tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56683923431392867532024-03-13T15:21:30.674-04:00Them's My SentimentsMARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.comBlogger632125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-75157019124860313662024-03-06T18:11:00.002-05:002024-03-07T09:13:34.008-05:00Wind from the West<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglAcoY2TgcE-jMhEVk_d5Wz8TP0JU883zkUgm7FMC_mQ8j_8g3Eb0GKkXWtV2sD4Jq9Rl4sLEIPo4F9FQmgb1T7ZLFm-W5vKiTPvbc43AG69yTfBZw8HRpjVdlxt0yhuJdrRfEX0g7bR_8_QCha3mDUUa3zWRwiRUXSe0PKl3zn__qE7pilnGWPJ819aiH" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="600" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglAcoY2TgcE-jMhEVk_d5Wz8TP0JU883zkUgm7FMC_mQ8j_8g3Eb0GKkXWtV2sD4Jq9Rl4sLEIPo4F9FQmgb1T7ZLFm-W5vKiTPvbc43AG69yTfBZw8HRpjVdlxt0yhuJdrRfEX0g7bR_8_QCha3mDUUa3zWRwiRUXSe0PKl3zn__qE7pilnGWPJ819aiH" width="320" /></a></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The
weather changed a few days ago, on the last, leap day of February in fact. We
had been having unseasonably warm temperatures for days and the clouds, as I
watched them, were streaming from southeast to northwest. Then the wind, and
with it the weather, changed overnight and on that Thursday was howling a
bitter, vicious blow. The temperature dropped like a stone into the minus
numbers. The sky cleared to a bright, pale blue. And walking into that wind
brought tears to the eyes. “Blowing in the Wind,” said my weirdly echoing
brain.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bob Dylan’s
lyrics are very apt today. “</span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Yes, and how many times can
a man turn his head<br />
And pretend that he just doesn't see?” I
have heard those questions most of my adult life and I cannot answer any of
them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Our generation has not done well by future generations. I have been
reading a book about the influence of the very aptly named Quiet Generation on
culture, behaviour and beliefs. The thesis is that a small number of
influencers led the way into the rebellious days of the Baby Boomers, the
Vietnam War protesters, the so-called ‘Beat Generation’. Personally, I was not
part of that. I was at home working part time and raising two children to
school age. I paid little attention to what seemed to me an American problem,
not ours. And I happily adopted any and all of the petroleum-based solutions to
housekeeping chores that were then available. Plastic pants over the cloth
diapers – excellent. Plastic sippy cups, Melamine plates, nylon snowsuits – all
very useful. Plastic wrap – a fine
replacement for waxed paper and elastic bands. Smog was something that happened
in London, England. Climate just was. It varied, but so what.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“</span>Westron wynde when wyll thow blow. The
smalle rayne downe can Rayne” is <span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">the medieval
original of another popular song of the sixties. “Oh western wind …” It is the
sad cry of someone far from family and familiarity, from safety. </span>Cryst
yf my love were in my Armys And I yn my bed Agayne. The words
<span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">tie in my mind to a Mansfield poem that I think most of us learned in
school.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“It’s a warm wind,
the west wind, full of birds’ cries. …” the verses start and go on to describe the spring as 'merry'. “The
young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run. </span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt;">It's blue sky, and
white clouds, and warm rain and sun.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt;">This year there may
not be a merry spring. There may never be a merry spring again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">The warm and loving
western wind may never blow again and a small rain hearten the crops. Instead
we have unseasonable warmth, weather ‘events’, fire and flood. The birds are not coming to our feeders as
they used to do. Our native trees are not thriving. We are not thriving. In the
words of the old Anglican prayer, ‘there is no health in us’.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps if, instead
of ‘flower power’ and all of that, we had put our minds to preserving our
world, we might have avoided the worst that now will come. And to say, now,
that I am sorry or that I was unaware is completely useless.</span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt;">I am afraid that there are no answers, that
too many people will die. When I look up, I see no blue in the sky.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt;">I have been writing
and editing this post for almost a week now. It is one of the group I write
with my granddaughter in mind as an audience. I started doing this when she was
a baby blowing purple bubbles and now she is almost twenty-one, the age of
majority everywhere. I am sorry for and unhappy about the world she will
inherit and how she will find her way in it. But if I don’t post this now, I
will lose the courage to do so.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="color: #202124; font-size: 12pt;">It is what it is.
Sad.</span></p><div><br /></div>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-70393482013612330802024-02-18T14:06:00.007-05:002024-02-19T10:27:41.176-05:00Seeing Red.<p> There are a lot of colours that are described as <span style="color: red;">“red”</span>. Many
of them have a descriptor in front, such as <span style="color: red;"><b>“fire engine red”</b></span> or <b><span style="color: #990000;">“blood red”</span></b>.
Others are descriptors of a different sort such as <span style="color: #660000;">“burgundy” </span>or <span style="color: #cc0000;">“cherry”</span>. “Scarlet”
is red, as is “crimson”. As to what it is by definition, an on-line dictionary
says it is “of a color at the end of the spectrum next to <span style="color: #ffa400;">orange</span> and opposite
<span style="color: #a64d79;">violet</span>”.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I love red. Bright red. I love to wear it, to use it and admire it in
sunsets and roses. I have two red jackets and a red sweater and I used to have,
until I got too fat to wear it, a red down-filled winter coat. I have two red
hanging lights in my kitchen. If I could grow anything that flowers, I would
try for red, red roses.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, all the colours of red. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9Y6qQL4bCiwUKhSppHz4E6ncs0RX7Gm7TvWYrpKmQqnRAv-ufS8Wy2PVXq04dH4JX_pzxVDqfyiyPqKYb7NGcRFCeaje8Fsj8WyrWw_75hBKyHMvJ-8IdnpaQ4WtUDEVC0NlIf-H-FDlJzaoqOElM6Ixpxx0L3bBndbnXSX7KrTfVHVIJlzMLWoM9wRQ/s2200/shades-of-red-color-infographic.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9Y6qQL4bCiwUKhSppHz4E6ncs0RX7Gm7TvWYrpKmQqnRAv-ufS8Wy2PVXq04dH4JX_pzxVDqfyiyPqKYb7NGcRFCeaje8Fsj8WyrWw_75hBKyHMvJ-8IdnpaQ4WtUDEVC0NlIf-H-FDlJzaoqOElM6Ixpxx0L3bBndbnXSX7KrTfVHVIJlzMLWoM9wRQ/s320/shades-of-red-color-infographic.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wickipedia says that “Varieties of the color red may differ
in hue, chroma (also called saturation, intensity, or colorfulness) or
lightness (or value, tone, or brightness), or in two or three of these
qualities. Variations in value are also called tints and shades, a tint being a
red or other hue mixed with white, a shade being mixed with black. A large
selection of these various colors are [sic] shown below.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Another source tells us that there are 99 varieties of red.
I am not about to get into technicalities here. You can, if you have that kind
of interest, find lots of information and colour charts and names of varieties <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shades_of_red#Variations_of_red " target="_blank">here</a>. or <a href=" https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=the+colour+red&qpvt=the+colour+red&form=IGRE&first=1" target="_blank">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have a post about ‘red’ that I wrote back when. It can be
found <a href="https://themsmysentiments.blogspot.com/2012/03/seeing-red.html " target="_blank">here</a>. The little velvet wonder in the last photo (my grandkid posing for a Christmas card photo) in this post will be hitting her
maturity birthday in a few months. She is a student at McGill and, amusingly
enough, a Martlet. She is on a university sports team and the McGill identifier
is a red bird, a martlet. I have a photo of this. Somewhere. Sigh.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My English as a Second Language students suffered when faced
with homonyms. Red, the colour, and the past tense of the verb “to read”, are
both pronounced ‘red’ although spelled ‘read’, the same as the present tense. Faces
suffused with misery as I explained this, slowly, several times. The
definition in my Oxford Reference Dictionary covers four inches of dense type,
at eight point type or less. I have not had the courage to look in the big Webster,
which has migrated downstairs, at any rate.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you have read this far, I note that this is another
rag bag, but this one filled with red rags. And, just to sweeten the mix, I will end here with a shot of my red-haired daughter in a red Stewart kilt.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCegyZMvwn6Td4SEqDAE08muMVxJtFm8ssKhzbvf95VaRxPDXh8EMlhck2u3IcyfmIglcoFmk7UqCQjBOjTrliJOcweMi6_HsirZursgTJ-wMWZwMDXARFhyphenhyphene-NRcSmu5o2yfaWT6sjiKCNyrIlSA64NRPDmgcrqd7PQeXkEgPSdILWk0hPQFbraJj4JW/s280/shwvf6p1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="211" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCegyZMvwn6Td4SEqDAE08muMVxJtFm8ssKhzbvf95VaRxPDXh8EMlhck2u3IcyfmIglcoFmk7UqCQjBOjTrliJOcweMi6_HsirZursgTJ-wMWZwMDXARFhyphenhyphene-NRcSmu5o2yfaWT6sjiKCNyrIlSA64NRPDmgcrqd7PQeXkEgPSdILWk0hPQFbraJj4JW/s1600/shwvf6p1.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-8357341056896423612024-02-15T11:40:00.000-05:002024-02-15T11:40:12.375-05:00Ragbag<p> Like other and more organized bloggers, I occasionally want a rag bag of a post. This one will be quite raggish indeed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lDrrHLLke_D9LkMxMm_IbMYusB7lvnecsfFp0DnBNoHnv6CyMKxADVKSXdDmo9BwmaXPIey3-f9Ik8hQLOpDCUhnYq168MWqmXgYtyYSzG9cqhkQDR4zyyzjWTCDPWC3i-7540cvMuvN7_YDbWx4NBi1VdO6E74SnuW5m07YYXVVBliZ2jbkotw5IMq5/s1016/ragbag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1016" data-original-width="1016" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lDrrHLLke_D9LkMxMm_IbMYusB7lvnecsfFp0DnBNoHnv6CyMKxADVKSXdDmo9BwmaXPIey3-f9Ik8hQLOpDCUhnYq168MWqmXgYtyYSzG9cqhkQDR4zyyzjWTCDPWC3i-7540cvMuvN7_YDbWx4NBi1VdO6E74SnuW5m07YYXVVBliZ2jbkotw5IMq5/w200-h200/ragbag.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>First, an update on my medical fun and games. I have been measured in practically every way known to medical science and am now waiting for the verdict as to whether I can have minimally invasive surgery. This verdict will be delivered next Wednesday via a Zoom meeting with my doctor. Thankfully, some things can be done this way and the hospital people are very accommodating about it. Unfortunately, some things cannot and require me to abstain from coffee, chocolate and all other things caffeine for up to two days before trekking into the city hospital. My suffering cannot be adequately described.</p><p>Second, the mess on the desk. Still there. Between the medical stuff and the secretary for our local hall stuff, I am not in paperless mode. I actually dug out a bunch of outdated types of paper for the Annual General Meeting handouts and colour-coded them. Not that most people noticed, alas. I now have to get an updated minute book to a wonderful person who is going to back me up as secretary while I get on with the medical stuff. And I am willing to bet I can do that without printing another copy of anything, provided I can sort the piles I have. Yeah. And, as I rolled merrily along, I formatted the ad for our next event the wrong size. A plaintive email from the local paper alerted me to this. Talk about typing errors. </p><p>More Organized Blogger just put up a post about typing errors and got a lot of comments to agree that it is a very easy thing to do. I hang on to what is described as a ‘gaming’ keyboard because it has raised pads and is the same large format as the standard machine on which I learned. It also clicks and I love that. If I try to type on a small, smooth keyboard, I make a huge number of errors. I use, as I have described in other posts, a correction app called ‘Grammarly’ to find the errors. So far, all the underlining in this post is highlighting usage. Well, except that they want me to hyphenate “colour coded”. And so I just did.</p><p>Earlier this morning I read a lovely and lovingly written post by a former teacher about a student of hers who went in very wrong directions and has died very young. It made me think of some of my former students, long ago and fairly recently taught, who struggled. And whom I am very much afraid I could not help enough. I ended up wondering why it is the failures I remember vividly, rather than the things that worked, the successes. One does not lie awake at 3:00 am brooding about a girl who went on to a Master’s degree in your subject, for instance. Or I don’t. What keeps you awake in the small hours? Other than the aches and pains of old age, that is. </p><p>Okay. Time to quit this and hit ‘print’. Note single quote mark. Easier than using the shift key to get the proper one. Not lying awake about that.