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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| July 5th Prompt: Tell us about someone you find inspirational. I have been lucky enough to meet several inspirational seniors. When I came into their lives they were not diminished just dealing with new challenges. Time and physical limitations slowed them such that they accepted my assistance with tasks of daily living. All talked freely.Not one considered themselves extraordinary. It's a shame we view ourselves with such critical eyes. Joseph had a gruff manner and sometimes it seemed as if he barked orders. He and his charming wife had emigrated to Canada from Italy when he'd retired at the seminal age of sixty-five.Wanting to assimilate and speak English, Joseph enrolled in high school. He attended classes with enthusiasm and boasted he never missed a day. It must have been quite the sight at his graduation with teenagers as his contemporaries. His framed diploma hung for all to see in his livingroom. Joseph struggled after a stroke that left his right side totally paralyzed. Learning to speak and communicate frustrated him, but he persevered. His speech returned and he made sure to use his voice. He insisted upon dispensing advice as he taught me to cook. Oh, I tried to tell him I already knew how to cook, but as a former European chef he considered himself the true expert. I met Mary when she could no longer manage her own personal care. As a teenager, she had survived a devastating car wreck with stroke-like deficits. With a strong will and humour, she'd adapted to being left-handed. Her right arm hung useless and her right leg required a brace, but it did not stop her. She moved hundreds of miles away to the big city, married, had a son, and created a career for herself. In her seventies, Mary slowed down, but she could best be described as a social butterfly. She enjoyed card tournaments, dances, sight-seeing trips and more. She amazed me. She is the only one-handed knitter I knew. Gloria packed up and moved to another province when she retired at sixty-five to attend a four-year university program. With no previous experience, she earned a degree in economics. As a new graduate, she returned home. Within a year, Alzheimer's intruded and began to slowly, insidiously steal her memories and her great intellect. Bright sparks of the true Gloria would glimmer for brief, translucent moments. Someday, I will be a senior and I plan to follow their indomitable example. I will kick and raise my voice if it is necessary. |
| July 4th Prompt: What could you give a 40 minute presentation on with absolutely no preparation? So, just to be clear this is a pop presentation not a pop quiz. Whew, I have not studied or memorized anything recently. Today, I languished on a sun-drenched beach only repositioning myself when some body part or other screamed they were cramped. Humidity discourages physical effort. It also clouds my thought process. Technically, I am camping with my family. I don't feel up to creating graphs, or flow charts, or any type of visual aid. There's no preparation in my lazy day. Well, I did participate in a joint creation of a barbecue supper. It's mind boggling how peckish one becomes doing nothing. Beach reclining requires stamina. I suppose if I must dazzle with my impromptu reservoir of knowledge, I could teach everyone to sing camp songs. All those rousing lyrics reside in my personal data base eager to stupify and suspend disbelief. A typical Guiding campfire carouses for at least ninety minutes. Momentum is built and carried with silly and action tunes. Of course, audience participation is mandatory. Campfires are never a spectator sport. Tradition would have us begin with 'Fire's Burning.' Some fires need encouragement. Ready? Fire's burning, fire's burning, draw nearer, draw nearer, in the gloaming, in the gloaming, come sing and be merry. Note it is in the gloaming, not in the glowing. Gloaming is twilight, dusk, but yes, fires do glow. Now, we could follow this with a quick ditty about black socks that get stronger the longer you wear them. Maybe we could pretend we are aboard a ship and rolling over the billows in a deep blue sea. I still laugh at Alice the camel with her one hump. Who doesn't know the song that never ends 'cause it goes on and on my friend. Now, I'm singing to myself. There's a hole in the ground and in that hole there stood a tree and on that tree there was a branch. And....we must stop to breathe... In the end, after many additions including a leaf , a nest and a bird, I finally finish with the green grass grew all around and around, the green grass grew all around. I leave you with 'Taps.' Day is done, gone the sun, from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky, all is well, safely rest, God is nigh. |
