%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    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. |
| May 16th Prompt: Do you believe in ghosts or other supernatural entities? My short answer is no. I've never met a ghost. I will admit there are times when I swear an invisible being , an obnoxious being, has shoved or tripped me just to witness my tumble. When items turn up in inexplicable places, I wonder why I did not hear or see anything. I know with unswerving certainty that I did not drop the t.v. remote in the fridge. Why anyone would hide my cup of tea in the pantry is a mystery. No haunting noises emanate from my home although I hear the occasional groan or shriek.. Sigh, my knees frighten me. |
| May 15th prompt: Writè about a time when you or someone you know acted selflessly. What was the motivation and what were the results? My hubby has the habit of scouring the roadside as he drives. Over the years and kilometres, he's spotted many an accident. He's rescued stranded travellers from simple engine stalls, crashes, injuries, and miscalculations re fuel supply. During a family trip down a dirt backroad that caused our kids to squeal with glee as their stomachs seemed to drop to their feet, Paul braked suddenly and threw our car into reverse. Of course, we questioned why. As he pulled into a u-turn and stopped opposite a long curving driveway , we saw the reason. Off amongst the trees, a large station wagon type vehicle rested about a hundred metres from the road. He warned us to stay put and he fought his way through the thick underbrush. Paul discovered a shaking woman at the wheel and two teenaged girls in the backseat. He shouted his intentions to force the doors open, but first he had to manhandle a few tree stumps away from the body of the wagon. I must mention that my hubby owned a car restoration business and knew his cars. He immediately recognized that this particular model's windows opened electrically and the car's engine wasn't running. The people were trapped unable to escape via those closed windows, or the locked and blocked doors. He freed them and helped them to our car. One of the poor girls had a wire dental halo encircling her head and it cut into her cheeks and mouth after her face striking the back of a seat. When the sobbing eased, the still breathless driver pointed at the driveway and dropped a bomb. It was her home up that hill. Her husband was up there oblivious to this accident. She and the girls were expected to be shopping in the nearby city for hours. This happened in pre cell phone times so she could not call for help. I cannot fathom being trapped in my sedan within sight of my own driveway. Eagle-eyed Paul had spied them.As I mentioned, this is just one of his many rescues. |
| PROMPT May 14th What was the best/worst letter or email you ever received or wrote? Write about the situation surrounding that letter, and why it was so significant. This is a lovely memory from the year 2012. Sigh, yes, I realize that's eight years ago... already! My grandgiggles Sydney and Emily would be in my company every day before and after school. One morning, someone tidied my bed,tucked in the sheets and straightened the duvet. I pretended not to know who did it and remarked that it must have been a visit from a bed-making fairy. Both girls nodded their heads and tee-heed. From this a letter-writing exchange began. The next morning, I placed a printed letter atop my newly-made bed and directed the ten-year old and five-year old to read it. Here is what I initially wrote. Dear Bed-Making Fairy, First, I'd like to say thank you for making my bed. This is very nice of you. May I ask you some questions? Okay? Are you a he or a she? Are you big or little? How old are you? I'll wait for your answers. Sandy-with-the-tidy-bed Sydney and her sister, aka the bed-making fairies, replied that they were two sisters, Rosey and Lola. In their letter, also placed atop my bed, they described living in a tree house with a family of fairies.They claimed they attended a fairy school. And so it continued. Every morning, we exchanged letters and grew to know each other very well. Hi Rosey and Lola! You do a great job of making my bed, thank you so much! You live in a tree? Even in the winter? How do you stay warm? Do you wear a coat, a hat, boots and mittens? Do you snuggle with the other fairies? Soon many trees will lose their leaves. Love, Sandy I laughed when I read that 'my' two little fairies attended a bed-making school. They explained that they had wings and flew up into their tree. My hopes that their tree had an elevator only made the girls giggle. They answered that yes, they slept