Back from the Wedding

I guess we had summer last week; to-day I am wearing a sweater and a fuzzy and am contemplating putting the winter duvet back on the bed. Do you think if I do that the weather gods will send us a heat wave? I am half afraid they will. It does not do to annoy the weather gods.

However, it is so cold the bugs have pretty well vanished and I was therefore able to paint the garage door without slapping myself with the paintbrush. After almost three years of bare untreated woodiness, the door is now a fine shade of dark green, to match the trim. Also we have a new roof on the house, also a fine shade of dark, dark green. The roofers arrived at 7:45 last Friday and seven of them climbed up onto the roof and started scraping and shovelling. And banging. And running back and forth. JG could not stand the noise and spent most of the morning wandering around outside watching them work. By noon they had the field half of the new roof done and about a third of the front. At this point the sky darkened and the rain came down by the bucketful, causing seven men to scramble off the roof, pick up their tools and depart. They left us in good shape, with a small strip of plastic protecting the seam between the old shingles and the new ones. Not a drop leaked anywhere. They returned on Monday and finished the job.

We were not here on Monday enjoying the fairy footfalls on the roof, as we had travelled to a wedding in Toronto on Saturday and then gone on to Fort Erie to visit with my mother-in-law. It was some wedding! JG's great niece, whose father is part of a big Canadian/Italian family married a young man from an even bigger Canadian/Greek connection. There were about three hundred guests. There were five bridesmaids. The groomsman danced around the reception with a loaf of bread on his head and the rest of the guests (mostly from the groom's side) prancing after him. The bridesmaids had not practised this traditional dance; the results were rather chaotic. The bride's family had arranged for a six course dinner, this after a serving of antipasto which would have made a fine meal all on its own. And when we left, the groom's family were laying out a dessert table that it broke my heart to miss. It was an amazing event, all in all. Both the bride and the groom's families pitched in to put it on; I have a sneaking suspicion that there might have been a bit of Italian/Greek competition somewhere in the mix.

The whole question of what kind of wedding to have is, in my view, a fraught one. Big versus small. White versus colour. Time of day. What to eat and when. Photo ops. Dresses and what are the men going to wear. It amuses me to check in our local weekly paper for the 25th and 50th (and other marker years) anniversary announcements. It is easy to spot which anniversary it is by looking at what the bride and groom are wearing in the (obligatory) wedding photo. Glasses with pointy frames? Fiftieth. Long hair and a pale coloured coat on the groom? twenty-fifth. Strapless dress? First through tenth. Some of the announcements put in a 'before and now' pair of photos and it is huge fun to look at how the married pair have changed over the time span.

The great niece went the whole nine yards with her dress. (Literally!) She had a tulle veil that trailed behind her and on which the junior bridesmaid stepped as the happy couple was leaving the church, bringing the triumphal walk down the aisle to a fast stop. She had a bolero jacket with train over a strapless dress, the latter fitted with tiny buttons in back and, let me tell you, fitted pretty dern tight, also with train. Under all of this I am sure she was wearing one tough set of underpinnings. She looked spectacular. So did the bridesmaids who were in a uniform colour but each with her own choice of design for the dress. A smart move, in my opinion. My best friend once put me into a floor length turquoise tube, with overskirt, and I still shudder when I think about it. In August. In an un-air-conditioned church and hall. There is something to be said for strapless after all.

Wedding traditions. Ah, sigh. The same best friend also had a trousseau tea at which, as the matron of honour, I had to 'pour'. Even in 1966 this particular torture was going out of style. A lot later, my now ex son-in-law was determined that all of the Scottish traditions to which he was accustomed would be carried out in the ex colony where he was being married. He wanted a Real Fruit Cake for the wedding cake; none of this Canadian angel food stuff. He wanted a glorious outdoor background for the wedding photos. (This was Ottawa in early April. He got the inside wall of the church.) And I got to run the whole thing. It turned out fine, but I sure sweated the preparations, especially when my father got involved in what we should eat at the reception. Smoked salmon, he wanted. For one hundred people. He paid.

I hope that Saturday's bride will have wonderful memories of her great day, just as I have of mine. She is now, I believe, sorting through several thousand photographs of the event. Two photographers caught every glorious moment. And, poor thing, writing hundreds of 'Thank-you's'. Fifty years from now, I hope the wedding picture looks timeless.

