its moods and breakdowns here and there where you can't see them under the hood. Even though you are the best driver in the world, you try to tolerate your old "car" and deal with its various little mean surprises. Your knee or ankle aches. Your back let's you know of its  presence. Most of these situations do not require a doctor, therefore, you try to avoid pills and perhaps dig out your favorite herbal patches to stick on or go find the heating pad. If all that fails, you take the over the counter meds which always work but engender guilt. Society at large frowns on the use of pills. There could be around, unfortunately for you, other folk a few years younger than you, whose body cars aren't as old as yours, and they tell you the myth about using it or losing it. When this occurs and you are in your nineties you are tempted to remind them of what's ahead for them also, and that using it too much is what got you here in the first place. But you don't. No one likes an honest, cranky old person and you might need their help soon, so you button your lip as the saying goes. It's safer to smile sweetly and grit your teeth, if you have any. Pain is part of aging and if you are lucky, your complaint, which everyone of "an age" has in some form or another. Pain is an annoyance that you keep to yourself, but if you have a quiver or a tic or a limb that doesn't work and it shows, you are apt to hear lots of advice on what to do about it. Advanced age, therefore, requires patience. I prefer that before giving advice or grabbing my arm they ask first if it's okay. While the body car I ride around in is rather out of date, my brain is just as good as theirs today fortunately. I am not an invalid. But silence in an oldie, is required and the old lady smile must be planted on in order to keep the peace. But someone ought to write a manual for old age, one written by someone in it, not someone who studies it. They're not living in my old car. 

A Idiocy

Artificial Intelligence is truly artificial. It is not the real thing because it can't think. All AI can do is read something without mentally decoding it as humans do. It merely sees or "takes a picture of words" and repeats it in print or a fake voice. It does not think or analyse: it parrots. I once had a mini parrot that could "speak" what I taught it, but often to our amusement, garbled up the phrases and words that meant nothing. When I have to "speak" to an AI that I am told will help me down in the little box in the right hand corner of a site page. I learn very quickly how unhelpful it is and that I will be putting a check in the box that says "poor" at the end of the session. Most of the online businesses that I deal with, have this kind of  "help". Please excuse the vast number of quotation marks here, but AI is so fake and artificial, that it is unavoidable. So many times I have asked the AI a question and it repeats over and over again that the label does not give that information. Hey, I can read the label myself. What good is an AI? I wanted to know something that is not on the label. Also, you may have noticed that AIs are so stupid that they don't understand English. You express in every way you can think of, what you are inquiring about, and it doesn't get it. Recently, my grocery delivery store decided to put not only AI on their page but also to deny me buying my groceries online until I call my bank and get them to send me a code before it will release the payment from my account. Their reason is, that it is for security reasons. That may be, but my bank doesn't answer phones and I don't receive bank calls on my cell phone. I called them to send the code to my email. The answer I got is that they are too busy in the bank and they'll call me back before the end of their day. What? That means I have to hang around all day to get the code to buy the groceries I want that day. And worse, still, I have to do this every time I need to buy groceries. I don't go out to shop which is becoming the goto for most people now. AI can't help because it is part of this robotic society that has  cell phones attached to its ears or its back pockets or its car holders. AI is not the pancea someone hoped for. Aye yi yi!

   

Double Your Money

 The title isn't how to double your money, but how you must double your money if you want to stay afloat in the shopping world. When I ordered my groceries online from my fave store that talks about "saving on foods", I noticed that in the last week or so, since the tariffs imposed upon the world came to dunk us, almost every item on the shelf and bin, has doubled. I once bought a nice big round sausage form of hamburger for meat loaves and meat pies, at twelve dollars and now it is twenty-four dollars. For a family of four, that size would make two small meatloaves even with the addition of crumbs. Not luxury but often beloved. The jar of honey that used to be six to eight dollars is now sixteen dollars. Often I would have the family over and pop into the oven, one or two nice little chicken fryers to roast. One fed three or four us. Now, the same two  that were eight dollars are now twenty. My grocery list has changed from scallops and prawns to, those itty bitty shrimp that come in a circle with a tiny bit of sauce in the middle. Big scallops are so expensive they are the new lobsters. How long ago have you done surf and turf that was once steak and lobster tails. Had to turf that idea! A tin of tuna just is not the same. It's for the cat. Canned salmon, however is quite lovely, especially in a sandwich. A salmon loaf is nice but, to me,  there's nothing like a big thick salmon sangie with mayo and butter lettuce. Lettuce? Most of us have switched to Romaine. It's far more nutritious and if it goes limp, you can pop it into soup. It works like spinach and tastes very gamy steamed up with butter. I won't even begin on butter and its cost. Spinach leaves and their versatility are my go-to green. Like everyone, even though an ancient single, I love cooking and good, fresh food. It's not more costly, but it takes work and change. No more sinking to that glass front store section with the precooked junk food. If  you really want to save your money for those Bingo nights, get fresh produce, and do it yourself. If you can boil or steam or mic a package of that stuff, you can steam the same things in the about same amount of time and do your body a double favour. Double the value of your groceries by reading the nutritional values, the ones that count more than money. 

Pill Popping

People take a pill or many at some time,or maybe all the time, in their lives. I do not like taking pills, never have, and as a child fought having to. A little later, I saw pills being taken and learned that they are simply part of being human, and that they appear to do good.  I found out that they were, in adults, the solution to fixing illnesses and pain. Nowadays, I have a couple of pills I must take to replace what my body forgot, but others I refuse to take, even on medical advice until I think well about it first. I always like to listen to my own body and then to those who give advice concerning it. Including doctors, who do know a great deal about human bodies, but not fully about mine in particular. Medical specialists, especially pharmacists, give useful advice on pills and their composition, effects and use. Pills have a long history dating back to the Egyptians who made them out of natural products. They weren't always for illness, but as balls of grease or spices. Someone came up with adding beneficial additions to help the sick.  The Greeks came up with katapotia which means something to pop into your mouth and the Romans called it, pilula. Pills? High society in the fashionable 1500's liked to coat pills in silver and gold which they thought would send them down more quickly. The other day, I thought I ought to take a pill that a lot of elders do for bone health. The pill was huge and dry and in a strange elongated shape of pressed powder that made it almost impossible to swallow. I spent a lot of time chopping the things in half, but it didn't help them go down much. And gold or silver were out of the question. I decided finally that rather than be ejected into the next world via choking on a pill, I'd rather take a chance and just drink milk, better still, eat ice cream or yogurt. Pain pills are likely the most widely taken ones in the world. Pain is a natural body warning that something isn't working. Some people pop the pain pill immediately, without question. Sometimes there is another solution and it seems to me, it's better than putting something into the body it must then adjust to and perhaps cause further trouble. Thought or advice is needed. Family, friends, foods, sleep, communication, suitable exercise and a good environment are far better than pills. And they're a lot easiser to swallow.

