Family Manners

The dinner was exquisite.

Every preparation completed.

Pressed, linen tablecloth. Pristine, individual napkins. The finest china and crystal. 

Polished silverware.

And that’s where everything came to grief.

But I am getting ahead of myself . . .

My Dad’s eldest sister, Emily was hostess-ing a dinner party.

For her good friend and fellow teacher, Miss Duff.

It was to be a fairly formal affair, designed to impress her friend with the fact that Emily belonged to an excellent family of good breeding and proper deportment.

For a woman who taught proper deportment every day in her Home Economics classes, this was of vital importance.

Unfortunately, she made one mistake.

She invited said family.

All was ready.

Everything laid out in faultless order. 

Emily glowed with pride as she surveyed her impeccable arrangements.

Perfect.

The invited guest and the family members assembled.

Amidst quiet exclamations over the exquisite settings and appetizing platters of choice food, everyone took their places.

My Dad, then fifteen, glanced down. 

In keeping with the impression she was trying to convey, Emily had given each person their own polished and shining butter knife.

Maybe I should mention here that this wasn’t the usual tradition. No. In the Stringam household, one communal butter plate and a single knife were the norm.

Back to my story . . .

Dad picked up the knife. Made a show of studying it carefully.

Then held it aloft. “Erm . . . Emily?”

She looked at him.

“What is this for?”

All of her meticulous preparation and her attempts to appear elegant and refined were gone in an instant.

She put everything she had into the glare she levelled at her youngest brother.

Who simply grinned.

Just a note: If you are planning on hosting a party. And hoping for a chance to show your guests how refined and decorous your family is . . .

Don’t invite your family.

The Gift Horse

Only in our dreams...

There’s an old saying, ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’.

Now you should know that horses, as they get older, show it mostly in their teeth.

The older the horse, the more outward sloped the teeth.

Umm . . . ick.

I’ll talk more about this later . . .

On with my story.

We once received a gift horse.

Okay, well, it was a yellow Chevette.

But it was a gift.

The car was . . . old.

Rust spots bloomed like a garden.

The doors would’t close.

Or if they did, wouldn’t open.

The internal organs alternately belched or squealed.

There was, literally, no back floor on the driver’s side.

And pieces quite frequently dropped off.

Made scraping sounds on the pavement, or detached altogether, only to be run over by the vehicle that had lost them.

Case-in-point: The muffler. It dropped to the ground during an early-morning commute and the car lurched suddenly up on one side as the wheels ran over this former appendage.

The car had one thing going for it. It had a new engine – put there by our good friends, the former owners. Who then made the magnanimous gesture of presenting it to us.

Why did they do such a thing?

Because they had finished school and had made the recent move to newer, or at least less rusty.

Why did we go on driving such a testament to rust?

We were still poor college students with four kids and little means of support.

And needed all the help we could get.

So ‘Ol’ Yellow’ made the daily commute to college with my Husby.

Often, he would sit in traffic, cars around him humming or growling happily.

While his car made its convincing impression of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Without the cuteness.

Or magic.

This went on for a couple of months.

Finally, my Husby neared graduation. He would soon have a Master’s degree under his belt.

It was time to move up a notch on the whole ‘commuter car’ scale.

Time to sell the car.

We weren’t asking much. 

Just pay for the ad and the car is yours . . .

No bites.

We tried to give it away.

Still no takers.

Finally, Husby took to leaving it parked at the college with the keys in it, hoping to entice some desperate, or at least near-sighted, student into taking it for a spin.

A long spin.

Nothing.

Oh, come on! Vehicle theft had reached near epidemic proportions on that campus!

Obviously, the students were a bit . . . judicious . . . with their choices. Choosing cars that were . . . road-worthy.

And didn’t stick out like warty, rusty thumbs.

Not the car, but you get the idea . . .

Sigh.

We finally got rid of the car.

Traded it on a push, pull or drag sale.

I think we even got $500.00 on the trade!

So, back to the gift-horse scenario.

And the looking of said horse in the mouth.

In the usual sense, it means that one shouldn’t start to find the faults in a gift.

In our case, we did look.

Saw the new engine. 

And ignored the rust spots and obvious problems.

Which later proved . . .rather important.

My lesson? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Let the rust and disease put you off right from the beginning.

The Speaking Squeaking

Stringams. At Gramma's house.