in beds and had to tidy their own beds, too. I asked if they had bosses, or if they did this because they were nice and wanted to help me. They assured me other people had bed-making fairies, too. Dear Rosey and Lola, Brrr-it's getting chilly. Are you wearing socks yet? (I'm not!) Does your roof leak? (I hope not. It sure has rained a lot!) Do you have umbrellas, or do you like to get wet? Can you fly when your wings are wet? What do you do on rainy days? Do you read a book, or watch a movie? "Dear Sandy, we are the bed making fairys me and my sister. we picked you because you are kind. we are princess to the Bed making kingdom." I learned that the fairies liked to eat what I ate, cookies and muffins. While we were at the local fall fair, the fairies were there too. I didn't see them in the parade because they were too small to be seen. "Dear sandy we are good not harmful. we are good people. Lola is 7 turning 8. Rose is 15 turning 16."I had not known that fairies flew as far as they could and then they boarded planes, fairy planes. They had relatives in Florida. One morning, a letter informed me that new bed-making fairies would be coming to help me. Dear Alex and Max, welcome to my home. Thanks for tidying up my messy bed. This continued for months to my delight. It ended though as all fun stories do with this cryptic letter. "Once upon a time...there was fairies and they was bed fairies and they was nice and they never came back. Then their mom was sad because they thought they would get lost in the woods. From Bed fairies" And just as suddenly as they had appeared, my bed-making fairies vanished. No more letters waited on my bed with answers to my many questions. I wonder if they are still making beds, or have they moved on to other pursuits? I never did discover which tree they lived in. |
| PROMPT May 13th Writing Sprint! Set a timer for 10 minutes and write without stopping about whatever comes to your mind. I challenge you to deny your urge to edit yourself as you write. If you must, you’re allowed to edit, but only after you finish your ten minute sprint. Ready? Set. GO! My brain is asking if this is some kind of test 'cause it hasn't studied and I'm urging it to just go blank and let the creativity flow. There is hesitation, perhaps downright balking. The refusal is adamant, there will be no 'blanking.' I'm cajoling and pointing out this is a ten-minute exercise, just ten measly minutes. How much time has been wasted now? My thoughts are many and jumbled, but the fretting ones are foremost. My youngest had an emergency ultrasound this morning and she sent me a screen shot of the images. This is unheard of to receive a diagnostic test two days after a phone consultation. Huh, no real doctor's visits at the moment thanks to Covid-19. I don't know how to interpret ultrasound images. I'm pretty sure there wasn't a chapter in the Mom handbook that dealt with this. I did a quick Google search though and I did not share my unsubstantiated findings with Danielle. According to the 'wise' site of all things questioned, dark areas on a breast ultrasound image indicate a cyst, or a tumour. Now we both worry as we wait for some kind of results. Both of her grandmothers were diagnosed with breast cancer. A few periphery female relatives also knew this type of cancer. The ultimate goal is peace of mind. Is this the big C, or not? Danielle needs an answer. In the meantime, she messages me with more questions and at least most of those I can address. For now we buoy our spirits with the daily dose of cuteness, pics of fifteen-month old Alexandra. Do I stop typing and put both hands in the air when the ten minutes is up? Whoa, another message has arrived...I hear the... |
| PROMPT May 12th Write about a fork in the road in your life, and how you made the decision to go the direction you did. What would have happened if you chose the other path? I don't recall a neon sign flashing 'over here, turn right here, yes, you, get off the road, this is the path for you, trust me.' That would have saved me a great deal of pain and grief after colliding with cars while cycling, not once but twice. Where did this directional sign hide because I've never noticed it. Granted, I tend to live in forested areas, but still... I'm not sure that I ever wandered off the path. Oh sure, my life has had me stumbling, slipping and sliding, scrabbling and what have you. It's not always been a level roadway easily traversed without pot holes and loose gravel. Sometimes, I've careened around tight blind corners and dropped down steep hills with my stomach flip-flopping and my breath suspended. My life has been a ride and I've never mapped it out. I have no regrets and I don't sneak a peek over my shoulder in the rear view mirror. Okay, I reminisce, but I do not rue what might have been. I am happy with what has been, what is and what will be. Could my journey have been different? Sure, but it is what it is. Each road explored led me to other roads. I've turned left. I've followed the ramblings of a river. I've stopped to admire the scenery. I've travelled solo and with companions. All of it led to where I am now. I have no idea where I might have been. |
