I always like to see what types of writing paper I can find in the Big City Thrift Store to spice up my letters to my pen pal. As the packages are wrapped in sealed plastic bags one has to sort of just 'guessamate' at what might be inside. Once I thought I was buying numerous cards when in actuality I was only buying pieces of scrap booking cards...many, many, many pieces. Another consequence of not knowing exactly what is inside each bag is that I do now have a grand array of Christmas Cards which will soon be sent out with every letter written from now until the 7th of January.
It was not until we got home this afternoon did I have a chance to open the two bags of cards that I had purchased on yet another stationery quest from the Thrift Shop and found that one contained an eclectic collection of unused
POST CARDS!
Now a Post Card to those of you who rarely get anything more than a 3rd Class piece of mail delivered along with various flyers from hardware stores, announcing that you may have won or have won already several thousands of dollars, if not millions, just as soon as you return an order form and credit card number for a magazine subscription you never knew you wanted or a trip to a destination where previously you didn't know existed; is a sort of short little 'text message' from the olden days when the written word was created by hand, without benefit of spell checkers or word completion or whatever that method is where the machine finishes the word for the writer.
The Post Card was primarily used by the writer to tell the receiver, "See. This is where I am and You are NOT." Little short notes of "Having a Wonderful Time." "Weather is Great" and "Hope all is well this January in the far North" could be scrawled across the back with the obligatory "Ha! Ha! Ha!" at the bottom. My mother even sent my dad a post card from her trip to California with a picture of Alcatraz with the caption "Wish You Were Here". I did receive a lovely post card from Paris this year and the picture of the Eiffel Tower was great.
There were upwards of fifty unused Post Cards in this collection.
There are about 20 cards from the Corporate Art Collection from the Reader's Digest of Canada. Here are three.
Places I have actually been to. These are all 'vintage' cards.
Saskatchewan Natural History Museum
The above are of Greenwater Provincial Park circa 1960 perhaps?
Melfort, Saskatchewan is cited on this card--obviously vintage.
Obligatory Canadian Mountain Post Card.
Two Vintage Cards from San Fransisco.
All of these could have been pictures taken in my back yard sometime over the last 30 years.
And now the most unusual postcards that I have ever come across.
Photographs with plastic overlaid to mime movementwhenever one moves the card.
I can understand the idea that movement would enhance these cards, but I have a bit more difficulty understanding what would compel the designer to choose these for a 'moving' post card.
And the height of 'kitsch' I think is this--
What would one actually write on the back of this plastic card? "Hello there. I am the one 6th from the left. In spite of a serious discussion and one guy getting huffy and leaving(something to do with money apparantly), the meal was great. In fact it has been said that it is Everlasting--if you can believe that! Bread and wine seemed to be the dessert.
You should have been here tosee the strange stuff they do here involving feet and basins of water--at the table no less.
And finally this one will be for my friend who is going to Hawaii this month. It will be waiting in her post box upon her return home.
"Hi there. Wish I were there. I would have had a great time!" p.
Anyone want any of these mailed to you? Just let me know.
Christmas is creeping into my consciousness. Not surprising considering the snow has arrived and everywhere we went yesterday in the city stores were already trimmed with festive decor in tandem with waning Hallowe'en decorations.
I've sent the E-Mail that asks for Christmas gift suggestions...with the understanding that 'just because you ask, doesn't mean you get'.
I have spent the afternoon perusing catalogues 'in hand' and 'on line' thinking, choosing, adding, re choosing, and dreaming of faces as presents are opened, examined, and used. Sometimes, unfortunately, even after all the careful planning, gifts fall short of expectations, wants, needs, or even frivolous desires, but that doesn't mean that I haven't enjoyed the process.
My DAD was the best gift giver ever--bar none! He had a knack of sensing just what the best present would be. He would give the thing that would 'hit the mark' or 'get the look' (1) when opened, and consequently be treasured for years to come. I am thinking now of the gold/pearl pierced earrings he bought for all his daughters, the flashlights on another occasion, and the re bar gizmo designed to place under the back tires of a stuck car, along with a snow shovel so I wouldn't stay in the ditch ( being the lonely spinster that I was as I travelled alone, across the barren winter prairie).
Other treasured gifts that I have received over the years is an I Love Moo Cow decoration as well as a Beta Fish and Plant from one of my children. Measuring cups was a great choice made by another. The embroidered angel picture from the crafty daughter is part of every Christmas decor, as well as is the wooden Nativity garland from yet another.
