%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT November 2nd You are curator of a museum. This museum has an area of interest to you. Take us on a guided tour of your latest exhibition. As I settle myself before the keyboard I notice the unmistakable dust motes swirling around me and waiting to settle upon the keys. They're not hovering because my rapid-fire key strokes are dissuading them, no, not at all. They are lurking in the certainty that I shall soon lose interest and focus upon my blog response. The dust has never feared my presence. It blankets everything in this apartment. It has created a community right under my nose and it breeds rather large dust bunnies. A bright dagger of sunlight has exposed a colony of these furry buggers under the very desk I sit at. As I marvel at their appearance I agree with that old adage that rabbits propagate quietly and quickly. I never heard so much as a snuffle and I do not recall seeing them before. Most of these creatures burrow under the love seat safe from discovery and the occasional reach of a hurried broom. If I could muster the wherewithal to lift a bureau, or shift a bed frame I don't doubt I'd reveal more of them. Of course they flourish because the live-in maid lolls about with a laissez-faire attitude. Despite the generous bribes, pay package with bonus incentives she ignores the teeming dust. Obviously the dust does not offend her and an allergy does not plague her. I, er, I mean she does not suffer from watery, itchy eyes, or bouts of uncontrollable sneezing. As far as I am aware she possesses the requisite strength to wield a rag and flourish a feather duster. She definitely turns a blind eye and I know for a fact that I she has 20/20 vision. Perhaps she lacks focus, commitment. Focus, yes, back to the topic du jour. So, what in the world would, or could I display in a museum? Paintings have been showcased. Dinosaurs have been resurrected. Clothing has been covered. I do house an extensive collection of knick knacks, or bric-a-brac, but in the haughtier establishments they are curated as objets d'art, statuary, historical artifacts. My books are worthy of admiration, but to be fully appreciated they must be browsed not just viewed as eye candy. Museums maintain strict no touch policies. What do all of these things have in common? They attract dust. It's inevitable. It's unavoidable. Dust never discriminates. It will smother anything and everything. It refuses to vacate any of the premises it haunts. Dust is impervious to temperature extremes. Mysteriously, it reproduces, regenerates, reincarnates, whatever. It respects no boundaries and flourishes worldwide. I envision a stunning display of dust bunnies in my vaulted museum. No two will look alike. Perhaps a few could be persuaded to recreate the iconic masterpieces of the great painters as a tableau. Imagine The Mona Lisa dust bunny smiling as if harbouring a savoury secret, or Whistler's Mother as a stern, no nonsense dust bunny. No doubt the Picasso dust bunnies will be a sight no one could forget. It goes without saying, but people being who they are and unable to control their impulse to touch, I shall impose a look with your eyes and not with your hands visitor policy. Dust bunnies are inherently delicate. Some might describe them as wispy, or ethereal. I also will promote a kinetic display of dust. Watching it drift, swirl, dance and cavort is akin to witnessing a snowfall. Dust purveyors / aficionados will be encouraged to restrain from entering the premises with cleaning supplies. Alteration of any kind to the exhibitions will not be tolerated. But of course I shall accept donations of dust from those who have displaced / evicted it from their domiciles. Dust is not for everyone. |
| PROMPT November 1st We all have possessions of some type. Tell us five possessions you can’t live without, and why they are on this list. This prompt has me 'acapellaing' to a couple of catchy songs and I find it difficult to compose my blog response with the screeching assaulting my ears. "Living in a material world" is echoing 'round me and sorry, Madonna, I am not doing your song justice. Strangely, the lyrics to The Sound of Music's My Favorite Things is burbling in the background of my synapses. too. Why am I mangling another tune when I should be writing? What do "round paper packages tied up with string" and" kittens / mittens" have to do with my thought process? Focus. I need to plan like the passengers of the SS Minnow did when they set forth on a three-hour cruise. What would I stuff into a duffle bag in the unforeseen chance I'd be stranded on an island? What items spoke to Lovey, aka Mrs. Howell and