| PROMPT July 3rd Describe a missed opportunity you encountered, and how things might have been different if you hadn't missed it. While I could best be described as a bouncing baby, my parents made the decision to leave Canada and relocate to Arizona. From what I've gleaned from family lore they had gone so far as to acquire visas, pack luggage, and assure the transmission of medical records to a new physician. They were ready to make a drastic move far from friends and family. This had not been a spontaneous choice, but a medical one. My Mom had been diagnosed with a lung condition that exacerbated her asthma and dry desert air had been seen as a coping mechanism. We were all prepared for a new lifestyle. As with most difficult decisions, my parents struggled. In the end, they chose to remain in Canada which may have been a blessing. My mother would undergo major surgery that removed lobes from both lungs. How could they have afforded this as newcomers to the States? Who could have helped them during her recovery? So, what I am saying is I could've been an Arizonian, Arizonite, citizen of Arizona. Huh. I'd be parlaying in Americanese right now. I suppose I wouldn't end my phrases with 'eh.' The flag I'd salute would be slightly different in appearance. I may never have tasted tortiere, beaver tails, maple syrup, or poutine. Oh no! Tim Horton's would not exist in that world. Could I purchase a cup of hot steeped tea without being given iced tea? Where would I toboggan? Could I build a snowman? When I became of marriageable age, haha, who even says that anymore, I most likely would not have met my current spouse a former competitive figure skater. Are they rare in Arizona? I mean I fell on him and everything, so that would never happen. Yes, I employed a rather impressive move to get his attention. I tripped down a flight of stairs at 'my' high school and he broke most of my tumble. He delights in telling people I fell for him which I cannot dispute. I would not have recently celebrated Canada Day or bothered to memorize the lyrics to 'O Canada.' Would I have traversed this great country from coast to coast? Would I have learned to speak Spanish instead of French? Ah, the 'what ifs' are endless. |
| July 2nd Prompt: Mood rings of the 70's? What if people could actually see your emotions like an aura of colour surrounding you. Would you try to mask it, display it, or something in between? I'm moving as little as possible today. I believe I am melting. Breathing is an effort. I'm certain witnesses would attest to me glistening and yes, there's a sheen to my skin, but it is most definitely not a glow of serenity. My mind is in a muddle, a stupor. The rest of me is listlessly languishing in a puddle of perspiration. It's too damn hot! My clothing is damp and sticking to me. I am steaming, roasting, beyond over-heated. Okay, I admit it. I sound petulant. To prove my point I'd really like to stamp at least one foot and jut out my lower lip, but that would require too much physical exertion. What should I do? I suppose I could summon the energy to stumble down the sun-drenched road to the beach. If I must, I could force my heavy legs to carry me. What's a bit of burning sand? Despite the relentless sun I could wade into the refreshing lake water. It betrays me though as it reflects the sun's burning intensity. Sunscreen? My skin refused to absorb it as I slathered it everywhere. I'm sticky and slick with this sun marinade. I trudge out of the pull of the lake. The smothering heat is a heavy blanket I cannot shrug off. That sunscreen fails to deflect the sun's piercing rays, but it attracts sand. My aura is gritty. I'm barely able to muster a glare, a glower and we all know it takes more muscles to frown. My aura is bordering on grouchy, tetchy. "Stay away. She's 'tetched' by the humidity. That one's under pressure. She's gonna blow!" I kinda miss the snow. No really. I can layer up and bundle for that. I have stripped and the only layer remaining is my skin. It absorbs and traps heat. Oh great, I am trapped in my own skin. It's too hot to think. Do I project an aura of resignation? Am I repressed, suppressed, stressed? Heat wave? It did not wave hello. It slapped me. It pummeled me. Worse, it wrapped itself around me in a crushing, unrelenting, ever tightening bear hug. Ugh, did I mention I felt over-heated? |
| PROMPT July 1st Write a letter to your parents from before your birth. Give them advice about how to raise you and give them a heads up about anything they might struggle with when you come into their lives. Hi Mom and Dad! It's me, your eldest. Sorry, to ruin the big bang of my birth, but I'm a girl. No need to wait and pace for nine long months. There is no mystery. You can discard all those boy names on your list; I'm not a Junior. Now about the moniker you did saddle me with... There's nothing horrible or nonsensical with it, but, come on, did you have to give me the dog's name? Sure, you forgot the golden retriever jumping at your feet when you christened me Sandy. Really? Two of us named Sandy? Were your memories, your powers of recall that lacking that you thought one name would suffice? It's my name and I've grown accustomed to it, but what were the alternatives? Gertrude? Gladys? I love