True Days

Chani has a very moving post up - about saying the truth and being the 'real you'. Also links to another blog that inspired her. She is suggesting that people who want to do some soul searching with support might wish to put 'True Day' in the title of a post about their authentic feelings about something.
I have a neat little sketch that might make a 'button'. It is this. It is by William Thakeray, called 'Vanity' and I believe it is public domaine.

Speaking American

I've just finished reading 'Do You Speak American?' for the second time. It's a fairly fast read because it is a fleshing out of a television series of the same name and, because it was written in 2005, it is rapidly going out of date in the some of the sections, voice recognition in computers being one. But it is still a fun read. A fascinating one, in some respects, for this Canadian.

Born and raised in Windsor, Ontario, just across the river from Detroit, I grew up on American radio and then American television (which arrived at our house when I was about 12.) And so, yes, I do speak American. I found this out when I arrived at an Eastern Ontario university and got jumped on for my 'American' accent. I turns out that I have a characteristic vowel shift in found

one of the largest American dialect areas. [This] most dramatic change involves about thirty-four million people around the great Lakes - Chicago, Syracuse, Rochester, Cleveland and Detroit - the area Labov calls Inland North.

It involves a thing called 'oo fronting' - saying the word 'do' more like 'dew', for example. In the Northern Cities Shift, the fronting is found in several vowels; "block" becomes "black", "buses" sounds like "bosses" and "socks" becomes "sacks". Labov, whom the authors quote extensively, calls this "a revolutionary change".

I spent four years of university frantically trying to correct my accent and expressions, with some success. Although I will probably never attain the gold standard of "oot" for "out", I was once asked, on a street corner in York, England, if I were Canadian. I still say 'fer' for 'for', and use some typical 'American' expressions, things like 'you guys' for a mixed group. Partly this is a tin ear inherited from my otherwise wonderful father, a man who said 'lie berry' and 'la SAG na' all his life, in spite of my mother's hissed corrections.

One thing this book says is that there is, indeed, a Canadian accent. Imagine my giggles when I read the following: "One of the reasons there are so many technical-support call centers in Ontario is that the Canadian accent is not perceived by Americans as regional". Peter Jennings, anyone? Of course, that was then. We are all now very frequently instructed by voices with the Indian sub-continent's rhythm and sing. Or, in one joyous experience I had, by a voice with the characteristic round vowels and drawl of Newfoundland.

The main thesis of this book is that accents and dialects are alive and well in the United States of America. 'Y'all' and 'You all' are perceived as friendly and are spreading like kudzu. the Mid Texas accent and expressions are flourishing. And what is referenced as either 'Black American English' or 'Ebonics' is holding its own in spite of the best efforts of frantic pedagogues to erase it. In fact, it is now being studied to death and people are trying to decide if it is a creole. People want their speech to reflect an identity inside mainstream America, the authors say, and in spite of the levelling influence of television, they cling to their vowels, expressions and cadence. 'Valley speak', notably the overuse of 'like' and the rising sentence end inflection, may be here to stay. My francophone step grandson has been putting three or four 'like's' in every sentence for years, and so this saddens me greatly.

The book also addresses the surging use of Spanish, but avers that by the third generation most children of immigrants traditionally have lost the second language. The authors see no need to declare the USA as an English only zone. American English, they surmise, will acquire a second round of Spanish words and expressions and remain the main language of communication, a victory for the 'melting pot' theory of integrating immigrants.

Canada does not do 'melting pot'. Here some language groups make a determined effort, funded in many cases by the federal government, to teach their children the 'old' language. A great deal of government money also goes into maintaining French as an official language. My personal bias is that it is a very good thing to teach children a second language when they are young enough to soak it up easily. Unfortunately, a second language that is not used is often buried or even lost. Even so, I think that a second (or third or more) language is well worth knowing, if only for its different insights and ways of thinking.

I love, for example, the French expression 'ventre à terre'. It means 'at high speed' but it translates literally as 'belly to the ground'. But, according to Little Stuff, the bilingual grandchild, I don't pronounce it properly.

Canada Moms Blog

I'm over at Canada Moms Blog today.

Quick Notice

I've got a Chinese spam generator that somehow linked to my blog. I have turned on the Verification tool to block it. Apologies, those of you who are not bots.

