ponderingsat80's posterous

She talks too much!

She talks too much, my friend says of her friend - she never stops talking and it gets on my nerves.   Little does she realize her friend is probably thinking the same thing about her?

I sometimes talk too much – especially when I am nervous. I go on and on – babbling and saying nothing of interest - almost incoherent.  My inner voice shouts: Shut up, shut up,  shut up!  But I am unable to stop and I continue to babble.  What strange creatures we are.

It is a bit of a shock to notice my children, who had been quiet and submissive, now standing up for themselves – especially with their siblings.  I became aware of my younger daughter standing up to her sister while chatting in the kitchen one day; it surprised and delighted me at the same time.  And my sons, sitting at either end of the couch (me in the middle) were not squabbling but arguing over which was the better place to live – the East or the West of the country?  I felt very uncomfortable when I became aware of the dynamics taking place ----- were they trying to impress me?

It is strange to meet your children as adults – a mother relates to her child as a child for a long time, and then suddenly, before she knows it - they are grown-ups. They now are taking their place in the world.  How could this have happened so quickly?   I sit in wonder and amazement and my heart fills with pride.

My friend talks.   I listen.  And for once, I am silent.

The Kids on the Hill

The Kids on the Hill

What is it about the kids on the hill that prompts me to write? –  They seem to have become my inspiration - my muse.
We had our first snowstorm of the season that left several inches of snow two days ago.  It is melting, but there are still patches of snow on the mountain, and as I drank my tea and looked up at the hill, there they were! – the ‘snowboard’ kids - what a surprise!  They were like little black dots in the snow as they made their way down the path - not on snowboards, of course, but the sight of them filled me with joy. If only I could tell them how it thrills me to see them again – I’ll be watching for them all winter.

Christmas Decorations

While waiting for the elevator yesterday, a friend came along with Christmas decorations spilling out of her arms; she looked embarrassed as it is early yet for decorations, but her husband who suffered a stroke a few years back, wants them, no – NEEDS them - NOW.  Unfortunately, someone came along and I did not get the chance to tell her how much I admired her for doing this.  Who cares if it is early – lights, colorful balls and all that sort of thing is good for all of us at this dark and dreary time of year.  I am tempted to do the same.

My Kingdom for a Car

Now that we are down to one home and one car I find myself lamenting our lack of storage space – we have (still) way too much stuff!  Even the idea of buying a little cart that people use to go shopping (great way to stop using plastic bags) is daunting – where would we store it?  Our closets are full.
Oh yes, the car thing . . . we are down to one car but wonder if it might not be time to get down to no-car?  Living in the city allows us the use of public transit and there are taxis right at our door – do we really need a car? – Probably not.  Yet, I feel a sense of loss at the thought of giving it up, and find myself thinking, my kingdom for a car . . .

My Readers

 I feel the loss of my readers who seem to have left me – and rightly so, since I deserted them last summer.  Perhaps I have become like the television series that we found so riveting (not that I was ever riveting) and now so boring that we’ve stopped watching.  Perhaps my stories no longer amuse or entertain. Perhaps they too should bite the dust.

Two days ago.

The dear soul that I helped up off the ground last winter was walking her dog, and when we met in the woods, I asked how she was feeling?  A puzzled expression crossed her face as she looked at me and walked on without answering.  She has lost so much weight that I wondered if indeed it was the same woman.  Later in the day, she called to apologize: “Please forgive me - my husband explained you were the person who helped me when I fell.  I am not well - I am confused and have memory loss. I want to thank you for your kindness, and when I am better I would like you to come for a drink.”  Oh, my.

 Moving on.  (Do we really ever move on?)

 The close-to-senior woman who now looks 30-something that I described in an earlier entry, continues to look younger all the time:  With long blond hair, red lipstick, leggings and short skirts, she has gone from serene and elegant to sophisticated and glamorous.  I realize she became a widow a few years ago and has now moved on; and okay, I admit it, I am jealous -- I too want to be 60 looking 30-something and not 80 looking  . . . well, 80 - or 70-something - I am definitely jealous.   What is this obsession with youth?   Ah, me.  Will I ever truly let go and move on?            

Back to the kids on the hill 

Perhaps if I concentrate on the kids, I will move on.   Perhaps.

Letting go

 Life seems to be a process of letting go:  We let go of our mother at birth; we let go of our babyhood, our childhood our teenage years and before we know it we are middle aged and headed to becoming seniors  . . .  Our lifestyle changes: children leave home; we move into a smaller house or apartment, sometimes to a new neighbourhood where nothing is familiar and we lose our sense of belonging. Because we have less room we are forced to let go of possessions, get down to one car or perhaps no car and begin taking taxis or public transit. We reach a point where everything seems to have changed – including us. 

