QandA -- Part One

I've got the five question challenge from Julie at Using My Words. If you haven't been to her blog, do go. You get two for one at the moment, as her sister is guest blogging for Julie. They're both thoughtful and really funny; top quality.

Anyway, here are the first three questions and my answers, because the answers are sure stretching out.

1. What are your beliefs about household chores … who should do what? And to what degree (as in, how high or low is your tolerance for messy and dirty)?

Ideally, the residents of the home split the chores evenly among themselves. Providing they are of an age to push the vacuum rather than ride on it, that is. Chores can be split to a certain extent by preference but the split has to be fair. In Utopia, this happens. In my Elder Daughter's house it almost happens, providing she threatens the teenagers with death and dismemberment at frequent intervals. In my house, things did not and do not happen in any way like that. We have a last century gender split on a lot of tasks -- he does the cars and I do the meal planning. He stokes the furnace and I do the laundry. When we do switch tasks, he has to check the furnace and I have to refold the towels.

Sheepishly I confess that I find it hard to give up control of my laundry room. I want laundry done my way. So my family have always had their clothes washed, folded, ironed (!) and placed in their rooms. I do things like iron sheets and dish towels. I want the towels folded in thirds. I'm totally weird about laundry. (Boy, is this embarrassing or what?)

The rest of the chores do not affect me in the same way, but I do want them done thoroughly. So I used to do a lot of the picky stuff myself. For instance, pulling the teenaged girls' waist long hair out of the bathroom drain after they cleaned their way. Digging Barbie doll shoes out of the shag rug. Wiping fingerprints. I have a low tolerance for dirty dirt. Messy I can live with, but JG can't, so I've always picked up a lot. The kids had a toy box on wheels when they were toddlers and the game every night consisted of me supervising a wheel through the downstairs while they threw things into it. The toy piles morphed into piles of wet dirty boots in our (tiny) front hall as they got older and so, when we built this house, we put a huge walk in closet in the (very large) front hall. Also two walk ins in the master bedroom. Stuff is out of sight. JG is happy. As for me, I have a cleaner now. I tidy up before she comes, and I do the stuff she misses after she leaves. And I'm happy.

2. Who are your closest friends and why?

My closest friends are books. I have good people friends from as far back as high school and some neighbours that I count as wonderful friends, but where I go if I need amusement, solace or information is to a book.

I can lose myself or distract myself with an old favourite, sit up into the small hours with an exciting plot, find a reference or quote faster in Bartlett or the Oxford Companion than from Google, learn something or find something to mull over. I put myself to sleep at night by continuing plot lines or working myself into a favourite -- I can be at school at Avonlea or wander in Lorien or dock at Meetpoint with the Pride.

I probably have four hundred books in this room alone, and as many more stashed elsewhere around the house. I go to the library every three weeks (it's a half hour drive) and bring home a dozen more. I borrow from my friends. I buy books at bookstores and on line. I give a lot of books away. I sell some. But the stash continues to grow. It's good to have lots of friends.

Why? I suspect because with a book, I am in control.

You know, I'm not coming out of this looking very good at all.

3. If you could write a letter to yourself in the past, what age would you choose and what would you tell yourself?

Not much point in giving good advice, because I wouldn't listen to myself any more than I listened to adults as a child and good advice as a young woman. Nor would the young woman I was want to know what she would become. But if I could, I would warn myself about one specific event that took place when I was sixteen. My math teacher made a really horrible racial remark about one of my friends. We were so astonished by this that I, and all my classmates, sat in utter silence and did nothing about it. We were '50s kids who were trained to be quiet, passive and polite. I would love to write myself a letter explaining what was about to happen and warning myself to be prepared to stand up, protest and leave. I've regretted ever since that I did nothing.