My Gramma Stringam lived in a house in Lethbridge.

She and Grampa had built it and moved there with their two youngest children when their older sons took over management of the ranch.

By the time I entered the world, they had lived in it a number of years.

And when I had reached an age to remember, it was already ‘seasoned’ and had received additions to the original structure.

It was a beautiful, comfortable home, with junipers growing on either side of the front door, stuffing one’s lungs with fragrance whenever one entered or exited into the wide hallway that ran from the front to the magical kitchen at the back.

To the left were the doorway to Gramma and Grampa’s room, the entrance to the upper staircase and the entrance to the laundry room and lower staircase. To the right were the double glass doors to the living room. Grampa’s recliner perched directly behind these doors in the corner. A long couch sat in front of the wide window beside his chair. Along the back wall was a white ‘fireplace’, a mirror and some book shelves.

On the opposite side of the room were some comfortable chairs and a ‘piecrust’ table with little figurines that little fingers itched to play with.

Ahem . . .

Also on that wall was the wide opening to the sunny dining room. Which contained a great sideboard that held dishes and linens. And, for those same little fingers, a drawer full of candy.

Don’t ask me how I know this . . .

The dining room was sandwiched between the great, sun-filled kitchen and the comfortable ‘sun room’ filled with books and chairs and . . . sunshine.

I loved this house. It was sparkling clean, warm, bright and welcoming. Endlessly filled with the fragrances of freshly baked bread and/or cookies and/or homemade soups and/or roasting meats.

But my reasons for describing all of this to you is because I wanted to talk about the floors.

Yes, it takes me a while.

The living room, in fact, most of the rooms, were floored in hardwood strips, polished and gleaming. Each room was additionally covered by a wide rug with reached very nearly to the edges. Only a brief, tantalizing glimpse of shining floorboards was visible near the walls.

One walked on woven carpets mostly.

But even as your stockinged feet tread along those carpets, you could hear the creak of the wooden floors beneath you. 

I loved it.

It was the ‘sound’ of Gramma’s house that went along with the fragrance.

In our home, Husby replaced the carpets with hardwood flooring many years ago. They have now developed squeaks.

And whenever I hear one, I am again that little girl, happily crossing the living room at Gramma’s house.

The piecrust table and its prohibited, fragile residents are there, just within reach. The candy cupboard sits in the sunshine a few feet away.

And Gramma and Aunt Emily are in the kitchen, where, shortly something delicious will emerge.

All recalled with the single squeak of a hardwood floor.

Hog Heaven

Nog, as was.

The Tolleys love pigs.

Our pigs lived in delux accommodations: a stout, wooden granary, next to the chicken coop. The door had been removed. It was now the pig house.
It was a comfortable place, deeply filled with straw. Warm. Dry. Situated in it’s own private yard, which, in turn contained the all-important feed trough. Food magically appeared there following the shouted words, “Pig! Pig! Pig!”

