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.