 My nephew has purchased a house in the country on the road where I once lived, and this has made me acutely aware of what I have had to let go – as the song goes: you don’t know you miss it until you don’t have it anymore.  I envy him not only the house in the country, but his ability to handle what living in the country is all about. We are forever mourning someone or something - I was supposed to have dealt with this - it upsets me to realize I still long for my house – my little haven in the country.  Perhaps this longing - certainly the loss - will remain with me forever.

 I want it all back . . .  I want to go back to my life in the country – to the mountains and forests and me feeding the birds; to the little poodle who kept me company and guided me through the woods; I want to go back to my family – to my children when they were little and we were all under one roof; I long for my friends who have long since passed . . . it hurts.  I sit with my memories and sigh - the old cliché is true - time marches on and I have no choice but to let go and move with it. 

 Margaret’s Squirrel

Every day Margaret spreads peanuts on the window ledge for Roger, the squirrel.  There could, of course, be a Roger 1, 2 or 3 – who knows . . . Margaret is sure the same squirrel appears at her window every morning which drives her cat KIKI wild.  “You are torturing your cat.”  I tell her, but she insists they are friends.  She may be right.  When I visited her the other day, Roger 1, 2 or 3 was running along the ledge looking for food while KIKI on the windowsill kept watch from the inside.  I was surprised to notice he was not growling and shivering with anticipation of a squirrel meal – he seemed happy to see his little friend.  Roger not only was looking for peanuts, he stood with front paws on the window peering in at KIKI.  Who knows . . . perhaps they are friends? Does it matter? This is fun for Margaret who looks forward to their little exchange every day. (It is she by the way, who named the squirrel/s Roger.)

 Margaret is an 84 year old widow; she has no children, and since she and was an only child, has no family.  She is deaf and nearly blind:   A nerve was severed during a cataract operation that left her blind in one eye and in the other there is glaucoma.  During a heat wave last summer, she collapsed and was taken to hospital where she remained for several days; her fear of again falling or collapsing traumatized her, and she quickly became a shut-in.  I began to visit her about that time and often she would ask me to pick up food for her cat and peanuts for the squirrel.

A dreadful incident occurred when I agreed to go with her to the nearby bank a few days after her return from the hospital.  All was going well until she lost her balance walking up an incline and, before I realized what was happening, she was on the ground!  “Please don’t call 911!” she pleaded.  Her worst fear was materializing – she worried about her cat -- what would happen to her cat?!  – “If I can just roll over on my side, I can get up,” she insisted.  I stood next to her wondering what to do?   Not strong enough to lift her I began to panic when suddenly out of nowhere a young couple appeared.  The woman helped Margaret to her feet and we walked her to a bench where she could rest. The young man ran ahead, opened the door and called for the elevator; it took only a short time for Margaret to recover once we sat her on her sofa and KIKI jumped up on her lap.  It was arrogant and foolish of me to think I could take her out alone, and needless to say, I have not tried it again.

But wait . . .  Margaret is no longer a shut-in. - after  several visits to her doctor, and numerous tests, she has been given new medication and is feeling a lot better. To everyone’s surprise, she now goes out by herself to the mall and to the hairdresser’s; she buys groceries that she has delivered to her door; she then walks home slowly, happy and proud of her accomplishment.  Not for her to be considered a shut- in - not anymore.  Her courage and determination may have helped her find something else besides a cat and a squirrel to amuse her - she has re-discovered her independence and freedom – who knows what will happen next?

 There are others like Margaret who have taken up the challenge of old age and decided to not to let it get them down – who refuse to become a burden to society and have discovered  ways to keep physically and mentally fit - to keep the letting go of life at bay – at least for a little while.  It’s not always easy – it is often difficult to adjust to new things.  But like Margaret, we must learn to do what we can and let go of what we can’t. 

A little confession . . .

I am happy Margaret is feeling better but I miss her not asking me to pick things up, be it food for her cat, or whatever - I miss her not needing me anymore.  My need is to be needed and I am finding it hard to let her go.   Ah, me,  the letting go continues . . .  I hope and pray that when at the end of my life the final letting go appears,   I  am given the courage to leap into the unknown and discover the joy and love that is waiting -- when we finally and eternally become one with the All that is All.