Ramping It Up

The ramp began even before the Greeks claimed its invention. How do you think the Egyptians hauled up those huge blocks of stone you see the tourist attraction chap climbing  at THE pyramids? The most identifiable ones. Not that there aren't pyramids all over the world of one size or another. The ramp makes it a lot easier to push or pull a heavy weight up or down. We use them on freeways, in warehouses, at sidewalk corners and just about anywhere they do a  job to make life a little easier. Wheel chair folks need ramps because their "feet" may be their wheels. It's no light matter when you are wheel chair-bound and must have, not just want, the convenience of ramps. If you are in a wheel chair or assisting with one, you know what I mean. In this day of every assistance imaginable to make life simpler, sometimes it is forgotten that even a one inch barrier can keep some people imprisoned in a world that prevents them from freely moving about. Not just for the aged, but at any age, a ramp helps when you need it. I love my walker. I feel absolutely no shame for it. I'm not a person influenced by those ignorants  who think they are never going to grow old, and joke about elders. As an elder, I do what I need and what I love are canes, walkers and any other items that make my life easier. I do it without a whit of shame or embarrassment. I love live theatre and one of my faves is the White Rock Players Playhouse. Previously, I didn't know there was a ramp to my favorite season ticket seat. I struggled with a cane to mount the steps to the seating floor. The people in the theatre are surprisingly patient with my slowness,  but I don't miss the occasional frustrated sigh and little groans of those behind me. And I am not about to apologise for aging. It's natural. When I learned that there was a hidden ramp at the playhouse, I was thrilled because when I get out of my taxi going to the theatre as a single old lady, I may now take along my dear buddy, a folding walker. Next play night, I am free to zip along and ramp off to the bar for a small red wine before the second act. Ramping it up!

Bad Books?

 Are there "bad books". Yes, of course. But determining the word "bad" is key. I think that a bad book, is one that is poorly written by a writing person who has misguided intent. What is your "bad book"? I am, as a former librarian who studied much on the matter of libraries and their purposes in schools, opposed to censorship in general.  "Censorship" is another word that needs a good deal of examination. It means different things in different situations. And this in certain parts of the planet varies according to its cultural mores. This morning I heard a broadcast, however, that made me realize how misdirected some individuals are about books and what they can "do" to readers, particularly children. Children are  those between the ages of one and nineteen legally, give or take. The man who spoke on behalf of a group of parents are part of a pressure faction that want certain books out of school libraries. He named a few, and they are widely read by children and adults and are considered classics in the English language. The interviewer wisely stated that the man's viewpoint as a parent was completely valid since he has the right as a parent, but that his opinions are not ones that can be imposed upon all parents. Unfortunately, the talk went on, and on. what the government of that province from whence the conversation originated, did not specify which books on what exactly topics should be removed from school libraries. What it did state, broadly, was that educators and parents should be "mindful" about books on their school shelves. For this fellow, anything remotely having sexaul connotation should go. He felt it encouraged and caused sexual abuse problems. Once again the word "sexual" is a term that needs consideration. Having experienced situations in school libraries as I have, I recall a certain pupil's mother who demanded that I get rid of a library book with Foxy Loxy in it because he threatened to eat Henny Penny. The story time book, had terrified her little daughter who suffered a nightmare after having it read to her along with twenty-five other children who didn't have nightmares about Foxy Loxy and Henny Penny. I will leave this topic now, for you to ponder on and perhaps discuss with your friends, family and maybe even librarians who are always mindful about books.

Casting Colour

 Colour when you think of it, is seen by each and every one of us, differently. Human eyes are different in each human body and whether we think of it or not, we do not, nor are able to, see colour the same way as everyone else. I love that thought. Colour is therefore something unique to each person. It has much more meaning to us than we might realize. It gives comfort: moods of happiness and sadness, fears or fantasy. We surround ourselves with a colour that we favour  most. For many years, I have avoided brown and green and dark shades other than my choice: black and white. I had an old boyfriend once, who came for a visit to my husband's and my house decades ago and asked me what colour I liked most. At the time, we lived on ocean front property and I answered, grey. Living seaside, it is the ocean hue one sees most. Not blue, as one would imagine. The visitor had taken a psychology course on the effects of colours chosen by humans, and I could see, he wasn't pleased with my response. I guess grey is perhaps regarded as boring to analysts, and it made it hard for him to analyse me in the way, he had hoped to.  My old friend said, come now, you can't mean that. I do, I replied and did, and it went on from there. Today, I online shopped for a couple of items from my usual franchise store, and  both pieces were brown, nice warm browns. Like chocolate. I wondered why suddenly this year, brown has become my go-to color. I ended up thinking, that for some reason, I have developed a "sweet tooth" and the highlight of my day is savouring a chocolate Wagon Wheel. These large, individually wrapped chocolate cookies, are superb! The chocolate on the double cooky is smooth and melts nicely, the springy marshmallow centre beats an Oreo any day, and the cookie part, while ignored due to the rest, is very pleasant indeed. I don't have a sugar problem as many do, and I worry not about fat because when you are as old as I  am, you worry more about being too thin. Brown, therefore, has become my closet cookie.