my grandmas, but those names? Now, I don't wish to alarm you and you'll probably still be shocked when I arrive which will be on my doctor guesstimated due date by the way, but I will not be the blonde you anticipate. Weird, eh? Please do not embarrass yourself Mom by insisting that you were given the wrong baby and demanding the return of your own blonde child. Your first impressions that I had to be an Italian were erroneous. I will be born with black hair, lots of it. I will not be bald. Just sneak a peek at your own Mother and you will see the resemblance, dark hair and chubby cheeks. After a few years have passed, my hair will lighten to a 'dirty blonde.' Here's a heads up. I do not like anyone playing with my hair, no one. I prefer it to hang long and loose. Mom, please, please, please, I'm begging you. Rethink your plan to 'fix' my hair with a home perm. Why torture yourself and me the innocent child? No, I really do not need curls. And Dad, thanks, but your crude attempts to wrangle my hair into pony tails is not necessary. I'm like a sheepdog. I can see fine with hair hanging in my face. Oh, I almost forgot. My legs will be a bit 'different', but please try not to worry. Everything sorts itself out and I am not permanently crippled. Club feet are fixable. Oh, and if you want me to walk before I am eighteen months of age, let me attempt to toddle on my own two feet. They will support me. Warn the relatives, too. They do not need to carry me everywhere. I'm not suggesting they stop all the cuddling entirely, I do like it. A little less mollycoddling would be appreciated. Thanks. Okay, I feel I must warn you both. I will be a talker. I am a converser. Some may choose to label me as a chatterbox. They'd be accurate. Just so you know, I will always have something to natter about. No, I am able to breathe quite well as I spout chitchat. Contrary to popular opinion, speaking does not leave one breathless. Oh, and I shall pose many questions, too. I need to know things. It takes me time and tears I must admit, but I will reconcile myself to your insatiable desire to snap family photos. Please bear with me, I can be stubborn. Just between you two and me, no, it did not kill me to smile. What did almost undo me is the bright lights. Yes, I was and am a squinter. Could you consider shooting me and ending my misery, er, I mean consider shooting the photo ops. in less sunny locales? Why can't we place our backs to the bright sun? Could I pose in the shade? Oh, and please purchase a pair of sunglasses for me immediately after my birth. I acted as a miserable brat and I made you miserable because the light really did hurt my eyes. Yes, okay, I never did like to wear hats. Don't worry about me and my eyes. The constant squinting didn't harm them. Reading by the illumination of the streetlight across the street from my bedroom window did not strain my eyes in the least. To this day, I am an avid reader and I've never required corrective lenses. Do not feel as if you must provide me with expensive toys and gadgets. Give me paper and pencils and I guarantee I will amuse myself. The fridge will always have artwork to display. I'll want lots of paper. I discover writing and I cast my family in my stories. Sigh, I feel I must issue another warning. Prepare to spend time in emergency waiting rooms. Apropos name, no? I'm sorry. I'm an accident magnet. 'Things' happen to me. Full disclosure here. When I'm fourteen with a fractured thumb I will willfully disregard my plaster cast and swim with it. It was summer. Yes, you will tell me I'm old enough to know better, but I will do it anyway. May I suggest you 'punish' me with extra camp duties and visit the beach more yourselves? In the future during my teen years, you will take away my bike and disassemble it. Don't worry. I will not hold a grudge. I will actually breathe a sigh of relief. That damn thing and I shared far too many mishaps. Although walking will not necessarily prove less drastic, I'd rather get around with both of my feet on the ground. To put your worries at ease, we all survive my teenage years relatively unscathed. We reach the point where I drive the car and transport my siblings without incident. Oh, didn't I mention this? You make me the big sister to three others. Yep, there will be four of us. F.Y.I., you will be young grandparents. Hey, it happens. There may be a few disagreements over the years, but nothing earth-shattering. We will never be alienated. As your experimental child, I am not left psychologically damaged. That's not to say I'm unmarked. I will reciprocate your love and acceptance. I will carry the family sense of humour with me and share it. Thanks for creating me, Mom and Dad! Love, Sandy B. |