</p><div><br /></div>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-33820587219384823442024-02-03T16:01:00.007-05:002024-02-03T16:12:19.784-05:00Junkets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylbTuX-58Z-NOq4QodWnTQD9AQ0XSNZwmXxdRE_4kP7bldt6GxxNzGSPo9b_AAibzfUmRUzfaGt2pVQJEHAcWhU6-CwImrOlaE7o_YfWfaN5I-hGwaZl764jHIGLueADe5XVP5oErT1iHJ08Zows3Oy6EclDNBIrjGFtcA3IoPzsVi208u8LJOkCWpeiq/s902/junk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="902" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylbTuX-58Z-NOq4QodWnTQD9AQ0XSNZwmXxdRE_4kP7bldt6GxxNzGSPo9b_AAibzfUmRUzfaGt2pVQJEHAcWhU6-CwImrOlaE7o_YfWfaN5I-hGwaZl764jHIGLueADe5XVP5oErT1iHJ08Zows3Oy6EclDNBIrjGFtcA3IoPzsVi208u8LJOkCWpeiq/s320/junk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p> I should be cleaning the flat surfaces in my office here. It is a disaster, especially as I decided to clear some of the drawers of an accumulation of, frankly, useless junk. I was looking for a card the surgeon issued when I had my knee done. I am supposed to take an antibiotic before dental work and I could not remember the name of the [@##$$%%^&&] drug. After a long and fruitless search, during which I found a credit card that I thought was lost forever, I found it sandwiched into a card holder, one of three I was sure were empty. I must, repeat MUST, file it somewhere that I can find it again without this kind of disaster.</p><p>In fact, disasters abound, chez me. Another is a closet overfull of clothing in a lot of different sizes, some of which I am sure I will never wear again. The reason for this is that I dropped three or four clothing sizes in a hurry when I had the heart surgery. Although I quickly gained one back, I was quite happy with myself (although my GP told me to lose ten pounds) until the Covid shutdown. Between that, mobility loss from the back problems and a lot of chocolate brownies, I am now back up to my biggest clothing size. The closet badly needs emptying. I think about this, and then think about the fact that I have another surgery scheduled, and am very undecided about which clothes to pack up and give away. The smallest ones are the least used, of course. </p><p>Another surgery. An anomaly in my lung that has been followed since 2019, or thereabouts, has finally been identified as a small, discrete cancer. Supposedly the tumour can be removed by laparoscopic surgery, with only an overnight stay in hospital. However, pretesting for this surgery is ongoing and that is why there has not been much written in here lately as the testing is at the city hospital over an hour’s drive away. We have been doing a lot of driving. The problem is that if they cannot do the surgery, or if they do and things go pear-shaped, I may be in for another long siege on the hospital food that slimmed me down last time. So, what do I keep, just in case? </p><p>Meanwhile, the desktop is layered with Stuff. And I am accumulating a big pile of paper to be recycled as I go. I keep things. And forget what I have kept or where I put it. I just found all the back paperwork from the medical claim in our Income Tax return from 2018. And I know there are a lot of financial records jammed in there. I print off a bank statement sheet once a month and write in any information I might need for some future query. Who received a cheque? Who was the recipient of an E-transfer? That kind of thing escapes my memory with the velocity of light. As do numbers. I can remember what my parents’ phone number was in 1958. I cannot remember what my daughters’ numbers are now and am hard-pressed to come up with my own cell number. Why is there all this stuff in my desk when there is nothing but space in my brain?</p><p>That last description of my brain? Am I a certified airhead? Yes. Because in that space there is an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earworm">earworm</a> playing. <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HfqWdrMLw14" target="_blank">Scarlet Ribbons for Her Hair</a></i>, by Belafonte, is echoing in there, over and over. It was on the playlist in the car on our next-to-last drive to the city and it will not go away. I had hoped that there would be something on yesterday’s playlist that would overwrite it, but no. Not even the Phantom of the Opera drowned it out. (And if I infected you, please accept an abject apology). Not only on my desk does disaster lurk. The head is also overfull of mostly useless junk.</p><div><br /></div>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-42291891742722167152024-01-24T14:43:00.003-05:002024-02-03T16:13:52.855-05:00About Snow<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPuTGo70DTdjm0fYBlQSPiyMdcPag_d_vji4rh28ekLoqe38rNnfPD1d28DSA2bfxfYAGIh_bVDMmKrrK3u_W-sybrR7Bryq1ylK9RntvL0vIwynhrvsY8Qwiba9B7pcdRuXZChhVmBEnl2ngOvWrH2ArYyt26nptksQrPHkYt9NT2F2XLjhdPtjTMKZZ/s1377/kidspuppaoncanal.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="1377" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPuTGo70DTdjm0fYBlQSPiyMdcPag_d_vji4rh28ekLoqe38rNnfPD1d28DSA2bfxfYAGIh_bVDMmKrrK3u_W-sybrR7Bryq1ylK9RntvL0vIwynhrvsY8Qwiba9B7pcdRuXZChhVmBEnl2ngOvWrH2ArYyt26nptksQrPHkYt9NT2F2XLjhdPtjTMKZZ/s320/kidspuppaoncanal.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My daughters with their grandfather on the canal, circa early 1070's</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> Winter is with us, full steam. We have just had a power
flicker and the internet has been knocked out, we have no idea for how long,
and we could lose the power entirely. Wind and blowing snow out there; the ED
says it is worse in Ottawa. And they just got the canal opened for skating, in
part, yesterday, courtesy of a week of deep cold. Now we are back to the just
below to just above freezing temps and I hope they can keep flooding with some
success. ED loves to skate and can access one end of the skateway from her
office quite easily.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_I1kaJeVBBSXHSgUrzwSaomG3CYdPBRwuYDCbGWTjVQ1PzJ5RiweSbqSuvFzHxxVPNK5nC70nGaZJGGLUgKjWVyUFaar4qCFeLwSurix5CzQ973DzJ2uKWp0aQZpCey85_Z3CPcxq1eFkV1_iiIHpjBiI78R52-tEOsNEJLDLCFq3vM91F3kZ0f1atYde/s1024/skating4.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="1024" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_I1kaJeVBBSXHSgUrzwSaomG3CYdPBRwuYDCbGWTjVQ1PzJ5RiweSbqSuvFzHxxVPNK5nC70nGaZJGGLUgKjWVyUFaar4qCFeLwSurix5CzQ973DzJ2uKWp0aQZpCey85_Z3CPcxq1eFkV1_iiIHpjBiI78R52-tEOsNEJLDLCFq3vM91F3kZ0f1atYde/w246-h164/skating4.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grandkid on the canal</td></tr></tbody></table>For those of you who are not local, I guess an explanation
of the skateway might be in order. Our city has a canal that was dug through
the small town of Ottawa over one hundred years ago. The canal was meant to be
a link from the Great Lakes system via the Ottawa River to the St Lawrence
system just this side of Montreal and thus create a passage into Canada that
did not run directly beside the United States. Great Britain funded it. It was
and is a marvel of engineering and, as it runs right through the middle of
Ottawa, when it was drained for the winter, people skated on the ice formed on
the remaining shallow water. Around about the 1970s somewhere, the City of
Ottawa or the National Capital Commission (NCC) made bits of it smoother, this
being done by men with shovels and hoses. It was wildly popular and the length
of it grew until, now, it is billed as the longest man-made skateway in the
world and stretches over, I think, nine kilometres from Carleton University at
one end to the junction with the Ottawa River at the other.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I took our girls skating on it when they were in grade
school, and Jim’s parents came up one winter to enjoy it as they were good
skaters. The last year I was there myself was 2004. I know this because I was
pushing baby Audrey in a stroller kind of thing. I had to hang onto the
stroller as my balance was gone, so that was my last attempt. But both
daughters and the grandkid have been on it many times. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Putting the ice into
condition for skating is now much more mechanized. The city uses trucks with
ploughs on them to clear the snow and so the depth of ice has to be very good
to be strong enough. Global Warming is getting to it; last year was warm enough
that they never did get the thickness of ice they wanted and the skateway never
opened. Sad. IMHO they should go back to the strong backs with shovels and
worry less about depth of ice. The Canal ‘rink’
is a marvel when it is in use. At one
point, when she was working next to the canal, the YD used to skate to work.
You have to love that.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In fact, it is winter sport
and recreation that make our climate possible to endure from November to April.
Getting out into the bush, going to areas which, in summer, you could never
reach, is satisfying in a way that nothing else I have ever done can match. A
small cloud of chattering chickadees blows by you. There are tracks you recognise
in the snow and others that are a complete mystery. The sun shadows make
marvellous lattices on the snow, blue and grey blue where the snow in the sun
is sparkling white. A trickle of open water remains in the stream bed, exposing
moss so green it is almost black. You can trek into marshy land – I once found
a cutting wedge sitting on a stump in the middle of nowhere. If the beaver ponds
freeze without heavy snow, skating is wonderful. You can, with effort, climb
in your snowshoes but walking on the level, where, in summer there is water, is
almost without work. On skis, you fly.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOF3tyEWiNZ3Jdgx6hXD1DIGcDNR_ibwjCeoRyJpUt2xhBfD6llSLtaDswqxxuLXVOYwQMf14TyUYoOSiMuGpod5iRZyMSC4RRpLfDlUOwava-6l2xsPjgyxAs0yH29hS8kvlg8pV51qbwTowc82fFH54wSUCkHZxEAhmy9lNzoY7AlhWy6WB0E6OQnrC/s3000/littleclearing2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2331" data-original-width="3000" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOF3tyEWiNZ3Jdgx6hXD1DIGcDNR_ibwjCeoRyJpUt2xhBfD6llSLtaDswqxxuLXVOYwQMf14TyUYoOSiMuGpod5iRZyMSC4RRpLfDlUOwava-6l2xsPjgyxAs0yH29hS8kvlg8pV51qbwTowc82fFH54wSUCkHZxEAhmy9lNzoY7AlhWy6WB0E6OQnrC/s320/littleclearing2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snow Shadows</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJMj5Am1YBIaig5Th7s6CtxNrcZFJOyjeP7SoPNZaMHoDjxbXsemCyk7CRikQzLRViUtNO6pM0Nidw6GMJ7jaekDdyo01f9IHpbz2kqBm5DxBbHvjsWKYqrRmhAneos99ahbcz8QOkhUIC1XOxXWoxTkCoVinkCeowJQJ1DKZzve5l_FpkE1JNhGrwKRQ/s1904/pond%20skating%20clearing%20the%20snow.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1352" data-original-width="1904" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJMj5Am1YBIaig5Th7s6CtxNrcZFJOyjeP7SoPNZaMHoDjxbXsemCyk7CRikQzLRViUtNO6pM0Nidw6GMJ7jaekDdyo01f9IHpbz2kqBm5DxBbHvjsWKYqrRmhAneos99ahbcz8QOkhUIC1XOxXWoxTkCoVinkCeowJQJ1DKZzve5l_FpkE1JNhGrwKRQ/s320/pond%20skating%20clearing%20the%20snow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Beaver Pond, Clearing the Snow</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucI0_TPh5nnApQhdx7pyL6NsLcyUe-F9Bslyr5hKOrCL-OWtXccUuRMIc-S0QfuFSNTIJZ5miZDPkEmiqzGEpKKkGPRqtpbkblmU6pBu1Pz0Yy5u9X0pkvEf948evVE31269iU75NhbwncTBQju6Wn8O1TRZM0m8MP0dZsHklI5MnDYhQ6MPWCwMTm8cS/s1473/snow%20shadows.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1473" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucI0_TPh5nnApQhdx7pyL6NsLcyUe-F9Bslyr5hKOrCL-OWtXccUuRMIc-S0QfuFSNTIJZ5miZDPkEmiqzGEpKKkGPRqtpbkblmU6pBu1Pz0Yy5u9X0pkvEf948evVE31269iU75NhbwncTBQju6Wn8O1TRZM0m8MP0dZsHklI5MnDYhQ6MPWCwMTm8cS/s320/snow%20shadows.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More Shadows</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6sYLGbHjeru6x5JmSoDZ1Wt-f-QjnicigjKOYdlGNN-0LrPnh6j-67O_052J5d4WMnQz10sY061iQc-HQpSVITa5aOYS99TNBZLW-4zLnO7Ye6vAk93veTIrjcvinGtCYNS2n0O5zSqK9okk-Mho3HSLSvJ8uMy12a-pN-BuRQQkeg0BwRbSgmtPofRQ/s1333/winterstreamsmall.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1333" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6sYLGbHjeru6x5JmSoDZ1Wt-f-QjnicigjKOYdlGNN-0LrPnh6j-67O_052J5d4WMnQz10sY061iQc-HQpSVITa5aOYS99TNBZLW-4zLnO7Ye6vAk93veTIrjcvinGtCYNS2n0O5zSqK9okk-Mho3HSLSvJ8uMy12a-pN-BuRQQkeg0BwRbSgmtPofRQ/s320/winterstreamsmall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Stream</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">If there is one thing that
sucks about old age, it is that it robs you of the abilities that enrich
living. I can only go there in photos, now.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-38687978286292827582024-01-21T22:07:00.004-05:002024-01-21T22:12:13.764-05:00Leave nothing but footprints ...<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEDbDO8PeTniVe-M6Vwgh6PLbGmPqfCruTNE8sNtyinm81GxpxI7PjEPaZm7iF7hoQiaj7aa90USiUebIvwINyM17dPzfkyQSIGSjfWi5gNWFKhSXTK1Zsw94rr26myDfjYPCz0oSKkCjEDKhzmK4GjjJt6qrVpF30kHksX7oiiTQ6l5ECi2ziPVuzim-/s1024/footprints.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEDbDO8PeTniVe-M6Vwgh6PLbGmPqfCruTNE8sNtyinm81GxpxI7PjEPaZm7iF7hoQiaj7aa90USiUebIvwINyM17dPzfkyQSIGSjfWi5gNWFKhSXTK1Zsw94rr26myDfjYPCz0oSKkCjEDKhzmK4GjjJt6qrVpF30kHksX7oiiTQ6l5ECi2ziPVuzim-/w150-h200/footprints.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>This is going to be a plaintive post; I have a new version
of Word that has more bells and whistles than even my last one. As I try to navigate
through it, I am also on call to go and help JG with HIS new Word app. He has
not used Word much ever, having preferred another word processing program when
he worked, maybe something called WordPerfect, and having done very little word
processing in the last two and a half decades. Since I am not at all sure what
I am doing myself, this is not even a story about how, in the country of the
blind, the one-eyed man is king. In fact, I appear to be typing this in
something called Aptos (Body) and I did not decide to do so. It’s not bad. I am
interested to see how it will come up when transferred to Blogger. (In serif typeface in the draft, a sans serif when published. Wha...?)<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am more than annoyed with Blogger today. It ate two sets
of well thought out and nicely worded comments that I wrote on posts I enjoyed.