Ginger? What did Mary Ann think to pack? Of course, I am interpreting "you can't live without" as meaning life-altering, or survivalist. Hmmm, I am just realizing that I do not own a swiss army knife. Drat, I no longer have an old compass lying about collecting dust either. Now, I'm certain a few of the paper, folding-type maps are crammed into a drawer somewhere probably sharing space with a box of matches and a flashlight. But wait, I'm not really being asked to consider these things am I? "Live without" is simply a turn of phrase. What have I become attached to? What would I grab and clutch to my breast in the event of a fire? So, it's only five cherished and not necessarily indispensable possessions that are granted mention today. What are my must haves? What items would be missed if I no longer had them? I'm loathe to mention this possession only because it has wheedled and charmed its way into my life as if it has always been with me. For most of my life, I survived and carried on without this device. Accidents occurred. Calamity vexed me. Appointments were arranged without its influence. I could and did move about without a care, without anyone tracking those movements, or worrying about my whereabouts. I accepted I could not always communicate immediately with anyone. No one could reach out and instantly 'touch me.' I am speaking of my cellular device, my cellphone. Memories of my life B.C, before cellphone, are hazy, muted, almost ethereal. Did I really once sit within close proximity of a wall phone awaiting a call and threatening my younger siblings with grievous bodily harm if they even thought of eavesdropping? How could they be expected to not hear what I said? Oh, and that one phone was not mine alone. It had to be shared with the family. Long distance calls were not an everyday indulgence. If, gasp, I dialed a number and the other party did not answer for whatever reason, I was forced to try again later. No one I knew had an answering machine, or a secretary. Yep, my cellphone has become an integral part of my life. Chats occur anywhere at any time. With the marvelous advent of bluetooth and hands'-free technology I can talk while driving, or hiking, or shopping. I am not at the mercy of a tethered phone. Most of my chat mates also choose to carry phones with them. Not many people still use landlines. We also communicate via texts, e-mails, instant messages and shared photos. All of my contacts are stored safely. If absolutely necessary, I can leave a message. I do not store music, or games on my cellphone, but I do admit to toting a sizeable photo library in the palm of my hand. I enjoy the ease of snapping a new pic whenever the whim tickles me. After all, I must strive to attain my honourary title of Nannarazzi. Could I live without my cellphone? Sure, I could, I guess, if I had to, but thankfully I don't need to make that sacrifice. Campfires would never be the same if one of us could not consult Siri, or Google with one of our earth-shattering queries. With the tiny, but powerful computer I stuff into a pocket, I always have instant access to my writing files. If I so choose, that device can become an electronic notebook, too. I've lived long enough to utilize the Jetson technology of a face-to-face long distance conversation. Nothing brings a smile to my face quite like Facetime with my youngest grandgiggle , Alexandra. A two-year old appreciates the facial expressions that accompany the verbal exchange. Viewing the brightly coloured bandages she applies to her body just because she can is much more amusing than being told about it. Another possession I cannot imagine living without is a black and white photo collage my baby sister gifted to me the first Mother's Day after our Mom's demise. These pics are priceless and irreplaceable because they are from a pre-digital era. They are not saved on an unseen computer cloud waiting to be retrieved. Mom grew up in a time when photos were not shot at the drop of a hat. Every moment of her life is not memorialized, but the handful of photos we have depict her at varying ages. This reminds me my mother was not always a parent. She had a tangible past. What else? I admit to supporting a considerable addiction to books. In an ideal world all of them would accompany me on my travels, but I do comprehend the enormous juggling this would entail. One book in particular could best be described as sentimental. Reflections On a Gift Of Watermelon Pickle and other modern verse contains a collection of poetry that whetted my writing appetite. A Grade Six teacher gifted it to me with a heartfelt, encouraging inscription. "Congratulations on an outstanding year. I only hope