A Day on the Water

When this rainy summer provides you with a rare sunny day, you take advantage of it. And so, when the view out the window corresponded with the forecast one day last week, we hurriedly packed up sandwiches, a cooler of frozen water bottles, maps and I threw on a bathing suit, we hitched up the boat and chugged off to our favourite launch onto the Rideau Canal system.

It was a glorious day; a bit windy but sunny and promising warmth. We decided to stay off the wide and probably pretty rough Big Rideau lake and, instead, headed downstream toward Ottawa. This route takes you through a series of locks, some in the town of Smiths Falls and onto the Rideau River as it winds its way toward Manotick and Ottawa. I slathered sunscreen onto the vulnerable spots, JG put industrial strength blocker onto his ears and nose and we cruised down the first part of the Rideau to Poonamalie Lock.

This is a shady and beautiful spot and several pontoon and houseboats were tied up there for the day, leaving little space for down bound boats to tie up on the lock approach. And JG has been having rouble with the throttle lever on the outboard being stiff and sticking before going into neutral. And so we were approaching a small space at a relatively brisk pace. I reached for the quay bollard with the boat hook just as he decided the approach was too fast and put us into reverse. And the boat hook slid through my sunscreen slippery hand, poised for a moment over the water, gave a derisory glug and sank.

Some kind folk on the wharf roped us in and marked the spot where the boat-hook had gone down. A helpful gentleman from one of the houseboats ran and got his 8' reaching pole; he could see ours but it was in water deeper than he could reach. JG rolled a blue eye at me and said, 'You had better dive for it.' Ah, well. I did a couple of duck dives beside the spot Mr Helpful was marking and I got down to the bottom alright, even with 50 lbs of fat to pull with me, but I could not find the wretched pole. When I came up the second time empty-handed, Mr Helpful came into the water with me. If I could do it, so could he, he said and down he went and up he came with the pole, a yard or so off where I had been diving. JG and I were very, very grateful. And when Mr Helpful and I clambered back into our boat, we were both bleeding. Zebra mussels on the walls, the lock master informed us with some amusement.

Luckily it was a fine day to sit in the boat and drip dry. And a fine day to cruise through Smiths Falls where the docking slips and camp grounds beside the canal were full of happy vacationing folk who all waved at us cheerfully. There were not, however, any boats proceeding with us. And so, when we came to the deep hydraulic lock in Smiths Falls, we went down in solitary splendour. It is a long drop - the new lock replaces three older ones, now converted to a fine waterfall landscaped with flower pots.

There are only a few modern locks on the Rideau System, due to the efforts of concerned canal lovers protests when the first few were converted. It is now a world heritage site and Colonel By's handiwork is carefully preserved, leaks and all.

The historic locks are wood, as shown, and are operated with a system of geared gates driven by muscle power. There is a lock master at each lock or series of locks and the muscle power is supplied by bilingual summer students in green shorts and amazing sneakers. One of the prettiest is Old Slys, a double lock, where you look out into the sky from the top of the first one. After that comes Edmunds, the farthest we had ever previously gone, and then Kilmarnock. We went that far, still all alone in each lock, but were worried that we would miss the last lock through at Poonamalie so we turned there and started back.

I had put a shirt on over my bathing suit but had not buttoned it up. And, suddenly, I noticed that I had a very sore spot on my upper chest. I guess I had washed my sunscreen off in the water because I had a nasty burn along the top of the bathing suit. As I write this, days later, it is still peeling and hurting and annoying me greatly. Must never forget to reapply the gook after being in the water. Snarl. (YD is not allowed to comment on this, hear me?)

As the light gets longer in the late afternoon, to my mind things become more beautiful than in the stark glare of noon. This is a photo of Poonamalie lock as we entered it on the homeward journey. And if getting sunburned is the price I had to pay to be there, it is worth every itchy minute.

Sing a Song of Summer

The sun is shining. The air is dry. I am putting laundry on the line as fast as I can wash it, lest the weather deteriorate. Environment Canada's weather forecast is for possible rain tomorrow and then two days of sun. Unfortunately we had 3/4" of rain yesterday afternoon in as many minutes and so the door and decks that need paint and stain are too wet to work on. The rain also whomped my geraniums and the blooms are now all drooping or hanging their heads; I should really have dragged all the planters under the eaves when the sky turned black. Oh, well. More buds are popping up daily.