Noise On The Menu

 Dinner out is something special these days. It is far more expensive with burgeoning tips I feel are out of balance, but the fare  is better as is the service. This  might level the balance somewhat. I can't complain about those features, but I want to remark regarding noise levels in popular restaurants.  Recently, visiting one of our special eating venues that offer a view of a sandy beach on a popular swimming bay,  we three, were seated near the open windows that brought us the waftiing sea breeze on a late summer afternoon. Our server was delightful, and the company I sat with, perfect. What was not wanted, was the noise level. Most of the tables were for four in this historic building above the beach. One round table had six or more ladies, possibly a book club group, and they were horrendously loud, almost yelling  hee haws and high pitched screams that caused the entire floor to be forced to raise their voices to be heard amongst their own companions. I'm not deaf but I was deafened.  As the tables filled, others found it necessary to up their voice volumes so they could converse. Gradually, the decibels were sky high to the point where I couldn't hear my table companions. I wanted to stand up and shout, "Quiet!" as had occasionally, my teachers in school. The book clubbers who were paying no attention to their hooting and guffawing, should have been reminded by a staff member that others would like to enjoy their meals in a reasonably quiet environment.  But, of course that didn't happen. It should have, because this noisy gang had no respect at all for others in the room. One of the tables had a lovely little family with mother, father, and children: a young boy and girl. The children were very well mannered and I couldn't help but comment about it, to the mother. She told me that she and her young husband took their children out so that they would learn how to behave properly in restaurants. As we left after our beautiful seafood dinner, I wondered if the family used the loud diners as an example of what-not-to-do. Perhaps the parents pointed out to their youngsters, that while in a restaurant, one must, in courtesy toward others, keep the voice level down so that everyone may enjoy a peaceful meal.  

All Set Up

Some single elders go nowhere, do nothing. I am that sort and love it. When I do go out, it's a big treat that most others who are out and about every day, miss. I notice new buildings and gardens, store fronts and fresh paint. If it's a long ride through varying stretches, it is especially wonderful. This is something that commuters or mall mavens don't have. Most of my days at home are never boring because I love alone-time where I can read without uninterruption or game as long as I please without someone breathing down my neck. In fact those who rant on about seniors having to "use it or lose it" aren't allowed in my hearing range. I move around, bend, stretch and do my own cooking, house chores and daily tasks to find that's quite enough exercise. I also have a secret. I am going to reveal the place I am most happy. I have a sun deck that looks out on nothing special, but it's large and wide. This is my garden. None of the greenery in my copse grows and it doesn't need watering or weeding. And while it looks and feels just as real as real, it isn't. Leaning behind metalbenches that run along the glass front and side of the deck, my black metal trellises bear green ivy that offers shade and an atmosphere of dappled sunlight. On each or the three corners of my pleasant covered deck are six or seven foot fake ficus trees that defy their copied identities. I use also sea grasses also imitations that are tall and clumps tuck in here and there as though I am at the beach. And they stay out there all winter and survive. My furniture is second hand black painted metal and its cousins, more black metal tables, are for real plants and the barbecue and airfryer that I love for outdoor cooking. On the deck floor is cooling grass, a green sod football  carpet that is perforated to accommodate air and rain water. A big rattan wingback chair and a basket swing that is covered with ivy woven in and out of its meshes adds to the ocean-like get-away on my deck. In the middle of it all is the old circle black  metal table with it's incense burner safe inside a glass tube with a Laughing Buddah hoho and holding his generous front.  Sitting out there on my fantasy set, I  read for hours, keeping out of the direct sun thanks to big red, the  umbrella that dominates it all in a loving glow. Who needs far away places; it's all here in my own paradise. Do you have one?

Labels

 Labels have always been important. Long ago in the primitive days of Man, your label might be how you wear your hair or paint you body or carry your weapons. Today the same applies, but in a different way. They, labels, the little bits of annoying plastic or paper or cloth that go on the napes of garments or are placed not subtly, so that no one misses who  made it. The more money your paid for that little bit of material, is likely worth far more than what actually went into it. The truth is that everything, or almost everything, is made in rather exotic locations usually where there is more sun than where I live next to the ocean, well above the equator and where very little is actually made. The exotic locations employ people who shock us that they would take so little pay and work so hard, but we buy what their hands have labored over, anyway. We can cluck about that, but we must not  forget our own history when small children were shoved down chimneys, dangerous small places in a much sang song. Remember?  Getting back to labels, today I found one that didn't make we want to cut it off. My all cotton sheets that are never ironed but look truly real because their origins are and that I love their natural slightly wrinkled honesty have a label. I dry these daily pleasures, illegally outside on my deck. Horrors, some would say, you can't hang laundry on your deck, tsk tsk. I must admit I have to be sneaky about it so I hope my Council won't see this. I could be fined for breaking the condo law. I may get time for it, and not the good kind.  To me it makes environmental sense not to waste  sunshine but to use it instead of an electric dryer. The smell of fresh air when you slip into those sheets makes your guilt disappear rapidly. Getting back to labels, in the middle of the flat sheet, a woman must have been involved because the label reads "top/bottom". Now don't laugh. You wouldn't if you were the laundry maven in your place. It saves a lot of wrestling with sheets to know which end is up - or bottom. This is the one label that will never be, by me, guillotined. 

Happy Helpless

 There is too much "help" these days. Most of it comes from a "help" that sits blinking down in the corner  of my computer screen. Oh good, I'll just explain my problem to Help, and we'll be on our way. I type in my situation. Apparently, we don't speak the same language even though it asks what's wrong, in my language. I try again with a few more adjectives, but again, it tells me to "try it another way". What way? I have run out of ways. I call  Customer Service who has human beings, and after going through a number of steps which has me running around to find a card or an invoice or a bank record or a view of the product in question. By that time, if the voice is still there, I tell it my problem, it tells me it will send me a code number. I don't use my cell phone unless I go out the door. I tell it "try another way". It will send me an email with the code. I have to leave this email page and find another email page to get the code. When I get to it, I write the code down and rush to get back. Oops, I "timed out". This can go on for quite a few codes and me desperately trying to  warp speed. I finally get it right. Now, I have the code, everything should be fine. But circularly I am referred to exactly what I had before, the little chap in the Help corner. What I want is a human being on the other end of the line because again, Samuel or whatever name this little help in the corner calls itself can't help. I say "agent, agent, agent" and miraculously I get a human being. It's one that is halfway around the world and who is apparently from the celebration noises, at a party. I do not understand a word he or she is saying not due to the accent, but to the party. I say so. It doesn't help because now the dog is barking or the baby is crying and the new accent is undecipherable.  I give up and hang up. The missing parcel that I was told was delivered, and was not, I have to assume was stolen when they left it outside on the street, or it's at a depot somewhere for me to go pick up myself. I hope the parcel will eventually be returned to the company who sold it to me and that maybe I will be reimbursed "in ten business days", for what I paid as seen on my bank record, for nothing. Online shopping is a joy. Sometimes.

