What do you do with information that comes to you, information you didn't ask for and can do nothing with, but which floats around occupying space in your head?
I'm sad to report I let it float and occupy, but happy to say I don't try to make dramatic hay from it. At least not any more.
In the last while, information has come to me about a couple of people who are no longer in my life. The thing is, the news about them has inserted them back into my consciousness. It made me wonder, briefly, if this news I've received is the universe telling me I'm supposed to be reaching out to them. There was a time I would have interpreted the information I've received as a sign, a need to made a grand gesture that might satisfy my need for a little drama in my life.
Here's the thing about signs: if you want to see them, they're everywhere.
Example: Andy Williams died last week, crooner of Moon River. I have been re-watching Sex and the City episodes, and the very day Andy Williams died, I happened to be watching the episode where Big moves to Napa, and plays none other than Moon River, even leaving behind the vinyl album in his massive apartment for Carrie to find. That very same night, on Glee, Rachel's every move was shadowed by an orchestral version of- wait for it - moon river.
That's got to be a sign, right? But of what? It was a full moon, my husband was fishing on a river this weekend.... Oh, I know! It means that just when you think you're getting a sign from the universe telling you to do something that could lead to a big dramatic event, it's time to start thinking.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
Knifed
Hidden deep in the folds of a corner behind a zipper, I have carried in my purse a wee jackknife for about 25 years now.
That knife has come in handy innumerable times, not only because it has a corkscrew, but because its blade held its edge beautifully all these years.
To be fair, my little knife usually gets only one use: it's my apple-cutter-upper, and since it's fall now, I need it every day. It's likely because my dad always cut his apples into pieces that I prefer my apples sliced, too. It might also be a fear of losing a tooth or some concern about tidiness. Who knows, but I'd just rather use a knife.
That knife is what told me I was a suspected terrorist. When I took a trip to Mexico with my girlfriends this spring, I stashed it in my checked luggage. While we were on the beach, I tucked it into my beach bag. There was no threat, but, well, it was Mexico after all, and it made me feel better to have the knife with me. Also, the knife came in handy to help remove an unwanted bow from one of my fellow travellers' swimsuits. Well, it was handy until I stabbed her by accident. You'd be surprised how many women on that beach offered us a bandaid.
On the way home, no doubt drunk on sunshine, I neglected to move the knife back into my checked luggage, and when I was stopped by Mexican security, I was genuinely confused why my bag was being x-rayed multiple times. I was bemused until the guard pulled my knife out to show me, and I nearly passed out, visions of a lengthy Mexican prison term dancing in my head. Instead of cuffing me, all the guy did was pitch my knife into a big bin of similar banned items and waved me on my way. My shocked and embarrassed face must have helped my case.
Yesterday, I felt like a suspect for a second time when I picked out a new knife at Canadian Tire. I decided against the shiny red Swiss Army knife with the corkscrew, since most of the wine in my life these days comes with a screwtop or in a tetrapak. Instead, I chose a simple folding model which reminded me of the one my father used.
Here's where the suspect part comes in: after I chose the knife, the clerk had to find the model of my choice from inside a locked cabinet below the counter and then he was required to accompany it and me to the checkout. I couldn't carry my own knife to the front of the store. It was policy, he explained, even while the knife in question that I might stab and rob with was packed behind a thick swaddling of hard plastic.
And here's the other thing: now that I have it home, I can't open the blessed packaging. I need my jackknife to open the packaging on my jackknife!
That knife has come in handy innumerable times, not only because it has a corkscrew, but because its blade held its edge beautifully all these years.
To be fair, my little knife usually gets only one use: it's my apple-cutter-upper, and since it's fall now, I need it every day. It's likely because my dad always cut his apples into pieces that I prefer my apples sliced, too. It might also be a fear of losing a tooth or some concern about tidiness. Who knows, but I'd just rather use a knife.
That knife is what told me I was a suspected terrorist. When I took a trip to Mexico with my girlfriends this spring, I stashed it in my checked luggage. While we were on the beach, I tucked it into my beach bag. There was no threat, but, well, it was Mexico after all, and it made me feel better to have the knife with me. Also, the knife came in handy to help remove an unwanted bow from one of my fellow travellers' swimsuits. Well, it was handy until I stabbed her by accident. You'd be surprised how many women on that beach offered us a bandaid.