The hybrid that is me

 “I’m a hybrid like you,” said my ophthalmologist as I was getting my eyes checked one day, and asked about his background.  There were a lot of hybrids in the town where I grew up; we were mostly from French and Irish decent.  My mother was from Northern Ireland and my father was French Canadian, and both were Catholic.  There was never any question of sending kids to other than a Catholic school in those days, and because we lived in a small town, the Catholic schools were French.  (If you lived in the city where my husband grew up – you had access to English Catholic schools.)
I was sent to a private French convent.  We spoke English at home, and the small amount of French I learnt from my mother’s maid  who came from a French part of the province, did little to assuage my fear those first few days at school.  I could understand what was being said but had difficulty expressing myself.  I was ridiculed and laughed at (kids can be so cruel), and that humiliation stayed with me for a long time - I have never quite been able to shake the feeling of not fitting-in.  I remember wanting to run away and hide and not ever go back to that school again.
I grew up in two camps – the French and the English.    The convent I attended where I eventually ‘caught on’ and was able to speak and live in French, seemed  foreign to me and because my father had inherited a house in a predominantly English neighbourhood, my little friends were English speaking and Protestant.  They referred to me as a French ‘pea-souper’ – a derogatory colloquial expression while the kids at school called me ‘une anglaise’ or English bloke - equally derogatory.  I never quite belonged in either camp. (I still fight the urge to run away when in uncomfortable situations.)
 To make matters worse, the parents of my friends in the English camp treated me as a token French speaking child - I was smiled upon – seemingly accepted - but was often ridiculed for my Catholic behaviour i.e., not eating meat on Friday (an obligation in those days). I was invited to their summer cottages but always there was that under currant of not being one of them.
It was a surprise for me to learn, when I met my husband, that he had never experienced any of this even though his background was similar to mine. His father was French Canadian and his mother was not only English Canadian, she was Protestant, and in those days that made a difference.  Because of that and perhaps because they lived in a city, he was spared the bigotry and intolerance that permeated the lives of people in a small town, that a  young child  could not  possibly understand, let alone  articulate.  I took it in, absorbed it, and it became part of me. I was different – a hybrid - and the feeling of not belonging remained with me.  
Were there others like me?  Perhaps, although many factors come into play; genes, family history, nurturing . . . even birth order.  In a comic strip called Stone Soup, a little girl called Alix is trying to learn about birth order and when her mother asks what she has learned, she answers, “not much.  Everyone thinks they have the hardest. No one has any empathy for anyone else’s position.  Other than that I didn’t learn a thing.”    “Of course not, you’re the baby,” says the older sister patting her on the head.  This attitude may have contributed to my insecurities – I am the youngest in my family. They say the youngest is usually sheltered, protected and babied – perhaps, but one can also be ignored, and this in no way helps build self- confidence and self- esteem.  There was an eight and nine years difference  between me and my sisters, my brothers were older as well, but my sisters were the ones  I idolized --  to my young eyes they represented what it meant to be grown-up:  they  wore high heels, silk (nylon?)  stockings and the ultimate in glamour -- red lipstick!   My little friends and I used to sneak into the room when they were out and slip our little feet into their shoes; we'd  shuffle across the floor pretending to be them.  And when relatives - uncles, aunts and cousins came to visit, they talked to my sisters, not me -- I sat and watched and admired.  I do not remember anything being expected of me - I was the baby - the runt of the family.  Consequently, I ended up being a late bloomer.  Does this happen in other families?  Did we do this to our youngest? . . .
Getting back to two camps . . . When I lived by myself in the country, some of my neighbours were separatists,  and I again felt isolated and alone.  One day, I met and chatted with the neighbour across the road and for some reason told him of my experience of growing up in two camps and of never having felt I belonged in either.  His answer to me was, “we will accept you in ours, Madame.”
Things changed rapidly after the Quiet Revolution when nationalism took over and  Catholic beliefs and traditions were replaced by new and secular ideas - French Canadians are now referred to as Quebecois as they rightly take charge of  their culture and language (some hoping to make it a country one day). Will the rich tapestry of bilingualism and biculturalism also disappear?   Do we want this to happen?     Le Quebec aux Quebecois, we often hear . . . I cringe and wonder again where I fit in?   
 Ah, this ongoing struggle to accept and to love oneself and to feel – no, to know one belongs.  I was excited and happy to read not long ago two articles written by University Research Anthropologists in which they  stated:  "Mixed unions lead to more tolerance and respect for the cultural differences."   And "If we find coherence in diversity our society will be better off for it."
 Bravo  --- may we become a society in which everyone not only accepts the other but RESPECTS and applauds their differences.  And may we, the hybrids of this world, not only feel we belong but rejoice in and celebrate the fact that indeed perhaps we are different.

More of the same . . .

 I’m back after a two month hiatus – I thought it necessary to take a break and perhaps think up new stories and ideas . . .  Alas, it has not happened – I am back with more of the same, hoping someone will perhaps read and enjoy what I write.

I am reading ‘The Help’ by Kathryn Stockett, and with each page I find myself holding my breath as memories come flooding back.  My daughters had a similar reaction to the movie (imagine a first novel and now a movie) as they remembered our coloured maids . . .