We have all been noticing how beautiful the wild flowers are this summer. The Queen Anne's lace is thicker than I have seen it since I was a child in Essex County, there are cornflowers and black-eyed Susan and buttercups and Canterbury bells and purple loose strife in quantities all along the roadsides, plus others that I do not know the names of; little yellow ones and big yellow ones and a spiky purple one and ....! Lots. And I am told the wild raspberries are good -- I will go and investigate after I get the wash line filled. A day in the sunshine, indeed.

Tomorrow I guess I will spend ironing. Such are the vagaries of housework in the land of little summer. At least we don't have forest fires this year. The newspaper has a photo of a house that was totally burned following a lightning strike yesterday, but I doubt you could get the forest to burn if you worked at it. Poor old B.C. has the opposite problem. I wish we could sent them a few days' worth of this waterfall we are having. I may also get at the windows since they haven't been washed yet this year, between my bad back and the weather. And vacuum the earwigs off the floors.

I don't know if earwigs are as much of a plague elsewhere as they are in southern and eastern Ontario. They are nasty, black crawly critters, mostly completely harmless but loathsome. They get into and under and between things and squish horribly when stepped on. I have bait out and am spraying poison into the dark, damp patches under the porches where they breed, but nothing stays through the rain and they can get into the house, I am not sure how. They also eat plant leaves, which plays hob with the landscaping. And they like toothpaste, for one. You haven't lived until you have picked up a toothbrush to put in your mouth and found an earwig clinging to it.

We also, of course, have biting bugs outside in huge quantities - mosquitoes love the rain and subsequent puddles. And we have deer flies in the bush and horseflies everywhere else. When I was a kid my parents had a cottage on Lake Erie, close to Point Pelee. In August the horseflies would arrive and the thing I hated most was that they would land on you when you were swimming and bite. I learned to be a champion underwater swimmer because of those flies. We don't have many of them close by, but we do have the smaller, vee shaped deer flies and they bite just as hard.

Deer flies will go for your hair and ears and the backside of your arms and your ankles and if you don't notice them land they take a noticeable chunk of flesh out and leave you cursing and bleeding. I am pretty well immune to mosquito bites - there is a mark for a few minutes and then it disappears - but the deer fly bites fester and itch for days. We have a neighbour who goes for walks with a butterfly net, waves it around himself, catches the deer fly and squishes it. You can also buy sticky strips which attach to your hat and the flies land and stick to the strip, buzzing and struggling until they finally die. Neither of these methods is perfect protection, but they do give the sufferer some satisfaction.

The biting flies will be gone in six weeks or so, but the mosquitoes last until frost, around Canadian Thanksgiving, if the summer has been wet. I don't want to live in the city but dwellers in the bush do pay a price for the absence of traffic noise, pollution and people. It is a price I am prepared to pay. I have two hummingbird feeders up and there is a newly fledged family at each of them, buzzing and cheeping and being chased off by the alpha male. There are also lots of American goldfinch around, blitzing the nyger feeder (a big bag of nyger seed costs about $80.00 but it's worth it.) We had a juvenile blue heron on the roof, of all places, on Monday. It flapped clumsily away and I hope it gets better flying skills soon. I love the birds, and that is only one of the joys of living 'in the bush'.

My favourite spot this time of year is our screened porch. It sits a storey above ground and is surrounded by trees, making you feel as if you are in a tree house. Nuthatches run up and down the adjacent tree trunks, the wind makes a wonderful noise in the leaves and cools you as you sit in the shade. And all the wretched flies are outside, frustrated.

I had planned on adding a lot of pics to this post, but the laundry machines are buzzing and it is almost lunch time. I may get back to it, she said, laughing.

There must be at least thirty posts that I want to read backed up in my 'Following' list. I am managing about one post a week on my own blog and am scrambling to get one every two weeks up over at Canada Moms Blog. (I will have one up tomorrow morning over there.) Summer is not good for blogging, at least for someone whose husband does not know she is doing it. And I don't see any way that I can tell the man that does not let me in for a lot of nagging and cutting remarks about wasted time and silliness.

