A Forever Blessing

95th Anniversary


Tomorrow would have been, although I would rather say will be, the 95th anniversary of my Grandparents Edna and Edgar Dixon.

I cannot help but wonder about the happy bride and groom as they planned the modest wedding and family reception.  There seems that I once saw a picture of them sitting in a horse drawn cutter to be whisked away to their home on snow covered prairie ground.  I am not sure if they had their house already built by then but if not it was soon finished as by the following September my father was born in the family home.

It must have been so exciting to finally have gotten married as they were sweethearts even before Grandpa went overseas to participate in World War 1.  They were neither of them yet 23.  Young and in love with hopes and dreams and plans the same as any young couple today starting out.

All in all they had a pretty blessed marriage.  Three children were born and three children lived to adulthood.  Many grandchildren...16 in total-- called them Grandpa and Grandma and all lived for most of their lives within 15 minutes of their home.  Great Grandchildren were born as well. 

The farm prospered.  As new machinery became available combines, tractors, and automatic grain auger's were purchased and horses, binders, and thrashing machines were put to the side.  Gardens were planted on the top of the most clay soiled hill in the yard and water was hauled and weeds were scraped away by diligent hoeing.
Snakes sunning themselves on the back steps were annually tolerated as one carried milk pails and clothes from the line into the house.
 The cattle were 'let go' on the suggestion from the doctor after Grandpa had a 'heart' scare.

The living room tube radio was upgraded to one with transistors-- although the 'new' car...a Ford Comet did not have a radio but  it did have a clock with a minute hand instead.

Grandma could afford to have new dresses tailor made by the lady in town and did so for years although the tradition was affected somewhat with the predominance of women wearing fortral pants from the Eaton's catalogue.  There were a lot of whispers  and giggles of 'Come see.  Grandma is wearing pants." the first time she stepped into the porch in sharped creased black slimming slacks.

Dishes on the farm were washed in a washbasin on the kitchen counter and water was boiled on the stove.  Rinse water was poured directly onto the dishes and special tea towels were used for blackened pots and pans from the wood stove.  Clothes were hung out to dry or freeze as the weather would allow.  Water was collected in the cistern for washing clothes and drinking water  came from a well by the barn and kept in a pail in the porch with a dipper and brown stained cup beside it. Baths were taken in a tin tub and water from the cistern was pumped from a hand pump in the bathroom.


The coal furnace in the basement was changed to one that used oil.  The cook stove was switched to electric.  The wringer washer was never swapped over for an automatic even after the move to Town,  although for their 50 anniversary a clothes dryer was purchased by the family and installed while anniversary celebrations were taking place in the church basement.   For their 40th anniversary the family bought them matching  electric lamps for their bedrooms,  There had been a small gathering of just the three children and their spouses going over for an evening of visiting.

Black and white television became a reality after about 30 years and then a colored set was finally purchased upon moving off the farm.

Grandpa upheld the family tradition of acting as the Secretary Treasurer of the local country school as did his father before him until its closure in 1964.

They attended whist drives, box socials, school dances, church services, and went to town once a week on a Saturday--often picking up this granddaughter who had the duty of buying the groceries from the carefully written and exact list supplied to her from her mother, Groceries could be charged at that time so sending cash along with a child was not necessary.   

Health and prosperity followed the young couple .  Apart from some common ailments such as bunions, goutier, and high blood pressure both members of this faithful couple enjoyed a life of activity and general good health until they left left this earth

One trip to Winnipeg was made for a reason unknown to this granddaughter.  Winters were a time to crochet  or knit  for new grandchildren and grandpa spent many hours down in his little 'shop' doing woodworking projects.

Their marriage on the farm lasted over 50 years.   Grandpa left the family first and Grandma lived on in their town home for many years and finally moved to the nearby  Seniors Home.

They no doubt endured disappointments in life. They may have actually argued with each other.  Perhaps there might have been some serious worries and frustrations with finances, family worries, or neighbours, but if there were I have never heard anyone mention them. 

To me they were simply Grandma and Grandpa.  Their house was always a welcome and safe place to be and little did they know that 95 years after this special day in their lives  there would be a granddaughter writing about them and sending the message about them  out to whoever wished to read it.

November 10, 1922 was a very good day for Edna and Edgar but I would say that I too was blessed .


 

Tree Truth

We are fast approaching the Christmas Season.  The Season where Christians around the world demonstrate their faith and joy in the promise of rebirth and renewal that is inherent in this great and ancient religion.   It is the Season of Giving, Forgiving, and Thankfulness to which every Christian aspires.

There soon will be decorating, food preparations, gift buying, concerts, and trees.   Ah yes....the trees.  That traditional Christian Christmas icon that stands as a symbol of promise and eternal life with its ever green pine needles as well as fitting nicely into  several Biblical metaphors of strength, connectivity, and endurance .  Trees will serve as the focus of the Christmas Season and will have offerings of mysteriously wrapped gifts placed underneath to be given as tokens as love and friendship amid cheers of Merry Christmas echoing throughout the land. 

Nothing could be nicer.  Well almost nothing.

One thing that could be nicer would be the ceasing of Christians complaining that some people want to call their precious decorated trees Holiday Trees. 

I say to these Christians  Who cares?  If  I want to call the tree that I bring into the house...real or artificial a Christmas tree I will.  If the mayor of a city or councilman/woman wants to call it a Holiday Tree...who cares?  I certainly don't.   

What I do care about is the fact that the very same people who proclaim that Christmas is their festival,  basic to their religious beliefs, and part of their heritage forget that prior to having Christmas Trees as part of any Christian celebration the main duty of a Christian was to worship, pray, and spread the Good News.

Christians seem to have forgotten this far more ancient and traditional behavior.  One can sense this by how many empty pews there are in churches across the countryside on any given Sunday compared to how many Shopping Malls are open and filled to overflow with Seasonal shoppers.

It has long been my contention that if Christians truly want the decorated Christmas Tree to reflect the Christmas meaning then Christmas Trees should  primarily be sold from Church yards with the proceeds going to charity. Then they could be  called undeniably what they  are and  could actually serve to be part of the   Message instead of being an instrument for pseudo Christians to protest yet again against other religions and cultures.


Tree Truth:  I have never heard anyone say to me personally that a decorated evergreen tree  is anything but a Christmas Tree.  Then again I have not referred to a turban or a niqab as anything  other than what they are.  

Might there be a connection? 
 