| PROMPT May 11th Look at a picture from your younger years. You don’t have to share the photo with us, but try to describe it in as much detail as possible. What led up to the photo being taken and what happened after? First, I must set the tone, the mood, the background of photos from my youth. Digital pics were a concept of the future. I grew up posing in front of a camera loaded with film. Sometimes, a flash would be used and most of the time not used. Some flashes were cubes slotted into the top of a handheld camera and they were good for only four shots. No one could know the quality of those pics until they returned from a developer's printed on paper. There were no re-takes, or deletions. If your head had been chopped off, or the photographer's hand shook, or you looked away for a brief moment, or you sneezed, or anything that could happen did happen, that photo would be revealed later. So, basically the quality could not be guaranteed. Moments were lost never to be recaptured. The cameras I recall were inexpensive. Snap and shoot, and hope for the best. I've always disliked posing for photos. The fussing and arranging annoy me. Hissed admonitions from my childhood to stand still, don't you dare move, stop fidgeting, smile, would it kill you, and for god's sake do not blink still haunt me. In my head, I'd be screaming, "Take the damn shot already!" I see the results;me pouting, me with my eyes clenched tight, me squinting, or my favourite recourse, me 'making a face.' I figured if I was going to ruin a picture I might as well make it funny. The absolute worse environment for me is an outdoors' shot. Bright sunlight almost blinds me. My eyes are sensitive to light and my sunglasses are always perched on my nose. Everyone warns me not to blink, but an assault from a flash triggers my squint reflex. Apparently, photos should be undertaken sans protective eye wear. It is agony to pose and try to repress a blink, or a squint. Despite my best efforts and my outright sabotage, my brother-in-law scoffs that I 'can take a good picture.' In his estimation 'yous Brownlees'look terrible in photos. He lumps my youngest sister in with me. We laugh it off. He attempts to rile us with claims that he's the beauty in family portraits and she obviously married him for his good looks 'cause she can't help but appear better standing next to him. He also laments that there will never be a great pic of us. I just tell him good luck finding photos of me to create a slide show for my funeral. My youngest plans to marry in August and she began warning me months ago about the photos. "You will smile won't you Mom? Can you practise before the wedding?" In my possession is a shot of me after my mother insisted on torturing me with a home perm. I do not recall all the details of that harrowing experience and I suspect the memory block shields me from knowledge of being bound. I was five years old, but I cannot fathom I willingly sat still while this hair assault occurred. I have never tolerated anyone touching, or playing with my hair. It is long, thick and straight. I've seen my newborn pics and I seem to be encased in a wig, that's how much hair I've always had. My hair does not curl, nor has it ever voluntarily supported a curl, not even a wave. Curling irons, rollers, whatever, they cannot force my hair into a curl. My mother though decided her eldest child, about to begin kindergarten, needed a makeover. So, in this photo my considerable hair is piled atop my head and I seem to be sprouting a rather large Brillo pad. I suspect I had the world's first Afro, the very first sandy blonde Afro. My five-year old frame is dwarfed by all that hair spread out in a powder puff formation. I am not smiling, nor am I frowning. I think I appear dazed. A scowl seems to be forming and I am not staring directly at the photographer. I'm wearing a turquoise blue floral jacket over a white shirt and a wee white mini skirt. Blindingly white socks are pulled up to my knobby knees. My legs are little, thin sticks. I believe I'd been cajoled into trying on a new school outfit. To say I don't look impressed would be accurate. Mom admitted