The comments were not nearly as thorough or as well written on the third
attempt. But if, when I hit SAVE it actually does save, I guess third time pays
all. Or something like that.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjyjrEt9nTffgfRBP8Guay1JyLiB_myFCJy2hKe6-C3Tv1JrqSooQLa3q8R2NGVtHTQqQuYZ9FahQv2PeFaTfFPei1mxpks0uBgLquHD3fokkEG5Q6kZuwamZ3D20NuBWVPMjKjt_3VAu0cLqNnFXQqDRi97RqdMGcOxxSbNos6XsDdgiYrKsfE7_Tg6T/s1024/Kt's%20beaverpond.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmjyjrEt9nTffgfRBP8Guay1JyLiB_myFCJy2hKe6-C3Tv1JrqSooQLa3q8R2NGVtHTQqQuYZ9FahQv2PeFaTfFPei1mxpks0uBgLquHD3fokkEG5Q6kZuwamZ3D20NuBWVPMjKjt_3VAu0cLqNnFXQqDRi97RqdMGcOxxSbNos6XsDdgiYrKsfE7_Tg6T/w400-h300/Kt's%20beaverpond.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ED was out on the weekend and went for a snowshoe in about
a foot of new, untrodden and crusted heavy snow. She did most of her usual
circuit through both the home hundred acres and the back hundred, in a little
more time than usual and remarked that she was labouring coming up the last
hill. Yeah. She did, a bit wistfully I thought, wish for her sister and her dog
to, as she put it, break trail for her. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Aforesaid sister has resigned her prestigious position and
handsome remuneration and is now on leave, using up her vacation and then her
terminal leave before she will make the final decision about retirement. This
is Freedom 55 Plus, and she is off to do a bike trip in the Far East and then a
hike in Europe and then may pack up her home in Brussels prior to getting her
house in the city back from the renters. She has home renovations in mind but so
far that is all that she is discussing of any planning. I am surprised and yet
not surprised at this decision. I knew she was not happy in many of the
requirements of the position, but was not aware of the extent of her
frustration. I suspect she was making the best of it when talking to us, to
spare us worry. At any rate, she may be available as a trail stomper by next
winter’s need.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As a personal report, I think I have found at least some of
the surfaces of my desk and table here in my office. Between the hall material,
the paperwork needed for my various medical appointments and the stack of usual
filing, there was a fine mess. Then I was hit by a request from JG to find a particular
document from his brother’s estate papers that I had handled. We got a
portentous government document saying said government owed deceased brother
money still and JG needed the reference. I dug, piled up files, muttered and
after three tries I found the dratted thing. The money owed turns out to be
about three dollars. Or about the cost of sending the cheque? And I am now
refiling and Putting Things Back. When the ED was here, she put the Christmas
boxes all away under the stairs, and so that is that for another year. It may,
sometime, become tidy. There is a tidy in the affairs of woman…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am stopping now before this leads on to anything. Up top you will have seen a fine photo
that the ED took of the back beaver pond. You can contemplate that; nature is
neat in more than one aspect. <o:p></o:p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-59610173627081643422024-01-13T21:21:00.002-05:002024-01-13T22:15:07.626-05:00 Winter is Here<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFeBwoy_418ttCsZT9WL074nHLEV-zbWLj1u5q16LV7owBMIfHr9zTZ47TGr3AoIXnZaxvY7W5FADzz_TcS458W2NJlkM14ko5pDbUbiuw0gFg-OPZknScgvVpJOaQYdhSmZ4oLwioTUmY2riMZ9jCyrdgwc23N6YMu0S8sQ8_d3swnpeo4DsqwOGG8XkH/s4032/snow%20screen.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFeBwoy_418ttCsZT9WL074nHLEV-zbWLj1u5q16LV7owBMIfHr9zTZ47TGr3AoIXnZaxvY7W5FADzz_TcS458W2NJlkM14ko5pDbUbiuw0gFg-OPZknScgvVpJOaQYdhSmZ4oLwioTUmY2riMZ9jCyrdgwc23N6YMu0S8sQ8_d3swnpeo4DsqwOGG8XkH/w260-h195/snow%20screen.jpg" width="260" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Last night we had our first big snowstorm of the
winter blow in, and I do mean ‘blow’. There was snow pasted to all of the
screens on both sides of the open porch, </span>and the whole porch floor was covered,
except for about three square feet right at the door. I did a lot of brushing
and sweeping, but meanwhile JG actually got to play with his new toy. This toy
is a dedicated four wheeler with a heated cab (Note: heated) and the cab has
windscreen wipers front and back. This allows JG to blow the snow away while
driving forward, instead of backing up as was required by the big tractor
rear-mounted auger, and he can let it rip without getting his face full of
snow. This is very good, for obvious reasons.</p><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And here he comes!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz3HTVWMcdnY5-9TbwP7O9Go_S6PAHDhX0cY9NpU8kXrPUgjIFyEOGLekFohauAzRrKLsas4kS1_G90A16J-g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">When he went out to start clearing, the snow turned
out to be wet and pretty heavy, and the temperature actually went above
freezing for a bit in the afternoon. Then, in late afternoon, the sky cleared
almost at once, the temperature dropped and we ended up with stiff snow. This,
of course, is when the Township plough decided to finally come and do our road.
We are the last house on a dead-end branch of a very rural part of the Ottawa
Valley. I guess we should count ourselves lucky to be plowed out at all. If it
were not for the school bus needing to run up part way on this road, we might
be an even later afterthought. But, hey, we now are reconnected to the world.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It took most of the day for JG to get us tidied up. Meanwhile I was ducking out in my slippers and trying to get some photos with my new and superior Christmas iPad. With very mixed results. I need to figure out how not to take 'Live' shots, for one thing. And look where I am aiming. I took a photo of the cleared porch and area, with a shovel (see above right) sitting in the middle of the shot. Annoying. And so I edited it out, sort of. A sloppy job, but, hey, it improved the photo. I think. Sigh. Must read the book. Must think before shooting. And, also very important, must put on boots and coat before venturing out into snow world.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePTJlB2ISWZiWZs57HUvvg-tjNVLaZ5WYVvM4I_ab38OtnNEFDeVCQGbbbleTrFfgxMQ327W4FGL2ZgiONqUfKUBYbqD98P7nWak8kePIWnpogTEhJ567O4TyiKIt7jFhU26SptPL-oDY_cJS_mL88CVj1YH6-CEgSdA7HENbaY3z58t2rVDEVDfp43E7/s4032/new%20toy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePTJlB2ISWZiWZs57HUvvg-tjNVLaZ5WYVvM4I_ab38OtnNEFDeVCQGbbbleTrFfgxMQ327W4FGL2ZgiONqUfKUBYbqD98P7nWak8kePIWnpogTEhJ567O4TyiKIt7jFhU26SptPL-oDY_cJS_mL88CVj1YH6-CEgSdA7HENbaY3z58t2rVDEVDfp43E7/s320/new%20toy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFt5oA17EmnI657oW9Nt707AuQUG3Bwpp1YtqLqReSMZv0FqyEnjlgrfjavXpHBD_6ZwN8UvhnxnhVRqF6TFFh6ZGcpNcDYeSBn2UeKMd5-aQYCAoTGqBbYgpx54jcFQ4FkAzUxIMLYH3X9KTEOB4quumvtkEATN4JZvMgi4nAOvx2lbHh1XBODuu1QAM/s4032/new%20toy%20no%20shovel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFt5oA17EmnI657oW9Nt707AuQUG3Bwpp1YtqLqReSMZv0FqyEnjlgrfjavXpHBD_6ZwN8UvhnxnhVRqF6TFFh6ZGcpNcDYeSBn2UeKMd5-aQYCAoTGqBbYgpx54jcFQ4FkAzUxIMLYH3X9KTEOB4quumvtkEATN4JZvMgi4nAOvx2lbHh1XBODuu1QAM/s320/new%20toy%20no%20shovel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-52614100931676789842024-01-11T22:53:00.004-05:002024-01-11T22:54:30.419-05:00Less Waiting.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd1qhanPtethc8g7-0xQQIKTDR8SY23jFtFgN65NQmCeX3icWNNevQTKDk5TUOgrYDTR06pCNlr0rol96Y4Sbr8MwEZr0b0e0haA0xlzfebIJ97F7gMXOhk0_645zzF_rfhqq_meRSBiFiEHRJ9vdritj0AXVuTXDSaArG8Fc8a1aRTzvPs2VCZgzdZSlR/s501/416713437_886955886552103_5035423839161221935_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="501" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd1qhanPtethc8g7-0xQQIKTDR8SY23jFtFgN65NQmCeX3icWNNevQTKDk5TUOgrYDTR06pCNlr0rol96Y4Sbr8MwEZr0b0e0haA0xlzfebIJ97F7gMXOhk0_645zzF_rfhqq_meRSBiFiEHRJ9vdritj0AXVuTXDSaArG8Fc8a1aRTzvPs2VCZgzdZSlR/w200-h199/416713437_886955886552103_5035423839161221935_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was Wednesday morning (when I started this but it
is now Thursday evening), the morning chores are done and I have just been
phoning to try to figure out what happened to my credit card. Amazing to me, I
was not put on hold. Two rings and straight through to a real person – well,
two rings and typing in my credit card number twice. I have an older landline
phone with no speaker facility. It has a club speaker/receiver that I tuck
close to one ear and hold with my chin; I started doing this in the 1980’s while
working at a job that required lots of telephone calls and the habit has stuck
in spite of my stiff neck and a perfectly working iPhone with a speaker. “Turn
on the speaker,” says my YD, more or less patiently, when she calls me on this
marvellous device.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">What is the most marvellous, really, is that I am
chatting with her as she drives home from work or back from an assignment. In
Brussels, or on the Autobahn in Germany, or ... wherever. We can also chat with
her via video from her home, also in Brussels. The phone calls are crystal
clear. The video is excellent. It is not the same as having her here and
getting hugs and finding strange wrapped bags of things in the refrigerator.
But it is a miracle of modern technology. Mind you, I thought that email was a marvel
when I first acquired it. The ED was living in Scotland, and to be able to
reach her on a daily basis and to know that she had managed that day -in a
difficult period in her life – was priceless. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Earlier communication methods were not priceless –
sending bulky letters across the Atlantic, trying (and failing) to keep phone
calls from Africa economically short, paying for international cell
phone coverage in an emergency – all came at a price and a high one by times.