| DAY 2779 June 26, 2020 Remember those long summer afternoons sitting outside with Sun In in your hair? Tell about your best (or worst!) hair moments. No, I never applied that Sun In gunk to my hair. It has always shimmered with natural blonde highlights, although when I could claim to be young some referred to my hair colour as 'dirty blonde.' As if. Oh, I hated that description! I took great pride in my flowing tresses and I've never used so much as any styling products such as hairspray or gels. I hail from a family of true blondes and my hair is light brownish, I suppose. I also hail from a family of pale-skins. We are most definitely white skinned, fair-skinned, pale, ghostly even. As such, our delicate skin tends to burn. In my foolish youth, I spent far too much time outside in the summer exposed to the full effects of the blazing sun without sunscreen protection. I confess I even slathered myself, a few times, with baby oil. All of this I endured in hopes of a tan. Oh, I broiled and basted myself in the pursuit of even a hint of colour. Be careful what you wish for 'cause I did sport some colour, but not anything in the brown range. I coveted a tawny, dusky, or honey hue. Ya, right. I've never liked red, yet that is what I earned sunbathing. The most apt descriptor is that of a broiled lobster. I resembled a burn victim because that's what I was. My poor skin glowed red. I could've shared some of that radiating heat to warm houses in the winter. After the first days parading around with only the taut skin surrounding my eyes remaining white and resembling 'raccoon eyes' thanks to my ever-present sunglasses, I would begin to peel. Yep, damaged skin sloughed off me and oh, did it itch. I'd admit to being a slow learner. Every summer I pursued the elusive tan. Sure, a scant few sunburns were the result of cavorting in the water when the sun reached its zenith and the deceptively refreshing water acted as a reflector / conductor. Most blessed me because I chose to languish on a beach towel willing my body to turn brown just once. What do I now have to show for all my efforts? I have freckles, lots of freckles. Too late wiser, I now avoid sun exposure. My worst hair moments in the summer? Huh, I could share a few. I've always preferred my hair to be long, well past shoulder length. That has created some memorable 'hair-raising' incidents. I recall a boat ride across a lake at dusk to access a store with ice cream. What I hadn't anticipated was my long strands whipping across my face as I struggled to lick a rapidly melting ice cream cone. I also didn't appear so together and attractive to the new boyfriend. During a car trip in a convertible, my long tresses snapped, whipped and tugged at my uncovered head. Inevitably, they were snarled into a frizzy mop that required a great deal of extreme brushing to eradicate. |
| June 25th, 2020. July Gems What’s not to like about July? For most of us Canadians, the snow is finally a memory and we can indulge in warmer weather fun. Oh, what a glorious freedom to shuck parkas and mukluks in favour of swimsuits and flip flops. July permits us to enjoy the sunshine and bare our skin. Sure, we all celebrate Canada Day on the first. Who doesn’t tear up when they see the ol’ red maple leaf billowing in the breeze? A few of us may hum a few bars of our national anthem proving it’s unforgettable. Many of us anticipate fireworks and barbecues, but not necessarily at the same time in the same location. July stirs memories of my wedding. July 22nd burned bright with a steamy, sultry stickiness, and no, I’m not writing of my honeymoon. The actual day of this most auspicious ceremony featured all that a typical summer soiree could deliver. The sun blared and glazed, or perhaps I blazed and glared. There were not enough words to convey how overheated we all felt. We dripped. We gasped. We wilted. Nary a breeze caressed us. We chose a humid day to invite friends and family to bedeck themselves in formal wear. Hairstyles drooped. Makeup melted. Perspiration stains grew. The poor parks appeared withered and desert-like. Underfoot, brown brittle stubble snapped. Flowers sagged in defeat. The background of our photos resembled a desert. At the reception hall, one and all bravely persevered with the celebrations without air conditioning. All we could do was hydrate. Many swear that inebriation proved impossible. Anyway, I’m still married and I suppose this means I can withstand heat and a bit of necessary perspiration. Yes, I know it’s said that if you can’t stand the heat stay out of the kitchen, but I believe this applies to matrimony as well. As of this July 22nd, we will have been cooking together for gasp, forty-two years. Forty-two humid July months! A few years ago, the hubby and I chose to get away for a spontaneous road trip. We aimed our vehicle towards Ottawa and enroute we decided to veer off into Quebec. We’d chosen la belle province to be our honeymoon destination, so this felt nostalgic. After a day of exploration, we required a room for the night. At the first hotel we espied, we balked at the exorbitant pricing with my partner snorting he only wanted to rent a room for one night not buy the establishment. We were forced to continue our search, but we came upon a motel. To our delight, one room stood available and we snatched it up. My usually reserved husband exited the motel’s office laughing. He swore that he’d just met Phyllis Diller’s clone, a woman with wild white hair, a plethora of facial wrinkles and a deep, throaty laugh. She even threw around the word ‘darling.’ Now, this date was July 20th, close to our anniversary. This final remaining room just so happened to be the honeymoon suite. Our hostess offered to rent it to us for the same rate as the other rooms. Was it coincidence that this honeymoon suite had the number 35 at its door and our 35th anniversary would arrive in two days? Oh, it turned out to be quite the room! A raised king-sized bed rested on an elevated platform beneath a ceiling of mirrors. At the foot of the bed sat a gas fireplace with its own remote control. Across the room, a loveseat nestled next to a tiny café table framed by a crystal chandelier. White lace and pink fuzzy material smothered all surfaces. Plastic flowers sprouted everywhere. In the bathroom, a deep jacuzzi tub dominated the space. Of course, we snapped photos of our one-night haven. It had taken thirty-five years, but we were in a honeymoon suite, tacky or not. Fast forward to July of 2020 and I’m surfing from the comfort of my computer chair. Oh, it’s bucked me off, but that’s another story. I discover that July 22nd is known as Flitch Day in Great Dunmow a market town in the Uttlesford district of Essex, England. Every four years, or if you prefer every leap year, this town holds a ritual ceremony concerning the state of matrimony. A judge, six local maidens and six local bachelors hold court. Newlywed couples appear before this unbiased panel to proclaim the state of their marriages. If they can satisfy the court that in a “twelvemonth and a day they have not wisht themselves unmarried again” they win a flitch of bacon. What is a flitch of bacon you might rightly ask? It’s a side of bacon or half a pig cut lengthwise. The successful couples are paraded along High Street and cheered. What a fun, novel and positive way to promote marriages! Not a bad deal for the groom, a blushing bride AND lots of bacon. Hmmm, could I possibly plead my case and win a flitch of bacon here in Canada? This could prove to be a wonderful trip in the future. The next leap year may find hubby and I presenting ourselves before a British court proclaiming the strength of our union to earn some bacon. I’m sure we’d uncover eggs nearby to create a giant breakfast feast. I can just picture my hubby and I flitching with the natives… |
| June 23rd, 2020. June is the month of my birth and as such it's always held a special place in my heart. One year, okay, I must confess thirty-eight years ago, my son joined me as a June baby. I'm certain he's forever grateful that I did not hamper him with the moniker of June, but it's the least I could do for someone who is also a fellow Gemini. We both are eternally elated not to be known as 'the Junes.' I don't however believe either one of us realized the many unique holidays that transpire this special month. Thanks to Google, I can now declare that I am officially enlightened. As a cookie connoisseur, Chris appreciates a day set aside to celebrate the peanut butter variety, a personal favourite. This auspicious day also coincides with National Flip Flop Day. I myself am rather fond of this footwear and I choose to set forth in them each and every day until the inevitable snow arrives. June 12th marked both of these occasions. This is brilliant really because if perchance one were to over-indulge in those p.b. cookies, flip flops could still be forced over fattened feet. On the first of this month, some people perhaps the Evel Knievels of the world, celebrated Dare Day and Flip A Coin Day. Is this a common practice for daredevils? On the toss of this quarter, I dare you to risk life and limb. The first has always been my birthday and the most I do is dare to age and celebrate being another year older. June third is World Bicycle Day and this reminds me of a long-standing bet my son and I share. Well, technically it could be construed as a dare. He has known me as the klutzy, accident-prone parent and he has never ever witnessed me riding a bike. Well, he believes I do not know how to propel a bicycle and hence our bet. My glorious vindication has been delayed by a series of knee surgeries, but I shall amaze him one day. It's a proven fact, isn't it? Why would 'everyone' say it's like riding a bike if it wasn't unforgettable? I think I have muscle memory... I confess that I did not properly embrace June eighteenth and recognize International Panic Day and National Splurge Day. Just how does one celebrate panic? Should I have dialled 9-1-1? Should I have run screaming through the streets? I have experienced panic, but not on this particular, specific date. I comprehend a splurge. It's a treat for just because days. I can rationalize any purchase as being a splurge meant to make me feel better. I usually avoid credit card debt, but hey, too much of that could cause panic. Now, June nineteenth is my kind of intriguing celebration. It