%%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. |
| "I don't like this duck," declared Cara as she tossed it to the bathroom floor. "Why, is there something wrong with it?" asked her Mommy. "It's not like this one, " said the girl waving a smiling, bright yellow rubber ducky. Mommy knelt to pick up the bath toy that had skidded across the room and now lay flopped on its side under the sink. "Aww, I think this poor bird is shivering from the cold. Look at how blue he is. Can't he swim in the warm water with you?" The sploshy sounds of splashing ceased. Cara stared at her mother with a frown. "He's not real,Mommy. He's only a toy." "Are you sure about that? I seem to remember that this bird came here on Santa's sleigh and that means he is special." The parent smiled. She could almost see the wheels turning in her daughter's head. Her eyes were focused on something far away and the only noise in the humid bathroom echoed in a steady drip from the tub faucet. " He doesn't look like a pengin." "Excuse me? Penguins do not live at the North Pole." "Ya, huh. I saw'd Santa wit' a pengin. It had those ear things." "Ear muffs?" Cara nodded and pushed the yellow ducky under the swirling bubbles. Darn mall Santas. The North Pole and the South Pole were miles apart. How to confuse a child. Sure they both had snow and ice, but they were polar opposites. "You hear Grandpa singing about the bluebird of happiness don't you?" Cara giggled. "Ya, and he flies up your nose." Mom chuckled. Of course that would be what Cara remembers. "Well, this blue duck is one of Santa's special blue birds of happiness. He gifted it to you so you would have a friend to make you smile." Cara scooped a handful of white bubbles to her chin and grinned. "See? I'm Santa Claus. Give me my blue happy bird." Mommy plopped the blue duck into the bath tub.She groaned when Cara had more to say. "Can I ask Santa for a pengin? He can take his duck back home." 355 words |
| My significant other first and foremost is my partner of forty-six years, my hubby and numero uno, Paul. Since he began a career as a professional driver aka trucker with the requisite periods of away time that in the past could be three weeks, but now tends to be five or six days, the family has referred to him as my roomie/room mate. There have been people who seem puzzled by these absences. Some cannot fathom it and wonder why we bothered to be married. How can this possibly be a relationship? A few, certain they are witty, remark that we are never together long enough to disagree and argue. Still others seem to worry for me and commiserate with my assumed loneliness. How do you do it? This asked with the pitying stares. Isn't it difficult? Paul had not been a long-haul trucker when we tied the knot and dove into the deep end of parenthood. This was a career he adopted long after we made our vows, our commitment to each other. No, I don't believe I forced him into it. Why would he wish for peace and quiet, or a break from me? Sure, I will admit I have my moments as an extrovert who speaks easily with so-called strangers. But so does he. Okay, I like to talk, perhaps ramble, about anything and everything. But his ears have not fallen from their secure perch. His eyes rarely if ever glaze over. I in turn listen to him rant about the idiot drivers that irritate and exasperate him on a daily basis. He tends to enjoy romance or chick flicks while I tolerate them only when he is home. For someone of British heritage Paul does not, gasp, believe Monty Python to be even the slightest bit funny. Recently, he has relented somewhat and reconsidered the antics of Mr. Bean. Grudgingly, he will sometimes laugh at the improbable antics. Now I'm not complaining that my years -long roomie is humour impaired. Perhaps he is more humour delayed or selective. And he has that right. Our three offspring have teased their father that he has no ha ha. Many times they have speculated and wondered about us. I quip that our old man more than proved his sense of humour 'cause he married me. Yes, he still often glowers and shakes his head when the rest of us are as he puts it carrying on. For some reason he does not like to hear that that phrase references classic British comedies. Supposedly everyone has a love language, a method of showing caring, affection, devotion. Paul's love language is a practical one. He has the ability to intuit what someone needs, what will benefit them. Granted, to most couples a tall(er) high profile toilet/commode would never ever in a million years be construed as a romantic token of undying love. After all a toilet is a piece of plumbing common in most abodes. I have difficult knees that have contributed to a lifetime of injuries and corrective surgeries. They balk at lowering me to the normal too-low height of most commodes. One day Paul surprised me with the most wonderful gift. I was alerted that something was up when I heard him dragging a heavy object