Worth it, though. It is an interesting, for me, comment on how life is that
something you want starts out looking expensive but becomes routine. The switch
from black and white film to colour film is a case in point. We had a good
camera that took a roll of twenty-four shots but that made a film expensive to
have printed. (I had a developer of my own for black and white for a while,
also expensive to do but very interesting.) I started by being very careful
when I had colour film, but ended up doing candid shots and paying for the
rather mixed results. Lines of relatives, posed and resentful, are not good
photography. I went looking for such a photo and found this. Terrible photograph, but it is funny, especially when you know the kidlets.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWHSZdc80ohKrjjGE1sjwuPa7E7JyHo15z5MnlimKJnIxZf1v-cgfBkwbUR3ruuBygrgFWYe_bW2XEuokbDZZwvqJp4B6qhdHBeM38j-e-soDbzqF1yx9JmQt5hAZN-gWrVlEak1FEhiFUkMtclsL79kGr5q74iXhkC8cbuZ4XjCrjNu_JtHzbBx7nWXIb/s1455/line1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1455" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWHSZdc80ohKrjjGE1sjwuPa7E7JyHo15z5MnlimKJnIxZf1v-cgfBkwbUR3ruuBygrgFWYe_bW2XEuokbDZZwvqJp4B6qhdHBeM38j-e-soDbzqF1yx9JmQt5hAZN-gWrVlEak1FEhiFUkMtclsL79kGr5q74iXhkC8cbuZ4XjCrjNu_JtHzbBx7nWXIb/w200-h133/line1.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My Facebook friend, AC, just did a retrospective of
his year in photographs, and it is worth a look. His comments are gold mines of
teaching about good photography.<span style="color: #04ff00;"> <a href="https://anvilcloud.blogspot.com/2024/01/photo-retrospective-v.html ">He has a post here</a>.</span></span> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">It made me think about photos I have taken that I liked well enough that I
remember something about them. I may just go and look for a few, although
remembering about them and remembering where I put them are two very different
things.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Report on the report: I had to trek into our medical
facility and ask for a copy of the report to be found and printed from my master
file. It was frustrating, but at least I now have that information. It has
generated more tests, so I will probably be muttering about more reports here
before too long. Both JG and I have reached the plateau of old/old and that
seems to cause our doctors to want to know all about our insides. Me, I read
the report, do a LOT of looking up of very big words and sort of shrug. Yeah,
this, that and the other thing are Not Quite Right. Or, even, labelled with Latinate
tags. I expect I shall be like the <span style="color: #38761d;">‘</span><a href="http://holyjoe.org/poetry/holmes1.htm"><span style="color: #04ff00;">wonderful one-hoss-shay. </span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_gAUFK76XiqRUswQfyScklx70Elqu-T984Rdg3oxgz7iJCj-RPl6xVjAfRkdBwc66Zi9tTkwaujU0aQhQ3SG-aUmHgJOGoqkyYtMnq7YY8-CbXlYyr4T6H8wcFryehvKQNZ6zemioB155N3biV4w98EATzIX9L87uAB16hCjvkJAXQLAkqH0UAR2w4Xj/s1017/shay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="668" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_gAUFK76XiqRUswQfyScklx70Elqu-T984Rdg3oxgz7iJCj-RPl6xVjAfRkdBwc66Zi9tTkwaujU0aQhQ3SG-aUmHgJOGoqkyYtMnq7YY8-CbXlYyr4T6H8wcFryehvKQNZ6zemioB155N3biV4w98EATzIX9L87uAB16hCjvkJAXQLAkqH0UAR2w4Xj/s320/shay.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span><p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-14575130370844144762024-01-03T11:12:00.012-05:002024-01-03T11:43:31.872-05:00 The Waiting Game<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8NVJbw0Kr6ORxyQ0sTCNpqSgYy1_zrEdpcyZ37K4zRbyN-Bb6k9ebwSGMRJLQyO4BeApbiBvaN8akqzdVYIQLYeQ5PJcvZcQbC0Xfr5-XYy9sNBTglgbW1EzDNQuZoBD1KafzPH_NGGvLdd69rU3eXSQU2MG_9whdwIgzK6ltAbrONOd1auIKUPFoM42/s772/wait.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="488" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8NVJbw0Kr6ORxyQ0sTCNpqSgYy1_zrEdpcyZ37K4zRbyN-Bb6k9ebwSGMRJLQyO4BeApbiBvaN8akqzdVYIQLYeQ5PJcvZcQbC0Xfr5-XYy9sNBTglgbW1EzDNQuZoBD1KafzPH_NGGvLdd69rU3eXSQU2MG_9whdwIgzK6ltAbrONOd1auIKUPFoM42/w126-h200/wait.jpg" width="126" /></a>I wait. A lot. I wait
for letters, emails and other communications. I wait for the mail and the paper
(well, not so much for the last of these as our guy delivers in the small
hours). But at present I am waiting for a report about an x-ray that was taken
early this month and was supposed to be read on the 27<sup>th</sup>. It is now January
3rd, the bottom corner of my computer tells me, and no report has been filed. It's
discouraging, as I would much rather know something than not. Ignorance is not
bliss.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The laundry is
whirling around in its machine and some of the Christmas loot has been put away
although there is still a pile of themed napkins in the dining room and a small
stash of stuff to be recycled sitting on the living room floor. It was a very
electronic Christmas. I think everyone but the ED's man got a computer or computerized
gadget. Ours is a bird feeder with a camera that will take photos of birds that
come to the feeder. I am not sure yet how it works although I have figured out,
with help from the YD, how to set it up. The YD got a laptop that cost her a
whole evening of listening to a technician as she tried to set it up and found,
I think, a flaw in the software. The download speed on the repair was abysmal;
someone must have been streaming a movie on our shared node. Someones, perhaps,
as it was abysmally slow. ( Drat you, Grammarly; that is a perfectly legal past
perfect verb form. {I am getting the ‘have’ questioned. Ah, it was a spelling
mistake, not the form.} I used to type quite well, but my dexterity has
decreased a lot in the last few years. And why I use ‘dexterity’ when I am
left-handed says something about our society, doesn’t it.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, the tree is
down and out, most of the boxes have made their annual migration to the
basement, and there is the small pile of things to go to the recycle. It looks as
if it may be a bigger pile next year. The YD, who likes Colour on her tree,
encouraged me to get rid of the white lights that have adorned my silver and
gold tree for many years and to put up coloured ones. I purchased a large
number of red lights from our local CT (on sale, did I mention?) and we had a
red tree with red glass balls. (Only one ball was smashed in the takedown.) And
so I mentioned to the YD that the white lights could be recycled. No, she said.
She wants them for next year. When, she also stated, she will help me sort out
and downsize my boxes and boxes of Christmas Stuff. I await the event.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is more on my
calendar than usual, actually. The first week of the month brings a book club
meeting and, usually, footcare. There is a hall committee meeting. In the
following days there are more medical things, another group event and,
probably, the hall AGM. Not exciting, exactly, but pleasant to await, in most
cases. But things feel tentative; I do not know why. Perhaps it is the result
of knowing that aging in place only lasts until managing is not safe. And that
time is coming. It is around the bend of the road but it is there. Waiting.
And I am afraid of what it may demand of me and mine. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That thought is there
because this is a diary, mostly, and I needed to write down what feels like a
cloud hanging over me so that I could pin it down a bit. It is not a thought
that demands an answer here, where pleasant photos and reports on activities
are the norm. With any luck, I will be posting about Christmas lights once more when the
time arrives.<o:p></o:p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-17120844554881970342023-12-31T23:35:00.002-05:002023-12-31T23:35:43.732-05:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvh1TRnI0FaYrZtEGhnxTLQqDRC21UIFlL-8XyNsrPnm677wpM52ydH2GN9TG73dw9EB6bAIlAZBrvDfYqB7y9jacsJitVuc2G6Yhwp4DVxq1f5eNmHxsG8ujpoJF5JZzmigaKbLUA04GwFPWvDI-PWYJANDgMk-fVghV2f_i4TOEhyphenhyphenYmGq7fzfDPsXu9w/s585/2024%20card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="585" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvh1TRnI0FaYrZtEGhnxTLQqDRC21UIFlL-8XyNsrPnm677wpM52ydH2GN9TG73dw9EB6bAIlAZBrvDfYqB7y9jacsJitVuc2G6Yhwp4DVxq1f5eNmHxsG8ujpoJF5JZzmigaKbLUA04GwFPWvDI-PWYJANDgMk-fVghV2f_i4TOEhyphenhyphenYmGq7fzfDPsXu9w/w400-h393/2024%20card.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-36070311183341260452023-12-27T14:25:00.001-05:002023-12-27T14:25:51.064-05:00Hanging In There<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbOGayYStvmlccZTqZ9l_WEWFPlQvsd6G1V1GOBrvq_slxEXk6nPVcPFfBAn0kzZg_vtNiqyD0Y0Eb5oHdPk5kXQZSgVkOf2My3wMsVzIbsDJZd87tds71znaLy8ArhgywrEEFv4mqBPWboeM0klC7oI0lnNeu96FIpqyCeCcY-HFoRfsYglpMFdOtLko/s899/cathang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="430" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbOGayYStvmlccZTqZ9l_WEWFPlQvsd6G1V1GOBrvq_slxEXk6nPVcPFfBAn0kzZg_vtNiqyD0Y0Eb5oHdPk5kXQZSgVkOf2My3wMsVzIbsDJZd87tds71znaLy8ArhgywrEEFv4mqBPWboeM0klC7oI0lnNeu96FIpqyCeCcY-HFoRfsYglpMFdOtLko/w96-h200/cathang.jpg" width="96" /></a></div><p> I am married to a worrier. One of our Christmas gifts was a computerized bird feeder; to charge it, you pull a tiny white plug out of the body and shove in the charge cord. Thinking that I was being super careful, I retrieved an empty pill bottle with no label from the bathroom cabinet and put the tiny plug into it for safekeeping. Just now, the worrier came into my office, looked at the bottle and commented that it was worrisome because the plug could be mistaken for a pill and swallowed. After a headshake and a bit of grumbling, I got a sticky label out of my office shelf, wrote on it “Computer plug. Do not eat!”, and stuck the label onto the bottle. I also wrote “Do not Eat” on the bottle cap. The worrier’s comment was “Much better.” Please note that if you wander around rooms in your house picking up stray pill bottles and eating the contents, the worrier will try to ensure your safety.</p><p>My mother was also a worrier. In the last winter of her life, she was still at her concerned best, and one of her concerns was that I should wear a hat in winter weather. I confess that I kept a hat on the front seat of my car and I would pull it on as I took the last corner before their street, thus looking defended from the weather as I pulled into the driveway and walked up the walk to the house. Worrying was hard on her, though. My father had the habit of taking a mile walk whenever the roads were clear enough to allow this. My mother had him timed and, if he did not return when she expected him, she immediately imagined terrible accidents that could have befallen him. She always imagined the worst. My father was fairly patient with this, but only to a point. If he wanted to stop on his walk and chat with a neighbour, he did so, even if it made him ‘late’.</p><p>Me, I do not worry. Or, mostly I don’t. If a daughter is off hiking solo in the Namibian desert, I love her competence and have a fair amount of confidence that she will manage to survive. If her plane is late, I figure it is weather or the airline botching things up. I confess to feeling that it was a long day as we waited for news that our labouring daughter had -at last- produced the baby. But since I had spent from a Sunday morning to a Monday afternoon producing her, I was not imagining disaster, just slow progress. Our children were raised ‘free range’, if that expression conveys a fair degree of autonomy and calculated risk. I had very little of either and that is, I think, one of the factors that has shaped my own attitude.</p><p>That attitude includes, for example, the thought that if you eat something unknown out of a pill bottle sitting on a desk, you deserve to have to find it later. Providing, of course, that you have survived the experience. But, to prevent misunderstanding, I will finish by saying that I love both the worriers dearly, as well as a daughter who checks her purse for her passport five times between home and the airport. That the worry gene skipped a generation with me is something that does not worry me.</p><div><br /></div>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-22805988225004417522023-12-23T22:02:00.008-05:002023-12-23T22:05:41.626-05:00'Twas Two Days Before Christmas ...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIty9UpsEAAr4zVDIal7ZmXQ4mY8yE7__qCWiHVrzxBax9qy3fuPz9HMpauW9tt0jOzzxM7GiVmqAT7s8sGK_XUiIxDNr-gMHn3Wj8cwbW0sZM8q8UGvo6v22cuI49VwlJLkxF5adu4sWij0O7YFNVzPAN76dFCahkFOAQgFNtAm7mqStLDNQDdb7yaOxH/s1409/small_xmas%2023%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1409" data-original-width="961" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIty9UpsEAAr4zVDIal7ZmXQ4mY8yE7__qCWiHVrzxBax9qy3fuPz9HMpauW9tt0jOzzxM7GiVmqAT7s8sGK_XUiIxDNr-gMHn3Wj8cwbW0sZM8q8UGvo6v22cuI49VwlJLkxF5adu4sWij0O7YFNVzPAN76dFCahkFOAQgFNtAm7mqStLDNQDdb7yaOxH/s320/small_xmas%2023%202.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It is the day before
Christmas Eve here in Lanark, and the child is nestled all snug in her bed,
being still much plagued with the six-hour time difference between here and
Brussels. Papa, capless, is reading in the living room since it is not yet the
time for him to, tired, retire. And I am in my office, contemplating chaos. (I should
still be writing Christmas Cards. Shh.) There are presents still to wrap and
label (I think I remember whose electronics are whose), pies and aspic to
construct and the table to beautify into its Christmas dress. The tree is the
best it can be and has, courtesy of a sale at our local hardware store, a nice
new red skirt to go with its bright red lights and all of the coloured balls I
could unearth from the boxes of Christmas Stuff.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Ah, the Chaos of