The Bra- WWW

The who, what, where and when questions about a garment that women almost without exception, wear daily their whole adult lives, begs a word or two.  The bra is a kind of rite-of-passage, and from the time the simple band type in ancient Greece,  was donned to offer support, it became  the first thorn-in-the-side for women. Why? The first bras were invented for practical reasons and were simple. Women's bodies are designed by nature and her genetics determine the amount of flesh and fat and where it will be distributed on the body. Breasts are meant for feeding infants and in the primitive world, were part of the selection process of males, they thought, to ensure lineage. The more generous the girth, it was thought, the better the choice.  Just as then, today, bodies come in all sizes and conditions. Our brains give us ideas and choices on what we do with our bodies and our thinking now, has become very liberal. Women are no longer using  corsets or cinching in waistlines, or hopefully shouldn't be. There's always Photo Shop that the slick mag uses. We want comfort over glamour. Being able to find a bra for most women, is a trying time. Literally. Not all of us want to go into the back room with a bra expert who does do the perfect job of measuring. But, we all want to know our "size" and then shop. But size of a bra is very complex situation. No apple is precisely the same as any other, to put it bluntly. No one finds  exactly their perfect size. While the size is the one you always buy, from brand to style it differs. Pinch, poke, slip, slide, show and stab are some of the adjectives applicable. I like to feel free of having to chase a strap, contort doing a back closing or suffer wire torture or The Showing Of that no one wants wearing a tee shirt. Well, almost no one. And then there are some ladies who through no fault of their own, have to replace, enhance or remove this body part, in part, because it is because. Like you, I still have not found the holy grail bra. Have you dear lady?

Hindsight

Hindsight is perfect. When you are very old, not just older but someone with a short time left, and with a perfect thinking brain, you have hindsight. Very old means you have hours of time at your disposal. You don't have to run around trying to live a long life because as you munch your chocolate, you are already there. You did it kiddo. And now you are free of that mass of "must dos". How you got to the hindsight part of your waning life, makes you the master now of your fate. If you're smart, you don't let your kids or other loved ones rule your life. You rule your life because, hey, this is your last chance. You try to tolerate the bullies, cooers and doers who tell you they know better with their "trust me" injected into the convincer chats. At this stage you have developed your own secret strategies so that you don't always have to use the energy to play old and stupid. You go along with the flow. It's easier you have learned. Hindsight, is as lovely as a documentary tuned to you, but it can be rather cruel. It's where you see the realities you thought you didn't own. You see your  mistakes but you also see that you have blamed yourself for those that really weren't your fault,  but were the faults of the ones, the ones who made you feel guilty. Younger readers of this, those in their sixties and seventies will cluck, but it all happens if you live long enough. I love being ninety because now in solitude, I may face all the truths including the tougher ones that I tried to forget. Here they are: my mistakes, my accomplishments, but in the light of truth: the pile of prides and guilts and hurts and loves and bad and good times and all the things I should have done and didn't or wouldn't or shouldn't. It is like a sort of heaven and hell all rolled into one. I find it glorious to see, in hindsight, that whole open road, and it's clearly visible and very, very beautiful. A life is a miracle, and I am so grateful that mine was long and without sickness, grief or pain that couldn't be conquored with a medicine called Time. I still have some left over, and it's an endless dessert to savour. 

Loners Only

While I'm not a genuine loner, I do enjoy alone time. Likely, being an avid reader, computer game lover and internet rambler, I'm close to the real ticket. I hear, constantly, the "dangers" of being "anti-social" and how, for elders, that is most undesirable. That may be the general opinion, but it's certainly not for people like me. As a child I yearned to be by myself even though our family was only the four of us. I leaned more to my Dad who not only read his favorite authors such as Steinbeck, Caldwell and biographies of such as Ghandi and other socialists. He prided himself on being a gold panner and lover of trying to find the Mother Lode during his vacations from work in the wood industry. He and a pal, rented horses and rode into the deep wilderness, old maps in hand, pretending they would locate the biggest gold find of all time. He taught me how to pan for gold in BC streams that weren't more than day away from the south Pacific coast mainland. In the black parts of the pan, sure enough, little gold flecks would appear. He'd point out the gold and tell me about the mid province history of the Gold Rush days when huge chunks of it would inspire seekers to make their claims. He had a tiny vial of some fairly good chunks he and his friend had gathered over the years. He was a loner. He worked with people of all colours and as I grew up he taught me how to walk in the woods without fear, how to hack a bit off a rock here and there and with his guide, learn its variety and its usefulness. Being alone became for me a pleasure. It was not having to think up something to say or do or play how to be part of a group. I preferred the times when I went off alone or found a pleasant woodsy spot to take out my book and enter its world. I am never alone with a book or my computer. I am never lonely. And there are countless others out there, just like me. Leave them alone. They love it. 

Beet That!

My gramma who was no cook invited her family to dinner every Sunday and for awhile we went there to dinner. My mother was a fantastic cook although not a gourmet kind and she berated, well after we left these dinners, Gramma's fare. "I will not eat another tough capon that has been boiled for twenty-four hours along with potates cooked earlier in the week and raisin pie with crust like a tire," she ranted at my father, on the way home in our old square Ford sedan. We continued to visit Gramma, but after dinner. What Gramma served along with cheese and raisins at those times, was pickled beets. And I learned to adore them even years later when I lived with her while going to college. I ate her capon dinners without complaint. Boarding students don't complain. They'll eat anything due to budget restraints. They're young enough to tolerate capons and thrice fried potatoes. The pickled beets, she still served, were the best thing on Gramma's menu. Of late, I took a liking to pickled beets once again, and did a bit of research about pickled beets. They are as most pickled things, high in pro-biotics due to the fermenting process. Dill pickles unfortunately, that I also love, are high in sodium and that isn't good. Beet pickles, however, are rich in their original minerals that are not destroyed in pickling process. In fact, while I adore small hot buttered tender baby beets on my plate, they aren't readily available all year, therefore, pickled ones will do. And do well. I have tried pickling carrots by cheating and putting them into dill pickle juice but with so much sodium in that brine, I will not convert to using other than the red pickle juice. Or perhaps, I will try making a pickling process that  works with carrot sticks and is low on sodium.  Can't beet that!