 
 







 

A Real Day at the Beach

Living in a land locked part of the world  and seeing large bodies of water bigger than the bathtub was a cause for awe and wonder for this prairie child of the fifties and sixties. The first of this type of wonderment was Katepwa Lake located in the Qu'Appelle Valley on the northern portion of the Great North American Plains.

Water on most prairie farms was considered a treasured commodity in those years.   Eavestroughs draining into basement cisterns and  precious  water wells were monitored particulary during any hot dry period in the summer and consequently any frivolous water activity such as playing with the garden hose in the sandpile was not even within the realm of this child's imagination.
Keeping that in mind you can understand the thrill and anticipation that one felt when Mom would call out to the yard on a sultry hot July afternoon and ask, " Do you want to go to the lake?"  

While not being aware of time --being a child and all,  I suspect that we were packed up with towels, bathing suits, some sort of lunch of sandwiches, coloured beverage of Kool Aid in a jar, and maybe some cake within a mere, but seemingly as an eternity to a child, matter of twenty minutes. More likely than not Mom had made arrangements with another mom in the neighbourhood to come along or meet at the lake.

 The adventure would begin starting out on familiar gravel country roads and then proceeding to a ten mile black  ribbon of  powdered dust that just begged to be thrown in a swirling cloud by a car driven by a woman with a picnic in a cardboard box and three children neither belted  or 'chaired'  and more than likely climbing from front to back  jostling for the best seat and another one staring down a dreaded grasshopper that had 'flown' through an open window (as no farmer's car had air conditioning in those days).  

Suddenly the car would slow down and the road would become windy and narrow as we descended into the valley.  As the car turned the final curve we would see this huge body of water which stretched seeming endlessly nestled amongest the valkey hills.

 We had arrived!


 The car  would be parked as close to the gate as possible. Everyone got out with something in hand be it towels, sand toys, bathing suits or beach blanket.  Next stop  was the change house and out again as fast as possible hopefully not leaving anything important behind.   Then the mad run with bare feet burning on the sand as we ran towards shore. 

The beach area often was full of people with their own bags of towels, blankets, sun hats, radios, and umbrellas.   Mom would look for a shady spot even if it was only under a  a shrub and all the belongings would be dumped into a  dishelveled pile and off we'd run to the water to cool our sizzling feet.  No  precautionary suntan block was worn but maybe we would get some baby oil rubbed on to avoid sun burns and to envourage tanning.

There  would to be water slides, diving boards,  as well as docks  in the swimming area. Along with squeals and giggles from those already playing in waves and splashes. Actually getting wet took a few minutes. We would delve into the  cool liquid past our ankles gingerly, slowly tippy toeing into the water while examining the stones at the bottom, watching for snails or bugs, testing the temperature, trying to dodge splashes from other swimmers.  That stage lasted 10 minutes-- tops and then suddenly you found yourself  wet, running and jumping off the dock into water that was just deep enough that you could manoeuvre on tippy toes and safe enough that when Mom came to the watr's edge to make sure you weren't out 'too deep' you could truthfully say , "I am touching bottom." and wave with both hands.

Flipping and flopping, splashing and squealing, and racing up and down the slide,  jumping off the dock, messing around on the shore being alligators or lake monsters and burying companions in the sand all  made mayonnaise and tomatoe sandwiches with a   slice  of velveeta cheese taste mighty fine when it was time to have the picnic lunch.

The false rule that one had to wait an hour after eating was strictly enforced in those days so that's when laying on the blanket or looking for snails on shore occurred until the magic  60 minutes had passed.  This time there wouldn't be any hesitation when getting back in the water with  an already damp bathing suit.

The drive home in the dark would be quiet. Grasshopper forgotten, water glurking in one's ears, with sand in hair, between toes and under bathing suits,  wrapped in a beach blanket that still held the sun's afternoon warmth ,  along with that floaty feeling of still being in the water whenever you closed your eyes,  the car smoothly gliding over that soft dirt road towards home and bed  would lull you to sleep in spite of the odd annoying mosquito makes for a great memory  of a day I'd love to relive just one more time.  

Hired Men

I recently reread W. O. Mitchell's  'Jake and the Kid' which is a collection of short stories telling of the adventures of a prairie boy and the family's hired man on the Saskatchewan prairie during the 1940s and '50s.   For anyone who grew up in that era and geographic location it is a trip down memory lane bringing to mind the simplicity of life as well as the difficulties that prairie drylanders had to face,  having to rely on one's ingenuity, neighbours' aid, and just plain luck to thrive and survive. 
 
Our family also often had hired men during the seeding season and sometimes right through to harvest.  I am not certain how they came to be 'hired men'.  Perhaps they had placed an ad in the Western Producer or it was by word of mouth that Dad was able to get in contact with someone who would be willing and mostly eager to work on a mixed farm for low wages and room and board.
 
We had a wide range of  men coming and staying with us. They would be lodged either in the little house trailer in the yard , or in the basement bedroom , and sometimes even in the upstairs 'spare' room.  Some had  their wives and children  with them, which proved exciting for us kids to have another family live right in the yard.  Other men had strange and 'secret like' backgrounds.  Some seemed to have come from other small communities and others came from far away.  A few Hungarian refugees came over to the prairies to become hired men after the government trouble overseas during the mid 1950's.  Another fellow came from Switzerland.  He was traveling Canada to research which type of farm he was going to buy.  And yet another brought with him more than was expected; a gun and a bottle.  The last I heard was that he was serving 10 years for manslaughter.  There were no mandatory Criminal Record Checks in those days.  
 
I generally have happy memories of these temporary 'family members' that came in and out of our family home.  They often came along to social gatherings at the school or to visits with neighbours for an evening of playing cards.  Sometimes they would be left behind to assure that the evening's chores were done.  I vividly remember after a hot day at the lake  returning to the yard and seeing Jack standing under the  yellow porch light with  a white milk frothed pail in hand on his way to the cream separator.   When I think of it he probably had enjoyed his Sunday time alone in the quiet of the prairie away from prying family eyes with  the only work expectation being to milk the cow on time.

Sometimes these hired men not only worked on the farm but acted as makeshift babysitters.   I specifically remember tagging along with the Swiss hired man as he walked the fields stucking sheaves.  I was five at the time and  when a hail storm blew up  he put me into a stucke so I wouldn't get hit by the falling pieces of ice.   He stuck his head into the stucke too...him and the longest greenest fattest worm I have ever seen as well.