Christmas. Not outside. There all is serene. There are little (not rein)deer
out and about, notably a mother with this year’s fawn in tow. They come and
check out the feeding station regularly. And we have small birds back at the
feeders, after an hiatus of several months when we had blue jays and mourning
doves and not much else besides grackles. I have heard the pileated woodpecker
twice, quite close, but have not been able to see it. There is a bit of new fallen snow, but it is
supposed to melt over the weekend and I guess I have to hope for that as the
Christmas Bird is presently resident on the screened porch in a styrofoam
container and if the temperature stays too far below freezing point, I will
have to juggle it inside and outside to maintain refrigerator temperature until
Monday.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> It is inside, and not
just inside the bird, that is still unorganized. I did what I devoutly hope was
the last bit of shopping this morning (and all the Christmas clobber was 50%
off; got to love that). Speaking of refrigerators, ours is bulging. And on top
of that, a neighbour dropped off our order of maple syrup and maple sugar, quite
a large box full. The strong and agile daughter has lugged some of the Christmas
storage boxes back down to the cellar to await refilling, but there are still
three left beside the stairs. And the tablecloth is sitting on the ironing
board. The candles for the table are balanced on a bookcase in here, and the
lovely Christmas-themed tea towels that have been other years’ gifts are,
although ironed, still in the laundry room.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Well, I have one more
day. At least I am not standing beside my mother’s bed in the ICU trying to
finish knitting a Christmas gift sweater, with the wool stuffed into one pocket
and the instructions back at home. All my nearest and dearest are near and
healthy and, in the main, cheerful. And, accordingly, so am I.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Some of you, blogging
friends, are in new situations this Christmas time. One of you, maybe two in
fact, are in the Maritimes and, I think, without electricity. Some of you will
be anticipating the day with joy and no Big Dinner. Smart, that. One of you, I
read, is bugged. Whatever your day brings, I wish you contentment, peace and at
least a moment to count your blessings. As I, in spite of whining about the
turkey, am counting mine.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-68156497908155527502023-12-19T23:31:00.003-05:002023-12-23T22:06:49.586-05:00On the Runway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8moQ1gWuoXXRnNSzHx7DcvpcaVB1wemgNOfGIU-Z5poRhTiylxgJCx1rLcWRCVP7oMLnCylUAC3f6Qr-nf0coWztp8IGM13rt0lWXHHlAsjs-nWFaX34QKtPa6k1OGtW7Ukfy8Z2RNgG31tyRavjg5zrCrWypAJXgrbqXfyPpP2Yq8ZIlHd50jEqQ_L-/s2048/2023%20card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="2048" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl8moQ1gWuoXXRnNSzHx7DcvpcaVB1wemgNOfGIU-Z5poRhTiylxgJCx1rLcWRCVP7oMLnCylUAC3f6Qr-nf0coWztp8IGM13rt0lWXHHlAsjs-nWFaX34QKtPa6k1OGtW7Ukfy8Z2RNgG31tyRavjg5zrCrWypAJXgrbqXfyPpP2Yq8ZIlHd50jEqQ_L-/w400-h248/2023%20card.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p> It is afternoon in
Lanark Highlands, and I have just attempted to make myself a cup of coffee with
my fine, single-cup machine. Unfortunately, I did not put a cup under the
spout. When I do not add a cup, the coffee pours into the bottom of the cup
stand and this, thank goodness, is detachable. And so. having poured the coffee
from the stand into my cup, cleaned the counter and wiped up the floor, I am
about to drink the coffee. Once, that is, I have microwaved it to warm it up
again.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So goeth life in
Lanark, managed by a geriatric brain. My next job is to 1.) find the Christmas
cards I stored away last year and 2.) figure out those to whom I am still
sending paper cards via snail mail and 3.) write up the Christmas letter that
accompanies the cards, both electronic and paper, for those friends whom I only
contact a few times a year. After, that is, I get the coffee out of the
microwave. I can’t write without a cup of coffee, preferably hot, beside me. It
used to be a coffee and a cigarette but those days are long, long gone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is now bedtime in
Lanark Highlands and the Christmas cards, those I have been able to locate, are
piled up on my table. I have also designed and printed a proof of a card, because
I did not keep enough over from last year. And I have a draft of the Christmas
letter I put in some of the cards as a way of keeping in touch with distant
friends.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But it is bedtime. Also,
time to wish the Blog and bloggers Merry Christmas, happy Hannukah, or whatever
you celebrate, with or without a Roast Beast. If I do not stop this and post
the dern thing, I will be sending Easter greetings. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">May your days be merry and bright.</p><p class="MsoNormal">M</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-83271863065036097902023-12-07T22:45:00.001-05:002023-12-07T22:45:58.803-05:00December Diary<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4z52H_C5m5qQBQUoce946xxBJzrCdVOV4eSL9jRgj6bBv0jsp5_YT2WhCsMEmHpOb9-UtFmmzKQCGxAHb4CRavXB6863rofdbJ-CtZtNKhuU0yvlts3MfUsl9zsX2By6CtMS_yL4oibTh33ybR1tKJ4SrngRDckCfWjzeAdY_xQkTxKjswEvNUdqjtq_k/s764/candlemelt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="764" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4z52H_C5m5qQBQUoce946xxBJzrCdVOV4eSL9jRgj6bBv0jsp5_YT2WhCsMEmHpOb9-UtFmmzKQCGxAHb4CRavXB6863rofdbJ-CtZtNKhuU0yvlts3MfUsl9zsX2By6CtMS_yL4oibTh33ybR1tKJ4SrngRDckCfWjzeAdY_xQkTxKjswEvNUdqjtq_k/w200-h134/candlemelt.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> It is the seventh of December, and I have just finished an online
order for a Christmas gift. For myself. When I pointed this item out to JG in
the catalogue, he did not so much as cast an eye over it. ‘Order it for
yourself,’ he said. This instruction could mean a) that he has a gift for me
already or b) that I am supposed to wrap it when it comes and put it under the
tree. So goes our life. Computerized and complicated. The joys of being over eighty
and, to an extent, housebound with one another.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was going to write the dreaded Christmas letter this
evening, the one that I fold and insert in the cards that I send, still, in
envelopes with stamps on them. But that paragraph was what came up to the top
of my mind and I do not think that it is a good opening paragraph for a
cheerful and factual account of 2023. Not that my Christmas letter is usually
either of those things. The big event of this year was the insertion of my nice
new metal knee into my leg. We also had to have some big but dangerous trees cut
down close to the house. All of the children and grandchildren are continuing
to do what I described them as doing last year. And if I write about what I
think of world news and politics, the candles on the bottom corner of the paper
will melt.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We had book club this morning but there were only three of
us there. COVID, other illnesses of member or member’s spouse, a family death, and
other stuff. It’s December, after all. The topic was Children’s Literature and
we had one really interesting presentation about, wait for it, ‘bibliotherapy’
with a selection of books for three age groups to illustrate it. (Never mind
the melatonin for your tot; read him ‘Goodnight Moon’ several times.) I have to
bug this creative member for her book titles. She had a pile of them and since
I was sitting beside her, I became sidetracked by reading one. I am supposed to
be the club’s recorder, but I have not even done November’s report yet. It is sitting
on my desk in pieces. Anyway, we did agree on topics for the next three months.
January will be on mysteries since the holiday clatter makes it hard to read
seriously. I don’t much enjoy mysteries, but any book is better than none.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next week is another club and one which I love. We call it ‘Discussion
Group’ and our leader, she who thought the idea up, sets us a topic. Not a
heavy, do your research sort of topic, though, but something topical or that
affects all of us. A lot of medical stuff; we are all old ladies. We have one
member who insists we have a cheerful piece to the discussion. And I love that
and love her for insisting on it. She is a wonderful and thoughtful person who
is dealing sensibly and courageously with a medical condition that would
devastate me. She has lost most of her sight. And yet she carries on, even with
the book club, using audiobooks and her amazing memory. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And the week after that, the YD will be home. It is devoutly
to be hoped that enough of the snow and ice will melt off the trees that the
daughters can select their usual Lanark slightly unsightly Christmas tree. And
put it up. Then Christmas can come, even if I have not sent a single card.<o:p></o:p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-24603733225979497782023-12-06T17:18:00.003-05:002023-12-06T17:18:47.154-05:00Mulled Mind<h2 style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwIYKOtDgMvfeSMt3yo0lJkiewEkkfxZvwxAD99xjv9qSQ1p_u_IFc_mpRdb11ymFMdav_VfXYD3PvjuQ4QCqVu05pCetOdQK64fQGJXdEySeqcwInQ1aLMx6HivgmjfQ5QrVIazhU2mCqaLelI22FaksM1foWsiOrwYwqt7ZlDwspGAeIm-UWrMxmNV-/s100/G0470361.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="84" data-original-width="100" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwIYKOtDgMvfeSMt3yo0lJkiewEkkfxZvwxAD99xjv9qSQ1p_u_IFc_mpRdb11ymFMdav_VfXYD3PvjuQ4QCqVu05pCetOdQK64fQGJXdEySeqcwInQ1aLMx6HivgmjfQ5QrVIazhU2mCqaLelI22FaksM1foWsiOrwYwqt7ZlDwspGAeIm-UWrMxmNV-/w320-h269/G0470361.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></h2><p>A Facebook friend posted this meme: <i><span style="font-size: medium;">Tell me three things you
like about yourself that aren’t ways you serve others. </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I answer these things. It is like popcorn for my brain; can’t
stop thinking about it. And so, my answer was: <i>I write well, I read voraciously
and all the rest is housework</i>. After I wrote that, I thumped off down the
stairs to the laundry room where I dealt with socks, emptied the washer and did
some ironing. After I ironed the shirts, I carefully ironed two flat sheets.
And, since ironing is not an intellectually challenging activity, I was mulling
over my answer as I shoved the steaming iron around.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You see, earlier that day the man in my life had informed me
that he had taken his shirt upstairs. It had been a bit damp, he said, but not
badly wrinkled. Since aforesaid shirt was one I had hung on the line to air dry
before I ironed it (it’s Vyella*), it crossed my mind that I was surely not ironing
those shirts to please him. He has said more than once that he is quite happy
to wear them as they come out of the dryer. And as for ironing the sheets (and
the pillowcases and the dishtowels), no one in the family cares and daughter
two has even gone so far as to remark that I must be nuts. Oh, and I iron
handkerchiefs. There is an excuse for that, well, two. Germs and the
satisfaction of a neat pile in the drawer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is, I mulled, obviously my own satisfaction that I am
seeking as I make neatly folded stacks of pillowcases or dishtowels. (I also
fold the bath towels in three and twice more, so that they will make neat
stacks, and I sort them by colour so that the piles match – hand towel beside
bath towel.) The way that looks is the way it should be. Or, if I were
another friend, The Way It Should Be. That’s how my slightly OCD mother did
things. That’s how they are done. The husband should look ironed. The white
tee shirts should not be inserted into the washer with the black undershorts
lest they exit slightly gray. And, when these things are correctly done, I am satisfied.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the question is, do I like this about myself? Liking is not
satisfaction, exactly. (Mulling, more and more.) The rest of what I use is not tidy.
My office cupboard and the desk drawers are A Mess. My drawers for clothing,
ditto. These latter used to be tidy. Sorted by season and by colour and in
piles separated by spacers, ditto the socks. Now I am just throwing the clothes
in anywhere. I keep thinking I will tidy it, but to do so I will have to put a
chair in the closet because I can’t stand bent over for more than a few minutes
at a time. (That’s a fine excuse, yes indeed. If I had not let the drawers get
into a mess, I could put things away in a few minutes and not have to resort to
a chair.) So, I am not liking myself here. I am not measuring up to this
ridiculous standard I have set myself. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">As I reread this, I found myself snickering. How about 'Tell me a thing about yourself that you find amusing'. </p><p class="MsoNormal">As for the original answer, for the writing, well, this is an example. The reading … is how I
live and where I have my being.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Vyella is a trade name for fabric that is 90% cotton and
10% wool. Ironed, it is warm and smooth and luxurious.</span><o:p></o:p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-34788169800088740492023-11-30T22:02:00.000-05:002023-11-30T22:02:11.529-05:00 December on the Runway.<p> <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">We went out for dinner last night and it was blissful.