On the letter thing -- I am writing a series of letters to my granddaughter, lest death or disability remove me before she's old enough to relate to me. I have a great curiosity about my own grandmother, who died when I was around three years old and would love to have more of her than her (beautiful) embroidery and a few bad photographs. I cherish every word I have that my mother wrote. I think the mommyblogs may prove a treasure to the children of the 21st century.

Baring our Breasts

This button came from The League of Maternal Justice, I think, although there are several good sites and posts in other places. ( See Major Bedhead and Her Bad Mother, which my computer will not allow me to load this morning.) The problem? Facebook is categorizing pictures of breastfeeding as obscene. The answer? We're bugging them.

I looked, but I don't have a pic of myself breastfeeding. In the 1960's you did not get your picture taken while nursing the kid, in my family. In fact, my MIL always ushered me into a bedroom when I was visiting her and firmly closed the door. The 'Flower Children' might have been exposing their breasts on the west coast, but in Ontario and Quebec, no concessions were being made. Which brings me to my favourite breastfeeding story.

We took the younger daughter to Expo '67, the 'we' being JG and his parents. She was two months old. In the whole Expo site there was one (1!) child care station. And it poured with rain while we were touring. I had the YD jammed into a backpack and had made a raincape which tied over the backpack and her fuzzy little head. Mostly she slept contentedly, but when she got hungry she could be pretty noisy about it. So we took to stopping in restaurants so that I could feed her. One stop was in the Russian Pavilion, which had a huge cafeteria. We got our lunches and settled down in a quiet corner while we all ate. I always wore a jacket and blouse and to nurse and so I unbuttoned these and stowed breast and baby under the loose cloth. And I had a paper carton of milk with a straw in front of me.

YD was very hungry and took to gulping and swallowing air, giving herself an airbubble. And, of course, started to scream. I hiked her up across my shoulder to get the airlock fixed but she was pretty cross about it and it took a while. Meanwhile a waiter, observing this, came trotting over and asked me politely if he could warm the baby's milk for me. (Paper carton and straw!) My FIL burst into gales of laughter, the poor miserable waiter finally figured out what was happening and slunk away in disarray, poor man. And the baby finished her lunch.

Belonging

Crossposted at BlogRhet

What part of yourself do you have invested in the online community? A good number of the posts and comments at BlogRhet over the last few months have either addressed or resonated with this question. There have been posts and comments about race and culture and how the differences among us in this respect colour our perception of the blogging world. There have been comments about inclusion and exclusion, ranging from the sense of alienation many of us take away from high school, through the discussions of tagging and sub groups inside the mommy bloggers' orbit and often touching on commenting and response to blog posts. What all the discussion seems to have in common is good will, the determination to make the community work and the willingness to speak openly and expose deep emotions in the cause of making this happen.

'I was always on the outside in high school' is a very common comment. 'I wasn't one of the popular kids'. 'I felt alienated'. 'I'm shy and inhibited face to face'. 'I don't feel confident about meeting people' -- a statement a lot of us made, while discussing the BlogHer conference and at other times. A recurring theme among those of us who answered the BlogRhet meme was that the online contacts were somehow more engaging and fulfilling than 'IRL' day to day interactions. (I think IRL is short for In Real Life - one of the things I have had to learn fast is the acronyms, short forms and references that are in common use in this on line world. What's a 'MILF', anyone?) Those of us not part of the 'white' dominant culture express concern about feeling that an important part of ourselves is not valued or ignored.

There are two areas where my experience closely matches that of the comments and posts I've been citing. One is in feeling that the online lives I touch and the discussions I have here are more fulfilling than most of my daily contacts. The other is that I am a minority; because I'm a senior I'm sometimes treated differently or with indifference by people who deal with me face to face. While agism is not on the same page as racism, getting put down or ignored because of white hair and wrinkles sure gives me empathy.

What I have invested in my blog and here is my love of writing and a commitment to write, to stretch myself, to participate in as many of the threads and tags and challenges as I can. The bloggers that I feel the most kinship with are the others of you that are doing that. The quality of a lot of what I read, and the quality of the women and men who are writing is thrilling. The encouragement, the positive responses and the wonderful way in which ideas and techniques are shuttled from person to person through the mommyblogging community is enriching, I believe, to all of us.