A cloud of dust would immediately ‘poof’ out of the perpetually open doorway and the pigs would emerge as though shot from a cannon. Zip! Zip! Zip! They would scamper excitedly around the pen. Then make their way over to ‘dinner’ where they would nose through the day’s offerings. 
And I do mean ‘nose’. 
From that point, one could leave them munching happily, or simply stand beside the fence. Inevitably one, or all, of the pigs would move closer for a scratch.
They were a gregarious lot. And they loved humans. For obvious reasons.
Unfortunately, fulfilling the measure of their creation meant that, inevitably, they would end up on someone’s plate. This never bothered them. Or us.
Because our loading ramp was ‘under construction’, our pigs were loaded, literally, by hand. Four members of the family would grab a leg and lift the pig into the back of the truck. Of necessity, this had to be done before the animal reached a size that would . . . make this difficult.
Then we acquired Nog.
When just a piglet, Nog and his brothers were attacked by a pack of dogs running in the neighbourhood. His brothers were killed. Nog was badly injured, the dogs having torn a wicked slash across his back, from hipbone to hipbone.
He healed, more or less, but had difficulty walking quickly. That didn’t slow him down in the eating department, however. Or the growing department, for that matter. Somehow, we were so excited over his recovery, that we missed the fact that he was . . . getting bigger. By the time we realized it, he was already too big to load by our usual method. We would have to wait for the loading ramp. 
Which we did. 
And allow him to continue to grow.
Which he also did. At a startling rate.
Along with the ramp, we were also building new corrals at the time, the old ones being somewhat . . . old. As new areas were enclosed, we would send in the milk cow to graze down the grass and weeds. One particularly overgrown spot, just outside the pigpen, seemed an ideal place to let both the cow and the pig graze. We put them in together.
With startling results.
For several minutes, they attacked the fresh green growth. Then they spotted each other.
Nog, by this time weighed in at about 600 pounds. A solid mass of fat built low to the ground. An eating machine. Kitty, our Jersey milk cow, probably weighed about the same, but stood considerably taller. With long, graceful legs and a slight body. The corral wasn‘t big enough for the both of them. 
They attacked.
At first, my son, Erik and I couldn’t believe what we were seeing. A slight, tawny cow, head to head with a massive hunk of red pig. But it was real. The two of them pushed and shoved for several seconds, breathing heavily. 
Then the cow realized, finally, what we observers had seen at the start. That she couldn’t win. The pig’s lower centre of gravity and generous girth were an advantage.
She broke off the . . . umm . . . exchange and headed to the far corner of the corral. There she calmed herself and proceeded to eat once more. 
Nog did the same. Several minutes went by. Then they ‘discovered’ each other once more, and treated their audience to round two. Also entertaining. Also won by the pig. 
By this time, my son was laughing so hard, he had fallen off the fence he was sitting on and now lay in a helpless heap on the ground. Nog moved over and sat beside him, still breathing heavily from this second encounter. His manner said it all. “There, I took care of that little problem! Now you are safe!”
The cow had had enough, and though the two of them remained in the same pen for several more minutes, she carefully kept the breadth of it between them.
But left us with the memories.

D, N and A

I’d like to track my DNA,

To me, it’d be a hit,

My tiny little sample

Could tell me quite a bit.

 

Like—who am I descended from,

And from whence I came,

 A little ‘bout my ancestors,

And something of my name.

 

I’m not sure how it works, it’s true,

A scientist, I’m not,

But ‘genotyping’ is the path

To tell me what I’ve got.

 

But there’s a little squiggle,

A tiny little hit,

To access all this ‘Science’,

Would cost a little bit.

 

I’ve really not the assets,

To pay that mighty sum,

So I’ve come up with something else

To get the matter done.

 

I tried a little trickery,

(Not as nasty as it sounds)

I said I won the lottery…

Now relatives abound!

P.S. Husby wants to know 

We talkin’ Canada? USA?

Will US folks say DN-huh?

While we say DN-eh?!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week for 'Say Hello' Day

With TELEPHONES, we'll have our say!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

DNA (February 28) Today!

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

Genius Day (March 14) 
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

Pets (April 11)

Juggling (April 18)

Brothers (April 25)

Babies (May 2)

Music (May 9)

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)

Snacked Out

When I was young, my Mama tried to steer my snacking picks,

To things that grew on trees; or from the ground—cut into sticks,

She told me those snack choices would improve my health and life,

By building stronger bones and teeth, I’d dodge a lot of strife.

But I had other pre-fer-en-ces, tastier by far,

Just sit here for a moment and I’ll tell you what they are…

First, bubblegum, the kind that came in balls both smooth and rough,

And little bags of Lik-m-aid, I couldn’t get enough,

And little, waxy tubes of liquid, marvelous and sweet,

And Pixie Sticks. The purple ones. Now there’s a tasty treat!

A bag of popcorn, movie popped, a bottle of grape crush,

Or Macintosh’s toffee. Mmm. Now that’s a sugar rush,

But if I had to choose, my very favourite by far,

Was anything of chocolate—be it bits or in a bar,

Like Smarties, Mars or Coffee Crisp or all Three Musketeers,

Or anything with caramel (to which chocolate would adhere),

Almond Joy’s another big one; hey, let us just say,

Except for Big Turks, chocolate was welcome any day.

That brings us to the present. (And please know I’m strong and well),

To aged innards, all those sweets would ring out my death knell,

You have to know I have a little taste both now and then,

And every one serves as a little glimpse of ‘way back when’,

But snacking now? I’m choosing all those things my mother picked,

Like things that grow on trees or from the ground, cut into sticks.

Sigh.

Welcome to our Monthly Poetry Challenge!

This month’s theme is Snack Foods.

How did I do?

Got an appetite for more?

Go and visit my friends' blogs!