up the nineteen steps to our apartment. Never mind that we were tenants. Paul had purchased a raised toilet for me and he installed it. Hey, do not pooh-pooh this. When the knees grumble and gripe about every movement and loathe to exert themselves, this porcelain throne is a lifesaver. It has been a gift that endures. As I mentioned I am a klutz, a person still struggling to master the subtle art of walking. Paul knew what he had signed up for when he proposed. We met as high school students in a most unique, funny as in strange manner. I teetered at the top of a staircase clumsy in a plaster encased leg and two wooden sticks some called crutches. Of course, I launched myself into a tumble and the very real possibility of further bodily harm. Paul happened to be passing at the foot of the stairs and he broke my fall. I thanked him profusely for preventing a broken neck and tottered off to my next class. I never dreamed that I'd made an indelible impression, but that chance encounter initiated Paul's curiousity. He created excuses to run into me and eventually worked up the nerve to ask me out. It was then that he revealed he was a competitive pairs figure skater. I had to laugh. Someone who lifted, threw and caught his female partner while they both skimmed over slippery ice had caught me. Huh, who would have believed that. I prefer to tell people that I fell for him despite knowing that I'd fallen on him. What is the harm in semantics? And Paul obviously could recognize serendipity, right? I suppose that after forty-six years we've grown on each other, not like moss, or mould, or a rash, but as two mutually supportive people. I have no plans to trade him in for a newer model.860 words |
As I understand it this prompt is asking if I've ever experienced an earth-shaking life or death situation. My immediate response to this is no. At no time have I ever believed my life to be in jeopardy. Now has my heart simultaneously skipped a beat and hammered in my chest? Has my pulse quickened and thundered in my ears? Have I had to remind myself to breathe? Yes. To say I've experienced more than my fair share of accidents is not an exaggeration. But did I consider that my life was in peril? No. Even as the boat-sized Oldsmobile 98 sedan I was speeding in along Highway 401 veered onto the gravel shoulder, skidded and executed a full two slow motion somersaults before slamming back onto all four of its tires I did not think to be mortally terrified. I was sixteen and impervious to the very real possibility that serious bodily harm or death could have struck me. At no time did I fear this stunt would not end well. What happened happened in the blink of an eye. My life did not flash before my eyes. One minute I was cruising along a major highway and the next my vehicle displayed gymnastic tendencies. At the time I was driving solo and I continued on to my destination without any more mishaps. At this age I also survived two bicycle versus vehicle crashes and again I did not believe I had evaded death. For some inexplicable reason I was certain I would walk away, although in reality I hobbled. In both instances I was the hapless cyclist knocked down by careless drivers. One fellow failed to obey a stop sign and the other admitted to not seeing me as he backed out of his driveway. Sure, I picked up some road rash, scrapes and bruises, but I had endured worst at the age of fourteen. Picture the final day of school and the start of summer recess. I celebrated with a pedal across town to the outdoor pool . Afterwards, I chose to careen down the steepest hill forgoing braking until I'd reached the connecting street. I wiped out on loose gravel and crashed onto asphalt, an unforgiving surface. Besides the inevitable road rash, blooming bruises, scrapes and whiplash I fractured my left thumb and gashed my left shin with a broken wheel spoke. Of course, the possibility of an jury or two crossed my mind as I pitched to the pavement. I could see that end result. Was it earth-shaking? Nah, it was just another experience that I lived to relegate to my string of unfortunate luck, or lack thereof. Many times, too many times, I have tumbled/hurtled down flights of stairs. As I bounce and bump from jarring step to jarring step I curse the new set of injuries I will accumulate. Imminent death doesn't factor into my thoughts. The rough fall is admittedly teeth-rattling, but never life-shaking. The numerous sprains, strains, and fractures are a long way from my heart as a brother-in-law points out. If it is at all feasible that my klutziness or propensity for accidents could be passed on via my questionable genes than my son, Chris, is carrying on my unenviable legacy. He too is no stranger to accidents. As I see it he has endured every scenario presented within a first aid manual. So far, he has avoided life or death situations. At no time has his mortality hung in the balance. He has provided fodder for a few of my stories.