As far as I can see, most of what I do comes under those categories for JG. I'm not going to go into any detail about it, because I do, frankly, think it is wrong for me to discuss the man in public when he does not even know I am doing so. What I am going to do is ramble on a bit about what blogging means to me and how the secrecy affects me. This is pretty close to the line I have drawn and I am going to have to be careful. But I hope the stricture will force me to be dispassionate and honest - a state of mind I find hard to attain.

It is so, so easy, when someone criticizes, to be defensive, to say to yourself 'They just don't understand!', to allow hurt feelings free rein, to retell the narrative making all the points in your own favour. A more elaborate version of waking up at 2:00 am with the perfect retort to a nasty comment someone made to you the day before. It is even easier to be passive/aggressive, to retreat into silence, to behave in a way that will return pain to the person who is giving you pain.

For me, writing a blog is a way to be my own person. I love to write. I love to put words together in pleasing ways, to entertain, to give people pleasure and get validation from the comments they leave. It is also a way for me to sort out my own thoughts and emotions because to write well it is necessary to clarify what you are thinking, to order it, to identify and lay out what is going on. Whether the writer is telling a story, giving information or eliciting humour, the process is the same. When I write something that is not honest or clear, I can't leave the words there. I am compelled to redo it, correct it, make it real. To make it reflect me as I really am.

Often what I write is a narrative or an essay about something that interests me or that I care about. I love to do the Monday Mission assignments and work what I am thinking and feeling into whatever structure has been proposed. Sometimes I have to work hard at this blog, thinking things out, editing, amending, rereading to make sure it is coherent and true. Sometimes it just flows. The transitions are there, the words pop into my mind. After such a halcyon experience, I am often surprised at how true to me the piece of writing is. And, sometimes, the idea takes on a life of its own and veers off into new territory, no matter how hard I pull on the reins. I have some of this type sitting in draft, waiting for a resolution.

I write about my own little world with its birds and flowers and weather, its beauty and its beasts. (Essay about deer flies coming up soon!) I write about my granddaughter a lot because she is the future and I love that in her. I see her mother and my mother sometimes in her face and actions but her smile and her promise is all her own. I write about what I feel about my children and my friends and my neighbours. The post might start off as a rant but in the end it is usually positive because the good things are what stay true.

[Just a note in passing. I went and read through a bit of this, a blog that rates other blogs, the other day and was just disgusted. But I guess the writers and commenters there find validation in dealing out sarcasm and kicks in the teeth. I'm so glad I don't know any of them for real.]

I hope that the positive viewpoint, the humour, the sentiment, are the things that are real about me. The things that are good. I try to write out some of my faults so that I can look at them and decide if they are poisonous or merely me. (I should be running the vacuum over the floors this very minute, but too bad! The floors can wait. This is what I want to do now. The procrastination queen in action.)

I don't, very often, write about the wide world and its problems and its pain. When I was younger and more energetic and, I guess, more naive, I thought that I could help to change some of the horror out there. Now I concentrate on my own community and try to make it a better place through volunteer activities. There is enough to do to reduce poverty and all its accompanying misery right here in Eastern Ontario. (I have a writing assignment to do for the organization where I volunteer that I should be doing this very minute, but ... I'll get to it after I pick up the dead bugs from the floor. Maybe.) That's the inner person talking in this paragraph, or the best I can do to winkle her out of her shell. Is she a good person?

Well, no, not really. A really good, strong person would fold her arms and say, aloud, that this blogging world is really important to her, that the friends she has made here are important to her and that a few bugs on the floor are a small price to pay for being connected, alive and happy. Because writing and reading are the things I love to do. Being here in this community, reading about you all and talking to you is a solace and a strength for me. And I get here as often as I can, as often as the path of least resistance will allow me. And now I am off to deal with dessicated earwigs and flies. And to try to forget how much of myself I often hide.

A Sheltering Tree

The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions - the little soon forgotten charities of a kiss or smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment, and the countless infinitesimals of pleasurable and genial feeling.

Coleridge, 'The Friend. The Improvisatore [1828].

I went and had lunch with a friend and her husband today. 'A friend' is such a general term, and can mean so many different things. 'J' and I have known each other since our children were in their teens; we now have grandchildren in their twenties. We have lived in the same general area the whole time, not usually in the same town or city but close enough that keeping in touch is a local telephone call. And we don't see each other very often because we both live very busy lives. Often we are exchanging news on the fly in the parking lot of the grocery store in our common shopping town or making a quick phone call for a particular purpose. Yet if I had to define 'friend', it is J whom I would describe.