Presents sometimes give the biggest surprises not only to the the recipient but also to the giver.
The biggest surprise to a Giver in this house was the Christmas morning when two recipients went running delightedly towards the opposite stockings filled with really interesting and surprising gifts. Apparently Givers can get mixed up late at night, in the dark, in the quiet, after a long day of cooking, wrapping, organizing, and planning.
As a child I had a childless woman in my life, (a distant cousin), who bought presents for the all youngsters in the neighbourhood. Sometimes she missed the mark horribly in terms of age appropriateness and interest. I received a woman's glove and scarf set one year which was quite flattering as I was only eight years old. The next year I received an orange/red heavy beaded necklace which was less than beautiful, and was considered to this then nine year old even more hideous because I saw what a beautiful locket the neighbour girl had received from this same lady. I mention this incident of ungratefulness on my part to point out that the process of gift getting is as much an art form as is the process of gift giving.
Sometimes even if the gift misses the mark in terms of value, usefulness, or interest on the part of the recipient, one must never loose sight of the fact that a grand and precise process of thinking, choosing, judging, and evaluating goes into a Giver's effort to find something that is just 'right' is the real gift.
It is the process that should be treasured no matter what you find in the box.
I hope the recipients of my gifts will think of what has happened 'outside' the box no matter what they find inside their packages.
..and I? I will continue to savour the memories of Christmas' past with presents such as dark chocolate, wooden spoons, fancy coffees, wine, pillows, earrings, crystal glasses, cookbooks, games, bubble bath, white chocolate, candles, bowls and books, gloves, ornaments, silverware, and measuring cups.
Thank you.
(1) The look is the look that is given from the recipient to the giver as they open the parcel which means "You listened" " You know" "You got just the right thing." A formal Thank-you is a redundancy after the look has been given. Nothing else really needs to be said but often is. If you ever have received the look, you are thinking of it right now....a nice feeling eh?
I got the look when I have my Dad a Legion Pin he had been wanting and had given up ever getting; when I gave my husband a filled stocking the first Christmas we were together; when I gave my son a copy of the Brave Little Toaster when he was 28; when one of my daughters got an Elmo chair; when my other daughter received an axe and a BillyBong; and when another daughter received a milkshake maker; and, finally, when my Mom found a crystal porcupine in the bottom of a slow cooker one Christmas morning.
May your presents be many,
And your gifts bring them joy.
May the looks that are given,
Warm your heart with a glow,
With memories of Christmases from long, long, ago.
A week and a day in the life of something that will soon be defunct, outdated, hoarded, considered old fashioned soon to be lost in the collective memory as has the Dodo Bird, Passenger Pigeons, and Five Cent ice cream cones has been full of travel, fun, frustration, and sadness. A Penny!--A Canadian Penny to be precise.
A week and a day ago I attended a Menopause Conference. The venue was , of course, full of women who were alternately and intermittently, and at times simutaneously wearing sweaters and sleeveless tops. The mixture of gray hair, red hair, and hair of a 'certain hue' which has become quite popular in the quest for the denial of the of loss of hair pigment, could have been considered the indication of the variety of needs and goals of each person in the room.
Two men were in attendance. BRAVO to them!
The speakers were female doctors from some 'Woman's Health Centre'--each approaching their own journey of the last third of life in the feminine form.
The information was somewhat contradictory...dealing with Hormone Replacement Therapy. Apparantly it is now OK to use HRT, which is contradictory to the research previously done in the early 2000's. How can that big of a mistake be okay? How then , can one be certain that the research on the research shouldn't be re-researched?
Herbs were also mentioned, but it was determined that probably the use of a herb in terms of the upper case h,(wink,wink)would be more beneficial to the allevement of menopausal effects than anything quasi-chemical prescribed by the medical profession.
The revelation that loss of memory and multitasking abilities in a menopausal woman approaches that of a male human drew the most distressed reaction from the crowd by displays of tears, shudders, and utterances too colourful to write on this a 'Non Adult' content blog.
The most disturbing thing about this little meeting you query?
I would say that it was without a doubt the 20' x 30' full colour display of what Amy Farrah Fawcett would describe as the 'female nether region' placed squarely up on the wall above the podium for 20 minutes (after we had eaten). Now this was not your normal 'nether region' display..it was the full, upfront, in your face, spread eagle, leave no stone unturned presentation of everything a woman --premenstrual, menstrual, menopausal or postmenopausal would never have the opportunity to otherwise view on their own person unless they have implanted mirrors to their inner thighs.