|
| WDC how do I love thee? Okay, professing love for a writing site might be a tad over the top and melodramatic. I can and will admit that I like WDC. There are attractions and incentives here. Other like-minded individuals make me feel accepted and validated. I am free and often encouraged to participate as much or as little as I want. There exists a plethora of writing opportunities to entice me, to intrigue me, to challenge me. There's no pressure. If I write, I write. Who doesn't smile and whoop when another writer not only takes the time to read their combination of words, but also crafts a thoughtful review. This is why we play with story lines, descriptions, character development and mold them into our creations. We want to share.We want a connection. We crave validation. I believe most word weavers are also avid readers. We marvel at what others think. It is amazing to discover other points of view. There is no end to imagination. We all are limited by the words that exist, yet we manage to reconfigure them in so many unique ways. I have never been dismissed or disrespected here at WDC. I do not expect my writing to appeal to everyone and as such not every member will endeavor to explore my portfolio. When I am so inclined I enter contests without the expectation of winning necessarily.Win or lose at least I pushed myself to take a chance. Not everything I compose represents my absolute best and not everything translates well, but it is never ignored or denigrated. Writing is an effort to communicate. What I attempt to convey , rightly or wrongly, is my voice. Here, I amWow safe to read and write. WDC nurtures community. Via the Newsfeed members banter and encourage. Post, reply,cheer, commiserate, comment. Support each other. Wow, WDC is 24. When I was twenty-four this site did not exist. It is still maturing. That word contains so many connotations, doesn't it? WDC has a personality, a purpose, a platform. As a young entity it glows with infinite possibilities. 349 words |
This was my first white-water rafting adventure. I live in Canada and water is everywhere. I've sailed, boated, bobbed within an inflated tire, snoozed aboard a single-sized pool raft as it slowly drifted along a lake, paddled a canoe and a kayak and a rubber dinghy. As such I am quite familiar with the concept, the reality of a soaking. I expect water to be wet. Then there's the experience of white-water rafting. I imagine it's similar to being thrashed within a churning washing machine. Was I dropping in an elevator of roaring water, or hurtling along in a roiling rollercoaster? My stomach flipped, flopped and lodged in my throat. Icy water slapped me, pummeled me and stung my eyes. I was beyond dripping. I gasped and spluttered. I whooped and hollered. I swear the so-called raft attempted to buck me out. As I said, I'm Canadian. I apologized for the shoulder slamming and hip checking I could not control. I would describe this entire experience as exhilarating. It got my heart pumping. My legs were still trembling and I could only pant as I stumbled onto the big bus that drove us to the Icefields. Just reclining and admiring the gorgeous scenery returned me to a calmer equilibrium. The lakes resembled gleaming polished glass and they mirrored the majestic mountains capped with snow. I admired the emerald green water we passed. Obviously fresh water needn't be blue. It did seem strange to be sliding along a vast field of solid ice at this time of the year. Hey, it's all good if I do not have to shovel or break it up. Huh, ice is slippery and cold no matter where it forms. Thanks ladies for accompanying me on this month's virtual expedition. |
At long last our virtual travel group is in Canada. Hooray! This is a novel experience for me the Canadian. I have yet to explore this glorious province and it is on my bucket list. I have driven straight through Alberta enroute to British Columbia, but for some reason I've never lingered there. Many times I have meandered through the Rockies and marveled at the majestic beauty. There's no place like it. After our exhausting air travel it feels wonderful to relax in a mini bus and gawk at the incredible scenery from a sitting position. No huffing and puffing. No undo exertion. I can point a camera and shoot, or just point. All of us had our respective noses pressed to the panes of the immense windows as we espied wildlife oblivious to our gawking. A Warped Witch I Be  , 🐱 panther pwheeler  , 💙 Carly: Joan Watson  , Apondia  and moi oohed and aahed nonstop. We laughed at the antics of wrestling and tumbling black bear cubs. We speculated about the endurance and the balance of those stilt legs moose teeter about on. We envied the incredible view the swooping eagles must enjoy and their effortless gliding in a vast sky of blue. Of course The Rockies framed everything. They posed as a towering backdrop. We were more than ready for our afternoon culinary culture tour. Appreciating raw beauty works up an appetite. There's always room to sample and sip, n'est-ce-pas? As long as cucumbers were not contaminating any of my food, I was game to taste anything. Sauntering from restaurant to cafe also guaranteed that the calories did not make themselves at home. No one wanted that type of souvenir. I