Baking In A Tornado: Treasured Treats                 

Messymimi’sMeanderings           

Making An Ash of Oneself

 

Before. 

My Husby built our family a picnic table.
Cedar.
Nice.
It was the scene of many, many family meals and celebrations.
And occasionally the scene of . . . adventures.
Let me explain . . .
First, a little background.
Husby built a little home for us.
Okay. Originally, it was built as a dog kennel.
Then converted to a chicken coop.
Then we cleaned it up, insulated and paneled the interior.
Put down new flooring.
Now it was a house.
We moved our family in.
Snug and cozy.
It was heated with a wood stove.
That is an important point.
But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
When I was expecting our fourth child, we decided that we needed more than 300 square feet to live in.
Husby built a basement and we moved our little house onto it.
Wow! Double the space!
We could now have such luxuries as . . . bedrooms!
A bathroom!
But still heated with a wood stove.
Now comes the part where the picnic table and the wood stove come together.
It was winter.
Not much call for meals outdoors when the temperature is hovering around minus 20.
The table had been shoved close to the house.
One day, just as we were preparing to head into town, Husby decided to clean out the little well-used stove.
He carefully collected the ashes into a paper sack and carried them outside to put in the ashcan.
Yes, we really had an ashcan.
Don't ask.
Moving on . . .
One of the kids had a minor emergency just as Husby reached the front door.
He set his bag of 'mostly dead' ashes on the picnic table and scrambled to take care of the problem.
Done.
Then we packed up and left.
The bag of ashes sat, forgotten, in the center of the picnic table.
I should explain, here, that the wind always blows in Southern Alberta.
This is important . . .
We were gone for some hours.
The wind blew on the little paper sack full of ashes.
And finally, ignited some of them.
They consumed the bag.
Then started on the nearest combustible object.
You guessed it.
Our picnic table.
Pushed up tight against the house.
When we returned from town, my Husby stopped the car and turned it off,
Then hollered something unintelligible and ran for the house.
I was busy unbuckling children and pulling the baby out of her car seat.
I turned around just as Husby appeared with a bucket of water.
Which he threw on the picnic table.
It was then that I noticed the plume of smoke.
And heard the hissing of unhappy flames meeting . . . something extinguishing.
I moved closer.
Husby stood, surveying our picnic table.
Or, through the smoke, what was left of our picnic table.
An expression of relief and chagrin on his face.
“What on earth happened?” Me.
“I think I must have left the bag of ashes on the table.” He.
“Huh.” Me.
I herded the kids into the house while Husby poured more water on the picnic table.
Later, we took stock.
The table, miraculously, was mostly intact.
The bag of ashes had burned a large (12”) hole in the very centre.
The rest of it was still usable.
The miraculous part was the fact that the fire had confined itself to the centre of the table.
With the brisk wind, it could easily have burned the entire thing.
Not to mention our house.
Miracles, indeed.

There is a codicil.
My brother, Jerry, and his family were over to our little house for dinner.
As they were leaving, Jerry spotted the hole in the middle of our picnic table.
He laughed, sat down and said, “This porridge is too hot! said Papa Bear.”
Miracles aside, it was pretty funny.

After.

Featherheads

 From 2015...

Admit it. He's cute!