 We were living in the States at the time, although not in Mississippi where the story is set, and my relationship with ‘the help’ was not even close to what is being described in the book, but I remember feeling very uncomfortable the first time I hired a maid – well, actually a cleaning woman (now called housekeepers) who came in once a week to clean.    I remember opening the door to a short, stocky, bubbly and friendly black woman in her early thirties.   My son, aged three, stood by my side, and looking up at her, exclaimed: What color is she, mummy?!   What color is she?!  I made the mistake of ignoring him which made him more curious and agitated, and he tugged at my skirt insisting, “MUMMY  . . .  what color is she?!”  I had never had to deal with this kind of situation and was not handling it well.  It was Frances - that was her name - who stepped inside and proudly introduced herself as person of different color to my little boy.  I was relieved but embarrassed and horribly ashamed.

Frances turned out to be a godsend – she was incredibly energetic and always in good humour.  I welcomed her with almost open arms and delighted in her personality.   She stayed with me for seven years and saw me through three more babies.  When we moved to another area of the city – to the country, in fact - Frances declared she did not much care for rabbits and squirrels and the likes, and suggested I find somebody else – it had become a transportation problem for her as well. I was disappointed but understood completely, and it was with tears in our eyes that we said our goodbyes.  I loved being in the country but it was the end of hired help just after a move and the beginning of another pregnancy - I was expecting our fifth child!  This is when my father stepped in and sent me my mother’s maid. 

We christened our new home a ’miracle house’ – we had sold our house in the city and agreed to vacate by a certain date but had yet to discover where we would live? It was quite a dilemma.  With four kids in the car we set out in search of a house in the country. We drove along a wooded area and saw several beautiful homes but became discouraged when there was no For Rent or For Sale signs to be seen.  We were about to turn around when we noticed someone walking along the road; we stopped and asked if he knew of a place?  - “I do, he replied.  I have a house to rent just up the road.”  It did not take long for us to make up our minds – it was beautiful – a miracle house set in the woods.  I could not wait to move in, but there was a problem - it was not available for another month.  We signed the contract anyway, and I left with the children to visit my parents.

And when a month later it was time to move, my father sent their French Canadian maid along.   What a blessing – I could never have managed without her. I loved and desperately needed her help.  Within a short time, however, she became terribly homesick – she had never been away from home and missed her family.  Nothing I did or said managed to cheer her up; we discussed the situation and I reluctantly decided it best to send her home.   I cannot remember who replaced her but I can still see her sad and lonely face.   We lived in that delightful little house for a year; then it was time to move to another house in another city, and to once again search for a maid.

 Her name was Violet - she preferred to be called Vi.  A wonderful black (African-American) middle-aged woman entered our lives – she brought with her a sense of calm and tranquility     at a time when my children were small and I had recently had another baby (our last).  Although Vi loved the baby, it was his brother she became attached to and he to her.  He could do no wrong – ever.  She was there when he took his first steps and there when he first used the potty.   (It was not unusual for me to have two babies in diapers at the same time.) Vi came twice a week; to clean and do the ironing.  She also helped with the many dinner parties I gave:  she would feed the children and put them to bed and frequently make the salad.  She had her own car, so getting home after the parties was never a problem.

I was forgetting to mention Mary, a rather unsure-of-herself young maid.  I found her before Vi and wondered how I could manage with someone so unreliable and confused.  She came by bus and many times the bus came without her and I found myself frustrated and annoyed as she never phoned to say she’d not be in, she simply did not show up.  Because she seemed so bewildered I was not sure what to do – the situation resolved itself when after only a few short months she decided the job was not for her. It was with Mary that I wept the day President Kennedy was assassinated – we were riveted to the television and stood holding each other, tears streaming down our cheeks.  

My mind spins as I try to remember our many moves and maids . . .
 We lived in France for a year and then returned to the States to sell our house and move to Montreal.

We settled into a large house in a lovely neighbourhood and enrolled the children in school when I suddenly came down with an ugly flu that completely did me in.  I ended up in the hospital for a week with strict orders from the doctor that all the moving and buying and selling of houses had to STOP – I was totally exhausted.   It was then we found Missy Woo – as the children called her - a sweet little Chinese lady who came in five mornings a week.   I so appreciated her quiet and gentle ways as she silently went about her chores.   One of our fondest and funniest memories of ‘Missy Woo’ is, her misunderstanding what to prepare for the children’s lunch one day when I had to be away.  I had suggested baloney sandwiches and tapioca pudding.  She gave them tapioca and baloney sandwiches!

In spite of the doctor’s orders, we moved yet again – to Ontario.  Several of the children were by then attending university so they stayed behind.  Once again we settled into a lovely large house but I was down to one child in high school and the other in residence at the university, so the need for a maid was no longer urgent but missing the other children became so intense the only answer was to find a job.  (I eventually hired a cleaning woman to come in twice a month.)

 How strange to think I knew so little about the women who worked for me – I knew nothing about their private lives.  Except for Ivy, my  (white woman) housekeeper in Ontario, who kept telling me her husband would do this or that for her and would most certainly never let her struggle with a garage door the way I did.  “He’d install an electric door, that’s what my Bob would do.” She’d announce proudly.   She’d repeat that--- every time she came.   It became so annoying that I’d take the car out before she’d arrive.  Her Bob probably would have done all those things for her, but he passed away before he had the chance.