Here is a woman who not only laughs at my funny stories but rings in her husband and he laughs too. And they don't seem to get tired of listening to me tell them; how brave is that, hmm?

When I went through a bad patch in my life, J opened her home and her arms and her heart to me, listened to me rant and, when she thought the moment was perfect, told me it was time to suck it up and get on with things. And I knew she was right.

Here is a woman who never minded when I and other friends and co-workers laughed at her attitude to yard sales. Who roped me into helping her sort out her mother's worldly goods for a yard sale. Who worded her wedding invitation, when she and her present husband both embarked on their second marriage together, like this. "Wedding at xxx p.m.. Reception and yard sale to follow."

She reads my blog and tells me I write well. Priceless praise because if she didn't think so, she would tell me that, too.

Here is a woman that, when we haven't had a good sit down and chat for years, can pick right up on where we were when we left off, remember the kids' names and careers and make me feel as if those years were only days.

She is a woman with a lot of friends, and we all feel special.

She is funny and generous and courageous and down to earth. Her career included teaching and she can give 'The Look' like no one else I have ever met. And her smile would melt an icicle.

'Friend' is such a general term. It can mean much or nothing much. If, like all well raised Canadian girls, you are familiar with Anne of Green Gables, you could call J a kindred spirit. If one of the miserable dot com's had not co-opted the word, you could call her simpatico. What I am doing is quoting Coleridge -- again. 'Friendship', he said, 'is a sheltering tree.' J is such a tree, complete with strong branches for birds to nest on and children to swing a tire from. And I find happiness there.

What to Wear - A Wearing Prospect.

If political correctness matters in these matters, I might say that I am sartorially challenged. If you want it straight up, I'm a frump. I wear pants( with Lycra) a size too big because they are comfortable, my sweaters are all from the twentieth century, mostly cotton knit crew necks in plain colours. I start off wearing them to go somewhere and as time goes on they get demoted to housework sweaters and then to working in the bush sweaters. Sometimes I get them mixed up. My shoes are, um, sensible and they all need cleaning. Add white cotton undies and short, straight hair that gets attention once a day. Add glasses. Add wrinkles. Add a lot of wrinkles. However, I should confess that I have always dressed like this from my teens on up.

Every once in a while the YD tries to smarten me up with a handsome Christmas gift sweater that fits and has no pulls or bleach marks. And while she is living in the States, when I visit her I have access to the Coldwater Creek store where I can find clothing in my size that I actually like and look okay in. Sadly, the brand can be accessed in Canada only by catalogue and if I don't try something on before I buy it, the result is not good.

A few years ago my husband sent both daughters out to buy me a smart black suit. Since he did not like what they chose, I took it back to (wait for it) Holt Renfrew and changed it for what I thought he would like. Unfortunately this took place during the post Christmas Great Return and I had to settle for trousers and a jacket that, while both black, do not quite match. I wear this suit a lot and each time the mismatch annoys me. However, the husband likes it.

When the YD changes locations she winnows down her wardrobe a lot and I get some of the rejects, which are all beautiful garments, quite formal, that I wear when I am being Chair Of The Board, things like a pale pink wool jacket and a silk pant suit. The Elder Daughter has given up and gives me pajamas. I like pajamas. I like cotton knit, smooth or fuzzy, in pretty colours with flowers -- the kind of fabric that I think I would look silly wearing in daylight. My night time attire is actually pretty snappy.

A few years ago I bought a very smart summer suit - slim black pants and a black and white flowered jacket. With Lycra, of course. This outfit has been to every wedding, dinner, shower and event the family has held in summer for several years. Even I cannot justify another summer in it. And I have another great niece getting married in August. I needed something to wear to her wedding. The prospect did not enchant.

Earlier today I went into a local store and tried on (shudder) a dress. The last time I wore a dress was to my father's funeral in 1997. The size I thought I would take would not zip up. The hem length looked weird to me. I bethought me of the trauma of buying and wearing sheer tights. I headed off to the separates rack. And there I found a lovely chiffon top in black and white that fits and looks fairly decent on me. I quickly bought it. It has ruffles, which will annoy JG no end, but they are very small ruffles. I tried to find a pair of white trousers to go with this but the plain flowing ones that suited the top were only available in cream and looked terrible. I am going to have to go to the city and spend an afternoon in a shopping mall going through all the white pants until I find a pair that 1.) fit and 2.) complement the top.