I have birds. 
Zebra finches, to be exact. They are easy to take care of, make cute little-bird sounds and are infinitely entertaining to watch.
I love them. It is a love affair that has been going on since 1997.
It all started innocently enough. I was directing a play that required caged birds as part of the premise. A local bird shop loaned us a canary, two doves and a zebra finch.
 A cute little finch with a smart polka-dot waistcoat, red cheeks and a black and white striped tail.
During the days, not thinking it wise to leave our little rent-a-birds at the theatre, I brought them home with me.
One day, while I was in the other room, I could hear a cheerful little song. Rising and falling notes that sounded almost as though someone were swinging on a tiny, rusty gate. (A tiny, rusty, musical gate.)
I thought it was the canary, noted for their singing.
Entranced by the sound (and yes, I meant to use the word 'entranced'), I hurried into the room, and stopped beside the canary cage.
The little yellow bird turned and looked at me.
And the little notes kept on.
Could canaries still sing if their beaks were closed?
My knowledge of birds was truly woeful.
I moved to the next cage. Two sweet doves blinked at me sleepily.
The third cage.
And my little maestro was revealed. Singing his little heart out.
My heart was captured.
He was my new - 2 ounce - Jose Carreras.
Later, onstage, when all the other birds were frozen with fear as the spotlights of the theatre shone on them, I heard that same little song.
Miraculously, with people spouting lines and charging back and forth across the stage, my little finch still found the courage to sing.
That was it. I couldn't part with him.
Fortunately, my husband agreed and, at the end of the play, when the other birds were returned to their shop, Peter stayed with me. (Peter finch. Has a sort of ring, don't you think?)
Soon after that, I decided that my little Peter needed a little mate.
And so Polly, she of the beautiful white feathers and similarly striped tail, joined our household.
She and Peter immediately set up housekeeping and a few weeks later, Piggy popped out of the nest. Followed shortly after that by Pepper, Poppy and . . . Percival? Pat? Plethora? Preamble? Pancreas? (I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten his name. I do know it started with a 'P'.)
They quickly outgrew the cage that had seemed so large only a short time ago.
My husband made them a new cage. A large cage in the shape of a grain elevator.
And my birds became a permanent part of our lives.
They are constantly busy. Constantly doing 'birdy' things.
Constantly entertaining.
One can almost hear the conversations as they alternately groom each other, or chase one another madly around the cage.
In all the years of raising them, I have only been able to touch them when they first leave the nest and haven't quite gotten the knack of flying. Even then, I can only touch them for an instant.
I quickly pick them up, band their legs and let them go to become another cute, busy, easily-panicked member of my little finch society.
It's the one thing I wish I could change.
Well, that and the mess of torn newspaper and scattered feathers and seeds that constantly litter the floor beneath and around their cage.
I've tried taking them to task for this, using the same forceful, penetrating words as those I used in raising my children . . . you little monkeys! Clean up this mess!
They never listen.
Wait. Neither did my children! Sigh.

My private elevator.

Present day...
And now we come to it.
Yesterday, 2 days shy of his fifteenth birthday, my last finch, Whitney, flew home. He's had a rough last six months. He couldn't fly any longer, so I had to put his feed and water on the floor. But he's been happily hopping-and still singing-so all was well.

Last picture of Whitney

I don't have the heart to start again. So I'm just ending this chapter with these words: Thank you, my little featherheads. I love you so much!

The Moose(t) Terrified

See? Scary!

Gramma Berg's house had a sunroom.

A wonderful spot.

All windows.

And one permanent tenant.

The sunroom was wonderful.

The tenant wasn't. At least to a very small girl.

It was large.

Dark brown.

With great, glassy eyes, a huge nose, a wooly beard.

And large ears.

Oh, yes, and an enormous pair of antlers.
Yes, I admit it - it wasn't your normal tenant.

It was a moose.

The quite obvious fact that it wasn't alive made no difference to its terror factor.

I was certain that, if I went into that room, the great creature would blink its eyes and 'get me'.

Okay, obviously I didn't think that through. The creature possessed no visible limbs, and for all of my life, had resided in the same place on the wall.

Just exactly how it was supposed to 'get' me, we'll never know.

But the truth remains, it terrified me.

And knowing this, my cousins made great sport of daring me to go into the sunroom.

Something which inevitably sent me screaming to some moose-less part of the house.

I loved Gramma’s house.

The moose and I tolerated each other.

So long as he kept his place, and I could see that place from a distance, we got along fine.

Kinda like a large spider.

But that is another story.

After Gramma passed, the moose was donated and hung where it could scare scores of other people.

Moving forward fifty years . . .

Several members of my family were holidaying in Banff, Alberta.

We spent a week scrambling about the mountains and wandering through the townsite.

We took the kids to see the 'stuffed animal place'.

Or Banff Museum, as it is officially named.

It houses hundreds of perfectly preserved birds and animals native to the Banff area.

Many of which were present when the museum opened.

In 1903.

On the second floor, it is quite possible to get up close and almost personal with the head of Sir Donald.

A bison.

Several of us were standing, looking at the great animal.

My six-year-old granddaughter peeked out from behind me.

“He scares me,” she whispered, shivering.

“But he's dead,” I said. “He can't hurt you. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“He's scary,” she maintained.

Quite suddenly, I remembered Gramma's moose. And trembling in fear as my cousins dared me to go into his sunroom.

Yeah. It pretty much looks as though neither I (nor Sir Donald in point of fact) had a leg to stand on . . .