that you will enjoy the poems in this book as much as I have enjoyed your creative stories and poems during the year." That nod from an adult not related to me is priceless. Someone believed in me when I was twelve. This tome has earned a place of honour on a book shelf and I never fail to find it tucked in amongst the others. One poem in particular has stayed with me, easily memorized. Four Little Foxes describes the struggle of newborn orphaned foxes to survive. Nature is beautiful, relentless, and cruel. Tucked into a small wooden chest are two silver charm bracelets. One belonged to my mother and one belonged to my mother-in-law. Each of the charms represents a special moment in their lives. Some were accepted as gifts, tokens of love. A few charms were purchased as souvenirs to remember specific adventures. Several commemorated special events such as marriages and births. This jewellery represents two strong, unforgettable women in my life. They were born an ocean apart, but their lives were not dissimilar. My fifth possession of merit is actually a bundle, a bundle of letters my Nanny mailed to me as I carried on years of correspondence with her as my number one penpal. In those bits of paper, I shared what was happening in my life. I mentioned my family. I wrote about school. I bounced ideas for stories off of her. In return, Nanny shared with me. I printed on whatever scraps of paper I could find. She responded in her elegant cursive handwriting on actual note paper. Not once did she chastise my scrawl, or belittle my flights of fancy. Questions were raised and answered. We continued this until I moved to her village when I was a young mother myself. There's nothing quite like the thrill of receiving a letter in the post addressed to yourself. Nanny acted as one of my first readers. Ah, great memories. Five possessions of infinite value to me, four of them incomparable. |
| Ah, Michael Jackson's Thriller. That catchy distinctive beat is now an ear worm, but not in the least annoying. Listening to it once again has called pleasant memories to the surface. I recall the fun of the video, basing it on a date at a movie theatre watching a horror film, and the fantastic dancing of the resultant zombies. It is playful and toys with a young woman's perception. Is her boyfriend a zombie, or did she dream of their frightening encounter? After all, he assured her "I'm not like other guys, I'm different." She anticipated a nice kind of different.What creative genius to use Vincent Price's unmistakable spooky voice as a narrator! He could produce a maniacal cackle / laugh, too. I love the nod to this famous horror movie actor with the marquee reading ' Vincent Price Thriller.' I wonder if he was aware of this homage? This song and its special effects video came out when my three kids were verifiable youngsters. They loved to sing and dance along with MJ. Over and over they attempted to recreate his signature moves and that iconic zombie shuffle. Stiff arms raised, bodies slouched, heads held tight to one side in a loll they squirmed and perfected their own zombie dance. Sometimes in their zeal furniture would be over turned, knees bruised, dogs' tails trampled. They never could look scary though. I'd bet they'd instantly assume those poses and shuffle today if they heard Thriller. They'd recognize the music as a reflex. Rewatching this video I noticed the lyrics more than I did at its release. I think it's safe to say MJ was a wordsmith. He painted vivid pictures with his lyrics. I'm singing these words as I type them. "You try to scream, but terror takes the sound before you make it." Yes, that describes extreme fright. This song and dance belongs to Hallowe'en lovers worldwide. Who doesn't recognize it and entertain those nearby with their own zombie shuffle? What's not to like about make believe, dress-up, costumes, make-up and dancing? Mwaaahaha! ( 345 words ) |
| PROMPT September 30th Wow, it's the end of the month! It's time for our last prompt, and to ask you for any input you may have for future prompts. Here's the prompt for tonight. Where do you want to go on your next road trip? Who would you like to have by your side as you experience this? Most of my travelling has been in the form of road trips. Sometimes I was a willing passenger riding shot gun and other times I acted as the chauffeur. I suppose it could accurately be said that I have a lot of miles under my belt and accumulated on my vehicles' odometers. My wheels have been a pick-up truck, a transport truck, a full-sized sedan, a mini van, a compact and more. I recall travelling and navigating with actual paper maps encased in a road atlas. Now GPS and