Accents And Understanding

We have many new Canadians as well as visitors from other lands who come to Canada where our offical languages are English and French. Most of the time, I can understand through the accents of our newcomers, what they are saying in English, but there are times when it is so difficult that I must, for practical reasons, resort to asking to please have another person speak to me. It isn't being unkind or insulting or racist, it is simply a matter of getting the business done, and one hopes that the situation is understood also, by the person who is trying to speak English well. One must use a polite and respectful tone when this situation arises. I was rather desperate to have some clear instructions and the help line person was trying hard also. She knew her work but it was just that I simply could not get past her accent that was a lot of very rapid words in a stacatto like manner. I really could not understand what she was saying and I tried very hard because I  needed her help. There are many accents that one meets nowadays, but for me to receive instruction from this lady, I had to be able to understand each move. And I could not. I was forced, therefore, to ask for someone else to help me. I had told the aid, that I need her to slow down so that I could follow her instructions, but she continued to go on and on without doing that. She was very annoyed with me when I had to ask her over and over,  to stop and explain again. Finally she became rude to me by slowing down her voice and droning out at great length, each word that I still could not fathom. It was a very embarrassing situation and she finally had to put me on to another person. The new man also had an accent, but it was one I could easily recognise and work through. I was left feeling badly that the first helper was so insulted and angry. I felt that I had done something wrong, but it was one of those times that needed something to be fixed and to have clear instructions  for getting it fixed. I am sure that if I were in the lady's  country, I would be at a loss to learn her language, too. I am not great at languages even though I have an fairly good education. The lady helper knew the English language but it was her special accent that just didn't work for me. Accents are welcome and add much to the colour of the Canadian mosaic but sometimes it is easy and other times, hard to untie their gift of trying very hard to learn out language so that they are understood. I appreciate that very much.  

Corks

 Those of you who enjoy bubbly know the wiles of corks. They do an incomparable job in that they ''breath" so wine makers say, even though at times, they appear to be made of concrete. Wine makers of any worth use cork from the cork tree that has an amazing bark. We had one in our backyard that succumbed to my dad's hoe which saddened the thirteen year old me, because I accidentally discovered its singular beauty and texture. But enough of history. More recent history was a time when my husband and I, world travellers, happened into the Matterhorn area. As you may know, it's a mountain climbing mecca in Europe if not the globe.  It is famous and has a cemetry that seems small. Many of the brave mountain climbers since its inception in 1906 lay at rest in it having been claimed by the mountain. It see that today, it has changed but in those times, their very climbing gear was resting on their grave stone with them.  It seems a small village. We stayed at a tiny hotel after strolling in the streets that went up and down and around twisting at random like a pathway in the hilly grassy area.  It had been a long train ride to get to the base of the Matterhorn,  and to relax after finding a place to eat some excellent fish, we found a bubbly wine shop and bought a bottle. That evening after gazing at the magnificent part of the peak that we hoped to see, and that clouds flirted with our doing so, we decided to open our heavy bottle of corked wine and enjoy, also, the bit of tasty cheese we found. The cosy little room unlike a Western hotel, looked like someone's guest space. We placed the bottle on the table with four chairs around it beside a big window of various panes but covered with a lovely lace curtain, and proceeded to open the wine. It was a struggle, but finally with a gigantic pop, it revealed itself along with a deal of foam. We had both to duck the cork as it flew like a rocket out of the bottle top. We knew the cork had ricoched somewhere, but where? Try as we might, we couldn't find it. In the morning we had to leave early and busied ourselves with that before sitting for a moment to have the excellent coffee that was provided. As we sat at the table to enjoy our last look out the window at the Matterhorn we hoped was there behind the clouds, we saw our cork, caught high in the lace curtain. We laughed but left it thinking another couple, might find it with the same delight we had in putting it there. 

Sun Drying

 When I had a house, a rarity these days unless you are one of the lucky ones or just plain rich, I loved my clothes line. It stretched from a corner of my deck across to a cedar tree. On that line, I could hang a whole laundry load, that of a family of three. Living on the Salish Sea with a good breeze made the laundry not only dry, but smell very fresh. Now, it's but a memory and living in a condo with a deck, as I do, I yearn to use the sun and fresh air again, to dry my linens. And I do. I am sneaky about it as I break a condo rule that says we must not hang any sort of laundry out. Since my view is the back of another building and my glass deck front and side are covered with fake ivy fencing for privacy, I secretly do dry my sheets and pillow cases. It should not offend anyone because no one sees them out there. Guilt abounds but the good part is that when I slip between those sheets, I smell their natural aroma and revel in a sea breeze scent that is real, not added. My method is to use a couple of recycled curtain rods. I lay them from one deck chair back to the another. Along its length I lay folded a top sheet and a fitted one, side by side.  This entails turning them a couple of times as the sun does it work. but it is a pleasure. My environmental commitment is served as well.  I feel that this is a good way to use the sun rather than waste the energy that an electric dryer takes. And whyever not?  Of course, I have to put the other items into the dryer but I would much rather put them, also, on my deck. In Europe, laundry drying is practised and welcomed by the rest of their sensible world. Surely, condo regulators in their bylaws, can find ways of accommodating at least a small outside deck dryer system. How hard would it be to build in a wall unit that slides out in a rack for drying clothing or other items. It could be made hidden to view for the most part. Instead of putting in ridiculous things like bowling alleys, pool tables, and gyms that are little used, for everyone, a drying rack outside, would, in summer, be responsible and used by every and any one.  Newly constructed condos with living spaces ought to take this responsilibity in trying to preserve what natural benefits we can use instead of commercial social things we can find down the street.  If I were shopping for a new condo, it's something, among other environmentally responsible things, that would tempt me to buy. Rather than bars and barbecues and other visiting spaces in a condo, I care more about the world at large and what truly matters rather than silly "luxuries" that do little for us. More and more, condos are all that one can afford, therefore, let's make them homes to live in, rather than regulated units. 