Four-Footed Prognosticators

Ha! I KNEW it was going to snow!

“Look to the cows,” said Dad, the wise,
“And you will come to realize,
That by their actions, you can tell,
The weather patterns, fair or fell.”

And so I watched, and so I saw
That he was right, my smart ol' Pa.
And he knew what he talked about,
If you're predicting rain. Or drought.

The cows, they crowd together tight
And you know cold will be the night.
They seek the shed and shelter warm
If rain or snow will be the norm.

Then turn their tail and duck their head,
When wind is shrieking round the shed.
But stand out grazing peacefully,
If sun and warmth are meant to be.

But just today, I got a scare,
From cows around me everywhere,
For when I stepped outside my door
And glanced towards the purple moor . . .

(Oops, Alberta's where I live, you see,
And so I meant the wide prairie.)
My cows weren't where they're s'posed to be,
They sat on branches. In the trees.

So now I have to figure out,
What they’re predicting hereabouts.

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, we will plot and scheme,

When DNA will be our theme.

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Predictions (February 21) Today!

DNA (February 28)

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

Genius Day (March 14) 
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

BBB and Me!

 I'm so excited when it's my turn to host!

Yes, it's BBB (Best of Boomer Bloggers) time once again. That time when I get to show off my friends...and me!

First, Carol of  Carol A. Cassara Writer.

Like most of us at this age, Carol Cassara has been dealing with grief and loss. And even though she has developed helpful tools to help people manage through, she's no stranger to the pain, as she explains in her post, Coping with Grief and Loss

Next, Jennifer Koshak at Unfold and Begin

Valentine's day has come and gone but not the need to focus on ourselves. Jennifer, of Unfold and Begin, wonders if Do you treat yourself with the same importance ad others, especially now with our aging bodies. Join her in learning how to loveourselves during the aging process.

 And Laurie of Laurie Stone Writes

Laurie Stone tried not gazing into the seductive squares of Wordle, she really did. She knew she shouldn’t look when she saw people’s scores popping up all over social media. “Keep scrolling,” she told herself. “You already have enough games in your life.” But one day she was weak and succumbed. Before she knew it, Wordle had drawn her in like cotton candy at the summer fair. Here are three things that maybe pull us all in…

Then, Rebecca Forstadt-Olkowski of Babyboomster 

Has some of the spark in your relationship lost its spark? Many people over 50 are enjoying a platonic rather than a romantic relationship with a partner for various reasons. There are benefits and drawbacks to it depending on what makes you happy. Rebecca Olkowski, with BabyBoomster.com, writes about it in her latest post.

And, Rita Robison of Survive and Thrive Boomer Guide

Keep wearing a mask, advises Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist. Since Dec. 1, when health officials announced the first omicron case in the United States, the share of Americans who have been killed by the coronavirus is at least 63 percent higher than in any other of the large, wealthy nations.  

Then, Tom Sighting at Sightings Over Sixty

Older people are supposed to be wise, says Tom at Sightings Over Sixty. In We Are Old But Are We Wise? he tries to figure out what it means to be wise. We know it probably doesn't involve keeping up with the latest fads and trends, or social media sites. So what is it the wise person knows that the rest of us don't, especially in these changing turbulent times? 

Followed by Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin

There are days in our lives that make an individual realize they are aging. Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin experienced such an episode this week. She recounts the event in this week’s post that made her face the fact that she is now, officially, an old lady.

And finally, ME!

No one has to be told that the world remains in turmoil. In the past weeks, even Canada, known generally as a peacekeeping country, has taken center stage. All of this has gotten Diane thinking about the quiet heroes in our lives. The ones who usually DON'T make the headlines...

And that's a wrap!

A huge thank you to all my amazing friends!

Heroes

The school massacre in Newtown Connecticut has been in the news again recently.

The stories are still branded in the memory.

Horrific tales of terror, panic and death.

And the agony that followed.

But out of those stories have risen tales of heroism and bravery unequalled anywhere in history.

The principal and school psychologist who lost their lives as they rushed toward danger when the first shots were heard.

The teachers who hid children in closets and cupboards and bathrooms and then kept them absolutely quiet and safe as terror stalked past.

And those who used their last shield, themselves, in a desperate and often futile bid to save the lives of the little children in their care.

They are true heroes.

In every sense of the word.

And I weep for them and their sacrifice.