To say that I am not looking forward to this is a tiny bit of an understatement. I wonder if my white jeans would do. Hmm. No, probably not, eh? Why couldn't the girl just elope, for goodness sake. And I have to buy a wedding present as well. There is no politically correct way to express what I am feeling.

Mary goes to a Party

I have just put another washer load of laundry out on the clothesline and am typing here with frequent glances out the window to make sure none of the heavy clouds rolling by has begun to spit rain on the sheets. With any luck I will get this load partly dry before the heavens open and yet more miserable cold water sheets down on my sheets and towels. This weather is Very Annoying. We had a local fair here that just about got rained out on Saturday and the blue sky of Sunday morning gave way to black cloud and rain by Sunday afternoon. Luckily it did not rain until after I got home from doing my stint in the ASK booth. Tomorrow ASK has planned a 'summer fun' day -- Bocce, croquet, swimming and a barbecue to follow. At last summer's picnic, a couple of hardy souls cooked during a thunderstorm and we did not lose the electrical power until after the coffee had perked. I was in ankle deep water pulling the croquet hoops. I hope we will be a bit luckier tomorrow.

ASK is one of the organizations I work in. It is the Active Seniors' Koalition (and I confess to being responsible for the 'K' spelling because I wanted a nice acronym). A few years ago the Township where I live funded a study to see what the needs of the community's seniors might be. We were lucky to hire Linda, a really excellent person to run the study, and after she had her data in she convened a meeting of people from all the service organizations, community halls and health providers in the local area and we put together a working group to organize and support the ideas that the study had generated. We got a bit of funding, hired a co-ordinator with boundless enthusiasm and got under way. She started us on line dancing and found a guy who really knew shuffle-board to set up temporary courts with tape in one of the halls. We charged a nominal sum to cover the hall rentals and we were away.

When we ran out of money Linda took over again on a volunteer basis and she and some others put together some funding proposals. We got a grant to make the shuffle-board courts permanent and the local Health authority found us some cash for co-ordination, advertising and equipment. Linda got paid again, we convened another meeting on how to spend the equipment dollars and the group decided they wanted WII games. We also printed information sheets and put up a booth at the rainy local fair to advertise our programs. During the time I was there, I was delighted by the response I got.

Unlike worthy and healthy 'exercises for seniors' mornings, the ASK programs are geared to be fun and flexible. We run them in the local community halls and we try to provide things that will get people out and moving.

Our part of eastern Ontario, about an hour+ drive from the big city, is a magnet for retirees, especially Armed Forces types who want good accommodation at a fairly low price. Many retirees build their own homes -- JG and I are an example. These people want to integrate into the community; they are prepared to give back by volunteering for all sorts of stuff, and many of them are pretty dynamic folk. There are also a lot of widows, some 'native', some 'not from here', who feel uncomfortable at dances and euchre parties without a partner. And a few widowers, ditto.

This is a dancing community; the older folks have danced all their lives and love it. Line dancing suits them perfectly and we now have enough participants to run it in two places at two levels. The shuffle-board suits people with reduced mobility and is a real social event with brown bag lunches and tournaments. The WII is just starting up, but I suspect it will also prove popular; people's faces lit up when I explained it and they said that their grandchildren loved it. A way for grandpa to score big points with the kids, I suspect, if he can talk about WII sports. And the picnic is just hilarious. Wrinklies in big floppy hats and embarrassing shorts whopping one another's balls into the rough and eating up a storm. I love it. This year I am the designated photographer and I will post the best of the results.

This association is not unique; you will find similar seniors' organizations all over the place. But we do several things that make it work. Given our widespread geography and the really lousy winter roads, taking the programs out to the community halls is really popular. And we are self-managing; the things we do are all things people have asked for. It complements the hall dinners and euchre parties already in force and we welcome drivers, kids and grandkids to anything we do. Also, no one has to sign up for anything. Arrive for an event, pay your three dollars and you're in, for one class or session or for more.

My big floppy hat and camera are all ready and I am now going to go and make salads for the pot luck. And I hope the sun beams down on us. Or, at least, we don't get lightning this time. My laundry just got rained on.