Normal, Regular, Happy Day

 I tuned into my morning radio show today hoping to feel more up than I usually do hearing what's going on in my town on the West Coast of this beautiful country. I learned that yet another program is being installed to assist a group of people who have difficulties. That's great but why are we, on national radio, called entertainment, installing yet another whole section of time to a small bunch who already have loads of support for their cause. Now it's going to be stuck into the early part of the day along with all the other complainers needing more of everything that goes on endlessly for hours. What used to be a cheery program in the morning with news, traffic and weather plus pleasant music, is turning into another save-the-world broadcast with the saddest, baddest articles coming at me and dragging me, a normal, regular, happy person down into  darker areas to begin the day.  SORRY BUT (a common Canadian expression ), I need a break from bad news when I get up. It makes want to do something good in the day ahead.  Okay, that sounds  selfish, but really, I also  need my citizen battery charged up, too. I do what I can, in my way, to donate, recycle, go low carb, stay low carbon, buy my country's goods and try to be nice to everyone. I can take only so much (sorry but) whining by groups of people with problems that are serious and thought provoking but in order to be on the donating and volunteering, the caring end, I also need some time in my day that is uplifting. This morning program used to get  me started so that I could go out and serve my fellow man and woman kind. Now, on start up radio,  I listen to twenty minutes of this problem and fifteen of that one, of murder, beatings, riots, wars, starvation, vandalism, kidnapping and car accident victims as well as political issues, unemployment, homelessness and scores of other negative situations. Do I need to know about them?  Yes I do, but I also need nice music, positive outlooks and gentle thoughts to start my day. I need that to help others from this, my much criticised place in society, for which I will not apologise. I worked hard and tried to be good all my life and now near the end of it I want to help, I don't want to be loaded up with the bad side of the world's bad state, first thing every day. Sorry but. 

Lift, Snap, Turn,Tear

Who decides what to print on lids supposedly for opening bottles, tins, boxes or packages? I do a lot of online buying and encounter such advice weekly. Today, I wanted to open a plastic package containing plant food. The top said "tear along this line" and there was a tidy little notch designed to do so. I tried everything in my power to tear where the notch was but after a great struggle and sore fingers, I cut along the line with scissors. Under the scissor line, I was directed to lift the part that separated each side of the package for future ingress and egress access. I tried again, as hard as I could, to pull the parts apart so that the package would finally open. No amount of pulling and tugging did the job. I used my scissors to cut the side of the package in a final attempt. The same thing happens with the ketchup bottle and its silver cover that says "lift" on the teeny bit at the side, and doesn't lift unless I use a pair of pliers. At times, I take a sharp knife and score the thing all around to "lift" it off. Then there is the pain killer tablet bottle that says "press and turn". This lid is to prevent small children from eating the bottle of pills, therefore, I do get the point. I haven't had babies around for decades.  After turning and pushing down with aged hands that hope to have their pain relieved, if and when, the bottle of tablets do open, I sometimes lose patience and get a pair of hardy pliers and yank the top off.  My milk bottle works the same way. Under the plastic lid there is a seal make of silver metallic plastic that says "tear off". Unless one has claws like a crab, the tiny bit to tear off, doesn't tear. If I don't pierce it with a knife and rip it all 'round, out come the pliers again. Then there are other bottles that direct one to open so to pull out the swab or damp cloth and two or three come out at the same time.  And don't forget the tissue box that directs you, after zipping out the little tab on the top, "pull", you are overwhelmed by the generosity when three of four tissues emerge on one "pull". It also has  "pulls" that tear the tissue in the process. To open a "snap off" bottle of spaghetti sauce I called in the two men next door and they couldn't budge the thing. Nice way to meet the neighbours but somewhat embarrassing when they had to resort to a chisel. Why don't these containers say, Yank, Rip, Stab, Slice, Cut, Hammer. Not polite, but honest. 

The Good Book

 For some The Good Book is a certain Christian book of books called The Holy Bible and for them, it is holy. The word bible that comes from ancient Greek means scroll which is how books began. Others call a good book, what they might be reading and enjoying at the moment. My query is what is a "good" book. I am having, more and more, as an avid reader of books, mostly fiction that has a broad scope, trouble trying to find a book that keeps me wanting to read it. I depend on two sources unlike library hunting haunters or those willing to part with too much money, my condo collection of castoff reads are ones that I often find on the shelves of our condo. The latter are tidied by a male with librarian ambitions. They are immaculately kept so that each volume is precisely lined up in lineup on each shelf. There is no other order so that trying to find a certain author becomes an enjoyable browsing chore. When I find one whose back of the jacket blurb matches my hopes, I look inside and read the fifth page, well beyone the publishers advice to the would-be best seller author, establish a "hook" on the first one. How to select is the next step. I flip through the book here and there to catch the language style, how much is dialogue and how much is idle description. If I see little indications that someone has actually read the whole book and not just the first half, it goes in the maybe pile. For Book Clubs it has been known that some busy persons read the online description written by an AI and then "present" their book at the club. Too many books I pull of the shelf, I see the book's nether regions are far too antisepticked to have its pages turned at all. Not finished. Then I begin reading my book. If it is overlong, it's likely to be so because the author charges more for the length than the content. These expensive "best sellers" are repetitious, monotonous and diseased by secret ghost writers hired to use trite methods in padding up the pages. That sounds negative but sadly it is true even for bestsellerauthors whose names I can't use. A "good" book for me, is one that has meat-on-its-bones or substance, is well edited to remove the Miracle Grow tactics some use, and that makes me think in a whole new direction that stimulates my curiosity. Often times, it's something I find on Amazon by a brand new writer. Some authors are born wordy and use formula guidelines to produce prolifically. They are often what is called bestsellers. They aren't artists but they ought to be. A good book  comes from inside an author, not his/her history for sales but their genius. Writing is art, and the best writers take their unique work personally and seriously. They believe in their words and can be trusted to share them with us having worked hard to offer their literary creations borne of themselves.