Google digital maps point me in the right direction. A voice advises me when and where to turn. If I fail to follow directions , or I ignore the explicit instructions I will hear, "Recalculating, recalculating." My past explorations have routed me all over North America, but there's still one destination to access by car, Newfoundland. To be accurate, I'd have to drive onto a ferry to reach this island. Prince Edward Island may now have a bridge making it vehicle-accessible, but The Rock is still surrounded by ocean. I'd like to see for myself if the island moose are as impressive as the Ontario variety. I'd like to enjoy the seaside vistas, explore historical sites, imbibe screech, kiss a cod, attempt to speak and understand the local unique patois, hike and whatever else tickles my fancy. While in the area I also plan to visit two tiny islands to the south that consider themselves to be French territory, Saint-Pierre and Miquelon. Again, I would sail via a ferry. As a Canadian citizen I do not need a passport and despite the Euro being the official form of money my Canadian currency is acceptable. Hmmm, now who would accompany me on this adventure? Hubby wants to visit in the summertime while my sister, Sherry is curious about a wintertime escape. No reason I cannot undertake this road trip twice. I'm flexible and keen. Both of my would-be sidekicks possess a driver's licence. Both could be game for endless hours of chit chat and car karaoke. Ah, someday soon... ( I enjoyed replying to this month's varied prompts. As always I found myself with a 24-hour deadline to satisfy and that challenge forced me to write, for better or worst. Once again I was amazed by the variety of responses and the thoughtful comments from my fellow bloggers. It was a pleasure, thank you! Do I have any prompt ideas ? Here goes: 1. Imagine you are someone's shadow for a day. 2. What a ____ does in a day. ) |
| PROMPT September 29th A different kind of prompt tonight. "Speak soft my name" Tell us your thoughts about it. You don't need to write a review of this poem, read it, tell us what you think. Well, this is a first, reading and dissecting another WDCer's piece of poetry. I am familiar with some of Kåre Enga in Montana  's creative writing, his blog posts, and his remarks about other blogs. He always has a considered often thoughtful comment. This is a first reading for me of this particular poem. My initial impression is of strong , fierce, powerful imagery. I can both see and feel the strength of the waves as they surge, as they pummel, as they recede. They are a life force not to be denied. They have a purpose, a mission. The mighty waves act as a wielder of retribution. They serve to wipe out, to destroy, but they also herald a new beginning. The water cleanses, purifies, creates a fresh landscape. A tsunami demands respect and admiration. It strikes with a practiced and lethal hand. It is the stuff of legend and as such unparalleled. Yes, 'speak soft my name" lest you awaken that devastating force. |
| PROMPT September 28th What kind of goals would you like to work toward over the next five years. I'm not much of a long term planner and five years seems like a lifetime away. That said, I have lived for multiple five-year periods and I'd like to believe I have at least five more. Five years is not a great deal of time in the scheme of things, but when caught up in living I'm not aware of it adding up. Sigh, I suppose all the minutes, hours and days amount to something. Time does march on with or without me. So, do I have goals for those next five years? Well, they're not etched in stone and I do understand the need for flexibility especially as it pertains to my health. Perhaps I could envision something. GOAL #1 : Live / survive for the next five years. I believe this is a significant goal, what some may refer to as a biggie. To that end I plan to continue to breathe as I plot to take care of myself. Although my muscles may groan and my knees whine, I will force them to exercise if need be. They can and most likely will complain, but they are going to accompany me on walks. We will not avoid stairs even though we dislike and distrust them. Gotta keep that muscle memory tuned. GOAL #2: Relent, surrender, accept the second knee replacement. The rest of me isn't growing any younger and we still have to train that new joint. We're tough enough to muster that recovery again. If the ol' body has two younger, stronger knees to stand on I'll be prepared for my senior years. Technically, the first knee replacement is a two-year old toddler and it requires a partner close to its age to share the heavy lifting. GOAL #3: Wrangle the hubby into retirement and act upon our desire to travel more. Oh, to be free of a timetable and a schedule. Could we live permanently in a house trailer, an RV? If we pursued this plan, I'd need to purge and that in itself could take five years. One simply does not dump, or dispose of a lifetime of stuff in a split second. I have mentioned the very real need for a second trailer to house my books. I'd have a mini mobile library? GOAL #4: Enjoy the journey of the next five years. Don't waste a single second. Be present. Don't sweat the small stuff. |