Some of you have invested your hearts and souls, your most cherished ideas, your emotional responses, your deepest selves in your blogs, reaching out to others in so many ways. You discuss race, religion, your personal fears and triumphs, your intimate lives. You not only write, you read, and the comments you leave when someone needs a response or comfort or advice are generous, perceptive and often hilarious. The courage of some of you, who meet very difficult days with laughter and share the experience, is immense.

When we write with this intensity, however, it is not hard to be nervous, even fearful, about the response we will get. I know that I sometimes have an inner insecure self who worries about how what I write will be received, who is disappointed when there are no comments, who feels down if something doesn't get noticed. I find it necessary to stomp on this tendency as soon and as often as possible. Because the mommy blogosphere is full of generous people who read, comment and respond and who feel guilty when they can't do so. I can't get to all the posts I want to read as soon as I would like and most of the people I know about are much busier than I am. It continues to amaze me that there is so much comment and exchange when I know how short of time and energy many people are.

Getting comments fosters a sense of belonging. So does the receipt of one of the various awards that bounce through the blogs -- things like the Just Post, the Perfect Post, The Thinking Blogger, the ROFL. Getting 'tagged' to do a meme is also a boost to the camaraderie quotient. I think these are all good things. But they come with a price. To get one of the post awards, it is necessary to write that kind of post. It is also gracious to look for posts that fit the criteria and nominate them. Established bloggers go out of their way to select newbies for awards and tags, which is one of the things I like a lot about them, but they can't include everybody. It is not productive to be hurt if you aren't selected for something: tags, for instance, only work if they are consistently spread. We should participate as much as we can and understand that others are doing the same, without being too dependent on this kind of recognition.

The forum here at BlogRhet has one of the best formats I have found. I stuck my neck out and volunteered to be part of it, as a real newbie, was welcomed in and am really glad I joined. It's inclusive, stimulating and fun. It's managed by a bunch of horrifically busy women and so the bus wheels may occasionally wobble but, by and large, it's amazingly smooth. And really worthwhile. If you're reading this at my own site, please pop over and scroll through it. You'll be glad you did.

But in the final analysis, the feeling of belonging is something each of us has to create for herself. It comes from confidence that what we write will resonate with others and that other writers will appreciate our comments. Most of all, it comes from the satisfaction of having done well in what we set out to do.

Veiled Comments

We seem to have a controversy in Canada, especially in Quebec, about modesty face coverings. This is in a country that a Time poll just rated as one of the most free in the world today. Elections Canada has ruled, if I have it correctly, that a woman can vote with her face covered if she has someone with her that vouches that under the face covering she is who she says she is. People are pretty annoyed with this. Funny. Up to a very short time ago, a Canadian could walk into the poll, say 'I am Mary Smith of 123 Street, and be handed a ballot. And the poll clerk would maybe not glance up from her book and ruler at all. Now we are going to be 'ID"ed.

I don't have much patience, myself, with women who cover their heads and faces, at least in North America. If they live someplace where they are going to get arrested or beaten, that's another matter. Women who cover their faces when it is not required have a problem. Either their menfolk are making them do it or they have bought into the mystique so much (the word 'brainwashed' springs to my mind) that they have lost their common sense. I have heard such a woman speak of the sense of privacy and security that a veil gives her. Maybe. The fact remains that a woman so cumbered cannot see colour properly, cannot cross a street safely, should certainly not be driving, and in most places would be hot. I wear a black fly veil in May here in the Ottawa Valley, and that is what happens to me when I do.