is the day to commemorate kissing, road trips AND sauntering, as if. All three are more than doable and possible and memorable. Who doesn't appreciate a great saunter especially one that entails smooching. Personally, my gait is most often a stumble, but I can rustle up a walk with an attitude of nonchalance. For this road trip, I'd forgo a vehicle and hoof it. You never know. The strangers I meet might be up for a heartfelt kiss. I can travel without an agenda or a map. This could be a second day of splurging, too. There's no need to panic though. If my kiss is refused, I shall just saunter on my merry way. The next day is meant for those who raise their voices, you know outdoor voices, and those who prefer to throw their objects around. Yep, June twentieth is National Hollerin' Day and World Juggler's Day. Yesterday might have provoked a wee bit of hollerin'. As a mother of three, I know all about juggling. There never could be time for finesse or grace. I managed several figurative balls up in the air and I defaulted to a fair bit of yelling, too. Hollerin' is a coping mechanism, a warning, a venting of frustration, and more. Now, if I caught my three juggling, oh say knives, there'd have been loud, loud hollerin'! Huh, June twenty-seventh is National Onion Day and Sunglasses Day. I subscribe to both. I do eat onions, but I never peel and chop them while wearing my sunglasses. This poor vegetable is often maligned. I deserves recognition and understanding. How should I celebrate my faithful sunglasses? Perhaps I will spoil them with a long overdue polishing. If it's not squintingly sunny that day, I could assign them a day from duty. I suppose I could also try to place them in their protective case more, too. All of these spectacular days bring me to June twenty-ninth, Camera Day, Hug Holiday, and International Mud Day. Two summers ago, my family unwittingly celebrated these days, all three of them at a Mudder's Mud Run. I acted as the 'mamarazzi' snapping a plethora of photos as my two daughters and my daughter-in-law competed in an obstacle course marathon. They rolled and stumbled through lots of mud and they hugged each other in victory. I can appreciate a special day simply set aside for hugging. There's nothing quite as satisfying or loving. My cell phone camera is always with me ready to capture any and all moments. Happy June! It's a month not to be missed. |
| June 21st, 2020. Today is Father's Day in Canada. Hooray! Yippee! This selfless parent deserves a special day to himself. My Dad left this earth a year ago and I miss him. I still regret that his mailed birthday card had been delayed and he died before knowing that I hadn't forgotten him. We kids never gifted our father with ties or fancy clothing. This is not to say that he never wore a suit and tie. He could and did dress up and clean up for special occasions. I always remember he matched his tie to his socks, so a coral tie had a brother pair of socks. I adopted this fashion tip and attempt to colour coordinate my own socks and shirts. Most of the time, he chose to be casual. He preferred to be barefoot and shirtless. At the garage where he toiled as a diesel mechanic, Dad wore what we referred to as work clothes, simple right? I don't believe he ever mastered oil or grease avoidance. In a pocket a raggedy rag lay crumpled and waiting. It didn't always wipe his hands. I called him Father B. No reason, I just did. This man loved to cook. Spoons were rarely necessary. Those black-stained hands were never shy or ashamed. They tackled mixing and measuring, peeling and chopping , shaping and patting. Dad seemed to have a fondness for onions and they regularly appeared in all his masterpieces. To his daughters, he promised they would put hair on our chests. He swore onions would be good for us and I must admit they have yet to do me harm. As promised, the various spices cleared out our sinuses. To this day, head colds avoid me. Perhaps my nasal passages are burn scarred? When I choose to replicate one of my father's dishes, I imitate his disregard for measurement. This does require me to compromise though because his pinch or a handful dwarfs my own. My three hand scoops equal his one? Confession time, I dislike sticky hands, so I employ spoons for stirring. Sorry, Father B. Oh, how I can still smell the savoury smoke wafting from his pipe. That type of smoking appeared civilized and harmless. The various tobaccos perfumed the air. I'd sit and watch him prepare his pipe with a practised ritual. First, he'd clench his pipe between his teeth and consider something for a few seconds. Then he'd knock the contents from the bowl and if they proved stubborn, he'd flick open his pen knife and chisel out the spent tobacco. Selecting a pouch, Dad would shake its contents before he pulled out fingerful tuffs that he stuffed into the pipe's waiting bowl. Tamping it down tight, he'd strike a wooden match and hold the flame to the tip of the tobacco stash, puffing through the stem. Often, this important step needed to be