    I also sometimes had to make supper for the hired man if mom was called away to the city or couldn't be back in time.  Putting my 12 year old imagination to work it would be invariably  greasy fried eggs and brown beans on the menu , maybe accompanied by a can of ready cooked spaghetti and a bowl of ice cream for dessert.  What went through those poor men's minds when they found out they were at the mercy of a 12 year old cook and a frying pan after a long hot dusty day of  pulling a cultivator with a tractor without a cab is something one does  not probably want to imagine.  
 

Sharing a house with complete strangers was not always a great experience.  One fellow used to make such a mess in the washroom, mysteriously shredding bits of toilet paper all over the floor.  Some didn't take as much personal care in their hygiene but to be fair water from the cistern was a precious commodity  and baths were rare treats.  Usually their presence in the house was a quiet one.  Someone extra in the living room.  Someone else coming and going in the yard.  Sometimes they would get a visit from relatives, maybe even a long distance phone call once in a while.

There was one fellow, a never married bachelor of an age older than my parents, who slept in the basement  and  returned to the farm regularly for about three or four years.   He would pull into the yard, with the only  running Studebaker I have ever seen, in May and disappear to Town somewhere for the winter.   This lean and graying fellow would quietly come into the living room in the evening to watch television.  For some reason it became my habit to make coffee for him (instant) and bring it into the living room on a tray with cream and sugar.  After a few times of this little ritual between us, this  rarely speaking fellow on occasion would wait in the kitchen after supper and help dry the dishes when it was my turn to wash up.    This is the same fellow that caused a bit of a giggle when my sister and I spied him perusing the Eaton's catalogue which in itself  would not ordinarily be cause for a giggle  except that he was looking at the Lady Bra/Panty/Nylon/Girdle section of the catalogue.   We ran to Mom and told her.  I can't remember her comment but it is my distinct impression that the Eaton's catalogue was kept in the back cupboard after that.

I am sure that most times at the end of the harvest season Dad never heard of these transient workers again.  They sort of disappeared from my history and ultimately ended up making a life somewhere else perhaps in the next community,  perhaps they got work in the city, or perhaps they started their own businesses and had hired men of their own.

Other fellows became long time friends.  We would hear from them through Christmas cards and surprise visits.  One fellow more than once brought a bag of candy to the house at Christmas time.   The Swiss fellow brought his parents to visit so his mother could see a prairie sunset.   Another came to my mother's funeral after a 40 year absence.

The hired man was an integral part of the success of our farm  and many others as farm acreage grew with too much work for one man to cope with along with  machinery not big enough to do all that needed to be done so it could be done on time and in time for the right time.    These fellows worked long hours, for little pay with no benefits.  They rarely had a day off unless it rained. They slept where they were told and ate what was put on the table. They heard little praise for work well done and could risk losing their job if they decided to cultivate instead of harrow, drove the grain truck too fast or got the tractor stuck in a slough.   Sometimes they got paid regularly and sometimes they would have to wait until the quota opened.
One morning the neighbourhood was all astir as three of the newly arrived hired men on different farms had all disappeared at the same time. Some piggy banks from one of the farm family's had been broken into, and some tools had disappeared.  It seemed these fellows had had enough of Prairie Farm life and had taken off for greener pastures elsewhere. 


I do know that I benefitted from the having these men pass through my childhood.  I learned about geography and heard foreign languages well before many of my classmates.  I was even introduced to some foreign food recipes that were shared with my mom...try soured whole milk with sugar on it sometime...a Swiss delicacy.   I saw the value and respect given to anyone with a good work ethic and the consequences for those who did not.   I realized  also that not everyone had their own house and family. 

 Being a hired man in Saskatchewan  in the 50s and 60s was often the only choice a young man with limited education had when it came to employment but their contribution to the culture  and success of the community was every bit important as any politician, storekeeper, or school teacher of the day.

Some names I remember:  Chris, Don, Louis and family, Jerry, Delmar, Leo, Ed, Jack, Jimmy, Harry, Jim, and Hans. 

 
 
 













 

SNOW REASON!

SNOW REASON


Flakes of snow are drifting down
Upon the earth that once was brown.

Slowly falling  soft and thick
Some are slow and some are quick.

Some fly upwards and then fall down
Some fly sideways upon the ground.

A coat of white from a painter's brush
Could not cover like Nature's touch.

Piling high  in icy swirls
Making sculptures of shining swirls.

White as white but not clearly so
As sun's shadows grey the snow

Would it be so bad to know
That rainbow colours could be snow?

Red in ditches. Orange on walks
Indigo  on every block.

Trees all covered in Yellow's shine
Violet rivers would look Devine!

Rocks of Orange and snowdrifts Blue
Snow banks could be of every hue.

Snow ploughs blowing rainbows 'round
Covering winter's frozen ground.

If only snowflakes were coloured bright
The sky of snowfalls would bring delight!






Like the feathers

A BAD GUEST

We were surprised by a  late evening guest in the yard last night. 
We hadn't seen it arrive mainly due to its  imperceptible cloak of grey. 
 
It arrived in an ominous and heavy silence bit by bit, inch by inch.
 Before we knew it it was here, in the yard, at the threshold, looking through the windows, tracking in the door.

 Like the true bad guest it  dominated the rest of the evening's conversation. 
 We asked each other ' When will it go?' 
 'How come no one told us it was on its way?'
'If we had only known , we would have been somewhere where it couldn't come."

And like the true bad guest ,  it will stay longer than desired, make a bunch of extra work, and leave a big mess when it goes.

Christmas Past

The  red trucks drove down the country road followed by the ambulance and police cruisers.  Strangely silent. No  flashing lights. No sirens. Hardly a hint of haste. Only headlights that were needed  were visible in the fast approaching dimness of a mid winter cloudy afternoon.

 They were the last of the vehicles that trailed behind the dark coloured hearse which travelled a bit faster and with more urgency .

The country neighbours watched from their porch balcony doors commenting quietly as they texted their family members and other neighbours to report on the latest happenings 'down the road'.

*********************************************************************************

It had been a dreary day all round.  Hopefully the plough would be down the road in a couple of days.  Things always seemed to take so long over the holidays.  Although she really had no real need to have the road ploughed.  Everything she needed was right in the house.  The deep freeze was well stocked with meat and vegetables.  The canned goods pantry was almost filled to overflowing.  The wood bin was full with dry seasoned poplar.  Poplar that had been seasoned two years which in fact made it a joy to start with just a few coals at the bottom of the grate; that could throw heat right to the top of the attic in 15 minutes if one wanted to warm up the mouse nests that were built along side the brick chimney.