A new team has moved into place in running the hall and they are really making
some fine changes. This event was a lasagna and salad main course (and bring
some dessert) and it was themed as thanks the workers for plugging through two
big dinners – 250 people and up, and that is a lot of potatoes to peel. Not to
mention a lot of plates to clean. Some years ago we used to have a Christmas
dinner for the hall workers; my recollection is that we sent out for Chinese food, but
I am not sure of that. What I am sure of is that Mike, who is both chair and
chief cook, with one helper, made the lasagna for 30 or so of us. And had some left over. As JG and I exited, I could hear him saying, plaintively, that everyone
should take some home lest he end up eating it all week. Anyway, I got to hang out with the whole gang without the angst, if that makes sense. And I made brownies for
my dessert contribution; maple free.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QPR5X7uBzgDh2565vq-KaFn998QFNSstswXP6dyPda1_SIuU7pwYpe4nlcGpSs4a1C02UUBRjzoNvluL_QN7UlwqBPG7fJKfziWFOHTSIStmaxLL9UUw6In0sQvtz1_qjuJER3X-G8RFyAdUbqCxc2jfRSFMIQ8JRaIYom-xZFJULQW0TU67l3wT8tle/s1230/Xmaswave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1230" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QPR5X7uBzgDh2565vq-KaFn998QFNSstswXP6dyPda1_SIuU7pwYpe4nlcGpSs4a1C02UUBRjzoNvluL_QN7UlwqBPG7fJKfziWFOHTSIStmaxLL9UUw6In0sQvtz1_qjuJER3X-G8RFyAdUbqCxc2jfRSFMIQ8JRaIYom-xZFJULQW0TU67l3wT8tle/s320/Xmaswave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It is just about time to dig out the Christmas cards
and list and boxes of wrapping and tablecloths and all that. Looks as if the
Festive Dinner is going to be here, as the best logistics choice. I would be really worrying except that I do have a
fine, fine daughter planning to be here over the holiday; I have every intention that she will be the one hauling the turkey in and out of the oven. And if anyone wants ham as well
as turkey, that person can go over to the cabin and clean and turn on the stove
and lug the meat back and forth. I might exert myself so far as to put cutlery
on the table and supervise the gravy. Whom am I kidding? I will be decorating
and wrapping and, the daughter being a fine negotiator, making aspic. And buying
chocolate. But I am thankful that I have raised two excellent cooks. And
acquired a third in the ED’s man, who turns in and cleans the carcass every year.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Speaking of men, mine is, I think, out in the kitchen
planning to make chocolate chip cookies. He has taken an interest in baking
lately and has the chocolate chip recipe nailed. The oatmeal raisin recipe is
coming, but molasses and ginger cookies did not work out as he had planned on
his first attempt. Gosh, I guess there will have to be more tries. Tsk. Actually,
tsk it is. Not only the goose is getting fat. I really need to lose some weight and this cookie kick is not
helping because I have no willpower and keep helping myself which is not
helping …. . I need to stop. The snacking and the sentence. Wait till Grammarly
sees that one.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I will add some pictures of Chris’s beautifully
decorated party tables when she posts them. The hall has not looked so good for
years; she even has the bulletin boards tamed. And we have all new and much
lighter tables for the dinners. But the kitchen floor is still to renovate and
that is going to be Horrible. I will report, if I survive.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Fellow writing nuts, this you will not believe.
Grammarly corrected “Whom” to “Who”. And it wants ‘renovate’ in the passive
voice. Hmm. That is fair.</i></span></span></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-15900993469945506372023-11-29T10:59:00.000-05:002023-11-29T10:59:28.488-05:00Three days old.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HJpwPDHGzjzgDjAwA1_YVPUcyltsc2WXzAoPomf4OLaQrXks0mTozRf-xhMooEFNI-dZ2FVQSTau1roLYypC5Xg7TAWRxCSsJp8HMPYVszeCkD7K0TQdLO9HVOTM3w8cXGp51m-WbtW9E6rDa2wP3HKMrzSnnFc0gzUOJkTDEaoB-48_V5fh9hpBfXzX/s817/cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="777" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HJpwPDHGzjzgDjAwA1_YVPUcyltsc2WXzAoPomf4OLaQrXks0mTozRf-xhMooEFNI-dZ2FVQSTau1roLYypC5Xg7TAWRxCSsJp8HMPYVszeCkD7K0TQdLO9HVOTM3w8cXGp51m-WbtW9E6rDa2wP3HKMrzSnnFc0gzUOJkTDEaoB-48_V5fh9hpBfXzX/s320/cat.jpg" width="304" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It is a Sunday night in dark and cold November, and I
am waiting for JG to arrive home with pizza for our supper. A bit unusual as I
mostly try to put on a fairly formal Sunday Dinner – a more planned and
elaborate meal than what would appear during the week. But we had that dinner
yesterday, with guests, and I really felt that I could not face Cooking (note
the Capital Letter indicating an Heroic Effort) two days in a row. And so, when
asked what I had planned for dinner, I plaintively asked for pizza. We have to
drive into the village to get it as the delivery service for our pizza does not
come this far out into the bush. Or, not normally. Once my ingenious
brother-in-law persuaded the guys that run the place to bring a birthday gift
of a big pie to JG. It was well, as they say, received.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So was the dinner last night, as far as I could tell.
Most of the cake was either consumed or sent home with our guests, and the main
course disappeared quickly and thoroughly. JG loves to have people in for
dinner. Me, not so much, although he does help out a lot if we do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hiatus<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is now Monday night, and I am warm because the two
vests that I ordered on line, with more than a bit of trepidation, arrived
today and they both fit or are close enough. One quilted ‘puffer’ vest and one
plush vest with, I am informed, a telephone pocket. Since JG uses a shirt
pocket and the next generation down uses the back pockets of their jeans, I am
not really sure about this. As well, phones are supposed to sit on a table or
be attached to a wall and not ring during supper time, tell your friends …
yeah. That was then, for sure. There is also a thing, I am told, called a butt
dial. JG does not need this, because he can make a phone call by mistake with
his index finger. As can I. If I do put the phone into this pocket, as well, I
will probably forget where it is.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is the last week in November. It is almost That
Time again. You know, the time to figure out what to give all of your loved
ones for Christmas. Something that will surprise and delight them, without being
too hard on the bank balance. Something different. ‘Is this my shirt’, JG asks
me, each Joyous Noel, no matter how cleverly I try to wrap it. Thank goodness
for the ED’s significant other, who researches and buys on line for me. That he
also carves turkey is an added attraction. Even though he does better at Wordle
than I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Wednesday<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Time does fly when you are having fun. A few years
back I had a stent put into my aorta to repair an aneurysm, and each year I am
given an appointment to trek into Ottawa an have an ultrasound to check the
state of the repair. (Just in passing, I do wonder what would be done if the
repair was deteriorating. No, not thinking about that.) The Civic campus. With
the parking garage where the Handicapped spaces are always full. Yesterday
there was a lineup to get into the garage and so JG dropped me at the front door
and drove off to park elsewhere. There was no elsewhere. He got into the line,
finally made it into the garage, went right to the top to park (and found there
a group of wheelchairs covered in snow) and was just leaving the car when I
called him to say that I was all finished and could leave. And it cost him
money to get out of the garage. Unfortunately, the ultrasound check is a very
specific one and cannot be done locally. I hope the new Civic site will be easier
to use.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is the full moon, either last night or tonight. The
Beaver moon, I think. It sets on an acute angle to the right of the front of
the house and throws fascinating shadows. At 4:00 am. Sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If I don’t quit babbling and post this, it will be Thursday.
Besides, I have to go and bake a pan of brownies to take to a Hall supper tonight.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mary, get OFF the computer, for goodness sake.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Bye.<o:p></o:p></span></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-89144975696977712002023-11-24T22:33:00.001-05:002023-12-03T21:05:10.368-05:00Cake<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I have just finished making a birthday cake, with
double icing. The events we are celebrating took place in August and September,
and we usually try to have a cake party between the two dates. But the owners
of the birthdays bogged off to Portugal for a fine trip, and we are only now
getting to the celebration.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I make maple icing, mostly. Unless someone insists on
chocolate, maple goes with most flavours of cake. And this recipe is both easy
to make and easy to spread. I may have posted it before, but it is worth doing
again. Cream six tablespoons of butter at room temperature together with six
tablespoons of maple syrup, also ideally at room temp or only slightly below.
Add two cups of icing sugar, half a cup at a time, in a mixer, beating well.
Icing dust will adorn your jeans, so wear old ones. Spread. Chill. Done.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVHNfkg1_WixiRlTUsCoM_JbGj0LP1CTL8X_dgAzXgFsr-32MilhbUXGtJJ6cime4uxWoFk6HP0dWZJfgxTAen-6_kUSBgRUb-KxDIqVSiK3_foCiEW8pRzx3bdBDXGIyY1B3OKjqIB2RlrdIjnKYSF-31dWm8SJRE0iw62ddpnyngY1OmHieUqhPWk07/s1200/maple%20icing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1200" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVHNfkg1_WixiRlTUsCoM_JbGj0LP1CTL8X_dgAzXgFsr-32MilhbUXGtJJ6cime4uxWoFk6HP0dWZJfgxTAen-6_kUSBgRUb-KxDIqVSiK3_foCiEW8pRzx3bdBDXGIyY1B3OKjqIB2RlrdIjnKYSF-31dWm8SJRE0iw62ddpnyngY1OmHieUqhPWk07/s320/maple%20icing.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">A few years back, the ED gave me for Christmas a fine
set of decorating bags and spouts in multiple sizes and configurations. This set
replaced one that I bought in our first year of marriage, probably almost
exactly sixty years ago. (I confess that I have not tossed out the old set
because it is still good for some uses and easier to clean than the bag for a
very small amount.) My cakes look pretty good, if I do have to compliment
myself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">This is very satisfactory because before I found the
maple recipe, I spent what seemed like endless hours struggling with a milk-softened icing recipe
that did not spread well and ended up full of crumbs and looking crumby. And Jim’s
mother’s cakes always looked wonderful, professional and delicious. One year my
mother and I struggled with a cake for the ED during sugaring season at the
cabin and ended up with a lopsided, although probably edible, mess. Then Mrs. G
senior swanned in, and produced one of her gorgeous cakes. My mother and I very
quietly hid our effort in the storage room to eat much later. It tasted fine,
but Mrs. G’s cakes did too. Sigh. Since I switched to this beaten maple icing,
my cakes, although not to Mrs. G’s standard, are acceptable.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And I have made, over the years, a lot of birthday
cakes. Especially for the grandkid, whose nut allergy precluded her from a
bought cake. One year when she was very young, she said, wistfully, that she
would like a cake with roses similar to the ones she saw in the bakery. And
Granma rose (sorry) to the occasion and produced flowers that, with a little
imagination could be seen to be roses.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZogW6BAAEhMN9OGbT6vqu4n9fJoMf8f4wiVqndN91t5CTcy1I7t_LCChm1nmvP7PToHotF1DA5V-REp1a6QxpzRCOU42fNL5_VK3mrGNfDKCqtERE3U-VfPdmZWmSkdm6b_53SrXMT7UnmWkyH8B-1S-IhJiPOoQHF2qCefwr33BoQsdSFwBboLrwtbaG/s1121/pink%20flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="971" data-original-width="1121" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZogW6BAAEhMN9OGbT6vqu4n9fJoMf8f4wiVqndN91t5CTcy1I7t_LCChm1nmvP7PToHotF1DA5V-REp1a6QxpzRCOU42fNL5_VK3mrGNfDKCqtERE3U-VfPdmZWmSkdm6b_53SrXMT7UnmWkyH8B-1S-IhJiPOoQHF2qCefwr33BoQsdSFwBboLrwtbaG/s320/pink%20flowers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Happiness can involve pink icing roses, even small and inferior ones.<br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span><p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-15905594272509563822023-11-23T18:01:00.000-05:002023-11-23T18:01:52.595-05:00Mooning About<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHW8XFuDynBVcOhBXfEIeUMqoQGO2F_caM0-CCEUaaysXvDAzzu-7063_GQnGBq9TFonIaHc8BnegIaipee_nYBzFKMnvigQ319VqIa3OqJ7cqRw0QKXRx8N-pubdHxGMAY-g6XIC06G_KWaemoFOtVkSiJor8LOW6Dyu95xX8idGnnb8gefMrHIKoqlzm/s1208/winterstale_1280x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1208" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHW8XFuDynBVcOhBXfEIeUMqoQGO2F_caM0-CCEUaaysXvDAzzu-7063_GQnGBq9TFonIaHc8BnegIaipee_nYBzFKMnvigQ319VqIa3OqJ7cqRw0QKXRx8N-pubdHxGMAY-g6XIC06G_KWaemoFOtVkSiJor8LOW6Dyu95xX8idGnnb8gefMrHIKoqlzm/s320/winterstale_1280x1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With thanks and respect, Beatrix Potter.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> It is 4:49 pm, my screen tells me. And it is almost entirely dark outside. The tree branches are still visible as black silhouettes against a deep blue-black sky. I am going to go out and check for the moon as I think the cloud we had earlier has cleared off. It is, I think, a waxing moon. Will check. Will report.</span></div><p>“<span style="color: #073763;">The Moon's current phase for today and tonight is a Waxing Gibbous phase. Visible through most of the night sky setting a few hours before sunrise. This phase is when the moon is more than 50% illuminated but not yet a Full Moon. The phase lasts about 7 days with the moon becoming more illuminated each day until the Full Moon.</span>” </p><p>So much of the language around the lunar information is lovely. ‘<i>A gibbous moon</i>’ is what we will have tonight, with high shredded cloud occasionally obscuring it. A ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas. And <i>‘wax</i>’ and <i>‘wane’</i> are also, for me, lovely words. They go back to the fourteenth century, at least, in written form. ‘Wax’ is from the Old English word, <i>weaxan </i>"to increase, grow". And if you are being poetic, you can use ‘wax’ still to mean ‘increase’, sort of. ‘He waxed eloquent in his description’, for instance.