| PROMPT September 27th If I realized I am just like everyone else and just as GOOD as everyone else -- that we all struggle but have so much potential -- then when in social situations I would finally be more likely to... Loosen up, relax, enjoy the social situation. I'd be more likely to go with the flow. I'd drop my hyper-vigilance and my prevalent guard. There'd be no more me versus them, but an us on equal footing. We'd be peers, birds of a feather, compadres. Oh, the conversation would have to be so much more than casual. We'd share interests and life-experiences in common. We'd just 'get' each other. What awkwardness? No more 'tongue-tieditis.' Of course, we'd converse in a vernacular comfortable to both of us with no need for explanation, or clarification. How could we possibly misunderstand each other, or misconstrue the meaning of our chat? We'd be above cross-communication. None of us would bother to worry about our choice of word, or manner, or stepping on once easily bruised toes. Feelings and egos would not be affronted. We'd banish pettiness. My choice of attire and that of others would not be significant, or judged. Designer labels? Pfft. Current fads? Meh. Anything goes. Fashion freedom. No one could sneer at my sneakers and decide if they were worthy simply because of their price tag. If my t-shirt sported a stain, so what. If my socks were obviously odd and not from the same pair, big deal. I would finally be more likely to simply be me and more likely to accept anyone. |
| September 26th Prompt: Tell us about something you have never done, but really want to do. Why haven't you done it? Well, in the realm of bigger than life dreams I'd really really really like to spend months travelling all of Great Britain via an RV, or in their patois, I want to 'caravan.' That's my biggie desire. I'd like to go a-RVing from tip to tip of that isle. Never mind luxury hotels or B&Bs. Sure, I'm not anti-comfort, but I prefer a towable temporary home on wheels that will shelter me as I wander wherever I wish to go. I will not bind myself to a timetable, or a mapped route. I want to be flexible as I meander as an unabashed tourist. Ideally, I'll camp along a windswept salty-air coastal site with crashing waves, a mystical emerald green forest, within the shadow of an ivy-covered castle, a barren moor, numerous villages and more. Along the way, I plan to meet and greet whomever crosses my path. We will most likely remark upon our differing accents and idioms. We all supposedly speak English, but with our own 'flavour.' Of course, I intend to sample the various delicacies available. Perhaps I can disprove the belief that all food British is tasteless and or bland. I'd love to savour yorkshire pudding, fish and chips, and fairy cakes straight from the source. I have no doubt I will down hundreds of 'cuppas.' I'm currently in training for this eventuality. Maybe I can enter a tea-sipping marathon? So, what's locked the wheels of my caravan so to speak? What is preventing me from embarking upon my cross-country trek? Sigh... I have champagne tastes dependent upon beer money. Finances, or more accurately the lack thereof crimps my travel plans. I dream beyond my means. I am not naive, I realize my ambitious foray will be expensive. First, I need to fly from Canada across the Atlantic. Next I'd have to lease a caravan and stock it with edibles. Oh, and I must also rent a vehicle which will require fuelling at regular intervals. Yep, there will undeniably be expenses. No problem... I just need to connect with a travel fairy. |