The last few days had been very quiet in the small  semi isolated farm house.  Being 2 miles off the main highway and the last house on the grid made passing traffic very rare and actually quite startling when one saw the rare lights from a hunter's truck or the sound of an ATV rambling over cultivated fields.

She looked out across the shrouded field engulfed in the dark of an early winter's evening and remembered the time he had gone into town on such a night and she had been left behind.  That had been the night that she had seen lights whirring around and around the  same stubble field and had become quite alarmed not knowing what exactly the lights meant; not knowing about snowmobiles and where the far roads led.  A time long passed .  An occurrence never again repeated.

Walking back through the kitchen, she examined once again the cleared cupboard surface, glanced up at the sole kitchen light in the middle of the ceiling before she flipped the switch creating yet another dark space so seemingly early in the day.

Guided by the faint light from her bedroom she made her way mainly by feel towards the bathroom where she prepared for bed.  All was quiet.  The television had been shut off early in the afternoon.  No radio sounds with twinkling carols and sweet yarns of some stranger's sticky Christmas memory intruding this evening.   Just quiet.  Just the silence.  Just the memories.

The sheets in the bed were cool and she wiggled her legs and toes to bring warmth.  Then she remembered that she had not put wood in the stove.

Crawling out of bed with a soft groan, turning on the harsh light in the hallway she made her way back to the living part of the dark house. With the help of the dim light in the basement stairwell she found her way down to the wood stove.   She opened the metal lid and saw that there was hardly even the slightest glow of embers at the bottom.  Taking the metal poker she stirred the ashes hoping to revive the doleful gloomy sparks into something to  help contribute to the starting of a fire.  Placing the split poplar wood layer upon layer over the embers she reached down and opened the door at the bottom of the stove wide open to allow the air to pull a draft through the meagre sparks in order to start a real fire faster.. 

She left the door open and went back upstairs.   She would return later to close the door when she heard the whooshing of the air traveling up the chimney, part of which was situated right in her bedroom.

Cuddling down in a ball she lay there in her bed listening for the chimney sounds. She could hear the wind coursing through the evergreens just outside her window.    She thought of other Christmas Eves.  Christmas Eves of huge meals in the kitchen and candle light shimmering from garlands hanging from the ceiling.  Christmas Eves of games and 'little' presents. Excitement and picture taking under the tree. The  hanging of stockings , cheese balls, and punch bowls.  She closed her eyes and thought of the times of Santa and the  soft tip toeing as presents were put under the tree.  

She could hear something.  A horn? An alarm?  Surely not time to get up yet. No alarm was set. Probably just a dream.  Ignore it.  Probably some snowmobilers roaring around on Christmas Eve.


 

The Heartbeat of One--Hallowe'en Edition

The light was fading and the trail was getting harder and harder to see. 

 She rued that she had not taken the flashlight from the back of the car. 

 Flashlights always seemed so cumbersome but as  she shifted the weight of her backpack from her hip to her shoulder while half stumbling over a muddy rut , she thought  of the fully charged red emergency 'lantern' as her father called it sitting unused but not unneeded a fifteen minute walk away in the opposite direction.  

 She quickened her pace as the roof of her destination could be seen through the tops of the trees.

The 18th century wooden house was set two miles from the main highway on an unused dirt road.  A  mere trail would better describe the  grass covered route. How it could be considered a road on the computer map was beyond her or anyone's guess.  But she had  finally arrived , flashlight or no flashlight, road or no road.

The two story  structure had only two windows on the ground floor and two on the top. A  door faced the approaching path.  The windows seemed to gape wide eyed and dark as she approached the door and took out the key that had been sent  to her  along with the directions in the mail.  That was a few short dsys ago after she had placed the ad on Kijji Real Estate Section for Out of town property.

The key slipped in easily and as she turned the lock there was just the slightest resistance and then a click and the door swung inward into the darkness beyond.

Grasping her backpack strap she stepped in and slid her hand along the inside wall searching for a light switch or panel.  None could be found.  Her eyes gradually became used to the grey light inside and she  could  make out a the shape of an cosl oil   lantern on a shelf not far from the entrance.

  She placed her knapsack in the doorway stoop to hold the door open to let in the dimming evening light .  She walked towards the lamp.  Taking out her lighter, being grateful for her smoking habit, she removed the glass from the lantern and touched the lighter flame to the wick.  

Light in the form of a fading arc shone from the flame. 

As her eyes grew accustomed to the pale glow she became aware of an unease that perhaps was due to the damp and cold that seemed to surround her .  She raised the wick in the lantern and as she did so the light grew brighter but the dampness seemed to became colder .  She sensed a movement of air across her face as she leaned over to pick up her backpack which allowed the door to close slowly and without sound.

  Picking up the lantern she proceeded to explore the room where she found herself.  The floor was of a dark wood.  The room itself was bereft of any evidence of furniture or even usefulness.  There were no obvious clues to determine its past useage be it kitchen, living room or a combination of both.  There was a doorway in the far corner and with lantern and knapsack in hand she walked over and discovered a curving stairwell leading to the second floor. 

She started the climb upward.  The  wooden stairs were worn and cut so as to accommodate the circular design of the stairwell . Therefore she could not see the top of the stairway until she was only a few steps away.  The lantern light seemed to fade as she climbed higher until the  light from the waning flame dwindled to nothing until only a weak orange glow remained at  the precise moment her foot touched the top landing. 

 She looked downward  at the stairwell and was tempted to return but  as she could only see an enveloping darkness combined with what seemed to be an actual  encroaching mist now instead of the intense dampness that was felt on the main floor she decided against it.

She sensed rather than saw the outline of a window about 10 steps away . She carefully, with one foot sliding in front of the other, approached the outline.  She tightly clinched her knapsack in her fist  as she peered through the dirty window pane.  She saw only the forest that surrounded the building and the faint trail that brought her to it.

There seemed nothing left to do but to stare out of the window and wait and watch.

  The darkness grew deeper. 

 The lantern grew cold inspite of concentrated efforts to relight it with the  lighter.

  She felt rather than saw the mist wrap around her. She began to feel a  deep and penetrating chill. 

Taking out her cigarette pack she decided that at least the burning cigarette would provide solace as well as a bit of warmth against the seemingly insidious moistness that even started to cause a dampness on her clothes and made her grip on her knapsack wet to the touch. 