On the way home, no doubt drunk on sunshine, I neglected to move the knife back into my checked luggage, and when I was stopped by Mexican security, I was genuinely confused why my bag was being x-rayed multiple times. I was bemused until the guard pulled my knife out to show me, and I nearly passed out, visions of a lengthy Mexican prison term dancing in my head. Instead of cuffing me, all the guy did was pitch my knife into a big bin of similar banned items and waved me on my way. My shocked and embarrassed face must have helped my case.
Yesterday, I felt like a suspect for a second time when I picked out a new knife at Canadian Tire. I decided against the shiny red Swiss Army knife with the corkscrew, since most of the wine in my life these days comes with a screwtop or in a tetrapak. Instead, I chose a simple folding model which reminded me of the one my father used.
Here's where the suspect part comes in: after I chose the knife, the clerk had to find the model of my choice from inside a locked cabinet below the counter and then he was required to accompany it and me to the checkout. I couldn't carry my own knife to the front of the store. It was policy, he explained, even while the knife in question that I might stab and rob with was packed behind a thick swaddling of hard plastic.
And here's the other thing: now that I have it home, I can't open the blessed packaging. I need my jackknife to open the packaging on my jackknife!
Friday, September 21, 2012
Fair Ladies
Like most years, I will spend a lot of this weekend at the Collingwood fair.
The rain (if it comes, which I think it won't) won't really matter. The GNE (Great Northern Exhibition for you newbies) has a terrible reputation for being a washed-out affair nearly every year, and yet, most of my photos at the fair feature sunshine. Funny, that.
I was recruited into helping install some of the displays this year, and came away a bit worried about the future of the event.
Oh, there were a lot of entries in the sewing and cooking and quilting competitions, but the people who were volunteering to judge and display them were all of a certain age. The age at which the future becomes no longer certain. I was the youngest person there by at least 25 years.
These women and men are all from good solid farming stock, and while they have worked long and hard hours most of their lives, it wasn't generally 9-5. There is some flexibility when it comes to fall fair time if you're a farmer or a member of a farm family. But things have changed down on the farm. Most of the farmers I know have another job. All of the farmers' wives I know have another job, which is why they weren't out helping on a Thursday afternoon. They were working. Allthe fair's work was being done by retirees.
20 years from now, who will help me to set up the quilts on a Thursday afternoon?
Will there be any quilts to display?
I'll see you at the fair - helping at the beef ring on Saturday afternoon and I'll be everywhere else the rest of the weekend, chowing down on Dave's lamb on a bun, and wishing I'd had time to make a quilt or bake a pie this year.
The rain (if it comes, which I think it won't) won't really matter. The GNE (Great Northern Exhibition for you newbies) has a terrible reputation for being a washed-out affair nearly every year, and yet, most of my photos at the fair feature sunshine. Funny, that.
I was recruited into helping install some of the displays this year, and came away a bit worried about the future of the event.
Oh, there were a lot of entries in the sewing and cooking and quilting competitions, but the people who were volunteering to judge and display them were all of a certain age. The age at which the future becomes no longer certain. I was the youngest person there by at least 25 years.
These women and men are all from good solid farming stock, and while they have worked long and hard hours most of their lives, it wasn't generally 9-5. There is some flexibility when it comes to fall fair time if you're a farmer or a member of a farm family. But things have changed down on the farm. Most of the farmers I know have another job. All of the farmers' wives I know have another job, which is why they weren't out helping on a Thursday afternoon. They were working. Allthe fair's work was being done by retirees.
20 years from now, who will help me to set up the quilts on a Thursday afternoon?
Will there be any quilts to display?
I'll see you at the fair - helping at the beef ring on Saturday afternoon and I'll be everywhere else the rest of the weekend, chowing down on Dave's lamb on a bun, and wishing I'd had time to make a quilt or bake a pie this year.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Dressing for the Occasion
It was nine years ago this week my sweetie and I did what we should have done in the first place, way back when we were... young. We got married and started what has been quite a happy life together.
Of course there have been a few of 'those' days. You know the ones. But on your anniversary, you don't dwell on the days your spouse is lucky to have lived through the night.
We generally go to the same restaurant for a very expensive and very delicious dinner to celebrate our anniversary. We went there on a memorable night in 1990, and the restaurant is still going strong with excellent food and perfect service. Some years, there has been entertainment.
We plan to be the entertainment tonight, since we've decided to wear our wedding outfits to the eatery.
Sweetie wore a kilt to our wedding and he's donned it often in the nine years since, so it's not unusual to see him in it, but my wedding dress has been languishing in a closet since the big day. I put it on periodically to be sure it still fits.