that perm lasted maybe a week. My true hair pushed out the chemically-induced curls to swing in its preferred long, straight length. What had she been thinking? What's so great about curly hair? Mom never messed with my mane again. It was mine to brush and wear long and free. Occasionally, one parent would wrestle with it to form pony tails, but I didn't like the fuss. I liked to run with my hair streaming behind me. In some pics, my twin pony tails are not aligned and I believe those are the days my father fussed with my hair. One tail is perched high on my head and the other begins in the vicinity of an ear. The main thing, or is that 'mane' thing, is that I survived my childhood relatively unscathed. I will now admit that no, it did not kill me to smile for photos. |
| PROMPT May 10th The prompt today is very simple: Tell us a story about the person you call Mom. Ah, Mom memories, the best! My Mother has been 'gone' for years now. Sometimes, it seems as if she's stepped outside and will be right back. I still find myself speaking to her expecting a response. I recognize her in a phrase that escapes my lips, or a reaction that surprises me. Mom learned to drive out of necessity. With three of us and later four of us needing transport to various venues and her extended family residing at a distance, Mom decided she could and would drive the family sedan. I remember her practices. She refused to attempt this in the southern Ontario town where we lived. No, she preferred to get behind the wheel in a less-trafficked village in Northern Ontario. I never minded this. We'd enjoy a road trip for most weekends and an excuse to visit my maternal grandparents. With her staring straight ahead, this meant jaunts careening down dirt back roads, squealing at each bump and cheering Mom to go faster. We taught her all there is to know about distracted driving. This occurred in the pre-seat belt era. Our car , an impressive Pontiac, would now be classified as a land yacht and it provided plenty of room for three siblings to create mischief. We could and did refuse to sit preferring to stand. We rolled the back windows up and down over and over. We wrestled. We argued. I'm sure Mom felt a few of our errant kicks land in the back of her seat. We directed a gazillion questions at the back of her head. We suggested routes. We insisted she settle squabbles then and there. We whined about dying of hunger and thirst. Over the summer, Mom gained confidence. I still recall her indignant anger when she failed her first road test in our home town. I sided with her because clearly the tester needed eyeglasses. Mom had stopped at a stop sign before preceding onto a busy thoroughfare and her tester insisted that this stop sign did not exist. Eagle Street itself stretched along one end of Preston and it did not boast any stop signs. Mom had been instructed to turn onto Eagle from a side street where there were and always had been the familiar red octagonal signs. That tester proved lucky that I hadn't been present because I liked to argue. As luck would have it, Mom drew the same tester and the same route for her second road test. This time Mom chose to linger at the supposed phantom stop sign and provoke the tester into questioning the obvious delay. Mom simply pointed at the stop sign and raised her eyebrows. Anyone with a mom knows that look. She'd have crossed her arms too, but in order to pass her test she needed to keep both hands on the steering wheel. This time, Mom passed and received the coveted licence. That shiny ,baby blue Pontiac had been the first and only vehicle my father purchased as brand new. He returned home one evening to find two immense dents in the aluminum siding he'd spent weeks installing himself. Mom had pulled into the driveway and failed to brake in time. She'd collided with the house. The dents were actually perfect impressions of the Pontiac's headlights and housings. He chose not to replace those panels or hammer out the 'kinks.' Mom chose to never speak of this again, well she did utter one curse word. Every time she settled into the driver's seat she had to see her 'handiwork.' Her last words muttered through clenched lips were, "I'm so angry I could spit nails." |