repeated as he huffed and puffed to encourage burning. I can picture him with that pipe clenched between his teeth, aromatic smoke curling up 'round his head, while he lost himself in a book. Yes, Father B. set a wonderful example for me. He taught me that reading is the ultimate escape and enjoyment. All it demands is a bit of time and undivided attention. Reading adapts to any and all environments. Sigh, today is also National Selfie Day. No, Father B., never acquired this practice/hobby/addiction/habit. He'd adapted to all things computer and played with his to send e-mails and such, but he'd never had the urge to snap a photo of himself. A year before he passed, Dad purchased his first and only cell phone. He never had any intention to use it as a mobile phone for communication purposes. He wanted the camera features. His initial attempts to capture our faces frustrated him. According to him, the pictures disappeared never to be seen again. He did not understand that the cell phone automatically stored his photos in a file, a file he knew nothing about. Ah, it became his learning curve. He had to admit that the photos possessed a far superior quality than those from the 'old days' of point and shoot cameras with attached flash bulbs. In an instant, he could see for himself if a picture could be deemed worth saving or sharing. I cannot imagine Father B. posing under the hood of an immense transport truck for the purpose of a selfie. If he had attempted a selfie, that pipe would have stolen the spotlight. Now selfies of him cooking would've been fun. He claimed that the cutting of onions did not make him cry, but a selfie would've been the ultimate proof. Happy Father's Day Father B.! We shared eighty-one of them. |
| June 14th, 2020, a sunny Sunday spent reflecting... Ack! I just realized I missed yesterday's momentous holiday. How could this have happened? It's not as if I didn't know about this auspicious day. I discovered it during a random Google search for all things June related. It's mind-boggling the things I learn surfing from the comfort of my computer chair. Sigh. I can't believe I missed Sewing Machine Day. As if... How does one celebrate Sewing Machine Day? Is there a Hallmark greeting card? I do hope there's a card for belatedness. Hmmm, is that even a word? Should I have taken a sewing machine out for lunch? Could I phone a florist and order a bouquet of flowers? What flowers are associated with this? Forget-me-nots? Oh, I know. Are there flowers known as buttons? Do sewing machines like gifts? Should I purchase thread, or a new needle? Here's the thing. I do not actually share my home with a sewing machine. Am I expected to go find a suitable machine and offer to spend time with it? Are there borrowing agencies similar to a library? Could I sign one out? What would we do to pass the time? I don't speak 'sewingnese'.I'm not adept with one either. Oh, my maternal grandmother earned a living as a seamstress and she attempted to school me in all things sewing machine. I balked. I resisted. My mind blanked. I failed to learn anything useful. Over and over, Nanny showed me how to thread the machine, and over and over the thread would snap and I'd forget her patient instructions. The thread had to be passed through a doohickey and then a whatchamacallit. Somewhere, it twisted 'round a thingamabob and headed for the needle. Yes, I recognized the shiny, pointy, moving thing as a needle. Oh, and under the needle inside a port lay a bobbin. A fun word to say, yet still a mystery to me. Why did the thread insist upon breaking? And if by some miracle it stayed temporarily attached, why did the thread snarl? Ugh! Here is where I confess that I am not the least bit coordinated. Rarely have all four of my limbs cooperated as a cohesive team. To operate a sewing machine one of my feet had to control a foot pedal, the floor-placed gizmo my Nanny did not like my calling an accelerator. To describe it as finicky is an understatement. I'm certain the wee bit of pressure exerted by my baby toe caused it to rev and race. Holding my breath did not help. I never liked the sharp needle whirring up and down. I did grasp the concept of feeding cloth to the needle, but I never placed my vulnerable fingers anywhere near it. I suppose this explained the bunching and thread knots. Despite my poor efforts, my seams were never what anyone could deem straight. That sewing machine and I never developed a rapport, an understanding. I still believe it smelled my fear. Perhaps missing Sewing Machine Day is for the best. I enjoy a wonderful life free of this contraption and I do not wish for my status quo to unravel. Thanks Nanny, we know I'm no sewing machine wrangler. Carrie adopted your ol' work horse and she has stitched together a mutually beneficial partnership. Over the years, she has offered to set me up with that machine, but I refused to accept. It's thriving in its present home. Why sever their common thread? |
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Happy June! May was so fun!