It has gotten me thinking of the heroes in my life.

The men and women who have appeared, sometimes fleetingly, and had a profound and lasting influence.

My Mom, who taught me responsibility, caring for others and to always, always be kind.

My Dad, who taught me the value of integrity, hard work and a sense of humour.

My eldest brother who taught me generosity.

My next older brother, who taught me the joy of friendship.

My oldest sister, who showed me true patience.

My youngest sister, who is a constant example of focused energy and unfettered joy.

My youngest brother, who showed me that one must never quit. That by keeping on, great things are accomplished.

There were others.

Teachers who spent their entire lives . . . teaching.

Store owners who cared.

Neighbours who watched out for.

People who appeared only briefly and taught me wonderful, important things.

And, more recently, the men and women manning the front lines in our own war with Covid.

None of them have had to make the ultimate sacrifice on my behalf.

None of them will ever appear in a newspaper or on TV as a description of their heroism is proclaimed aloud.

But still, they are heroes.

And they need recognition.

So to those whose actions are so justifiably blazoned across news headlines and TV spots.

And those whose quiet contribution is not as noticeable or dramatic.

I am offering a prayer of gratitude today.

Thank you.

All of you.

Writing Better-ly

A guest post by Diane’s chief proof-reader and editor: Anonymous Husby-Figure

As all of you out there in blog-land know by now, my Beloved Diane likes to write. I for one think that she does it very well.  But – horrors! – sometimes she makes a mistake.

Some time ago, she appointed me to be her proof-reader/editor/fixer-upper by insisting that, although she really does proof-read her columns before she posts them, sometimes typos and grammos just slip in there and hide. 

“Grammo” is the pet word I concocted for her very infrequent “grammatical” errors.

 Over the months, the most frequent of her infrequent grammos was the use of the wrong form of “its” or “it’s” as in: “Its simply not acceptable if it’s apostrophe is missing when its really needed  or present when its not.”  

So to speak.

So I do try to catch Diane’s  typos and grammos, because I do believe it makes for a better read not to have them in there, and I believe that it shows respect to you, her readers.

I do not claim to be a perfect writer, but I did learn early while chasing an elusive education the importance of being word-perfect.  So if you will indulge me, I will do as my Beloved does so well and regale you with the story of where my typo-grammo mania came from.

It was the early 1980s and I was in a graduate school senior seminar, learning French Revolution history and cultural anthropology from Dr. de Luna.  (His name of course is of French extraction, and we often heard about his relationship to the moon – “lune” in French.  Some of my classmates preferred to suggest that it was “loon”, others wondered whether there was a vampire connection, but most of us ended by irreverently, although affectionately,  referring to him as Professor De Lunatic.)  Now besides endless etymological meanderings about his name, Dr. De Luna liked to tell us, almost daily, about how any written work, as in papers and articles, that we gave him HAD TO BE WORD AND LETTER PERFECT.  A summary of his reasonings: “It is disrespectful of your reader if said reader stumbles over typos and grammos  WHICH ARE ENTIRELY AVOIDABLE because you MISGUIDED doctoral candidates were TOO LAZY to proof-read it.  Your work is therefore sub-standard because your miserably lame analysis and argument that you think is intelligent discourse is unreadable because your reader is distracted when  having to stop to figure out what it is that you MEANT to say when you made your typo  . . . . . “ 

I think you get the point.  We got the message, many many times over.

Not so lunatic, when you stop to think about it.

So, time came for us to present to the dear Professor our first major research papers; and, a few days later, time to hand the graded papers back and discuss them in seminar.

Dr. De Luna went around the room, handing each paper back to its (notice this is the right one!) author, each with some mostly encouraging commentary and all with some very vociferous praise for being letter-perfect in the typo and grammo department.

All but one paper – the one belonging to a good friend, Ostap.

Now you should know that Ostap had a great sense of humour, was actually a very good scholar, but he had not internalized the message about being word-perfect.  He just didn’t think it was all that important.  At least not yet.

We came to discover, by the Professor’s 10-minute+ recapitulation of the obviously degenerate if not criminal intent and nature of anyone who dared to hand in a paper IN THIS SEMINAR that was anything LESS than word perfect, once again how important this whole typo-grammo business was. 

At the end of his lecture (not the one about the French Revolution), Dr. de Luna passed this last paper to Ostap, with a scowl and a stare, and asked: “So, Mr. Ostap, what do you think I should do about this sort of thing?  Hmmmmm!???”