</p><p>And then we get modern. ‘<i>Moonshot</i>’ is abrupt and rough on the tongue. <i>‘Mooning</i>’ someone is not only naughty, it is an ugly way to express dissent. Although it sure beats shooting. ‘<i>Mooning about</i>’ is dismissive, a downplaying of how someone, usually a young someone, is feeling. I am sure there are more, but I am not coming up with any of them. Reminders welcome.</p><p>I am feeling somewhat fraught this afternoon as I cleaned the [censored] Keurig coffeepot this morning. One puts a dedicated cleaning liquid through the machine, leaves it to soak and then rinses with nine, count them, <span style="color: red; font-size: medium;">nine</span> 16 ounce cups of clean water. This flushing requires one to refill the reservoir several times and, afterwards, remove one's footprints from the floor where the water dripped and was walked in. The floor has not yet been wiped, even though I am.</p><p>However I am, as I write this, slurping down a fine cup of hot and tasty coffee. Before I go, again, to see if the moon has climbed high enough to be seen between the trees. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDesshM4smdIEWGQrEr3sP5UULlqORc95Xs-R5Z2gi6VhRh23-REOpg-6wYJw3ydV1vgRvHeosL0zP_gJDm2a6X0hKr-kbA7s3KCl8t6t9ZilxNg5IjHALrR3AsYQ8x5fcxXdXp0jdwvktz4gFvtD7dJ8zkKe017ddIhLAwmw1Nab-mXqzki9QvP9R7DZY/s1458/WendySunglow%20095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1458" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDesshM4smdIEWGQrEr3sP5UULlqORc95Xs-R5Z2gi6VhRh23-REOpg-6wYJw3ydV1vgRvHeosL0zP_gJDm2a6X0hKr-kbA7s3KCl8t6t9ZilxNg5IjHALrR3AsYQ8x5fcxXdXp0jdwvktz4gFvtD7dJ8zkKe017ddIhLAwmw1Nab-mXqzki9QvP9R7DZY/s320/WendySunglow%20095.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Grammarly does not, of course, like ‘weaxan’. And the argument over comma placement wages on. </p><div><br /></div>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-23715489594133818242023-11-21T22:58:00.000-05:002023-11-21T22:58:28.391-05:00Laundry Day Chez Me.<p>I will have to find a clothesline photo later.</p><p><br /> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Laundry day today. It is now almost bedtime and I
still have one load where I need to hang up the contents of the washer. My own
fault for, I suppose, being overly obsessive about sorting. I confess, and I
think I have done this before, so I will be brief, to being a bit over the top
about how I do laundry. Sorting by both colours and water temperature. Hanging
to dry. Ironing, including things like the dish towels. I really mourn being
unable, any longer, to tote the baskets of wet laundry out of the basement and
around the house to the outside clothesline. The linens smelled better that
way. The cotton ironed more easily dried that way. I felt like a Good Person
saving electricity that way.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Oh well. I can still obsess about recycling, washing
out the containers and taking tops off and all that. And composting. And
driving my hybrid car, although we ended up buying it almost by accident. It
was the colour and configuration we were after, and when the salesperson said
it was a hybrid, we just sort of shrugged and agreed. I love it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4q3mJXsiYNSVZo1QNLCXOwd6r0IyTCReEhGZyCM57G8w79Wdrb0xdZsKfMvRyxMast1_Cd5iYAIRtxA2-8HOKU9fPSPFT661kEfRPQMuQ4Os-nbMEB_Vxa7uAMZ1q1qNRsAvyNA4NYEBbA1hqLtI5NYTcGpYSbSBJnWRVxoHSB0qESi4fG71iVDyNT0Pv/s2400/2022-Ford-Escape-front_51388_032_2400x1800_AZ_nologo.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="2400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4q3mJXsiYNSVZo1QNLCXOwd6r0IyTCReEhGZyCM57G8w79Wdrb0xdZsKfMvRyxMast1_Cd5iYAIRtxA2-8HOKU9fPSPFT661kEfRPQMuQ4Os-nbMEB_Vxa7uAMZ1q1qNRsAvyNA4NYEBbA1hqLtI5NYTcGpYSbSBJnWRVxoHSB0qESi4fG71iVDyNT0Pv/s320/2022-Ford-Escape-front_51388_032_2400x1800_AZ_nologo.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I play games with it: how long can I keep you charging
up on this downhill; how long can I keep you using electricity rather than
gasoline; how many kilometres of each are on the dashboard data display. And
all that. Plus, it has a fine, fine backup camera. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The only downside of this vehicular marvel is that it
beeps plaintively at me from time to time for reasons that I cannot always sort
out. If there is something behind me when the engine is in reverse, it beeps.
Good. If I am too close to something at a certain speed, it beeps. Also good.
But JG turns on some kind of gismo that is supposed to keep the steering
holding the car in the middle of its lane, and if the tracker loses the outside
line, beeps and beeps are heard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Speaking of beeps, the internet went down this
afternoon for no reason we could ascertain and just came back up a short while
ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And that is my explanation for this really terrible
post. Why did you not write it even if the internet was down, I hear you
wondering. Well, laundry obsessing. And so we are summed up. And I still have two
pairs of jeans and six socks to hang up. Inside. There’s a whole lot of sleet
out there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-24921695397893225162023-11-19T16:13:00.001-05:002023-11-19T16:13:52.835-05:00An Accidental Doze<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxT65pkNDbtEhT1w1-6vqUW9MlUAPLgnRyfdGfclQO_UoyYMLM0yTKnn9nt5KD8K5vglMZ8C16-OLb0fvIDpU1rK7NghWDRHlX5YmTLk_J8kqxGsXLWtVH5uSbOdOMnOBcVSm8pHVFsgv56Ia0Vl69pmgzVjHVOA-_LNsGcQJOhYz6s6o2hqCAItwUe76/s2209/bed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2108" data-original-width="2209" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxT65pkNDbtEhT1w1-6vqUW9MlUAPLgnRyfdGfclQO_UoyYMLM0yTKnn9nt5KD8K5vglMZ8C16-OLb0fvIDpU1rK7NghWDRHlX5YmTLk_J8kqxGsXLWtVH5uSbOdOMnOBcVSm8pHVFsgv56Ia0Vl69pmgzVjHVOA-_LNsGcQJOhYz6s6o2hqCAItwUe76/w200-h191/bed.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">There’s another day gone by in which I did not post.
And it was not a fun day, in spite of sun and a visit from the ED and her
partner with goodies. I could not get myself moving, and when I did move, I
hurt. Bad back day, coupled (if I can use that expression for this) with a sore
knee day. There were, however, pumpkin spice butter tarts. Maybe my day, in
retrospect, was coloured by the evening.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">We chose (badly, for sure) to watch the latest episode
of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Crown_(TV_series)" target="_blank">‘The Crown’</a> to air on Netflix. Yuck. The whole season so far has been panned
(I wonder why we use that expression to say the thing is terrible). This episode,
in particular, has been criticized. (Hmm, better?) If you are going to watch
it, this is a spoiler. The script has Diana’s ghost appearing to the Queen and
Prince of Wales. And the boys’ pain is mined to its depths, unfairly, I think.
If I were to act on my convictions, mainly that the whole series is in bad
taste, I would not have watched it, but, hey, nosiness always wins out, like
entropy,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">We followed this downer with the first episode of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_the_Light_We_Cannot_See" target="_blank">‘All the Light We Cannot See’</a>. I have had this film praised to me, and I have read,
struggling, the book on which it is based. But by the very nature of the story,
it is full of pain and angst and nasty people shooting other people dead. Sigh.
I am not sure what you would get out of the episode if you had not read the
book. JG needed a lot of explication, but he often does.<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lord_of_the_Rings_(film_series)"> LOTR</a> puts him to
sleep, and he wakes up lost. Poor guy. Our taste in what to watch is not the
same.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Muttering to myself. I wrote that this morning, and,
for some reason, went to sleep IN my office chair, in front of the computer. I
am not sure for how long. JG woke me coming in for lunch. After lunch, I zoned
out again, this time with my blanket and pillow in my lounge chair. I have just
now finished hurling the brownie mix pans into the oven and have until they are
finished to finish this.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Yeah, November. A quiet month for sure. Talk about
sleeping. Oh dear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-61745555787482787402023-11-17T12:06:00.000-05:002023-11-17T12:06:23.971-05:00 Sometimes You Just Have to Give Your Head a Shake<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQIprkH3_TKsNRdyqLnzrn1cW2EHHIVtZscf7oJqF4y7MxzhxY8jetExw-ZEpD9v7eBuK70es2zqoL-rAvgjO-Cd9Xjb2Jc1vozOivkDouGYDv1NxAUKU1rtxmILqSdK7oFL63bMf1KIDAhq5b8_CmzSihhj-KgSYD4F8lCP26zF0ty_Bgz-31jMtFPOR/s480/Img0742%20(Small).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="361" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQIprkH3_TKsNRdyqLnzrn1cW2EHHIVtZscf7oJqF4y7MxzhxY8jetExw-ZEpD9v7eBuK70es2zqoL-rAvgjO-Cd9Xjb2Jc1vozOivkDouGYDv1NxAUKU1rtxmILqSdK7oFL63bMf1KIDAhq5b8_CmzSihhj-KgSYD4F8lCP26zF0ty_Bgz-31jMtFPOR/s320/Img0742%20(Small).jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><br />I am planning to attend a community lunch on Monday, the purpose of it being twofold; fun and planning for community halls. I just received an email asking that any of us bringing food should have a complete ingredient list with it. Sigh. I use a commercial pie crust, usually, for my signature maple cream pie. It is easier and faster than playing around with pie dough. I guess I could use the label on the container it comes in, but that would mean to admitting to the whole world that I am cheating, sort of, on my crust. (‘Grandma,’ I can hear a clear little voice asking. ‘Is this FROM SCRATCH or a mix?’) To give Little Miss the credit she is due, she was tuned in on ingredients because she has a potentially serious nut allergy. And I assume someone coming to this lunch has a concern. We had the same question before our hall’s roast beef dinner. But, the more I think about it, the more I think I may just make brownies instead of pie. Better for a group anyway, right? <p></p><p>She who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.</p><p>It is a grey, but very mild, day out there just now. The cloud moved in just after daybreak and the dawn light on the strips of cloud as they came was beautiful. It is now not-beautiful, with the odd left-over leaf floating by and everything in muted, dull tones. Not a day to entice oneself out for a walk, even if walking was easy. Yesterday, now, the sky was a pale blue and there was also the brighter blue of the jays as they gobbled up their daily corn ration. They are little blue pigs about the corn and only go to the silo feeders for sunflower seeds when they have eaten every corn scrap. It is the kind of day that sound carries easily, too. </p><p>Yesterday morning I heard two gunshots in quick succession and later found out that the guys at the hunt camp next door got their third deer – for three of them. The Ministry of Natural Resources sets a limit on how many deer can be hunted in each season and in each segment of the province. ‘Deer tags’ are issued to applicants with hunting licences. It seems to work, as our deer population stays about the same year by year. When we first got this land in the mid 1970’s, deer were very, very rare, but now we see them frequently. There were three at our gate when I drove out on Tuesday. Although I love to watch them, and hate the thought of their being shot, I have to admit, in fairness, that our neighbours use or eat every scrap of the deer they take.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhY7VpGvEsMCc4Q47Zeoqo-8YA-ItaRGCTqj17iy3BK-udOInZ5XTvHaB2mzowcIZcP4JZ4yu2dlPQ7DMy_Elj_XtLKBB64z5MEalbe4rESAlFDsds0a0gJZz4LFpKKh3orbvVUA5hCUKergmAcVE4rTYpS2ljJ22B2IV9EfAdyeja6TyX8rE7HeKpAlfh/s1525/ktdeer1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1525" data-original-width="1378" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhY7VpGvEsMCc4Q47Zeoqo-8YA-ItaRGCTqj17iy3BK-udOInZ5XTvHaB2mzowcIZcP4JZ4yu2dlPQ7DMy_Elj_XtLKBB64z5MEalbe4rESAlFDsds0a0gJZz4LFpKKh3orbvVUA5hCUKergmAcVE4rTYpS2ljJ22B2IV9EfAdyeja6TyX8rE7HeKpAlfh/s320/ktdeer1.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><p></p><p>Hmm. How would that look on an ingredient list.</p><p>Speaking of lists, Grammarly really, really does not like doubled modifiers. And the nagging I am getting about my use of commas is horrendous. I would love to have a good argument with whomever set it up.</p><div><br /></div>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-82947967860997397812023-11-15T11:40:00.003-05:002023-11-15T11:40:53.947-05:00Rough Kindness<p> I spent yesterday writing up the minutes of a Hall Committee
meeting, one called not just for general business but to do a post-mortem on
the big dinner we held last Sunday. The workers from the dinner were told of
the meeting and welcomed to the first part of it to do their analysis. I boiled
this down to a one-page summary, plus appended notes on changes of the quantity
of some food items. It took me all day. At one point JG came by and looked at
me swinging in my office chair and said ‘You will wear that chair out’. I was
Not Amused.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What is it about teasing and being teased? Some people do it
and take it gracefully and graciously. It can be especially funny and
meaningful if people pull it on themselves. I cherish the memory of a practice
of the basketball team I was on in high school. This was the first practice
after the summer break. We were all sitting on a bench in a row, waiting to
start, and one of us looked up and down the row and said “You are all darker
than I am!” We were. Carol was what
would then have been called a ‘Black’, because although she was, I am quite
sure, of mixed race and was pale skinned, she had the characteristic hair and
features we identify as African=American. She had been, lucky creature, in an
office job during the summer holiday and those of us sitting on both sides of
her had mostly been either lifeguards at outdoor pools or facilitators for
children at local parks. And, that being the 1950’s, we were all tanned. Heavily
tanned. Carol’s legs were paler than those of most of the rest of us. We all
howled with laughter. I still smile when I think about it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Other times and other comments do not make me smile.