I am 60 years old. I have pretty much experienced almost everything a woman was designed to experience in terms of nether region experiences, and I have done so WITHOUT looking at it!
My grading of the whole evening? C-
Just because women are in the room does not mean we all buy into the idea that we need to be fixed or saved from what I consider to be a WARM and natural phase of life.
Just because women of our age present a quandary when it comes to comfortable use of certain medical instruments due to low hormones, does not mean that women should have to artificially increase the hormones. It means that it's time the medical profession research a way to perform the tests with something other than an antiquated piece of metal that has not changed its design since the early 1900's.
My time and money would have been better spent with a good discussion with my own doctor about any concerns I may have. Although I did pick up a tip regarding rushed doctors...make your appointment at the end of the day so you have time to really talk about your issues.
The food was really, really bad. The first clue should have been when they had to keep sharpening the knife used to cut the rare roast beef.
Some other phrases from the panel:
"If you have insomnia and wake up in the middle of the night and think you have to go to the bathroom...try to ignore it." --Now that Depends!
"Placebos are just as effective as herbs and hormonal therapy in its effectiveness for relieving symptoms." --No Kidding?
" One of the things that occurs during menopause is memory loss and therefore, we should start writing things down." There were other things that occur but the speaker had lost her list where she had written them.
Hallowe'en, the season of Fear, is just around the corner .
Fear has always been something that I don't like to think about often but when I do it makes me think of possibilities that spawn worries that create panic that cause turmoil which results in Drama!
Fear is a bit different from Fright in that Fright is to me sort of something quick and intense. Fear is something that lives in our mind whereas Fright is something that sort of sideswipes our consciousness leaving us gasping for breath. Fright is not unlike the seemingly instantaneous explosion of foam that occurs when one opens a bottle of Coke or Pepsi (no favoritism will be detected on this blog).
Fright is probably what my nine year old sister felt when she returned to her bed in her darkened room and discovered someone lying in the bed next to her --a result of a misplaced idea of fun on the part of our little brother. The piercing scream that echoed throughout the household some 45 years ago is a shared memory of everyone who was at home that night.
The night that I was alone, on the farm, watching the late, late, late show...Psycho.. and heard someone knock on the door caused me what I believe to be my greatest and most memorable Fright. I could feel the colour drain from my face and would have probably fainted if I had been standing instead of lying on the sofa.
If Fright is quick and piercing , then I see Fear as been something constant and aching. We Fear not only the darkness (as my sister did for years and years to come) but we also Fear the unknown and the painfully imagined. If we use our Fear based imagination to rule our lives we allow ourselves to become attuned to Fear filled self-talk that is coloured with dark negativity accompanied by unfounded certainty and conjured disasters resulting in the aforesaid panic, turmoil and the ultimate common sense destroying entity called Drama.
People live their whole lives with Fear and its consequences. The Fears of being alone, being worthless, being wrong, being poor, being sick, being abandoned rule the world. Tears are shed, letters written, phone calls made, texts and twitters sent, bargains put forth, begging done, and prayers offered all to assuage the ache and torment encapsulated in form of Drama that these Fear demons invoke.
Fears are bigger than the Frights of Hallowe'en. If only we could just dump them in some witch's cauldron or shoot them to the moon on a black cat's tail on that one Frightful night of the year. The howling, screeching, and strange things going bump in the night would be deafening and maybe the world would really look a whole lot different the next morning.
I lay on my bed soaking my pillow with my tears,
I try to remember exactly what it is that I fear.
Is it the passing of time or the love that I lack?
Is it the mistakes that I've made or the fact that I can't bring the past back?
What is it that I'm afraid of?
Why am I so scared?
Is it the people I've hurt or the people that have hurt me?
Am I afraid of everything that I cant seem to see?
Is it the love of a friend, or the loss of my family?
Is it the possibility that my life can end in a tragedy?
What is it that I fear most?
What do my eyes say I'm scared of?
Is it the sun that sets but won't seem to rise?
Is it the hope that I have that always seems to die?
Is it the trust of a person that I cannot begin to grasp?
Is it all the memories of my horrid past?
Is it me?