It does, and it's going out on the town tonight, including the wee footprint left by my nephew who was a teeny tiny baby on our wedding day. Whether our fellow diners will think we're cute or pathetic, I really don't care.
I'm just glad to have had these 3,288 nights. I'd like about a million more.
Of course there have been a few of 'those' days. You know the ones. But on your anniversary, you don't dwell on the days your spouse is lucky to have lived through the night.
We generally go to the same restaurant for a very expensive and very delicious dinner to celebrate our anniversary. We went there on a memorable night in 1990, and the restaurant is still going strong with excellent food and perfect service. Some years, there has been entertainment.
We plan to be the entertainment tonight, since we've decided to wear our wedding outfits to the eatery.
Sweetie wore a kilt to our wedding and he's donned it often in the nine years since, so it's not unusual to see him in it, but my wedding dress has been languishing in a closet since the big day. I put it on periodically to be sure it still fits.
It does, and it's going out on the town tonight, including the wee footprint left by my nephew who was a teeny tiny baby on our wedding day. Whether our fellow diners will think we're cute or pathetic, I really don't care.
I'm just glad to have had these 3,288 nights. I'd like about a million more.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Wrong Side of the Bed
When was the last time you had one of 'THOSE' days, when everything you touched turned to crud, and you started off the day in a bad mood even before things started going sideways?
I'm having one of those days this week.
It's not waking up on the wrong side of the bed that's making me cranky, it's a confluence of news items that's annoying me.
My questions swirl:
Why would anyone kill a US diplomat sent to Libya? Surely even crazed mobs must know Libya is not the place where anyone with any real influence would have been sent. Further, surely even a crazed mob might know that since the guy was in Libya, he probably didn't shoot or produce the very badly made movie poking fun at Mohammad which ostensibly began the protest. Well, actually, the movie didn't make fun of Mohammad, but did address that The Prophet, (peace be upon him) married a nine year old, which I'm sure was fun for no one.
Why do so few people appreciate the irony on display by the Republicans in the US? The party goes on and on about the evil of government control of the markets but advocates government control of women's bodies. Surely they know they're being just like the Taliban on women's issues, the very group they want to spend increasing amounts of government money to fight. Jonathan Swift could have done no better, and yet no one is laughing.
Why can't teachers in Ontario just accept their 30 percent worth of wage raises received over the last eight years from the 'education premier' and be grateful? Surely teachers know that the people who still have jobs this year didn't get a raise for most of the last eight years? Surely they know the average Ontario teacher takes home pay that is more than double the national average? Further, why isn't gratitude on the list of fuzzy 'character' attributes they're supposed to be teaching?
Why would a town councillor bother wasting even one breath to ask about public consultations when they know darn well the outcome, not only of any complaint but also of any consultation that is scheduled? Seriously, if you know of even one 'public consultation' where the plan being put forward for a quarry, a school closing or a casino changed one whisker of what was planned, please let me know. I dare you.
See? Cranky!
I'm having one of those days this week.
It's not waking up on the wrong side of the bed that's making me cranky, it's a confluence of news items that's annoying me.
My questions swirl:
Why would anyone kill a US diplomat sent to Libya? Surely even crazed mobs must know Libya is not the place where anyone with any real influence would have been sent. Further, surely even a crazed mob might know that since the guy was in Libya, he probably didn't shoot or produce the very badly made movie poking fun at Mohammad which ostensibly began the protest. Well, actually, the movie didn't make fun of Mohammad, but did address that The Prophet, (peace be upon him) married a nine year old, which I'm sure was fun for no one.
Why do so few people appreciate the irony on display by the Republicans in the US? The party goes on and on about the evil of government control of the markets but advocates government control of women's bodies. Surely they know they're being just like the Taliban on women's issues, the very group they want to spend increasing amounts of government money to fight. Jonathan Swift could have done no better, and yet no one is laughing.
Why can't teachers in Ontario just accept their 30 percent worth of wage raises received over the last eight years from the 'education premier' and be grateful? Surely teachers know that the people who still have jobs this year didn't get a raise for most of the last eight years? Surely they know the average Ontario teacher takes home pay that is more than double the national average? Further, why isn't gratitude on the list of fuzzy 'character' attributes they're supposed to be teaching?
Why would a town councillor bother wasting even one breath to ask about public consultations when they know darn well the outcome, not only of any complaint but also of any consultation that is scheduled? Seriously, if you know of even one 'public consultation' where the plan being put forward for a quarry, a school closing or a casino changed one whisker of what was planned, please let me know. I dare you.