Time dragged on.  She decided to sit down and wait until daylight as she daren't try to manoeuvre that now slippery circular stairway in the blackness.

The darkened silence that settled in the building  was strange to someone who was used to city lights and sounds.

  That quietness of one that makes the individual believe that they are the only living thing in existance fell upon her. 

 That quietness that allows one to hear their own heartbeat and their own breathing .  The intake of air and the body's momentary stillness followed by the inevitable explusion of warm C02  and smoke became oddly comforting to her.

  She could almost believe she wasn't alone and that she had a living breathing companion  near her in the dark. 

   She put her dying cigarette  out on the cool moist floorboard. 

 In spite of the chill she slept.  She dreamt of warm  sunshine on a  beach. The  dream was so real that just for the slightest moment she felt the pressure of something coarser than sand  pressing over her body and neck.   She seemed to be caught in the strap from her knapsack . She struggled to free herself ...but for only a moment.

What was that red flashing light?






The newspaper article stated that the cause of the fire was attributed to careless smoking.  The victim's name will not be released. 


In other news, the authorities reported that an abandoned car was found in the same area of the fire.  They noted that a  red lantern type flashlight was found blinking on the front seat of the car by a passerby.  Anyone who has information regarding the whereabouts of the owner are asked to call their local police.

Library of Love

Assignment 2

“I wasn’t planning on this. Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted. Because I know our time would have to come to end. Yet, here I am, begging you not to turn the page.” Who is the speaker and who is the speaker talking to? Finish the scene.



"I wasn't planning on this. Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted.  Because I know our time would have to come to end.  Yet, here I am, begging you not to turn the page." She whispered softly. Her breath hot on his gilded leather jacket.

"Must I illustrate to you the danger of this relationship? You know  I must finish this.  It isn't right to any of those involved.  I am being sought.  This chapter must end."

"Please no.  I beg of you.  We could make it work." she persisted as she held him close. .

He  shrugged her cloying fingers from  his supple spine and turned away as he stared up at the shelves on the far wall.

"My future is not here but in higher places.  I cannot go on any longer."

"But my darling, we have kept away from prying eyes for so long now.  I have carried you close to my soul for weeks. Please let us keep this chapter going." , she said as she stroked  the cover of his jacket. 

Resolutely he pulled away.  "You are tearing me apart!  Please stop!"

"It is your Title isn't it?  You worry about your Title!"

He slipped out of his jacket  and fell to the floor.

 Finally  he was away from her grasp. 

"Read my lips." he shouted.  "It is finished.  It is THE END."

There was only a quiet hush. 

A pause.

 A sigh. 

And then she helped him up and gently placed him back in the  library -- three shelves up.

Ivanhoe  was finished . 

She would never touch him again.  The book was closed.  The chapter ended.

After a few moments she glanced along the rows of books and she saw  an interesting title and reached out.

"Perhaps ...this time." she thought as she gently placed her long and delicate fingers around the cover. As she slowly and lovingly pried the pages open  she sat down on the window seat where the morning sun highlighted her glowing face as her rosebud lips repeated the title over and over and over...

."..Tom Sawyer....Tom Sawyer."

Canadian Election

Election time is   nearly here
Hopefully the result will soon be clear.

Our country's future is greatly at stake
How many seats will each party take?

Steven or  Justin? Tommy  or May?
I think it will be a mixture at the end of the day.

Oil and gas worries, headdresses and fear,
Refugee crises and trade wars draw near.

This time next week the deed will be done
All the signs and billboards will  all be  as one.

Piled in a heap for the Hallowe'en  fire
Let us hope that the rest of the country isn't put out for hire.

 









 

Turtle Wise

They told me seeing a turtle on your wedding day would bring good luck and I didn't argue.  One did not argue with one's future in-laws but I just wish they hadn't tried to prove it. 

It was a glorious day.  Beautiful fall leaves decorating trees, lawns, and roadways.

All was ready.  Bridesmaids and flower girls adorned in their finest matching outfits.  Best men clean shaven with fresh haircuts and bow ties.  

The reception area was festooned with balloons and flowers.  We had gotten a 'deal' from my future husband's second cousin's sister on the use of the reception area.  She arranged the rental of a small town's hall just outside the city limits for a really modest price. 

 The delicate aroma of the carefully prepared  luncheon of chicken salad croissants and lightly spiced cabbage soup wafted over the dining area tables set with Royal Albert Chinaware of the Pettipoint design. The covered chairs  were set precisely in front of each place setting awaiting the arrival of the 30 invited guests.

The ceremony was lovely by anyone's standards.  The soloist sang beautifully. The bride was exceptionally lovely if I do say so myself, and the groom was especially handsome.  After the "I do's" were done and the deed was signed we dutifully walked down the aisle into the fresh autumn air  to an awaiting Limousine where wine was being chilled and the kisses would be hot.

Just as we were whisked away amidst  hearty congratulations I noticed a small package beautifully wrapped in gold foil and blue ribbon sitting on the seat beside me.  I thought immediately that it must be a gift from my true love, my most recent husband.  'A Token of love Devine' no doubt. 

I cuddled closer to my newest "Raison D'etre" and shook the package gingerly while sipping on the red wine.  He claimed that he had no idea of what was inside and nor had he had any idea  from where the package came.   But I all knowingly suspected that it was just merely a playful love ruse to add to the excitement of the day.

I teasingly took the parcel and placed it under my sweet loved one's nose and he gently but firmly pushed it aside.  I shook the golden nugget once more and could hear a light thud thud sound.  'Hmmm...not  anything that is actually attached  ...so it probably isn't jewellery.'I thought. 'Interesting.'

I glanced out the window of the Limousine to see how close we were to the reception hall.  It looked like the driver was taking the long way through the suburbs. 'Typical.' I thought. 'Taking the slow way to pad the fee.'

I  slipped off the seat and gingerly leaned over trying not to get my dress caught between my feet and the floor and  verbally indicated that we were only obliged to pay the previously agreed upon price for transport from the church to the reception and that we would like to get to said reception as soon as possible with no dallying.  The driver assured me that he would pick up the speed and consequently made a sharp turn and proceeded towards the speedway.

As there were no more than fifteen minutes of travel left in our journey to the festivities,  I daren't not get my hair mussed so I placed the brakes on the kisses and focused again on the package of gold.