Can it possibly be that the thing I fear most is the thing I can't be?
The things that I try to understand?
The me that I try to be with when I'm feeling sad?
The person I'm expected to be? Is that what I fear? . . .
I think the thing I fear most . . .is me
Sometimes when I am at my emotional lowest I hear the echo of someone in my past saying to me, "Oh GROW up already!".
What does this phrase "Grow Up" mean?
Does it mean grow physically? Lord knows I've done that.
Does it mean Grow in Accepting responsibility? I've done that. (at least I like to think I have).
Does it mean Grow in being able to drive, vote, own land? Again, been there, done that.
Yes, I have pretty much done it all when it comes to Growing Up but no matter how hard I try , it never seems that Growing Up can erase the feeling part of life which waits in the lowest corners of my bag of emotional needs and wants.
I am beginning to suspect in spite of Growing Up it's more than a choice we make to put ourselves into seemingly bottomless wells of despair, angst, hurt, and hardship. There is something in the wallowing and the woeing that we seem to be destined to do.
Maybe it's natural for us humans of 'little brain' and 'great emotional need' to continually and without remorse, place our mental health on the edge of the deepest blackest void we can imagine, absent of love , hope, or understanding.
I have often thought that if we as adults cried as long and as loudly with as much frustrated effort in order to achieve whatever goal is required to satisfy an infant's needs such as nourishment, comfort, and love, then we adults would be doomed to neurosis, dysfunction, and depression.
Maybe this state of darkness exists because we really don't travel far from being that helpless, needy, and fragile little life form that emerges from our mother's womb.
Think about it.
If what I have written is true, then few of us, if any, have truly left the cradle.
Thanks be to God that tears are silent and that they make no noise, no crashing or squishing as they roll out and down. They aren't even coloured. They give off no odor nor do they leave a mark after they dry.
It would be a strange world to be able to see their traces on people's faces as they walked down the street, or into work or school with tear stained cheeks full of colours perhaps like purple or even brown, or some other combination of that would have to wear off instead of being washed off. It would even be more interesting if they fell in patterns that revealed the emotion that triggered their being generated such as circles for regret, squares for love lost, spirals for a mournful and painful episode, and trapazoids perhaps for a combination of gratitude and happiness.
I wonder if tears did make a noise as they welled up and spilled over, would they make a crunching sound like a snow ball being rolled on a crisp winter's day or more like the incessant urgency of a pot of boiling liquid?
If they smelled, I bet they would smell like the hot tar on a parking lot at a beach in July. What if they were as sticky on the cheeks as that tar is on the toes?
The absence of colour, sound, and smell of those liquid drops of human emotion only assures me that we all have had them and will have them again.
It must also mean that it is really okay to shed some tears--privately or not--without having to explain or be ashamed.
So..go ahead..do it.
I know you want to.
I know I do.
I cried and cried and cried when I watched this movie. :( :(:(
The weekend of Canadian Thanksgiving has just ended.
As I look at that sentence I realize just how true it is for most people (myself included). I am referring to the fact that although most Canadians do give Thanks for our many Blessings that have been showered upon our citizens and country in what seems to be in a disproportional quantity compared to so many in the rest of the world; it is also true, that this feeling and outpouring of Thanksgiving does appear to end, sometimes abruptly , sometimes gradually as soon as the last of the turkey is carefully casseroled and the pumpkin pie crust has been quietly dumped into the the cat dish. This occurs inspite of the public displays of gratitude through feasting, card giving, family visits and all the activities as those occasions enfold with a degree of sincerity of the moment as is the utterance of Love Poems on Valentine's Day, Christmas Cheer in the Season, and solemn Remembrances on November 11.
I believe that this feeling of unbridled and humbling appreciation directed to One's idea of a Supreme Being , even if this Supreme Being is, as it is for some, One's Ownself, is in actuality very short lived.
I wonder what would happen to our attitude if we had determined that we observe not a weekend of Thanksgiving but, instead, a holiday that noted all the things we were Un-Thankful for.
Would we limit the Un-Thankfulness to only one weekend as we do now with the thankfulness following a Thankful weekend?
Instead of turkey and stuffing, we could serve Spam and Cabbage! Everyone would stay home, far from family and friends all the while listing all the displeasing habits and life choices they and others have made. We could rant about our governments, jobs, bosses, co-workers, and spouses. Pumpkin Pie would be traded for porridge without the sugar and the Horn of Plenty would be turned into a box of KD and wieners.