| September 25th prompt: family gathering: Aunt Bessie and Uncle Clyde are enroute, one is bringing a sweet potato pie and the other one's bringing ham hocks and greens...BUT the two of them haven't spoken in 20 years, What happens?? SIDE NOTE: The local Hydro is acting up as it pours rain. So far today, the power has disappeared twice, so I hope I am able to type up my blog and post it. Here goes my effort...fingers crossed... Chased out of the hot kitchen because I sampled more than I stirred and banished to the front porch to act as the spotter / greeter, I had time to sit and think. Before I'd been shooed away and swatted with a dish towel I'd heard the scuttlebutt about two long-absent relatives, Bessie and Clyde. They'd not been together at the same family gathering for twenty years. Now for some reason they were both expected to be present at this Thanksgiving celebration, two strangers to me, two senior citizens, two feuding kinfolk. Would there be fireworks? I anticipated an argument with shouting and name calling. Perhaps plates would be flung through the air and shatter on the floor. I could see a frantic, furious food fight, mashed potato missiles splattering on contact, gelatinous jiggly cranberry sauce-slime sliding down the walls forming red pools, green b-b shot peas pinging and plopping. A car door slams and I hear a shout. "Ahoy young lady. Can you give me a hand?" As I scramble to the unfamiliar figure of a white-bearded man struggling to exit a boat of a black sedan, he bellows, "I'm Clyde. Did they warn you I was coming?" I can't help myself. I grin. He loops his arm around one of mine and hands me a still warm pie. I steal a quick sniff. "It's my world famous sweet potato pie. Wait 'til you taste it. You'll be begging for the recipe." Recipe, that word tugged at me. Aha, right, that had been the contention, the strife between Bessie and Clyde. I settled Clyde and his pie in the kitchen happy to join in the flowing conversation. Returning to the porch I discover a round woman, a grey woman, panting and perched on a step. Clutched in her lap is a casserole dish. "Hi. You must be Bessie. We're expecting you. Can I carry that for you?" The decisive shake of her head surprises me. She does however proffer a hand and I pull her to her unsteady feet. Together we totter to the hub of activity. I gaze around and hold my breath.Clyde half rises from a chair knocking over a steaming mug of coffee. The sudden silence gives way to sidelong glances. I stand still and clench my jaw. Bessie deposits her ceramic dish on the counter next to Clyde's pie with a clatter. Next she shrugs out of her coat and Clyde catches it before it hits the floor. "What are y'all gawping at? Isn't anyone going to greet me?" Several throats coughed and ahemed. Clyde spoke first. "Hello Bessie, long time no see." All eyes stared, no one dared blink, as Bessie turned to the man she hadn't spoken to in twenty years. Clyde flinched. Bessie's brow furrowed. She opened and closed her mouth a few times. One foot tapped on the tile floor. The knitted scarf she'd been fiddling with slipped from her hands and crumpled at her feet. I bent to retrieve it. "Do I know you? Have we met? Are you here for Thanksgiving, too? I brought ham hocks and greens. Is that okay?" |
| PROMPT September 24th We think we know other people, and feel they know us. However, maybe they don't know us as well as they think. Tell us five things friends don’t know about you. (Don't share anything you aren't comfortable with sharing!) No one knows, at least I do not think they've noticed, (yet), but I seem to be morphing into a grumpy old man. Things, random things, irritate me. I am baffled by young men who shuffle about in their over-sized jeans belted somewhere around their knee caps. I dislike hearing "yo." Why does there seem to be a gangster-worship culture? Tattoos are no longer relegated to the body. Face and skull tats are prevalent. Now many people sport body piercings. One woman bedazzled her chest with fake gemstone piercings. What the heck are those gigantic round lobe piercings that leave ears with a sizeable hole? When and why did underwear become outer wear? Should I be muttering, "Bah, humbug?" I cannot saunter past garbage strewn on the ground and not pick it up. Am I compulsive? I feel an urge to clean it up and dispose of it in a refuse receptacle. In a store, I will retrieve items from the floor, a shirt, a shoe, a book, a bottle of shampoo, whatever. A few years ago I experienced a slip and fall in a grocery store and I still recall my thudding, painful collision with the unforgiving floor. I'd stepped into a gooey puddle of something spilled and ignored. At a library, or a bookstore I browse the children's section. I enjoy the creative, colourful illustrations as I read the stories. I struggle with the concept and the execution of 'no.' If asked to babysit, or chauffeur, or "just run in for something will you" I rarely say no. Do I need to be needed? I bite my tongue a lot. Of course, I have opinions, but I mainly keep them to myself. I've committed my own blunders and I believe others should be free to make their own, but... Entire discussions play out in my mind. |
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