| May 9th Prompt: Choose an event in your life that someone else remembers differently. Describe both memories and debate the differences. Who do you think is right? Why do you think you remember differently? Danielle surveyed the street fair from the safety and height of her mother's arms. She'd grown tired of toddling along with her right hand clasped in her mom's tight grip. From up here, she could see more than people's legs. Red, blue and yellow balloons swayed in the breeze. The sun warmed the back of her neck. Music blared and boomed. The crowds of walkers buzzed. A shadow approached Danielle blocking out the sun. Her eyes adjusted as a hairy hand reached out for her. She screamed as the rough hand grabbed her arm and tugged on it. In a wild panic, she shrieked and could only think of escape. Danielle scratched the arms cradling her as she fought to scrabble up and away. Still the hairy beast pulled at her. Danielle kicked and sobbed. I recall the lovely balmy afternoon my young family attended a nearby street fair. All the intersecting roads had been cordoned off to vehicle traffic and the three kids marvelled at strolling on the pavement. They were distracted by juggling clowns, floating balloons, strains of music from competing bands, crowds of bustling pedestrians and street vendors. One of the organizers asked my hubby to participate in a wee contest . I encouraged him to do it in the spirit of fun. Now you must be told and trust me to say that my spouse might possibly have the world's hairiest legs.Several people , men and women would be hidden behind a curtain with only their bare legs exposed to view. It seemed a harmless way to raise charity money and laughs. Someone could win the highly coveted award of The Hairiest Legs.I assured Paul he'd win this impromptu contest hands down. Why not use his obvious assets? We the spectators would be the unbiased judges. I'd recognize his legs anywhere.With a shrug, hubby went off to prepare for the friendly competition. Danielle and I were bopping to the offerings of a street band and laughing when a gorilla jumped in front of us. I may have gasped, but I knew a fake ape when I saw one. My three-year old daughter emitted earth-shattering screams and clawed at me. I struggled to hold onto her as she attempted to scrabble up my chest. Where did she hope to go? The gorilla insisted on touching my terrified child and initially, I shoved the creature away. A crowd of fair goers began to swarm us. In all that immediate commotion, I heard a familiar voice calling out the squirming bundle's name. I hissed at my partner to shut up and leave, but no, he had to continue his terrifying 'assault.' Danielle either could not hear him, or recognize her father's voice. A big, hairy ape meant to whisk her away from her mother. Knowing my husband to be the actual person inside the costume did not soften my urgent shoves. After what seemed like an eternity, Paul finally retreated. Danielle eventually calmed down. Her breathing slowed and her tears dried. She clung to me. My fresh scratches stung. I later learned that Paul had been recruited to act as a gorilla to drum up contestants for that hairy leg showdown.He assumed his own child would recognize his voice and he never dreamed she'd react as she did. When that contest began, the ape signalled to me with a come over here motion. Danielle went rigid in my arms and I shook my head. Even when he pulled that heavy head from his own noggin, Danielle wanted nothing to do with him. We kept a safe distance. Of course a three-year old panicked! She did not know a real gorilla from a fake one. My recall is that of a mother calming her child and a wife willing to bash her oblivious husband. Danielle does not seem to bear permanent scars. It's a fuzzy memory propped by our retelling of it. |
| May 8th Prompt: Pick your top 10 values and rank them based on their importance to you. Write about the values. Have any changed throughout your life. Only ten values? Hmmm... 1. Joy/Love/ Happiness: Loving and being loved is the basis of my happiness. I believe it does make the world go 'round. It is exhilirating and dizzying, plus I cannot envision a life without it. 2.Articulacy: There's nothing like communication. Voicing thoughts of love, approval, disapproval, support,anger, and more are critical to our emotional health. Expressing myself so that I am understood is important. Understanding others is crucial. We are complicated and being able to express ourselves unites us. 3.Sincerity:I think of this as being genuine and real.Life is short. Why waste it with deceit and subterfuge? Speak your truth. 4. Curiosity:There is so much to experience and explore. Ask questions. Listen. Attempt. Travel, meet new people. Taste new foods. Stretch your mental and physical muscles. I believe I have my entire life to learn. 5. Humour/ Silliness: I've always been drawn to humour and I love to laugh. I tend to see the silly and the absurd. Laughter , like a smile, is universal. It has no language barrier. 6.Creativity: I appreciate the ability to create. I see it as positivity personified. Artwork speaks to me. It is magic. Weaving words into a story, carving wood, shaping metal, combining fabrics, recreating an image with paints, stringing musical notes and more, all are creative pursuits. 7. Imagination:As a writer, I depend upon this. It's fun! I think and create beyond my everyday life. Anything is possible. 8.Education: I believe education is important. If I had not been taught to read and write my world would have been so small and stifling. I cannot fathom being unable to communicate. 9.Independence: I value my self-reliance. I like making my own decisions. 10.Perseverance:Never give up. Sometimes, bad things happen and adversity finds us. It's okay to struggle. |