I want to make a clear distinction between the burka and niquab and the hijab or even the chador. I have nothing against 'modest dress', whether it is the woman's personal choice or a cultural identity or a religious requirement. A headscarf (hijab) is completely innocuous. Perhaps a few of the more extreme manifestations of religious dress can be pretty silly and even unsafe; for example, I am thinking about a nun I saw in a pre John Paul starched white wimple that framed her face like a horse's blinkers. The problem was that she was driving a car and had no peripheral vision. If a girl is playing soccer in a hijab, it should not do that. Otherwise, what is the problem! Usually, though, cover up clothing seems to me to be purely a matter of personal choice. Some of the 'required dress' conventions might be cumbersome, hot or impractical (wearing a wig over your own hair? A body suit under your dress? An ankle length coat in August?) but that's the wearer's problem, not mine. And when I see how some teenagers choose to dress, I really wish I had a few chadors to shove them into. But a face veil and deep scarfed hood are pretty extreme, and as for the burka, it's punitive.
The banning of hijab in schools in France and the ban and debate in Turkey has got to be a political statement. And making a ban makes the wearing of the hijab even more of a political statement than it would be otherwise. Think about it -- if you are a teenager, how better to get up your parents' noses than to put on hijab when your family doesn't. If you are a 'fundamentalist' male, how better to make a statement than to make your female relatives wear it, even if it prevents them from going to school. (And maybe that is also a wanted result?) The authorities are doing a silly thing, I think, because banning something makes it both high profile and more desirable. To make a martyr, provide an opportunity for martyrdom.

In yet another category are the religious leaders in places like Iran who are sending out the clothing police to arrest women who don't meet the code and the menfolk who ( I read) beat their wives and daughters for leaving the burka at home. I gather that the concept behind this 'cover up, woman!' imperative is that women are distracting and take men's thoughts away from important things. Not unlike the mediaeval Christian teaching that women are inherently sinful and sex traps, to boot, and that they are property to be kept subjugated because they love sex and sex should be only for procreation for the glory of God. Some women affirm great pride in the testament to their faith that a distinctive dress or dress code provides. A lot of the nuns who went into modern dress at the call of Pope John Paul were sad to lose their distinctive habits. A lot of genuinely devout girls see their hijabs as a statement of their faith and identity. But it's a cause for weeping that women and girls are forced into these customs and the thought patterns behind them.

It's those thought patterns that have been occupying my mind to-day. Some of the women who wear various versions of Islamic modest clothing seem to enjoy the sexual aspect of it. They aver that their femininity and sexuality is hidden but there and that in their own space they can flaunt it and enjoy it. I have seen comments that imply that Western women just don't get it and that to be a 'hidden woman' is better for sex. Maybe. How would someone like me ever know?

What I think these women are saying is that they buy into the concept that they are just so sexy and desirable that they have to hide themselves so that men will not be distracted. This goes with the idea that men think about sex all the time, or every six minutes anyway, and can't be expected to control themselves about it. And isn't that silly. I can pass by a coffee shop oozing delectable odours from every crevice, even though I love the stuff. Ditto the bakery. Most people do the equivalent, unless they are, literally, starving. No one is shutting down coffee shops, here or in the Islamic world either. Alcoholics recover, brave souls, and manage to live productive lives in a world full of chances to drink. Sex can't be much more compelling, can it? So you're distracted? Refocus. I feel sorry for women, veiled or not, who are out to be distractions. And for men who play that game.

If you want to get a man's attention, I have found, it's easy enough for a woman to do. My technique always involved making eye contact. Worked like a charm. And you can do that in anything other than a full burka with a peep hole. Even then, the flash of a painted nail, scent, the way you walk, all these could send a message. Veiled prostitutes in classical Greece wore sandals that printed 'Follow Me' in the dust of the street. If a man is primed to think that way, the sight of a black tent that has a woman under it is a signal. Ooh, hidden delights. It's probably just as much of a signal as a thong panty coming out of low rise trousers. If you have nothing else to occupy your mind.