Would THAT be the solution ? Would we then be Thankful the rest of the year?
I bet this guy would be quite Thankful--quite Thankful indeed!
Not too long ago someone spoke to me about the lifestyle of those who live in rural Canada.
Their breathy awe filled voice spoke with phrases sprinkled with pastoral metaphors, odes, and similes when they described the abundance of Nature's Beauty, the Simplicity and Quietness of Daily Living, the Purity of Air and Water, the Relaxation, Freedom from Schedules and Traffic found in the Crime Free Rural Lifestyle, as well as the total Economic Freedom from Financial Burdens as a result of the Ability to Live Off The Land.
I let them speak. I let them fantasize. I let them think that the Nirvana type lifestyle in their mind's eye of country living was every bit as good as they dreamed. I did not contradict or explain, or 'point out', or correct.
I let them ignore the presence of 150 pound security dog in the yard , the building full of tools such as: chains, hammers from claw to sledge, generators, gas tanks, saws, wagons, ATV, snowmobile, axe and .22 rifle. The majority of these items my city friend would have had a hard time even naming let alone using with efficiency or safety.
I avoided discussion of sewer pumps, sump pumps, water heaters, and cut off valves. I did not point out the shed filled with cut and cured wood for winter burning.
I did not comment on the need for two well maintained , gas filled vehicles needing to be plugged in for at least 4 months of the year 24/7...one to drive..the other to pull.
The existence and frequency of the siting of skunks, snakes, raccoons, squirrels porcupines, coyotes, deer, moose and occasional bear along with lynx and cougar were not discussed.
The absence of mosquito control, pest inspectors, law enforcement officers, fire departments, water inspectors, plumbers, and electricians was not even touched upon.
Further to the conversations that did not take place, the incident of the neighbour walking 3 miles for help after his arm was caught in the baler, and his choosing to walk another mile even further as there were children playing in the first yard and he didn't want to upset them.
This non conversation also did not cover the subject of blocked roads in winter and wet and washed out roads in summer. Nor was the possibility that the hour long trip to the nearest ER ward over icy roads during a snow storm that looms in the back of every rural resident's mind from October to March, ever mentioned or hinted at.
I am not quite certain why so many subjects were not touched upon with my Fantasizing Urban Innocent. Perhaps it was because I liked the idea of someone from the City being a little envious of my Country Bumpkin ways. But more likely the cause was because, deep down, I was hoping against hope they would offer in some monetary way to trade living arrangements.
Alas, the offer didn't happen.
I am still enjoying my Pastoral Life free from Pollution, Crime, Social Pressures, and am able to partake of Nature's Seasonal Offerings that build Strength of Character and Instill Values that are so often the result of there being 'No Where Else to Go'.
I suppose the pleasure of country life lies really in the eternally renewed
evidences of the determination to live”--unknown
“The country life is to be preferred,
for there we see the works of God; but in cities little else but the works of
men. And the one makes a better subject for contemplation than the
other.”
It was a lovely trip. Blue skies. The gold of harvested fields. Balmy breeze. Pleasant company. Lots of interesting sites to visit and learn about.
My fall 'holiday' included many observations about life and lifestyle choices giving one pause to wonder just 'What is with that?' on more than one occasion.
For instance , the presence of a television at the side of a rural highway. It was difficult to determine if it was flat screened or not due to the speed of our passing, but it did have an intact chassis and the rabbit ears were not evident.
After a day of perusing art galleries, tourist attractions, and guided tours of museums and cathedrals, the most unusual item seen on that sunny cloudless day was an upright 14 ' aluminum boat situated in a grassy ditch, minus both trailer or owner; not to mention the total absence of water or fish.
The following day while continuing on our travels we were treated to another 'what is with that?' type moment as we noticed the frame of a gas Bar B Q on a roadside approach, fifteen or so miles from the nearest farm/ranch or town.
The who? what? why? of these objects will never be known; but if one was to dwell in the metaphysical meaning of such a sightings, perhaps one would note that the television was perhaps doing the watching of the public instead of the other way around. Hopefully it might have found the continuous , monotonous and relentless repetition of the 'reality' programming it would have been exposed to as vehicles passed, and passed, and continued to pass in a boring, repetitious, unchanging litany of sameness not unlike that which the drivers of those same vehicles have to endure as they sit and watch what passes as action and intelligence on televisions around the world.