for one wanted a lifetime in my memories not on my hips. I also believe the gabbing/chin wagging burned any potential super calories. We're writers, eh? There are so many words to describe the enjoyment, the flavour of food. Scrumptious. Superb. Magnifique. Delicious. Savoury. Sweet. Incomparable. If we wobbled and teetered from the final festive eatery it was most likely due to the robust fresh mountain air. What better way to cap a perfect day than to attend the Jasper Planetarium in the evening. Is there anything more awe-inspiring than a vast ebony sky bejewelled with gazillions of sparkling stars? We encircled a roaring, crackling campfire with dancing flames of yellow and red. We inhaled pungent wood smoke. We peeked through the lens of a powerful telescope. I overheard another tourist mention magnetic midnight. Apparently, this occurs most often between eleven p.m. and one a.m. It is supposed to be the optimal time to be outside awaiting the appearance of aurora borealis. It blessed us with a spectacular light display. Vivid splashes of neon green shimmered and undulated across the night sky. Pulsating purple shimmied amongst the dark sentinels of evergreens. It was magical! At one point I held my breath and feared blinking. It's also awe-inspiring. |
| The seafaring vessels on display at the Nao Victoria Museo fascinate me. I cannot fathom crossing the Atlantic Ocean aboard one and surviving in one piece. They are nothing but joined timbers. The storms battered them. The non-stop waves slapped and jostled them. The winds pushed and pulled. How impressive that Charles Darwin signed on to the HMS Beagle as a naturalist and spent five years exploring. What an unusual name for a British ship. Was this scientific voyage so named to reflect the superior tracking instinct of this detection dog? An ocean vessel possessed of this canine's attributes could be invaluable. Could it be said that Darwin beagled/sniffed out his discoveries as tenaciously as these hunting dogs? I suppose Charles was an eco-tourist before this became a thing. He collected plant, animal and geological samples from every port of call. He kept notebooks filled with his observations. Imagine five years' worth of material stored aboard a ship and ferried back to England. How did it survive salt water, dampness, mould and mildew, insect infestations, raiding rats, humidity and more? This occurred in the 1830s. There were no Ziploc baggies, or resealable plastic containers. Valuable information could not be forwarded to the Cloud for safe-keeping. Were there never crew disputes, grumblings, misunderstandings? No one ever threatened to torpedo his precious papers, or tear them up to make a dramatic point? Not once did The Beagle encounter a storm so fierce that jettisoning unnecessary weight had to be considered? Both Darwin and his five years of accumulated data were preserved? I find all of this to be mind-boggling. Darwin and his fellow sailors were tenacious, I'll give them that. |
| Well, this Sandy finds herself exploring Puenta Arenas, aka Sandy Point in Chile. After all of my virtual touring I am at the end of the world retracing the steps so many others took attempting to map and understand this vast globe. The buffeting wind that nudges me once pushed them along and tugged at their clothing, too. Considerate locals have strung up a stout rope between buildings that serves as a means for me to stay upright. It's kinda like rock climbing horizontally in an urban setting. Hand over hand I pull myself along the streets. This natural klutz appreciates the thoughtfulness. I'm not saying you could blow me over with a feather, but this gusting exaggerates my wobbliness. In anticipation of there being no such refinement or consideration in Torres del Paine National Park I purchased a sturdy walking stick. With three legs I should maintain some sort of equilibrium. Once again I found myself in an area of breathtaking, raw beauty. All efforts to regulate my huffing and puffing are forgotten when I see the snow-capped majestic mountains silhouetted by an azure, endless sky. My feeble hiking stumbles paled in comparison to the roaring power of Salto Grande waterfall. Simply put it is indeed grand. I just stood in awe with my mouth agape witnessing the ice floes from Gray Glacier. Nothing compares to this momentous sight. The Cueva del Milodon is quite the expansive cave. How many people and animals have stepped into its silent shelter seeking a reprieve from the wind? Who first decided the massive rock formation should be christened as Silla del Diablo , or Devil's Chair? Is the prevailing logic only something unhuman/other-worldly would deign to sit there? I must admit it did provide a great view, a commanding view of the immediate site. All in all, this was a magnificent spot to traverse on foot. I imagine it has remained much the same for millennia. |