It was about the size of a block of butter.  I carefully removed the ribbon and then slowly and precisely picked at the little pieces of tape until the golden paper fell to the floor and revealed a purely white satin like box with a hinged lid. 

I knowingly winked at my new husband as he gazed at me with love filled eyes and then I flipped the lid.

There it was.
Staring at me eye to eye.
Blinking slowly.
Mouth gaping. 
 Feet slowly wiggling. 
A live Turtle!

Over the sound of the screams , which turned out to be mine, I could hear laughter.  Hysterical laughter. It was the type of laughter that takes away the person's breath so that there was also a sound of gasping combined with a laughter  so loud and raucous that  it made even the limousine driver turn to see what the commotion was about.

Charges of involuntary manslaughter are taken quite seriously in our country.  The jury it seemed just didn't want to understand why it was apparent that the turtle was caught in my sweet, sadly departed, husband's throat in spite of the fact that the  driver had hit the brakes to avoid hitting a rabbit that had run in front of the vehicle.  The driver said he had been momentarily distracted by the strange sounds from the back of the limo.


Now I am doing 10-20 in Federal Prison.

 Stupid Rabbit.




My assignment was: Start your story with “They told me seeing a turtle on your wedding day would bring good luck” and end your story with “Now I’m doing 10-20 in federal prison. Stupid rabbit.”

 

NEIL YOUNG - OLD MAN

Senior Moment

On a recent post on a Social Media Site there was  cartoon of two unicorns watching the Ark sail away in the distance.  The caption below it  read, "The Original Senior Moment".
 
This brought to mind some recent incidents that I have  begrudgingly been able to pass over as Senior Moments mainly because the people involved never had set eyes on me before nor would they ever again.   The first incident was when I decided to take a tour of an Historical Brewery while on vacation.  When I walked into the establishment I saw that there were about 15 people gathered in a huddle listening intently to who appeared to be  a costumed guide.  I immediately ran up to join the group and found myself suddenly being intercepted by a uniformed person who informed me that while I was correct in the fact that the tour had already started I had to first pay at the cashier's outlet down the stairs and to the left.  After I  had paid the $23  the cashier told me they would let me know when the next tour would begin approximately 20 minutes hence.    I sat quietly on the bench designed for waiting tourists and  proceeded to take out my treasured  novel and decided to pass the time reading.   A while later I happened to look up and there up on the balcony again was another group of people paying rapt attention to the same previously mentioned historically costumed tour guide.  I had missed the first few minutes of the tour and had to hasten to put away my book and run up the steps.  I felt the eyes of the security guard on me once more and caught the rapid glances between tour guide, guard, and cashier before I was included in the group and finally guided forward into the depths of history.
 

 
This same feeling of  as the French would say " walking beside myself" occurred as I lined up at Timmies to order a much needed beverage and a little snack.  While standing dutifully in a moderately long line (less than 10 more than 5) I examined the menu  lit up high above for all to see.  I idly started to imagine and compare several choices and combinations of choices based on calories, tastiness, cost, and most importantly ' chances that it would be good' when I felt a soft and tender tap on my shoulder.  Thinking that perhaps there was someone in the establishment that I knew I turned around with a smile and was surprised ( and not unpleasantly so) to see that it was a nice looking ruggedly handsome young man who had tapped my shoulder.  I was understandably curious to know why he had  felt he had to catch my attention and in response to my quizzical look he pointed to the cashier while commenting that she had been free to take my order for several seconds.
 
I immediately sauntered quickly over to the counter to order while apologizing.  I  recited my order and paid for it dutifully.  The person who took my order seemed to suddenly disappear. I assumed she  had gone to  prepare my request so I again focused on the menu flashing above and waited.  Finally after quite a while it seemed, the server was standing in front of me. She explained that my order was at the end of the counter and would I please move along so others could place their orders? 

 Perhaps this is a case where a Senior Moment becomes a Senior Minute, or what might better be more accurately described as a Senior Quarter Hour.


 Senior Moments can be a bit embarrassing while being the cause of some confusion for not only the Senior but also to those around them.  These 'Moments" are no doubt happening more and more every day and in every way as the population ages and medical advances allow this population more interaction with people of 'youth'. I am referring to those who cannot explain away their own random acts of mental lapses on the confusion of age.

The members of the  population who have not  yet achieved this license of guilt free social faux pas have only their overuse  and abuse of drugs or alcohol intertwined with their limited IQs or life experience on which to blame their less than socially acceptable behaviours.

Take for example the young, beautiful , nubile, and otherwise intelligent example of femininity who admitted to me that she had gotten massively drunk at the bar and had made out with an 80 year old.  

 Yes, this seemingly unseemly example of what happens when you are  a young person who has drank too much might seem distasteful to some.

But I bet it was 'somekinda ' Senior Moment/Minute/Quarter Hour for that 80 year old. 

 In fact, I wouldn't doubt that his family can find him hanging around that bar a lot just to see if he can experience 'deja vu'--another type of  phenomena that has been used as an excuse for even more and varied Social Anomalies too numerous to mention at this moment--Senior or not.


Have you ever had a Senior Moment you would like to share? 




 

Ripple Effect

 Today I witnessed something that brought a tear to my eye not only because it was an act of care and  love and value of family,  but also because it brought to mind the never ending consequences of a similar event that occurred 75 years ago.   An event which was motivated by determination and bravery and value for the future generations.  An event  which if it had not   proven successful might have made the occurrence of today's  happening an impossibility.

We went fishing and camping this weekend at our local semi isolated spot.  I describe it as isolated but in actuality it is not too  " Far from the Maddening Crowd " if  one counts the arrival  of  numerous boats, owners, and trailers all in various states of repair, age, and rust. 

  It being the weekend of Father's Day there were several couples of younger men and older men out for their obvious obligatory time of togetherness  on  the recent Friday and Saturday evenings.  

 Last evening one  of the younger men was particularly chatty and seemed to approve of our camp site and cheery fire.  When this same young man and his father returned today to launch their small  14 foot aluminum boat with 9.5 hp boat motor, it was only mildly surprising that this time  they also came with lawn chairs and cut fire wood in the hull.   Upon further investigation (via binoculars) we noticed that this couple had taken their boat to a part of the lake accessible only by boat, which had  a sandy shore and proceeded set up a fire pit and a circle of chairs.   We  watched with interest as two cars arrived on the edge of the lake and several people got out with coolers, babies, and life jackets in hand and stood on shore waving to our 'picnic ready' Pop and Son duo.