Comments delivered with a smile can still be cutting and meant to hurt. I think
women are more likely to do this than men are, but I am not sure why I think that.
I have overheard groups of boys and men saying awful things to one another and
everyone laughing. I am unable to interpret whether that level of ‘teasing’ is
a bonding activity or as cruel as it sounds from outside the group. If, for
instance, someone said “You dickhead” to me, I would not laugh. But women tend
not to use that kind of rough ‘kindness’? It’s the catty little digs that I hear,
things like ‘What a pretty dress, dear. You must have made it yourself. And it
is how and when it is said that determines the degree of nastiness intended.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The way I read it, some people tease because they want to be
closer but do not know how. My mother’s grandfather comes to mind. My mother
always said she hated him as a child because he teased but later realized he
wanted to engage her but knew no other way. In the case of JG and the chair, though,
I am not sure whether he was delivering a message about how long I had been
messing about with the minutes or just commenting. And so, I took it as a
criticism, gently delivered as a tease. And I did not like the idea that it was
a criticism. And did my imitation of Queen Victoria in old age. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is now the next day and I am back at the computer. Again.
Note that my office does not have a door. We shall see what the day brings
forth.<o:p></o:p></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-88239237071746463352023-11-14T12:08:00.002-05:002023-11-14T12:08:55.896-05:00Marching in Step<p><i><span style="color: red;"> Warning: Long and probably boring unless you like this stuff!</span></i></p><p>A Discussion of Cohorts and All That</p><p>Back when I was in my forties and had a lot of energy, I ‘went
back to school’ – I took a two-year ‘certificate’ course in Advertising at a local
Community College. It was quite a culture shock; the next oldest student to me
was about 25, and one of them had been in the same high school class as my
daughter. It was fascinating, being back in class at that age. I was a whole
lot worse at memorizing things than my classmates, but better at synthesizing, at
putting a concept together in a coherent form.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The discussion and teaching around ‘generational cohorts’
was an area that I really loved. I suspect that we have all, for most of our
reading lives, run into tags like ‘baby boomers’, ‘the beat generation’, and on
and on. Journalists generated and used them, but it is in marketing that you hear
about it constantly. My age group was often dismissed, not even mentioned much,
in these lessons. It puzzled me as to why at first but, as the discussions
continued, it became clearer that older people did not spend enough money to
warrant the attention paid to younger cohorts. Like that really old joke about
the ladies of Boston who, when asked where they bought their hats responded
that they ‘had their hats’. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At any rate, I have been keyed into this kind of analysis
ever since I took the course. I am putting up this second discussion, really,
in answer to two comments; one that the reader had not heard about the tag and
another that the tag was unfair, or unpleasant. Not sure which. It was not, as
I told her, my tag, but one I found online. And so, the following material is from
information I found online in a quick search. <o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">As follows: “Generational marketing strategies were born when marketers
realized that each age group responded to different messages on different
channels. Each generation uses social media differently, and some have more
brand loyalty than others. Attempting to target all generations at once can
result in ineffective marketing.” <a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This birth period links groups in
time together, Karl Mannheim says in his seminal work on generations, because
it “creates the potential for the development of a shared consciousness that
unites and motivates people…[and] represents nothing more than a particular
kind of identity of location, embracing related age groups embedded in a
historical-social process.”<a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I have to acknowledge that it is easier to call for more
generational research than it is to actually do it... As we all know, many
people who are born within a fifteen-year or so period will differ a great deal
in consumption behaviour, religious beliefs, political views, etc. This does
not mean there are not key similarities in comparison to previous groups, but
it does bring significant noise into data analysis.” <a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “The issue is that people confuse generations,
which are specifically defined by birth dates, with "cohorts," a
slightly more vague grouping of people based on common experiences. The divisions we know and reference are
usually hybrids of the two. Here's the breakdown of the terms used and what
people mean by them.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The Silent Generation, also known
as: The Depression Cohort, The Silent Generation (later), the G.I. Generation
(early), the post-war generation, the seekers. Approximate dates: Born
1901-1924 (early) 1924-1943 (later) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Defining characteristics: Grew up,
and frequently were defined by their experiences growing up, during The Great
Depression and World War 2. Those too young to serve, called "The Silent
Generation," experienced the war as children or very young adults, and
were described by the Time story that named them as "grave and
fatalistic," inclined to work very hard, but not say all that much.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Baby Boomers, Also known as: Boom
generation, hippies (subculture) Approximate dates: 1946-1964<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Defining characteristics: Loosely, those born during the
post war "baby boom" of the late '40s and ensuing decades, where
birth rates significantly increased. Among their defining experiences were the
first space flight, the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and later, the
Vietnam War and Watergate. They developed some of the first counter-cultures,
and though early boomers were known for their tendencies towards freedom and
experimentation, that grew into a sense of disillusionment and distrust for the
government for the latter members. In the '60s, the stereotype of the
generation was a navel-gazing hippie, but now, the generation is more
identified with those currently in power.”<a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Enough, already. But the material does show some of the
stronger issues we discussed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What I tried to express in my post on the 11<sup>th</sup> is
that I felt, from my twenties on, a gap between myself and those just a few
years younger. My nieces, only a few years younger than I was, seemed to be
coping with a different culture than I had ever encountered. One of them, at
the same university my husband and I had attended, really did describe a
different ambiance entirely. Also, the teenagers I taught, in my first years
out of university myself, dressed, spoke and acted in ways I never would have.
Never would have been allowed to attempt, in fact, even if I had wanted to try.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The extreme example? The 1969 Sir George William University
student riots.<a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> « In
1969, Sir George Williams University students occupied the ninth-floor computer
lab to protest how complaints of racism made by Black and Caribbean students
had been mishandled and allegations dismissed. On February 11, after
negotiations failed, university leaders called the police which resulted in the
arrest of 97 students and long-lasting psychological, physical and social
repercussions.”<a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>. The
nasty confrontation at Concordia (same university) last week appears to me to
be not that different. I am not sure why it bothered me so much; the
confrontation at the American Congress structured by Trump et al should have
worried me more, but, no. Perhaps it is so distasteful because these students
should be debating, thinking, researching, LISTENING to one another. Perhaps it
is my age. I am just sad and discouraged.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[1]</span></span></span></a> Citation lost but I think it is from
Demographics of Age: Generational and Cohort Confusion by John Markert.
Location is
https://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/document?repid=rep1&type=pdf&doi=27fbe077046f565f827c24557e48ac3496f00ebd</p><div><div id="ftn1"><p class="MsoFootnoteText"><o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn2">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> From:
Generational research and advertising to various age cohorts by Charles R.
Taylor<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoFootnoteText">Pages 683-685 | Published online: 30 Aug 2021 Location
is https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/02650487.2021.1959986<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn3">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> From
How To Know If You're Too Old To Call Yourself A Millennial by Max Nisen,
https://www.businessinsider.com/definition-of-generational-cohorts-2013-5<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn4">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Nisen, ibid<o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn5">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> <span lang="FR">. Citation:
https://www.concordia.ca/about/history/1969-student-protest.html.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
</div>
<div id="ftn6">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/maryg/Desktop/generational%20cohorts.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> You
can find the details of the incident at
https://www.concordia.ca/about/history/1969-student-protest/timeline.html#:~:text=January%2026%2C%201969,-During%20the%20hearing&text=After%20several%20months%20of%20inaction,Hall%20Building You can find the details of
the incident at <a href="https://www.concordia.ca/about/history/1969-student-protest/timeline.html#:~:text=January%2026%2C%201969,-During%20the%20hearing&text=After%20several%20months%20of%20inaction,Hall%20Building">https://www.concordia.ca/about/history/1969-student-protest/timeline.html#:~:text=January%2026%2C%201969,-During%20the%20hearing&text=After%20several%20months%20of%20inaction,Hall%20Building</a><o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
</div>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5668392343139286753.post-72081609928382455562023-11-11T14:46:00.001-05:002023-11-11T14:46:13.867-05:00Wearing my Poppy in Prose<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVMBlvAsEmarcDxlX3FpkYI4uD3fmK95IEzscEU-OjF7dNMY49rCg36K8YSxiPdrAGOpCfJT306B3OxY9WJGiHzm6eaWiiMUMA3fSa0AAIkJGkfB7Fc_-LjfmadqES7oSA4cpIEotzwni7SmbEOMe5hUBezZYY2PGgjeKcMUSzekdPa8aewiQ-EpIFCOR/s1799/poppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1265" data-original-width="1799" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVMBlvAsEmarcDxlX3FpkYI4uD3fmK95IEzscEU-OjF7dNMY49rCg36K8YSxiPdrAGOpCfJT306B3OxY9WJGiHzm6eaWiiMUMA3fSa0AAIkJGkfB7Fc_-LjfmadqES7oSA4cpIEotzwni7SmbEOMe5hUBezZYY2PGgjeKcMUSzekdPa8aewiQ-EpIFCOR/s320/poppy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p> I am a member of a very small ‘cohort’, a
cohort being the term used as people of a like age are characterized. I qualify
as both a member of the Silent Generation and as a War Baby. And I am the child of a father who served in
the navy during almost all of WWII and its immediate aftermath. (He was
discharged from service in 1946, skeletally thin and newly released from
hospital.) My father had had only brief visits with me during those years; it
was almost like a new family for him and for me when he returned home for good.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span>The ‘Silent Generation’ refers to people
who were born between 1925 and 1945. There are several theories as to where the
label 'Silent Generation' originated. The children who grew up during this time
worked very hard and kept quiet. It was commonly understood that children should
be seen and not heard. The Silent Generation (age 77-94) is often characterized
as thrifty, respectful, unassuming, and loyal. (Baby boomers (age 58-76) are
portrayed as demanding, self-assured, independent, and competitive.*)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span>Because of childhood experiences, the
Silent Generation is characterized as holding people who tend to be thrifty and
prefer to maximize the useful life of goods and who are distant from technology
(although this gap has narrowed in recent years). For that reason, they are
people who value talking in person, contact with others and the more
traditional means of communication such as radio, television or newspapers. (I
find many of us blogging, but that may simply a factor of where I am looking
and whom I am reading.) In addition, as elderly people, they are a group that
has contributed a lot to society thanks to their legacy, mentality and
behaviour.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Understanding the differences between
generations creates a bridge between them. <i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Please note that most of the information above was put together after a quick Google search and cut and paste from Wikipedia and several other sources. The material below is all mine.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span>I was born in 1942, while my father, RCNVR,
was the Executive Officer of a corvette being built and fitted out in Levi,
Quebec and later in Halifax. I was born because he, although he enlisted in the
Navy shortly after the start of WWII, had a ‘shore job’ in 1941 in Winnipeg
where my mother joined him. I qualify, therefore, as a ‘War Baby’ also,
although not, according to definition, as a ‘War Child’. You can look this up
to see the difference. Children my age are either the children of parents who
did not fight in WWII or anomalies such as I am. We preceded the Boomers and,
in most cases, were and are heartily sick of them. In my case, the high school
I attended was under construction, being added to in order to house the bulge of Boomers
following me and my English class, in particular, was accompanied by the noise
of building. Boomers did me one favour, however. The schools were so desperate
for teachers when I was in university that I was hired before I had even
graduated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What all of this is leading to is one
observation; I hope, a pertinent one. I am a person who has, as a basic, been
shaped by war. Certainly not in the way my peer group in Europe would have been
shaped, but markedly. My parents’ beliefs and behaviour are a fundamental part
of who I am. And hearing my father shouting commands to his gunners because a sharp clap of thunder had pushed him, sleeping, back onto his Corvette, that
is formative for a child. Watching my mother obsessively count every penny, fear
boats and water, hover over my father’s health, that was a large part of my
childhood. They assumed I would be quiet, obedient, get good grades, help in
the kitchen. (And in the yard – no brothers.) The way my country’s culture
changed between 1959 and 1970 or so was confusing, even frightening, to me as
well as to the adults who formed the bulk of the Silent cohort. In many ways it
no longer seemed to be my world.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span>I am writing this on Remembrance Day, as an
honouring memory to my father, whose courage, decency and generosity should be
known. He gave five years of his life to keep his family and his country safe,
and the rest of his life to dealing with the personal aftermath. If I describe
myself as puzzled at what the world I knew became, you should be able to
imagine how my father was affected. He truly believed that there might be a world-wide
collapse of civilization and urged me to teach my children how to use a bow and
arrow and find food in the wild. And he worked, all his life, to make a safer
world for me and for his beloved grandchildren, and for his community and his
country. The world could use a few more like him, and not silent. Not any more.</p><p class="MsoNormal">*AC,<i><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> this is not my thought. I cut and pasted it from Wikipedia or somewhere similar. Just so you know, I am not, what do they call it, 'dissing' you. This time.</span></i></p>MARY Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13178370815712313585noreply@blogger.com7