I guess what I'm saying, if you've followed the train of thought around all these curves, is that the world is full of other things to do if you're following current events and trying to make the world a better place, or learning, or working to feed yourself or your family.
My value system says that public life should not be about sex. No flirting in the office. Public dress should not be an incitement to riot. (Including you, the guy over there in the jeans with the carefully constructed bulge in the front.) Advertisements should tell me something about the product. Beaches are for swimming. Life is for doing all kinds of things.
In Canada, you can wear your veil to vote. Unless all the guys hissing and spitting all over the place get the rules changed. You can wear it to school. You can be interviewed on the radio talking about how you love to wear it. Note that in Canada, this woman is voting, going to school and taking part in public life. And I really hope that both those things continue to be true.

The Painted Mapole is making up and organizing the Monday Missions this month. She's got a great post up with a neat take on horoscopes. And when I put this post up, I forgot to link to the site. I hereby award myself a blogger blooper award, and am contemplating what kind of hind end to put into it.

Agitarious

Sign: Chicken

Moon Alert:
Whatever phase of the moon it is, it's wrong for planting something.

Star Chart:
That's a falling star, not the whole sky, for pity's sake

Monday's Horoscope

The signs are clear that you will find something to worry about today. Do not make important decisions until after you have read at least two more horoscopes. Try not to bite off that last fingernail until after 4:00.

If your birthday is today:
You share it with Chicken Little, Mrs Bennett and The White Rabbit.


Two of the several sides of my brain are nagging at each other -- I am sure this happens to you from time to time.

Right Brain: That horoscope sucks. Were you trying to be funny? Pretty lame.

Left Brain: You were supposed to help -- you're the one with the creative creds, after all. Anyway, it may not be very funny, but you should think about it. It's your horoscope, worrywart.

RB: That's not funny either. I'm not like that.

LB: Oh? And who's been fretting about her daughters all week? For pretty silly reasons.

RB: Was not, either.

LB: Was too. Did the YG not end up getting exactly what she wanted?

RB: Well, yes, but……….

LB: And hasn't she fallen on her feet, just the way she always does?

RB: I guess so.

LB: You know so. Stop trying to wiggle out of it. You spent a whole two weeks fretting about nothing. Didn't you?

RB: Uh, yes.

LB: So have you learned anything?

RB: I guess, maybe.

LB: And you're going to stop doing this stuff, right?

RB: Well, I thought I might phone Little Stuff's mom and just see how ………..

LB: Hopeless. You're hopeless!

I've just spent some happy time editing my photos from Vancouver Island. Gritting my teeth and throwing out some of the repetitions and bad focus: straightening crooked horizons (bad photo technique!) and cropping. I am really sloppy with a digital camera, mainly because I know I can do all of this, and so I take shot after shot and then have to discipline myself. I do put the originals on a disk and file them since I once had a virus that ate a year's worth of .jpg files. I also have every negative I ever shot with film. Packratitis, bad chronic case. Anyway, here are the best of the sunset shots. Something to cherish.

Peach Sunset

Red Sunset

Sunset Reflections

Sand Beach Sunset

Water Pattern Sunset

Gulls Take Wing

I'm sitting here doing what my mother called 'stewing'. If I weren't typing, I would be chewing my fingernails. Not because there is anything in my life to cause anxiety attacks; rather, both my daughters are going through traumas of various sorts and I can't do anything about any of it. And I can't even lay the problems out here, because they are not my problems and not mine to tell.

We all know the symptoms. Inability to concentrate. Shortened tolerance for annoyances. Lost sleep. A general lost savour for the little things that make life good. Seeing the negative side of things loom larger. Mountains out of molehills.

I like to be positive about things both big and small. If my daughter takes off for a four day hike into the Namibian desert, solo, I tell myself that she is capable, fit and a good problem solver and can convince myself that she will arrive at her destination, on time and in good form, having enjoyed the adventure. I believe myself, mostly. Especially when, in due time, said daughter does arrive at her destination intact and joyfully describes her journey. I do not lie awake at night worrying about lions, usually. I am not kept awake by someone who is tossing and turning and fretting about them. Mostly. But right now, I'm not listening to myself very well.