I could guess that the boat in the dry ditch might be a symbol of the hopelessness of weather variances on the prairies or simply a sign of a fisherman's frustration after a particularly disappointing foray into a freakishly frustrating fishing fiasco.
For sure the presence of a Bar B Q on the open rural and treeless approach could be a sign of society's comment on omnivores and their eating habits. But I doubt it. It probably was more a sign of a broken tail gate after a Rider's Game--win or lose.
Yes, the sighting of all of the above can be stretched to fit some sort of weak metaphysical metaphor to describe the state of the world, but my last encounter with the culture that our society encircles is much more easier to understand.
It happened while waiting to transfer my baggage from one bus to anther on the last leg of my journey home. A woman came up to me and asked if I smoked. I replied in the negative. She then handed me her Bic lighter and asked if I could light her cigarette for her. I looked at the cigarette she held to her mouth and said, " It is already lit." She repeated again , " Light my cigarette, please." I repeated, "It is already lit." She looked down at the glowing cigarette and simply said, "Oh". She took her lighter from my hand and wandered away.
Nope, there is not a metaphysical meaning behind this strange encounter. There is, to my mind at least, an interesting 'Sheldon like' physical law behind it in the fact that there were two things already 'lit'--- even if only one was actually smoking.
James Ewart wrote: :: Patricia Verhelst > Regina Baby Momma's Group I am helping a friend out and asking everyone to help out! Could everyone, including you big kids, draw a simple picture of a rainbow and mail it to Patricia Verhelst Box 355, Radville, SK S0C 2G0 by next week and I will send them all in together. There is a little girl in Saskatoon who is sick who wishes to get a rainbow from everyone in the world...
This is in Canada...so that would have to be added on to the address..please and thank you. :)
When is the last time any one of us has received a hand written personal letter sent through the Post Office?
I am talking about a good three page letter written on all sides (and in the margins as my grandmother did) imparting antidotes of family activities and social events along with the opinions of the writer, sometimes with a political or moral judgment either blatantly or sublimely implied without fear of court action and 'without prejudice'.
There were days when 'friendly' letters written in pencil were accepted and expected in the "pre Bic" days of pens. Letters written with the traditional pen and ink were usually those of the 'business' type .
The envelope upon receipt would be just a little bit crinkled and worn from the long and arduous journey from its source...often having travelled a week or more from its origin to destination.
There were no Postal Codes. In fact, depending upon the recipient's character and length of stay in the community, one often only had to write the name of the town and province to assure correct delivery.
The letter would traditionally be written on white paper as would the envelope itself. No little extra stickers or cartoons would be placed on the envelope other than the stamp which would usually only be a reflection of the reining monarch's image.
There was quite a stir when my sister took a match and burned a little hole at one corner of the envelope and wrote "Hot news inside" at the end of a drawn arrow. Often post office workers would not deliver letters if they suspected anything other than paper was slipped into the envelope such as a small picture or magazine article.
Greeting cards were allowed to be delivered for a lower cost providing the card was unsealed.
Now, of course, we have email, texting, ecards, and social media. There is lots to be said of the instantaneous transmission of knowledge and consequent power that gives to society.
I do think , however, that society has also lost out on the the value that a handwritten letter signifies. A handwritten letter requires the writer to consciously set aside a moment of their day to actually think about the recipient (no mass emails) with regards to their interests and inclinations, or perhaps give a more direct answer to some previous query thus enhancing communication and ultimate understanding. More care in choosing the correct words (no text completion)as well as the time and concentration on actual letter formation and word spelling would help the whole process to be rewarding and appreciated.
I see a handwritten letter as a gift of time and thought from the sender. I see it as a moment in time that someone has taken out of their busy lives to actually sit down and have me in mind during the fifteen minutes or so to take pen in hand on chosen paper all the while actually concentrating on proper word choice and grammar, and then forming with care and flair their thoughts that they have chosen to share with me.
Yes some things have changed...and then again some haven't.
The annual fall migration of geese hasn't changed and hopefully never will.
One time offer: Write your address in the comments and I will send YOU a handwritten three page letter. I have paper and pen and stamps at the ready.