| Today I embarked upon a feasting tour of Buenos Aires. I'm not much of a helmet fan, but protecting my noggin with one was part of the cost to see this vibrant city up close and intimately via electric e-scooter. I wobbled along the wide thoroughfares smiling and nodding. I returned many a hola and como estas? Spanish is such a beautiful language that rolls and drips off the tongue. Yes, sure there were plenty of impressive edifices to ogle, but I noticed the stupendous, often flowering trees. One immense specimen looked familiar. I'd spied one in my father's British Columbia neighbour's front yard. It's a strange looking evergreen nicknamed the monkey puzzle. If Dr. Seuss had ever designed a tree this would be it. Even within the obvious allures here it's not a pretty tree. For a showstopper the Tipa flaunts yellow blooms and the Jacaranda flashes stunning purple flowers. I admit I may have daydreamed a wee bit as I puttered along. I'm still digesting the furious tangos I witnessed yesterday and the intense energy the performers radiated as they commanded the stage. I've always associated this strong dance with the clutching of a red rose between the lips. My eyelids must have drooped and my steering wavered. One minute I was humming along and the next I impacted with something that pitched me into a stout tree trunk. I had to shake my head because I thought I'd struck a beer barrel forgotten on the boulevard. The guide informed me I'd collided with a drunk stick, and if so Argentinian tree limbs are humongous. He gasped for air as he choked out, "No, this is a Palo Borracho tree. We call it a drunk stick." I smiled weakly and then spit out the red flower caught in my teeth. I'm not certain, but it sounded like several of the pedestrians muttered, "Idiota," as they swerved to avoid me. One or two mimed the universal sign for drinker raising invisible cups to their mouths and I shrugged. I did imbibe the awful yerba mate concoction at one of our stops and I spat out the fernet de Branca. Not my cup of tea at all. People like this black licorice-flavoured Listerine substitute? I may have dented the loaner helmet and grazed my pride, but the alfajores I purchased survived with nary a crumble. This heavenly concoction combines all of my favourites: shortcake base, a caramel filling and cocoanut. With one last glance to assure myself I had not harmed the bruiser of a tree, the scooter wranglers and I proceeded to our final feast featuring a baguette stuffed with chorizo and chimichurri. I GOOGLED the mouth-watering ingredients and I vowed to replicate this tasty sauce /marinade at home. I'm sure I can find fresh parsley, oregano, garlic, oil, vinegar and chili pepper. I waved off the offer of a beer. I was drunk on this entire experience and besides, I did not wish to meet any more trees that jump out at unsuspecting tourists. Its bark left an impression. |
| Another hot air balloon cruise? Yes, please! I was up for another early morning flight, not necessarily bright-eyed and bushy tailed, ( whatever that means), but I was awake. I may not have been coherent and I most likely mumbled. Why do sunrises have to blossom at such ungodly hours? That glowing ball of yellows and oranges displayed its brilliant answer. Those vibrant hues rippled through the floss of clouds and framed the High Atlas Mountains. Nothing equals its ta-da moment. Sunrises are a glorious testament to time. Once again I reveled in the soaring, the floating as the billowing balloon crossed the immense sky. It was if the various sky ships played tag above the desert. I must admit dining within a Moroccan tent was a first. Usually if I'm ensconced in a tent breakie must be cooked over an open fire. My fellow diners were in high spirits and raved about our experience. As early birds we were relieved not to be offered any worms. Flying and barely blinking as we strained our necks to gape at every incredible sight inspires a healthy appetite. The lurking calories never stood a chance to cause their usual mischief. I banished them as I strolled through the souks, or outdoor markets in the afternoon. Now this was a feast for the senses. Animation was apparent everywhere. The crowds of shoppers thronged every stall. Noisy would sum up my experience. Constant chatter swirled as vendors greeted and then chided us to notice them. No one need comprehend the language to understand the universal look-at-this motion and the beaming smiles. Hands waved and voices rose in the exchanges known as bartering. A few of the sellers seemed aggressive ,perhaps even intimidating. They did not hesitate to chase potential buyers in their pursuit of a sale, a deal. I admired their tenacity, their persistence. The souks are best described as a teeming maze. Each stall seemed to support the next. Words fail to convey the rainbow of material/cloth/fabric bewitching to my eyes. Kaleidoscope? The enticing aromas tickled my nose. According to the guide, Morocco has always been a vital segment of the spice trade route. Many I recognized such as cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, paprika, garlic. Heavenly! I cook and bake with these all the time. Locals apparently consider black pepper to be a necessity and I agree with them. I couldn't resist haggling for and purchasing harissa, a native spice blend created in a paste form. My taste buds were salivating at the gourmet list of ingredients: roasted red chilis, Baklouti peppers, garlic, caraway seeds, cumin, coriander seeds and olive oil. I anticipate a scrumptious feast! I'm certain this will prove to be my favourite sensory souvenir. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