See? Cranky!
Thursday, September 6, 2012
A Safe Space for Grief
There's a time in your life when it seems every weekend features a wedding and a time when it seems every week contains a funeral.
I have entered the funeral stage, it appears.
In the last two years, I have attended no fewer than nine funerals.
A cousin, an uncle, a friend, a former neighbour, all of them of a certain age and all of them taken by cancer or heart disease.
Tomorrow, another one, for a farmer and father of six I had known all my life, who was good friends with my parents, whose children are my friends and to whose house I was shipped for a few days each summer when I was a kid, to give my mother 'a break'.
The thing about funerals is, they're never solely for the person being mourned that day. Of course you're crying for the person being eulogized, but aren't you also crying for your own previous losses? That's why we still have funerals, I think, when so many other public and formerly religious ceremonies have gone by the wayside. There's comfort on offer for the family, but also a safe and public space for each of us to mourn other departures.
While in the United church in Creemore offering support to the Millsap family tomorrow, I will think of Glenn, but I will also shed a tear for my uncle, my cousin and the other people I've already mourned this year, plus my own Dad and my grandparents who have been gone for more than two decades. I know everyone around me will be doing the very same thing, and that's OK.
I have entered the funeral stage, it appears.
In the last two years, I have attended no fewer than nine funerals.
A cousin, an uncle, a friend, a former neighbour, all of them of a certain age and all of them taken by cancer or heart disease.
Tomorrow, another one, for a farmer and father of six I had known all my life, who was good friends with my parents, whose children are my friends and to whose house I was shipped for a few days each summer when I was a kid, to give my mother 'a break'.
The thing about funerals is, they're never solely for the person being mourned that day. Of course you're crying for the person being eulogized, but aren't you also crying for your own previous losses? That's why we still have funerals, I think, when so many other public and formerly religious ceremonies have gone by the wayside. There's comfort on offer for the family, but also a safe and public space for each of us to mourn other departures.
While in the United church in Creemore offering support to the Millsap family tomorrow, I will think of Glenn, but I will also shed a tear for my uncle, my cousin and the other people I've already mourned this year, plus my own Dad and my grandparents who have been gone for more than two decades. I know everyone around me will be doing the very same thing, and that's OK.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Warming Dinner
For pretty much every birthday dinner of my life, my mother has served me the same dessert.
She produces a cake, naturally, but also invariably provides sliced, peeled fresh peaches mixed with thimbleberries. You might know thimbleberries as blackberries; big, juicy, tart/sweet berries containing a lot of seeds whose canes feature the nastiest thorns in the world. I love the berries, but the thorns are so horrible I hated picking them on the farm where I grew up, so I try not to eat them, not wanting to be a hypocrite.
However, every year, my mother brings out the 'special' antique cut glass bowl used for birthdays and other special occasions and fills it up with a concoction of berries, peaches and sugar, which leads to a sweet and sticky syrup. It's all very delicious.
This year, there will be no berries in the mix. The berries flowered in the early sunshine, a big crop came in (albeit mostly for the racoons who ravaged the patch), and it was all over three weeks ago.
There have been years when there were only a few berries and they were very small at the end of the season, but I've never had no berries at all in the soupy deliciousness.
Three weeks.
Think about that, in an 'inconvenient truth' kind of way.
It has me wondering if my birthday dinner is a sign of climate change.
She produces a cake, naturally, but also invariably provides sliced, peeled fresh peaches mixed with thimbleberries. You might know thimbleberries as blackberries; big, juicy, tart/sweet berries containing a lot of seeds whose canes feature the nastiest thorns in the world. I love the berries, but the thorns are so horrible I hated picking them on the farm where I grew up, so I try not to eat them, not wanting to be a hypocrite.
However, every year, my mother brings out the 'special' antique cut glass bowl used for birthdays and other special occasions and fills it up with a concoction of berries, peaches and sugar, which leads to a sweet and sticky syrup. It's all very delicious.
This year, there will be no berries in the mix. The berries flowered in the early sunshine, a big crop came in (albeit mostly for the racoons who ravaged the patch), and it was all over three weeks ago.
There have been years when there were only a few berries and they were very small at the end of the season, but I've never had no berries at all in the soupy deliciousness.
Three weeks.
Think about that, in an 'inconvenient truth' kind of way.
It has me wondering if my birthday dinner is a sign of climate change.
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