It's a funny thing, worry. It probably is hardwired right into all our genes, as the ability to foresee the lion and figure out a way to stay safe is the ultimate survival trait. Little kids' trepidation in new situations is part of it. This caution, I think, turns into the anxiety about fitting in and succeeding at things that most adolescents suffer. A lot of young adults can seem very cocky, but the blessed 'I can do this' stage is pretty short. For me it only lasted until I acquired seven odd pounds of squawking baby and realized that I was IT -- the go to person to ensure that this infant would survive and thrive. The baby's father is faced with a similar, maybe slightly more diffuse, reality check. It's time to really work on the spear and the stockade. And make sure there's enough wood to keep the fire burning all night.

Only, the defenses might not be enough. Maybe there will be two lions. Worrying can be a constant weight on the mind and a drain on the body. Especially when the dangers are diffuse or unknown, or the problems are affecting someone you love. It can be really, really hard to stop overpreparing, to let your mind and body rest. I know people who never seem to be able to let things alone. Their minds turn up more and more problems and they fret about things they can't identify, let alone solve. Have you ever watched a flock of birds feeding who, whenever a shadow flickers over them, fly into cover? The shadow might be a predator. It almost never is, but the flight defense is innate and so they go, over and over again.

My mind is full of shadows this morning.

Three weeks with Little Stuff -- Reprise

I have just spent three solid weeks 'spoiling' my granddaughter. My reason for looking after her was to allow her mother to get on with her job unimpeded by a four year old twining around her legs and saying 'Mummy?, Mummy, Mummy!' all day. (For reasons, see posts below.) Little Stuff is a bright, vocal little girl, but very shy and prey to a severe case of separation anxiety -- although I have looked after her a lot, I am, in her eyes, a poor substitute for her mother. And so, to keep her happy and occupied, we spent a lot of time doing what she wanted to do and we did not do much of anything that she did not want to do. In other words, her dear little dimpled foot was firmly planted on Grama's neck every day from 9:00 am to 7:00 pm.

My own kids I handled very differently. Born only fifteen months apart, they always had a playmate and by the time they were three and four they could do a lot of things together at a reasonable match of abilities and interests. I was working part time at home and part time out of the home, and so they were often left to play on their own or bundled off to a sitter. When I was at home, I had all the housework tasks to do. I confess to plunking them down in front of the TV to watch Sesame Street or Mr. Roger's Neighbourhood almost daily. Our yard wasn't fenced, but JG built what we called the 'rabbit pen', a movable fenced square that was big enough to take a wading pool or a lot of toys, and they spent a lot of outdoor time in that for several years while I sat beside it marking or worked in the garden. And they were told 'You'll have to wait!' a whole lot.

It has been a challenge for me to change from this pretty stringent parenting style to being the go to grandmother when Little Stuff needs a caregiver. I've been doing backup when she couldn't go to daycare and keeping her while her parents were at conferences and meetings. So I've had a kidlet to manage who didn't feel well or who was missing her parents, and I've always spent a lot of my time with her playing with her. She saw no reason why this pattern should not continue this summer. When I think back, my mother played imaginary people games with me until I outgrew them, probably around nine or ten years old. I was an only child and one that did not fit into the neighbourhood kids' games very well, being both a klutz and very short sighted. I guess I am continuing a two generation pattern.

Her parents don't like her to watch TV and, indeed, there was no TV at the research station. She is allowed the occasional movie but we saved those for times when she was in the lab and needed to be kept amused. And I had no other call on my time. And so, we made cookies. We drew and painted. We made necklaces from shells and beads. We went for exploring walks. We picked wildflowers and raspberries. We went to the beach when the weather permitted. We went to the local playground. We visited the facility's aquaria and displays. And we played endless games. She has a set of miniature farm animals. They went to pasture, got colic and had to go to the vet, acquired a cardboard barn, and (this was not *my* idea, I assure you) made mixed marriages.