Facing Up To It

Today's economy has Canadians facing up to keeping their budgets in control. If you're like I am, you want to make sure every cent is well spent. I have always enjoyed skin care as do most women, even those of my considerably advanced years. I find wearing makeup makes me feel cheerful and "still in the game". "The Game" is feeling part of the rest of the world and these days, appearance is essential. To save a bit, I have a few tricks or secrets that may match some of yours. Makeup has gone up in price along with everything else. I love moisturizers and one of my go-tos is adding a bit of water to the containers when they become half full if not before. Most of them are overly thick anyway, and adding a touch of water makes them easier to spread but takes nothing away from their power. Almost all of the little bottles of these products are made so that when they appear empty, they aren't. A lot of the substance remains in the bottom of the bottle. If you don't want to add water, you could, as I do, use a long wand to get what's left in the bottom or if you have the patience, to set it on its head for the same purpose. I cut my own hair, don't gasp, because it is straight to begin with, and I have learned how to cut it evenly in a blunt cut all by myself. I do my own bangs too, but keep them long which every elder lady ought to do. Short ones look all too doll-like. And no, frying your hair into a puff ball, screams "old lady". Then, there is doing your face. We need eyebrows and you can do your own. It takes practise and patience. When camping I have been known to use a 2B pencil for exactly that purpose. It works very well and when I can't get my lipliner to make the little upper lip points visible, I have been known to shape them lightly  with a touch of 2B again.  2B or not 2B! To hide those wrinkles, don't think shine works.  All shine does is make lines and wrinkles stand out like never before. The secret is, after your layer of toned moisturizer, try using a large soft brush to dust on lightly, a  face powder exactly your tone. The wrinkles disappear. Just try it. And when your once blonde hair becomes  gray, use a light blonde hair powder or root spray to make streaks of blonde that are just right. Darker haired ladies can do the same without expensive trips to a salon. A hint of gray is okay. You can save money. That also goes for fake nails that turn you into an every-three-weeks nail addict with claws. Who says they are better?  Have faith in your own nails by taking care of them yourself and using a nail polish that you love. The time that you spend has value.  We just need to face up to it. 

Old Computers

 It's time that the younger generations stopped thinking that old people don't know squat about computers. News flash. Most of them are on the things most of the day. When you don't have a car, have done the world travel bit, got your university degree long ago and finished the career that took up far too much time in your life and have seen your loved ones pass away one by one, you get yourself a computer and sorry, but it doesn't take a lot of brains and time to learn how to use computers. I am ninety and if I had a parent, it would ground me for being on the computer far too much. And I am not talking cell phones which I  abhor and use as little as possible. I don't see the point in texting nothings all day long or adding up how many hits some other stranger gets on an inane bit of mere nothing. My computer, my best friend, gets me  email with actual grammar use on it, answers all of my questions due to AI and takes me shopping what I purchase and have delivered, entertains me , does business for me and keeps me in touch with my friends and relatives who are  on their computers doing the same. I don't go out much because there's nothing much to go out for, and I am not lonely due to the fact I have a computer.  Why do others of THIS generation that we all belong to, incidentally, think that elders know nothing about computers and cyberspace? The thing riding on top of our wrinkled necks is a brain as keen as anyone's. Joints and muscles are not applicable to thinking.  Next time I hear that nonsense about old people not knowing anything about computers, I am going to demand some statistics or recommend the speaker seek out AI and ask about their incorrect assumption. Grrr. 

What's A Friend?

The word "friend" is overused. I've had perfect strangers put the term "my friend" into conversations and it means nothing. Some people tell me they have "tons of friends". You can also "befriend" someone without actually knowing them very well. The other day having had to end what I thought was a friendship, I began to think seriously about that word "friend". When it became clear that the reality of what posed as friendship, was something entirely different than I thought, the question arose. Defining what friendship means is complicated. Friendships have levels. We can have light ones or deep ones or ones that we know will be temporary, others that turn out to be mistakes and yet others, while rarely, that are dangerous and distracting. Fiction writers create mysteries around friendships that are actually enemyships and lovers decry the term in such phrases as "let's just be friends", while still others total how many "friends" they have on line when most of them have never met. So, what's a friend? When young, I had friends, lots of them, and we cruised about in our teens sharing every precious experience and thought. Later on, as an adult, I had fewer but closer friends. Some of them  remained my friends all our lives to date, even now in our nineties. Why do I call them friends? They are constant. None of them betrayed me even though many times, our friendships changed as did our life styles and locations. My friends and I  spent time together, not constantly, but when we did meet again, it was a joy that was acutely mutual. Friendship is a feeling of a oneness together in a loyalty that is never shaken even though it might be stirred. My recent ending of a friendship was a shock to me because I had been led to believe until the moment of crisis, that I was as warmly accepted as I accepted my friend. The sudden revelation that what I took as real, was not. The worst part of ending friendships, is first, knowing that the end has come and second, that all guilt is required to be dropped. No one needs to feel guilty, either party, when the decision is made that unhealthy friendships have to end. It doesn't mean making enemies, it simply means that one learns appreciation of  the best parts of  the old friendships in  gaining the skills to make new ones. 

Secrets of Being 90

Being ninety takes work. It's work you can't talk about. Most people think you are daft anyway. They nod and smile but they aren't really listening. The world has a way of ticking you off even before you're due. So how or why do you keep on living? And still love it. First of all it's luck. Sheer luck. So many elders are caught up by some nasty "thing" that convinced them to give up. Not giving up is the first rule in being ninety. You have to talk yourself out of thinking OMG I am ninety and awful things will happen. I gave up on that a long time ago because negative thinking is a waste of time. Time you don't want to waste. I talk to myself a lot but silently. If anyone hears you speak to yourself out loud they think you need to go off to the funny farm which actually, if there were one, would be delightful to go to. The "home" places are no fun at all in spite of the little schedule cards that include  yoga, dances, crafts, cocktail hour, concerts and bus trips to the mall. None of the above are much fun for elders. Sorry. They are simply one of the somethingtodo events to fill the calendar. Cynical? No actual, and actual is considered a no no. That's why I live alone and love it. Ninety year olds can live alone weird as it seems. We do our own cooking even though most people steam something in a package, a lot of us use fresh produce and meats to slice and dice and cook. Yes, cook. We love it and even though it's a tiny amount of it, we eat very well. No tofu or kale, thank you very much. Bio feeback really works. You can talk to your body. We ninety year olds politely ask our bodies their tolerance levels and needs. We listen to them. It's all we have.  We use out minds to tell our bodies to relax and go our own way. We don't believe we have to dash about pretending to be youthful. We passed that stage long ago. We know what to do, and how to do it. Don't tell us, let us tell you. If we need help we'll ask. Don't grab at us or purr at us. We have brains that, yes, ride around in our old bodies, but we use them. That's how we make it, as you do, to the end of every day. We are the gens of today, not some media anachronism. We are you, but the you to come, your future self. We are ninety. We live.