Ostap quipped back without the blink of an eye:  “I think you should stop worrying about it so much!  You’ll enjoy life a lot more and live a lot longer!”

We weren’t sure how long Ostap was going to survive.

But he did, and went on to a bright future.  

But not as a writer.

Dr. De Luna retired shortly after.  We think it was because of a brain aneurysm.  Caused by the lodging of typos and grammos in the blood vessels of the brain . . . .

And so, my friends, I pledge to continue doing my best to save you from typos and grammos in my Beloved’s columns.

Its the least I can do.  (Oops!)

Seamed

Okay, it seemed bad to me!!!
And ignore the glasses!

I was 12.

I had acne.

My life was over.

Looking back, it couldn't have been all that bad, but when I compared my blotched and disfigured face to that of my best friend, with her milky, creamy, clear, totally spot-free complexion, I just wanted to wear a paper bag over my head.

And did, but that is another story . . .

My mom sympathized.

She said she knew exactly what I was feeling. But I had seen clear-skinned pictures of her as a girl.

She wasn't fooling anyone.

But she did buy me different 'cures'.

They didn't help much. But they made us both feel pro-active.

One such cure was a thin, pink liquid that one painted on.

With a brush.

What it didn't accomplish in actual pimple eradication, it more than made up for in unique-ness.

And price.

For months, every evening, I would carefully coat my face, neck to forehead. Then I would wait.

Now, the instructions were very clear on this point. One applied the product to every visible surface. Then one waited.

Twenty minutes. While said product dried and tightened. And tightened. Until one's face was roughly the colour and consistency of a native signal drum.

Then, just as the wearer/owner was certain that all facial features had successfully merged into one great shiny shapeless mass, one could wash.

The relief was instant. And unfathomable. 

Okay, I don't know what that word means, but it sounds distinctly . . . deep.

Which is what the relief was.

Moving on . . .

For many weeks, the process was adhered to.

Without fail.

And also without results, but I'm nothing if not persistent.

Then, one night, I made the fatal error:

I painted myself. Lay back on my bed to wait the requisite twenty and promptly committed the final, unforgivable sin.

I fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning, my pillow felt . . . strange.

Rather . . . sticky. And at the same time . . . gritty.

What had Mom done to the laundry?

And why hadn't I noticed it when I first went to bed?!

I sat up and stared down at the pillow.

It was covered with pink slivers of  . . . something.

I could see them glinting in the morning light.

Slivers?

Then it hit me.

I gasped and made a record sprint to the bathroom.

I washed. Then, towelled myself dry and leaned in to the mirror for a close look.

And shrieked. 

Lines seamed my normally youthful skin.

Deep lines, following the natural and heretofore unseen creases in my skin and caused by the drying and cracking of the evil pink coating.

I looked . . . old.

At least thirty!

Or a hundred.

My life was truly over.

I slumped down on the side of the tub and hid my face in my hands.

Mom, who had come running when I screamed, skidded to a stop beside me.

She moved my hands aside and looked at me and her eyes widened. "What did you do?"

"I fell asleeeeep!"

She started to laugh. "It'll be okay."

OKAY???! Was she nuts? I stood up and moved, with her, to the mirror.

"Look at me! I look . . . ancient!"

"It'll go away."

I shook my head in disbelief. 

I knew I was forever disfigured.

Nothing on earth could fix this.

I would be regarded as the freak.

The 'Seamed One'.

The . . .

"Breakfast is ready," Mom said.

Okay, my despair could wait until after I had been fed.

I followed her to the table.

For a short, wonderful while, I forgot my troubles in a stack of pancakes with scrambled eggs, bacon and hot chocolate.

My favourite.

But meals can only last so long and the school bus was drawing nearer, even as we ate.

I could put it off no longer.  I got up and made my slow, unhappy way back to the bathroom, feet dragging.

Only to discover that Mom had been right!

The lines were nearly gone. Ah, the resiliency of youth. And youthful skin.

With lighter steps, I bounced back into the kitchen. "You were right, Mom!"

She nodded. But she was careful not to say, 'I told you so'.

I learned from that experience.

After that, I spent very little time 'pimple hunting'.

I really didn't have that many.

And I had definitely seen worse.

P.S. The lines are back. Sigh.