I sit and remember . . . I pick up the book and smile. I turn the page.

Ongoing Saga of a Root Canal Manqué . . . Tooth is gone -- end of story.

I know. I know -- this post is endless and tedious and somewhat annoying.  Please bear with me -- no one is more disappointed than I at not being able to lay the whole episode to rest.   I was asked to continue the story and hopefully its completion.      I am doing this for a friend who is in far worse shape than I but who is now hopefully on the mend.  (The update continues at the bottom of the page.)
I’ve been laid low for the last two weeks with a nasty head cold.  It started when I went for my twice-yearly visit to my dental hygienist a.k.a. the torture chamber. She did her usual thorough cleaning – so thorough, it hurt. ( I sometimes suspect she is a sadist.)  Never does she tell me I have done a good job of cleaning my teeth between visits.  I hate to admit she is the one who taught me to brush four times a day, three minutes each time and, of course, to floss . . . I do this faithfully because of her.  But does she give me credit for at least trying?  Absolutely not – she always finds something I’ve neglected or missed. This time the visit included X- rays that I’d refused to have on my previous visit.  “Ah-ha!”  She exclaimed, almost triumphantly – “you have infection under your back tooth.” “I don’t feel anything.”  I say, feeling threatened.   The dentist later confirms her findings while doing his follow-up check. “You will need a root canal,” he says. “Don’t wait till you develop an abscess.”  A root canal!  I’ve heard horror stories . . .    “Not to worry - the procedure has improved a lot.  It’s either that or an extraction - we prefer to save the tooth whenever possible.”  This does nothing to comfort me.                
I leave the clinic somewhat shaken.   I, who have always had good teeth - how could I have an infection and not feel it?  A week later finds me in the office of the recommended young root canal specialist (they’re so young nowadays) who explains the procedure to me; I sign an agreement and he begins to numb my tooth.  All fear begins to dissipate as my mouth responds to the injections - I feel nothing.   This isn’t so bad, I think and I relax.  But . . .  no sooner had he begun that he stopped. “Doesn’t look good” he says, “your tooth is cracked, I cannot continue, it will have to come out.”  I am shocked but signal to him to go ahead and yank.  “You will have to see your dentist for this – I don’t do extractions. Let’s see if he can fit you in right away, now that your mouth is frozen.”  He leads the way to my dentist’s office just down the hall, but the door is locked – they have left for the day.
I come home, not only with a numbed tooth, but dreadfully disappointed.  And oh, the power of suggestion - the tooth that has never given me any trouble begins to ache.  Or so I imagine.  The muscles in my jaw, of course, are what ache, along with my gums from the injections.
Next morning I call my dentist and explain what happened to his receptionist.  She says she is sorry and will get back to me.  No news all day, so I call back – “the dentist has to check with the specialist before we give you an appointment.” She explains.   Two days pass and still no news and no appointment.  I call again, and this time I am given an appointment for the 27.th    Not so bad, I think.  Two weeks is okay.    Until I realize it’s for July 27.   "JULY!”  I am incredulous! And I come close to shouting into the phone, “WHAT HAPPENED TO DON’T WAIT TILL YOU DEVELOP AN ABSCESS?”   “We’ll call if we get a cancelation, but don’t worry – there’s really no hurry.”   She then adds, “Call if you begin to experience pain.” IF I BEGIN TO EXPERIENCE PAIN! . . .  What’s going on here?  I can imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios --- don’t they realize this – don’t they know? . . .
When my brother and I were in our late teens, he developed an excruciating tooth ache on a Sunday afternoon.  A friend, a few years his senior, who had recently graduated from the school of dentistry, was at the house at the time; seeing the pain my brother was in, decided to take matters into his own hands; he went home, picked up his tools, came back, handed my brother a glass of whiskey, sat him on a kitchen chair, and then and there pulled the tooth.  My brother was so grateful he sobbed with relief as the rest of us stood and watched.  It seemed primitive but it worked and we were all impressed at the boldness of this young dentist.
 When this same brother turned 70 he walked into his dentist’s (not the same one) office and announced, he wanted to have all his teeth extracted.  Not for him to suffer broken teeth and fillings, root canals or what have you when he reached his 80s – he wanted it out of the way right now.  I never learned the reaction of his dentist or where or when it was done, but my brother now has the most attractive natural looking dentures anyone could ever have.
My mother, bless heart, true to her Irish blood was superstitious: she came down with a tooth ache one day and, grabbing a deck of cards, announced, “If I win at Solitaire my tooth ache will go away.”  Don’t know if she won the game but she made a visit to the dentist a day or two later.
Ah, teeth . . .  Today if you lose teeth, the question is: Do you get dentures or go for implants? Dentures are less expensive but need to be replaced every ten years or so and they can become uncomfortable if your gums shrink.  Implants are painful at first, not to mention it is a very expensive procedure, but once they are in and you get used to them they last forever and need no further attention.
I am not faced with that kind of decision, not yet, but what I must be, is patient and not obsess over a tooth, and worry it might develop an abscess before July 27.   But does the fact I am writing about it mean I am already somewhat obsessing over it? Does the cold I’ve been fighting mean my immune system was compromised because of the stress of all that?  -- We are such complicated beings.
 This is definitely to be continued . . .  