Then we watched as the small boat made its way laboriously across the lake towards the shore where the waiting hoards awaited and proceeded to load as many passengers as the captain deemed safe and motored back across the lake to the sacred and well prepared picnic site.   It took three trips back and forth before everyone was safely on solid 'sand'.  Three hours later we watched as the same procedure was repeated only in reverse.  Finally a fourth trip was observed to bring back lawn chairs and coolers.. The captain had to load the  boat on the trailer at the dock and  then travel back home again  for work tomorrow.

  I am sure all involved were  accompanied with memories of happy times and sandy shoes to dream about and discuss with glee at the next gathering of the clan.


While I was watching this procedure of loading and unloading I thought of the care, attention, and determination of the Captain of the boat as he picked up family members and took them safely to their destination.  It occurred to me that the success of today's activity was probably motivated by the same type of values inherent in  the Captains of the hundreds of little boats that travelled over the English Channel to Dunkirk to rescue the Allied Soldiers some 75 years ago. The operators of so many family fishing boats like the one I saw today, which were en route to Dunkirk traveling the 20 miles across the Channel, were driven by the recognition that there was no question that they had to brave the strait in order to  help accomplish their goal to stop those who would challenge the freedoms we still enjoy  and sometimes take for granted.

  The freedoms to which I refer are inherent in such expression of family values, duty and, respect that was able to be demonstrated by today's captain and his 'evacuees' . 



Today was a balmy sunny day at the lake . 
 
The days of the Evacuation of Dunkirk were shrouded in fog. 
 
Ironic?
Perhaps. 
 
Accidental?
Not Likely.
 
 
 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunkirk_evacuationDunkirk


 

Big City Attitude--Melville, Saskatchewan

 In the early evening of  January 17, 2015 a friend of mine, a woman  who is of obvious Native Ancestry walked into a Melville establishment where there are Video Lottery Terminals.  She went straight to  the VLT machines and sat with her back to the rest of the room. She was aware  that there was a  table of other people sitting not far from her but she paid no attention to the group and focused on playing the VLT machines as she had done in the past to pass a quiet January evening. She was the only one at the machines.






After a few minutes she heard one of the males at the table behind her say " What ? They let Indians in here now?"




My friend felt her face turn red with shame and embarrassment.  She told me that she just kept staring at the VLT  as she relived those moments years ago when she sat in an all white school hearing the teacher read from the Social Studies text about savage wild Indians living in North America.


My friend wanted to leave but felt that perhaps if she just ignored the comment she would avoid any further barbs thrown her way.  She said she didn't even want to move or draw any more attention to herself.  She said that fear was the biggest emotion she felt while she was sitting there.  She was worried that if she left maybe she would be followed.  She was worried that if she confronted the racist speaker he would find out where she lived, find out what kind of vehicle she drove,  or harass her even more in some other unknown way. So she just sat at the VLT and pretended that she hadn't heard the slur, although she did text her partner in the next town telling him what she was experiencing.




 A few moments later another comment came in the form  of  " First time I've been in here that there aren't any Squaws." from the same voice behind her.   My friend said she heard some  whispered 'Shs shs' coming from other people at the table  and  someone whispering  "She's right there....."


It was about this time that my friend's partner arrived as a result of the text he had received.  They left  the bar together immediately without further incident or comment from anyone at the other table.


One may think that the incident ended there.  The victim left the building.  The main bully and his counterparts continued their evening at the bar.   There was no confrontation.  Just a few little harmless comments for laughs.  No big deal.




Wrong!




  An innocent person was made to feel uncomfortable and fearful due to the mere fact that they walked into a public place alone. An innocent person felt so  trapped and vulnerable in a public place  that they had to call for support  outside of  the building not sensing that anyone in the building could be counted on for support.  An innocent person has to now take the memory of this attack and  process it enough to ensure that if will not affect other choices she makes when it comes to her freely choosing to go out in public alone  for fear of something like this will happen again.


 
This incident was a racially motivated attack  with a victim and  perpetrators.  I use the plural here as the people who were sitting at the same table are every bit as responsible for the situation as the one who was actually making the comments for  "If you aren't part  of the solution you are part of the problem."






I always used to think that Melville was just a small city with not much to make it stand out from any other small city.  But in light of the above incident and the recent labeling of Winnipeg as the most racist city in Canada I guess Melville has more Big City Ideas than I first thought.

A Journey that Changed My Life

A Journey that Changed My Life










There is a contest on the radio that invites participants to write about a journey--a journey that changed their life to be precise.










Now not being anyone who has travelled much, often, or recently it seemed to me, at first flush, that this contest was way beyond my life experience non fictionally or even fictionally for that matter.




I thought of writing about the day that I followed the cat around the countryside forcing my mother and several neighbours to start considering cutting down 100 acres of barley thinking that my four year old little lost body was sleeping somewhere in the middle.


  By the way,  I learned that cats do catch quite a few mice daily ...but as I couldn't count as yet I have no accurate calculation of just how many.  






I thought of discussing the day that I journeyed to my grandmother's house on my tricycle  over 2 1/2 miles of dirt country road.  I learned that the next time I did that I would be in quite a bit of trouble if I didn't tell my mom first.   I also learned thanks  again to my mom that one must drive on a certain side of the road as indicated by the pink ribbon that was permanently tied to the right? hand side of the handlebars.




Another journey that comes to mind is the day that my older sister and I, while riding double bareback on our favourite horse across  pastures and unbroken fields to the nearest country school,  fell off. I started falling first  and then due to my 'hanging on'  to my sister,  her following.   As a consequence, both of us were late for school  as walking with horse on the rein is not nearly as efficient transportation wise as riding the  horse.


 The lesson learned from this journey came from   Dear Sis which was quite well impressed upon me for all time  and it sort of following the philosophy of Let Go and Let God...especially if you feel you are falling.












Then it occurred to me that I did visit the British Isles about 45 years ago and that perhaps I did have a bona fide journey to recount.

I did fly to the Bahamas that following Christmas  and I did  fly to California within the same twelve months.












I traveled alone for the most part.










I planned the trips by myself in that I purchased the tickets, decided when, where, and the how of getting to and from the airport, made  necessary hotel arrangements through a travel agent and purchased the necessary (in those days ) Traveller's Cheques  and filled out copious  passport forms.












I figured out how to use various currencies, ask for directions usually more than once  due to not understanding accents and different terminology, and to finally figure out how to use the London Underground without getting too lost, trapped, or 'falling in front of the 'bloody  train'' by watching others and reading the coloured signs.