1. Why are we surprised even a little bit that a 22 year old woman married to a 69 year old man --a Canadian Senator no less--decides to drink too much and finally tells her husband of one year what she thinks of him. Yes it was unfortunate that she threatened to slit his throat while at the same time being aboard a commercial air flight over the Canadian Prairies. I do agree it was inappropriate and probably very upsetting to all who were present on the flight witnessing this domestic fiasco...but at the same time all I am stating is "Why is anyone surprised?"
2. The issue of William and Kate and her photographed bosom. Why are people so surprised re: the pictures of her mammery glands? Why do people have to look at 'her's'? Did they think she didn't have any? Were they supposed to be rare or different in any remarkable way in terms of number (an Anne Bolyn reference), colour (a tat or two?), form (square or triangular perhaps?). Or is it that society has not enough uncovered boobies to look at in many movies and/or television docudramas? And why, oh beautiful Kate, are you surprised that you were photographed at all? Do you think that you could actually bare all outside in broad daylight (no pun intended), in this day and age, without getting your upper torso focused on? It's hardly like you haven't had people take your picture before. I say put those things back in your room and close the curtains, and if they still get put on the National Post front page then you can sue.
3. Why are people so upset or surprised that the term Holiday Tree is going to be used? What is it about the water downed Christian mentality that believes that Christmas Trees and Santa Claus has anything remotely to do with the Virgin Birth of Jesus in a manger? I believe the Christians of the right wing fundamentalist ilk along with the Easter/Christmas funeral/wedding goers of the mainline churches are more likely the cause of the befouling of the traditional Christmas terminology applied to a tinselled and bejewelled, electronically lighted overgrown, domestically raised , chainsaw shaped, as well as sometimes plastic imitation of a coniferous tree supposedly brought down from the wild and natural woods that has been deemed the sacred symbol of Our Lord's Birth on Earth.
Christmas Trees have pagan roots. There is no where in the Christmas Story or indeed the Bible that states that Joseph along with that cute little drummer boy crawled up to the loft of the manger to drag down baubles, strung popcorn and candles to decorate an Olive Tree (no conifers were being imported at that time--plastic or recycled) to celebrate Jesus' birth. There weren't even any PRESENTS until the kings showed up ( about two years later) let alone any mention at all..ever..ever ...ever of some sort of magical elf that brought various items to symbolize love, value, and worth of the recipient ironically replacing the message of His being placed on Earth in the first place; and which would cause Joseph and generations of others ultimately to have to remortgage the ass (donkey) in order to pay for it all.
It is NOT our right as Christians to call it a Christmas tree...particularly when during the other 50 weeks of the year 80% of the Christians who celebrate Christmas neither read the Bible, go to church or live according to the teachings of Jesus in terms of loving kindness to neighbours at home or abroad.
Why hasn't this happened before this , this calling of a 'Christmas' Tree a 'Holiday' Tree you query? Is it because of all the non Christmas celebrating immigrants entering the Western World? Is it because of some immoral societal slide perpetrated by dark terrorists waiting to take over our faith and culture? I say neither of these are the reason, but rather it is because of the lackadaisical attitude and poor example of valued Christian living and forgiveness that neither fundamentalists or Easter/Christmas Christians have displayed. It is this outpouring of crocodile tears around the naming of something that is, in all likelihood, festooned with Made in Indonesia (by children) sparkled plastic, that makes people like Ben Stein and others rightly point out..."We Reap What We Sow".
No more camping for this year.
No more popcorn on the fire.
No more fish fried in butter.
No more marshmallows roasted.
No more fishing.
No more wood chopping.
No more beer drinking.
No more hooting of the owls, calling of the elk, honking of the geese.
No more watching for skunk or mink.
No more shimmering trees.
No more smoke in the eyes.
No more coyote howls.
No more Lesser Legs, Loons, or Grebes.
No more games of Dominoes under the stars.
No more reading by shoulder flashlight.
No more flies and mosquitos, hornets or bees.
What a beautiful September Friday afternoon. Hot and dry with just a slight breeze. Perfect weather for the farmers in the area, gardeners digging potatoes, and for students walking across campus lawns carrying books and thinking about their last class of the day as the first full week of lectures will have ended--unless they are of the same luck as I who had an 8 am Saturday morning AV (audio /visual) class for one whole semester.
I really miss those wonderful days of university with the beauty of the prairie with coloured leaves falling combined with the fly over and call of Canadian Geese flocking for their long flight south.
In fact, it has made me so homesick for those days that I have spent the afternoon perusing the University course on-line calendar, as well as exploring and comparing rates and meal plans of the on campus residences.