I has now been over a week since I called my dentist for an appointment to have my tooth pulled.  I call the office and this time  ask to speak to the dentist. I tell the receptionist I am concerned about developing an abscess (why are they not  giving me an appointment?). The dentist returns my call two hours later and tells me not to worry - it would surprise him were I to develop an abscess,  "I will prescribe an antibiotic for you which you should take only if you feel pain - and you must take all  the pills once you start." He says,   insisting I am not to  worry -- he also promises to fit me in as soon as possible.
I hang up feeling somewhat relieved and reassured and proud of myself for being assertive  in pushing for attention.   I wait, antibiotic pills sitting on my table.  But please, may I not have to take them - they do tend to upset one's system.  
I wait and hope.  And yes, this is defiitely yet to be continued . . .
Several of my friends have told me 'tooth' stories that are far worse than mine, and I am ashamed for having gone on complaining about it;  I will now shut up and move on to another topic ---- one of these days. 
At the request of a friend I will add a few lines to this post when I have something new to report.  So yes . . . it is still to be continued
Here is the latest . . .
I have  picked up another cold! - the second in a month -  and this one has turned into bronchitis.  No fun at all. Nothing to do but accept it and take care it does not turn into pneumonia.  
I felt really sick when I received a call from the dentist's office this morning to say they'd had a cancellation and could fit me in to pull my tooth today and  I had to tell them I could not come because of  bronchitis.  What a disappointment.   Talk about frustration -- after all the fuss I made over getting an appointment. And have I mentioned lately how afraid I am of developing an abscess?!  All this sneezing and coughing and hacking does nothing to reassure me. ----  Ah, me. 
Everything is  again on hold.  I hope the next time they call (may it be soon) I am up to going so that I can finally put an end to this ongoing tooth saga.
Till the next time . . . 
Another call from the dentist's office  saying they could fit me in tomorrow morning.  Unfortunately, I  again I had to put it off -- my cold is just awful and I continue to feel sick.  I asked that they try again next week -- surely by then I should feel  better.   So disapointing. 
This nasty virus has gotten me down and I am unable to shake it.  I am not alone -- several friends and family members have had similar symtoms that last not for a week or two but for weeks -- and just when you think you've licked the thing it starts all over again.
So  . . . dear readers, I want to change topics but not only have I made a promise to finish this one, I do not have the energy to write.  Soon, I hope, my energy will return and new ideas will pop into my head that I will be eager to share with you.  As I sat sipping my tea I looked across at the mountian path where I watched young people snowboarding last winter -- I miss the sight of them zig-zagging down the hill while I held my breath for each one until he or she had completed the run.  Today, however, I spotted something else -- I saw several on trail bikes --- imagine a trail bike on such a hill --- unbelievable.
Lush green trees nearly enclose the path now but somehow these young people manage to entertain me.  I spot a gorgeous pine tree and yearn  to pack a picnic and make my way up to it.  What fun it would be to sit and enjoy an afternoon under a tree with a basket full of French bread, cheese , perhaps a bottle of wine and  fresh fruit. But those days are gone and I must now be content to sit in my living room and marvel at the acrobatics and courage of these young people as they weave their way up or down the path on their trail bikes.  What a surprise and what  fun it has been  for me to  discover them again  - if only  I could tell them how much  their daring skills are thrilling and entertaining me.  I   so much wish somehow  they knew.
I mentioned a picnic . . .  I have  always loved picnics.  When I was a little girl of 10 or 11, my little friends and I would pack a peanut butter sandwich in waxed paper, add a banana and in one of my mother's pickel jar we'd  add milk; pack it all into a shoe box  in the basket  of our bikes and head out for the covered bridge down the road.  Once there we'd park our bikes on the edge of the road and make our way to the river's edge where we'd sit on the rocks and eat our picnic.  Three or four of us did this once or twice a week during the summer.  Other times we'd head to what we called the muddy road - a road that, having never been paved, was covered in mud every spring, so we named it the muddy road. It was there we'd find a couple of pine trees and set our picnice up under them.  What fun -- we'd amuse ourselves by telling ghost stories.  The covered bridge held an air of mystery, and it was there our imaginations ran wild.  When we managed to scare ourselves enough, we'd  gather up our stuff, hop on our bikes and head home as quickly as possible before it became too  dark.
When I had my own family, I loved organizing picnics by the lake in the summer time.  But the meal consisted of more than peanut butter:  I'd roast chicken legs and make potato salad and water mellon for dessert  and probably a chocolate cake -- the kids loved those outings on a warm summer's evening. 
It's not surprising that whan I spotted the pine tree on the mountain my thoughts drifted back to those times -- those marvelous fun-filled lazy picnics under a tree or by the lake.  Ah, yes, I continue to reminisce --- the privilege of a long, long life.   Now if I can just shake this virus and get on with living . . .
  Next post  . . .    " End of the Toxic Tooth" ---- I hope.  
Finally the tooth is out and I am very grateful  It certainly was no picnic and I am having to take it easy, eat soft food and apply ice .  I am on Ibuprofen for pain and swelling and am told it should improve by Friday.  It is finally over and I can now relax and move on to other topics.  Amen to all
of that.  Thank you dear readers for all your patience. I shall try to be more entertaining in my next entry.