I learned that getting food poisoning in a foreign country really makes you appreciate your mother more and that no matter how much you wish you were home you have to make the best of the situation regardless of how many times your bodily functions betray your youth and health.








I also learned literally that if you do "Let Go" and  fall off a horse  (rented) you have to get up and climb back on and ride it back to the Office because walking back with a crushed knee would have been more painful than  efficient in light of the heat and terrain that would have to be crossed.








 Yes, I journeyed  a lot that year.  I met many many different people from all over the world--Australia, South Africa, Germans, Americans, Great Britain, and Holland.


 I learned to cope with a varied cross section of cultural norms and 'misnorms'.   The women who washed 'all over' in the public washrooms, the dangerously overcrowded nightclubs with only one exit,  the humble but adequate housing of the regular Briton, and the children selling Conch shells to tourists are just a few.






Did my journeys of that year change me in any ways that were important?  Did they affect my future life choices,  change what I value in life or make me a better person in any way?








I like to think so.




I learned that North American culture is not necessarily the be all and end all.  I learned that there are many people who are very happy and content with living with less than what would be a standard fare here in Canada.







I learned that in general people just want to get along the best they can by taking joy where they can find it,  lend a  hand to a stranger when they are asked, and live  in peace as much as possible.












I also learned that one should never--ever--drink the cordial made from horse trough water-- no matter how tasty it looks or how thirsty you are.

Bowing ..I Hope Not ...to the Absurd

We are in the midst of typical winter weather where frost hangs on the trees with every bit of tenacity as it does on windows and windshields; where the  sharp and inexplicable sound of  a nail being 'pulled' in the middle of the cold dark night can jolt one awake with same burst of terror that one has when awakened by a door slamming or something falling to the floor *.  You know something wakened you but you are quite sure what it was.


It is the type of cold that makes the butter hard in the cupboard, the cloths that one has wedged into the edges of the door  freeze onto the jam, and the wood when placed on top of the glowing embers start to flame even before one finishes filling the stove. 


 It is the type of cold that harkens a cloud of frost filled air to follow anyone who returns from the  outside   become a fog bank of ice and frigidity whose chilly fingers scurry over the floor  seeking warming solace in the feet, legs, and ultimately  spine of any living being six feet from the door  resulting in goose bumps and shivers to its host.


It is during this type of cold that one can only be thankful that wood  and  fibreglass are reasonable
insulation and that the discovery that air between two or three  panes of glass can ward off both wind and freezing temperatures.   It is truly a marvel indeed that within a space of about 6 inches  the destiny of human life is allowed to survive and even thrive in sub zero temperatures.


It is one of these types of cold days that I chose to stop in for a midmorning coffee at a neighbour's unannounced .


It was one of those winter days where footsteps crunch, frosty breath lurks around one's head and quickly freezes the 'all hairs' of one's facial features.


  It was one of these winter days that  I left my vehicle, climbed noisily up the steps of the deck and  I pushed the doorbell and heard the welcoming call of  'Come In the Door Is Open'. 


 It was one of these winter days that I  opened the frost jammed door with a bit of a jerk and went inside  and was immediately accompanied by a cloak of foggy  ice crystals as the cold air met warmth. 


It was one of these winter days that my glasses  fogged up as I entered the house and as I took my mitts off to lift them off my nose I looked in at my hosts and saw  evidence of the beneficial effect of fibreglass insulation and trapped air pockets between two panes of glass, although I was not immediately conscious of that scientific analysis right at that moment. 


What did impress me at that very moment when I returned my defogged glasses to my face is something so image filled, so mind etching, so visually inerasable   that it  can and should only be expressed in rhyme .

Bowing....I Hope Not to the Absurd

Stopping for warmth on a cold winter's day
For a short little chat and a friendly Good Day
My mind became confounded and really confused. 
And not because of the frost or the fog that ensued
 
I saw three great big men at the round table 
And through my frosted specs able 
To see they were naked from the chest up
Eating their cheerios and  slurping from cups.


 As I stood there in shock, I looked in dismay
I said a short  prayer to quickly convey
My hope that I would not ever be able
While during that visit, see under that table.




* I refer to the sound  of a dresser situated  at the end of the bed in the middle of the night falling over because the drawers weren't properly closed.  Apparently it was a traumatic experience for a new bridegroom so much so that it has been referred to at least 4 times a year for the past 30 years of marriage. The tirade usually starts out with..."just like the time you didn't close the drawer of that dresser....."  So the unexpected and unexplained sounds in the middle of the night can bother a person for years to come...or so it seems.

KISS..*.

 In my quest to live minimally, I am attempting to what my  former owner of a TRS 80  Model I husband would refer to as defragging my house. 


   I even have a Social Media feed about living minimally from which I receive daily reminders about how happy, productive, spiritual , and rich I will become when I live a truly minimalistic simple  life.


The main barrier between living the life I live and the life with minimal belongings, things, and general over abundance is that in order to do so I must not not only stop buying stuff, but I must also stop owning stuff.   My cupboards must become decluttered, the bottom of the shelves in my closets must become readily visible, and my knick knack shelves filled with my collection of owls, elephants, and fish have to be limited to only things that are usable, memory laden, or  that which, due to its own physical properties, will become used passively and thus naturally disappear over time...such as candles, candies, and in my house...plants.


I started this process of minimization on a two day binge of cleaning, sorting, wiping, piling, bagging, boxing, and throwing and I have come to the conclusion that  there really isn't anything minimal about becoming living minimally. 


 It takes  quite a lot of work to pick up, examine, evaluate, decide, sort and sacrifice something that one has kept sometimes for decades 'just in case', something that has become like an old friend that one has touched, and yes it must be admitted, even fondled from time to time.


If not buying stuff would automatically make me a minimalist and thus make me and my house  happier, cleaner, and  more organized I could do so in a heartbeat as I live about an hour from any real venue of non necessities.  This fact and the wonderful ability to daily raconteur one's bank account online has proven to be a wonderful deterrent (if not actual hobby) in keeping the balance from being in the red.


Simply saying KISS takes more effort than it looks, takes more courage than it seems, and  takes more faith in the future than one would ever believe. 


May the  expiry date of the food in your pantry  be at least a month away; may your socks sometimes match, and may you learn to own less than you want but just what you need.




*KISS...  refers to KISS it Goodbye.....