Imagining. Imagining what courses would be the the most interesting. Which would be the one that I would find the most intriguing--Astronomy? Psychology? or perhaps History? Would I still be able to sustain the required reading and discipline it would take to succeed, or would I tire of the novelty and regret the loss of freedom and money it would cost to reenter that hallowed ground of learning?
I imagine myself wandering the classroom buildings looking like someone's lost helicopter mother, or even an eccentric lecturer out of shape, out of mode, and foresure out of the younger set's realm of 'new' ideas. Would I be someone more to be talked 'through' rather than 'to'? Would the instructors be kinder? speak slower? give directions louder? if they saw me sitting peering at them through bifocals taking notes with actual pen and paper? ( A laptop still conjures a sleezy connotation in my mind).
It came to my attention during my calendar perusal that at the age of 65 one may attend and participate in bona fide-- for credit-- university classes for FREE!--no tuition fees to pay. These are the actual degree needed classes offered to the regular students--not some watered down home and garden variety that are aimed for the hobbyist-,the mildly interested or the simply curious, to be taken over three hour long sessions followed by coffee and snacks.
The leaves will still be crunched on campus sidewalks and the geese will still be flying and honking overhead five years from now, I suppose. Time will tell if I will be part of the crunching and the listening.
I've had a great afternoon dreaming of it all anyways.
Today is the first day of school. Mothers and teachers, students and bus drivers, and janitors are all going to partake of the ritual of excitement along with the determination to make this year the best.
Mothers thinking that they will take more time to make sure interesting and healthy lunches are packed , supplies bought and marked, and the budget for new clothes intact and used with care.
Teachers striving to choose the best practices in dealing with curriculum and behavior.
Students vowing to themselves to study more, make more friends, and make at least ONE team over the school year.
Bus drivers hoping to set the right mood for safety and happy times for their charges to and from their homes and places of education.
Janitors working hard to polish floors , dust classrooms, and clean windows all for the purpose of providing a healthy and clean environment for society's up and coming citizens.
In our house one of the things that somehow became a must became the annual 'after the 1st day of school tea' complete with china tea cups, personal tea pots, fancy teas, flowers on the table, snacks of sliced cheese, meat, and crackers, raw veggie plate along with cream filled doughnuts. Music was turned on the CD player.
The discussion would be about who got which teacher, class schedules, new kids in school, who had moved away and if there were any new kids on the bus.
As each of the four children graduated and left home there were fewer and fewer people around the tea table until at last there was only one left to catch that first day of school school bus. I had thought of perhaps asking someone over to fill a space at the table as it seemed that it would be rather a dull sad gathering with just the two of us trying to be gay and decadent in the silence of lonesomeness.
Someone else apparently had been thinking of that particular tea time as well, as one of the older siblings managed to make it home, unannounced, from her university class that day right on time for the very last of this household's First Day After School Tea Time.
Things you don't want to see or hear on a fishing/camping trip:
1. Guy with beer bottle and no life jacket climbing into a boat and roaring off to the other side of the lake.
2. A truck with 4 wheel drive (but not put into 4 wheel drive) stuck to its axles at boat launch.
3. A boat being paddled with a broken oar and broken motor.
4. A flipped boat floating amongst whitecaps across the lake in isolation--bereft of passenger (see #1)
5. A boater LEAVING the boat and swimming across the lake to shore. ( again see #1).
Things that are good to see on a fishing/camping trip: 1. Young man helping an elderly couple tow their boat to safety. (see #1 above).
2. A man and woman being profoundly nice, polite, and patient to each other (even chuckling) after getting truck stuck, having to paddle boat half way across the lake before being rescued, and locking their keys in the vehicle.We have pretty much assumed that they weren't married or otherwise related--probably just courting. 3. Wind and whitecaps on a lake can help you remember being 'Sea Side' in Great Britain.
4. Interesting to note that life jackets, fishing gear, cooler, gas and motor all survived the boat flipping and unescorted float to shore. (All were safely traveling with the boat tucked underneath--not one thing lost). 5. "Lost" and extremely stupid and fortunate boater was able to get to campsite unharmed in spite of 3 foot waves and strong winds. Hopefully he will tell the story to his grandchildren some day to explain why one should always a) wear a life jacket when boating, (b STAY with the boat in case of a mishap and probably the most important--not drink alcohol on a boat.