| PROMPT May 7th Start your entry today with the words: “I used to believe...” I used to believe I had the world by the tail. The world was my oyster. Yes, yes, that's it. I saw myself as a luminescent pearl displayed for all to worship. The world was my playground. I had the world at my feet. The sky was the limit. Okay, I think you get my drift. Whew, there are a great many of these phrases. Once I get started... Once upon a time I could turn heads. All eyes would be focused on me as I flounced, or sashayed, or swept into a room. Oh, I heard the naysayers mutter that I seemed to have a high opinion of myself, who did I think I was the Queen of Bathsheba? But they still stared. So what if not everyone bowed before me. I had their attention as it should be. I almost shivered with delight when conversation ceased abruptly and animated gestures froze in mid air. I smiled when cups of tea crashed to the floor, or board game pieces scattered. Sometimes, I heard gasps and low whistles. People parted before me. They would scramble to make a path. They didn't hesitate to scoot over on the couch, or push another body onto the floor. I interpreted this as an invitation to join them. I could and did alter the tone of conversation by simply tilting my head, or stretching. I never really had to gaze into anyone's eyes. My mere presence seemed enough, feigning interest, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. I admit I felt pampered, spoiled even. I never had to lift a finger to care for myself if I so chose. Massages and hair brushings were spontaneous. I never worried about the state of my nails. Meals just magically appeared and they were plentiful. For long rapturous, uninterrupted periods of time I luxuriated in the absence of noise. No kerfuffles, no hullabaloos, no raucous music and no raised voices. No activity snatched away my serene meditation. I achieved Zen-like states. I used to believe in the sanctity of my home, my oasis. Then something known as Covid-19 invaded and obliterated my life as I knew it. The family is always here, inside, in each other's faces. They never leave. From the moment they rise in the morning to the blessed moment they retire for the night, the peace is shattered. Computers hum non-stop. The tap tap grates on my nerves. The television blares. Video games screech and beep. Squabbles erupt in the kitchen. The refrigerator door has developed a squeak. The caterer is derelict. My meals are often late. Would it be asking too much to provide a clean dish? What happened to my favourite food? I think I'm experiencing hunger pangs. Did the world suddenly lose all fresh water? Now, I am forced to squawk to announce my arrival in a room. I find myself brushing up against any one, a leg, an arm. I've even tried head butting and swatting. Does anyone appreciate how uncomfortable a keyboard is ? Who else resorts to sprawling across it to cease those confounded keys? I'm not the least bit apologetic. Those papers and ledgers splayed across the desk are taking up valuable lounge space. I had to toss them to the floor. Has no one followed the sun beams around this house? Am I the only one who fully appreciates them? Not that you noticed, but I nibbled on a few of the leaves of those straggly things on the window sill. I'm the first to admit I don't have a green thumb, but a few bits of those plants tasted a tad dry. I displaced a wee bit of the soil looking for water, too. Wow, you came running. I believe I can stop my caterwauling now. First, let me assure you I despise acts of drama as much as the next feline, but this is beyond neglect. Where are your standards? Have you no pride? I used to believe the bathrooms of this house were adequate if not gleaming. Do you not see the copious lumps in my litter? How much of a picture must I paint? I demand that you do something immediately. You are here all the time, aren't you? I used to believe I was safe at home. |
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