Half Time Cyberteacher

How to solve the shortage of teachers. Some school subjects such as math practise, might be cut in half using a  computer as the supervising teacher. Same with homework. When it comes to quizzes, memory tests, and writing work all might be checked by a computer with results sent to the instructional teacher.  It would free the student to do such work at home rather than attending a school building. Teachers are there to consult in a student's education,  instructing and conselling young people. Practice in a mechanical way, doesn't require an instructor. I think of one teacher who persists in demanding that students do a list of algebra questions every night as homework. That doesn't make sense to me when the student rebels with "I know how to do this, why do I have to take my time going over and over it". Overcrowded schools and lack of  teachers might also be helped in this manner. It is not a bizarre suggestion. How much of a teacher's time is spent in actual instruction and how much in monitoring quizzes and supervising students who are writing only or reading material or filling in blanks or doing work sheets? Sometimes, a computer testing is less threatening for some students who would benefit it done by a computer. Computer progams have an objective way of correcting student errors and in a non threatening way, re-teaching until the student gets it right. Sounds odd,  but in my teaching career I found that certain students work better with a computer than in a busy classroom where social issues might interfere. A teacher in this situation, would be available when the student needed to consult or question. It would allow one teacher to attend a larger number of students, therefore. While it may be argued by some, to be non-education, we all know perfectly well, that students learn a great deal on their electronic devices because we are creatures whose brains are memory banks in themselves and they learn best in images as well as symbols such as letters of the alphabet and certainly by repetition. Time away from mechanical practise would be better spent in the arts for example: graphics, musicl, dance, performance etc. Parent and student would make a personal choice outside,  instead of having it happen within schools. The teachers who trained for these subjects in the the arts, could then become paid business persons in their artistic  subjects rather then under school district oversight. Those parents who couldn't afford the arts sessions, would be assessed to be government subsidised. Arts teacher talents would become private business. It would mean,  back to the future in the public schools once again: places for "reading, writing, and arithmetic".  Just a thought. 

Have Fun Rod

 Rod taught in a residential school situated in our seaside district, and when it closed, he continued in the public school system teaching in his light hearted ways. Teaching was his love and he was a fine man, who was a great father to many children of his own and he was very well regarded in our small town.  It hurt him to hear about the tragic downside of residential schools, and when the same children came to the public school where he worked after, he  listened to those affected so deeply. Sometimes, we forget that latterly regular teachers were employed in those schools as well. They were good people, very saddened. I found Rod's name in our retired teachers' magazine on the obituary page. Rod was a small man in stature but never in character. To me he was tall as a professional and fellow teacher. I called him not long before I read of his passing and regretted that I had not called him again later on. We spoke only briefly due to what sounded like an illness that had found him in his later years. I am no older than he, but am fortunate in my health at ninety. Rod was part of the school in which I was librarian and as a team of caring teachers, he contributed as well as knowledge, common sense and humour. My son was in his Grade Six class. I was told by my son, also gone now, that Rod was one of his favorite teachers. Rod  had a light hearted style that made students happy to be in class. The classes were composed of both Aborigine and all other races of kids and our principal, Mr. Reid, saw to it that the space we shared on the lands of our Aborigines, was respected and its history included in our school lessons, We worked along side as fellow staff members the people who lived on the beautiful ocean Reserve. I have to say, I loved working with my aborigine pals and being on the same grounds: theirs.  It was a beautiful place to live because we seemed to be all together with no enmity and sometimes celebrated together on those shores and waters. My son, to earn post grad education, along with his fellow loggers, found the aboriginal people strong and very capable as he worked on on their crews. They taught him ground level logging and how to be safe while doing it. Always, there was always a good sense of humor included. I live in another town now, but I miss that place and time. Farewell Rod, and if it's possible have fun. You deserve it!

Final Test

I was happy to see that a new idea on testing is about to be tested. Gone will be the days when students study intensely for one aspect of their year's courses before final exams only to find that a different question is on the test. The new idea, as I read it, is to interview the student in some manner, not written, to see what their knowledge and understanding of the subject is. Of course it will take up the instructor time but both student and teacher will come out of it with an insight on both the learning, retention and creative thought regarding the subject. To me, that is true depth in the education process.  Also, this should be done with written exams in which essays are witnessed in the process and assessed by discussion in the same way. Teachers will scream " I don't have the time". Yes, you do and you should take the time because you will learn how well you have taught. You will learn how you have relayed the subject to this particular student and how well your student has grasped it. It's called being an educator, not a marker who  assigns a percent or letter grade in a solitary venue that disallows questioning the student's motives and creativite ability in the  answering.  Personal interviewing also helps  nervous young persons who fail, not due to knowledge but of the fear of the traditional kinds of tests. This fear is  a very real stumbling block in some students to true assessment of their understanding.  This style of grading will also prevent cheating with the use of AI or other means. It makes perfect human sense rather than slapping on a couple of digits to a student's twelve years of being "educated" which is basically a test of memory not critical understanding. I call the new testing idea, a vertical rather than horizontal reading of what a person knows.  

Phony Phones

 A phone was invented as communication. That made sense, and for decades did just that. And, to me, that make perfect sense. I don't need to take photographs of everything around me, including me and/or whatever I stand next to. Who needs that? Really? Used to be, you took a photo of something you wanted keep other than in your memory. When slides came along, those who travelled insisted upon boring you with every Hawaiian sunset they holidayed on for three weeks. I lost a lot of friends  due to falling asleep after the first few oohs and ahhs. When computers came along, I adored them because I like playing games, games with computers because I can be a good sport when I play with them. I do swear at the ones who beat me, but they don't mind. Next someone thought how much fun it would be to shrink down the computer into what it is now. A cell phone and you're in the cell. These things worth a few thousand bucks, live in your pocket or your hand and do everything - almost.  Young couples used to hold hands in the past. Now they hold their phones and text each other standing a foot away. The spoken word or spelled one, died long ago. I have a cell phone a few years old which makes my friends shriek - you don't get a new one each sale? they yell. I hear also, I called you and you didn't answer; where were you? Why do they care? No matter how many times I remind them that I do not want to lug a phone around all day, in my own home, they don't get it. With email, I have time to consider what I say back and furthermore have hands free to squeeze the tomatoes when I shop. I have no interest in hearing what anyone did in the last hour. What's a land line? they gasp. Yup, and that is the one I like and don't tell me how old fashioned I am. I am new fashioned because  the world is realizing the downside of becoming enslaved by technology other than the opposite. Anyway, when anyone texts now, there is AI. You don't have to speak or think. Just hum.  However, if you don't hum the right key, you might find yourself ghosted or trolled, when your long false acrylic nails hit a wrong button. No worry, you can find someone else just as addicted, among the millions online.