Partway through our stay I was trying to keep her amused and away from the cliff edge without any toys available. So I invented 'spider'. My hand became a spider and it ran around the rocks, climbed and was given a rather timid personality. Spider was a great hit (Little Stuff has a terrific imagination) and we played this game a lot. She would draw a happy face or sad face on my hand and we would be off. He was given a grass stem for a fishing rod and he caught everything from seals to crabs. He got a bed made out of leaves and a bottle, ditto. He developed more skills as time went on, trying to learn how to growl like a bear and to dance (with five feet this caused him a lot of problems). He had surgery. He ate clover and needed his diaper changed. In fact, he came home on the plane with us (planes make him very nervous and he needed looking after). Little Stuff's parents snickered a lot.

What was important was that she was happy, occupied and safe. I hope she is old enough to remember some of the exciting things about this trip. She discovered tide pools and was enthralled, especially when her parents set up one of the lab sinks to give her her very own touch tank. She got to go out on boats to lift traps and to see a seal colony. She got brave enough to jump the (very small) waves at the beach. But having an adult at her disposal and getting to choose what she wanted to do every day, all day, is not the best introduction to kindergarten, I am afraid, where she will be part of a bigger group than at her daycare and will have to fit into the school's regimen. She starts tomorrow. Grama is worrying.

More from the Island

We have had a Sad Event. Queenie the Banana Slug, having been displaced from her position under the picnic table by a group of students dissecting starfish, got too hot in the sun and expired. A few salty tears were shed.

On the other hand, Little Stuff now has her very own touch tank, courtesy of by-catch and all sorts of donors who turn up with cute little living critters. She is enjoying it thoroughly, especially when the starfish pigged out on salmon this morning (they evert their stomachs to eat -- too much information?) and is now hiding under a kelp strand, doing the starfish equivalent of burping a lot and dosing on antacids. Little Stuff says that she will return them all to the ocean before we leave, but that she is going to leave them with a supply of salmon to eat until they relearn how to find food for themselves. The kid is four, for pity's sake.

We also went out in a boat to look at seals. And the seals had a good look at us. They were bored; we had fun.

I have several dozen more sunset pics, but I'll spare you for now until I edit them, at any rate. I only get onto the computer when Little Stuff's mother doesn't need it and Little Stuff is otherwise employed. Since I am here to keep her out of her mom's hair, that isn't often. We are doing a lot of baking and flower picking and beachcombing, weather permitting. I have had her up to her neck in the surf and sitting in the waves, so I am quite pleased. The water is not exactly warm. In fact, b rrr.

More about Slugs

Meet Queenie, the Banana Slug. Little Stuff spotted her yesterday afternoon, and we gathered her up on a leaf and stored her in a cardboard box with the top folded shut. Came back half an hour later with food and there was no slug in the box. She was almost all the way down the outside and headed for freedom. LS grabbed her firmly around the middle and we transferred her to a plastic container with a tight top. Then LS tried to wash her hand clean of the slug slime. No go. Soap and water, soaking, rubbing with a wet cloth, no go. LS said sadly, 'Will we ever get it all off?' Grama, in desperation, applied vinegar, while LS said 'Yuck' lots. Hand came clean. We are now handling Queenie on a leaf as pictured above. She likes apples and poops a lot.

Here is Grandma working hard at child minding. Life falls in hard places, no?

Is this a nice place, or what?

On my way to Vancouver Island in a Cessna. Sorry about the reflection from the window. Pretty cool!

I am now doing the nanny act for about seven hours a day. Luckily there are endless amusements -- today we found an amazing beast called a banana slug. I think. It escaped. We were very sad about that, but we have posted a small notice asking for help in finding one.

Truthfully, I am not sure I really want to do so. Erk.