Twitter, tweets and . . . twits

“If we tweet are we twits?”  Someone asked on television the other day. Celebrities tweet, but then, why not – they have lots to tweet about.  One woman on the show admitted to being addicted to Twitter and tweets all the time;  when her husband complained he’d not been told she was on her way to the hospital to give birth to their baby, she responded with,  “Didn’t you get my tweet?”    Elizabeth Taylor was apparently known to tweet up to the last days of her life.

 It boggles the mind to think tweets go out to the whole planet!  We’d better be sure of what we’re writing and darn sure we don’t care who reads it!

(While writing this, a window opened over my text offering me an account on Twitter.  How’s that for instant communication!)

 Electronic technology and social networking is changing so rapidly, it is next to impossible for someone like me to keep up.  I just got used to writing emails, and now emailing has almost become obsolete.  What is going on?  . . . , Smart phones, I Phones, I Pads, Blackberries, and who knows what else, from which to receive or send messages, read books and newspapers;  Facebook, Twitter, Blogs and all those ISPs -- my head is spinning -- the competition is brutal!

 People my age now send emails and we boast of our accomplishments.  Some of us have opened accounts on Facebook and mastered the ability to download (or upload) photos and other stuff onto the Internet; we do most of our research on Google and book travel reservations including airline or train tickets and hotel rooms.  We’re pretty smart for seniors.  Just the other day my friend remarked she was now on Flickr; I, however, understood Twitter and admit I felt jealous; Wow, she’s really with it!  I thought.  “When did you open an account on Twitter?” I asked.  -- “I’m not on twitter.” She retorted – I’m on Flickr!”   I don’t blame her for being annoyed – she’s a wonderful photographer and of course, it’s about photography – I should have known better.  I am always  delighted  to find her photos on Facebook  

 The question still remains, should I get on Twitter?   Television and radio hosts invite us to share our opinions via email, Facebook or Twitter.  Should we older folk learn to tweet?  Would we become addicted and start sharing details of our everyday lives to our friends -- and the world!  Would we complain about our illnesses,  our aches and pains and often times loneliness, and in so doing bore people to death?   Or would we tweet a few words of wisdom and insights that perhaps only people our age can experience.  Would we express to young folk what old age is really about?  What an amazing tool this is and what a wonderful opportunity it is to share this knowledge.  It is scary but also terribly exciting to see the way things are evolving, and for someone my age it is amazing . . .

  I flash back to when I was young and there was only one phone in the house; only rarely were we allowed using it.  Before the dial system came along we’d have to give a number to the telephone operator who would put us through but also sometimes listen in; we knew this because we’d hear her breathing and she would also often interrupt our conversation to correct our mistakes.  If you lived in a small town, everybody knew everybody else and there were no secrets -- gossip was rampant.  

 When my husband and I bought the house in the country, our telephone was on a party line; as many as six families could be on it.  We were given a number of rings through which to identify the call was for us; ours was two rings: Ring, ring – stop.  Someone else would have three rings – stop, and so on.  We had to pay attention when the phone rang - often times several of us picked up, and we’d listen to make sure the others had hung up.  Party lines were similar to the games we played when you’d whisper a secret to the person sitting next to you and they in turn whispered it to the person next to them until it had been passed on to everyone in the room; by the time it got to the end of the line the secret had changed completely. It was hilarious and a lot of fun.  And so it was with party lines: there was no need for newspapers - news and gossip got spread quickly over the telephone, and more often than not, the last person to hear it t got it all wrong.  Listening in on phone calls was a favourite pastime for some, and one person in particular was a notorious listener.  Knowing this, our kids would fabricate the most outlandish and elaborate stories imaginable hoping to get a rise out of her – and quite often they were rewarded by the sound of a sigh or an intake of breath on the line.

 We’ve come such a long way - new communication devices are being invented and put on the market every six months.  How on earth are we (the elderly) supposed to keep up?  Would I be a twit for tweeting?  And once I got the hang of it, would there again be something new I needed to learn?  In an earlier post I alluded to someone who humorously suggested we were evolving to a point when there will be no need to speak because we will have developed the ability to read one another’s thoughts.     Mental telepathy may not be so farfetched – it may entirely be in the realm of possibility - who knows how much further all of this will go? . . .

  I’m quite sure I receive and transmit thoughts to my husband and at times to other people in the room; and my dog and I communicate continually without the need of words.

 So, will we continue to tweet, text message or email on smart phones and laptops? Or will television, cell phones and landlines go the way of the party lines and dial phones of the past and simply disappear?  Who knows?  In the meantime, I will continue to email my kids and friends – not to mention send posts via emails;  I will use my landline and cell phones for as long as the means to do it exists;  and should I be around when the next phase of communication technology comes along, I’ll do my best to adapt to it and try my hardest to learn.    

 

       

 

On the tip of my tongue

 In an article of the paper a couple of weeks ago someone wrote how she struggled to remember the name of the actress who played the role of United States President in a television series a few years ago; she just could not remember it until she realized she had spelt the first name wrong.  The actress is Geena Davis.   (She’d been spelling it Jean.)

 When I read the article I was struck by how we all go through a similar process trying to remember someone’s name:  “It’s on the tip of my tongue.” We say. “I can almost see it.”  We go on to say.  “What is that person’s name? . . .  We go through the alphabet hoping a letter will trigger our memory.  We make associations hoping that too might help; then we leave it alone knowing it will come back – sooner or later.

  Names escape me more now that I am old, and when this happens I find it best to not think about it.  That’s when the name surfaces from deep within my brain and I call out, “I’ve got it!  I remember now!” I yell to my husband who no longer cares and is perhaps no longer listening (although we often compete to see who comes up with it first).  It’s such a relief to remember that to behave this way in my kitchen or living room is not a problem.  But should the name pop into my head while I am grocery shopping or in a public place, I might find myself terribly embarrassed as I blurt out, “It’s come back to me - I’ve just remembered . . .” startling the person next to me.

 I often see people alone on the street, walking along lips moving, mumbling something or other, and I feel sorry for them; pour souls, I think.  Could this now be me?  Do I mumble or express my thoughts out loud?  Other than talking to my dog which I am told I do all the time, do I also talk to myself?  I know my lips definitely move when someone cuts me off in traffic; I more than mutter – I curse.  And I’ve been known to give the finger (under the dashboard, of course).  But when alone in public, do my lips move? Do I mutter and mumble?  Is it possible I talk to myself now?  Oh, my.   

 I laughed this morning when I read people may be evolving to such a point where there will be no more need to talk – we will read one another’s thoughts.  Will we still need to remember names?  Two guys pass on the street and think, Hi, how are you?  Good. And you? I’m good too.  They go on their way each thinking, Who the heck was that?   If we are reading one another’s thoughts, will we be able to hide that we’ve forgotten their name?       

  It was important to remember people’s names at cocktail parties in my day.  We pretended to know, but often hadn’t a clue . . .  why did we not simply admit it?   Everybody did this, and everybody knew that everybody was pretending.    Fascinated by how couples who had been together for a while took on each other’s mannerisms, I began to observe their facial expressions and how often they used the same words to express themselves.  One couple had the habit of rocking back and forth as they stood chatting with people;  Up  on the toes then down again; up and down from heel to toe – rocking.  It was positively mesmerizing! I remember watching them and finding it so funny I had to leave the room to keep from laughing out loud.    

 Resemblances . . .   (I am not the only people watcher.)

 One day someone remarked to us (my husband and me), “you two look so much alike, you must be related.”  “We’re not related - we’re husband and wife” growled my husband, murmuring “idiot” under his breath.  “Well that explains it.” Says the guy.

 I quickly headed to the washroom to see if he was right . . . do I look like my husband?  Or does he look like me?  I wondered as I checked my face in the mirror.  After living together for so many years you do develop the same habits and use similar expressions – even finish each other’s sentences, and  in that respect we look alike; but when I look in the mirror I see my mother’s face and my sister’s – not my husband’s.  They say we resemble our dogs, or is it our dogs resemble us?  People do look like certain animals (or perhaps the animals look like us).  Some of us look like our dogs, others look like cats or even horses  . . . A friend of a friend has the face of a delicate little bird.  Then there are those who, dare I say it, look like pigs.

 My dog looks like a baby with her big black eyes, black nose and tiny mouth – she has the sweet and innocent look of a baby; and when a young couple with a three month old got on the elevator the other day,  I caught myself almost saying, “what a  sweet baby – she looks just like my dog!”  Did I mention my dog’s name is Boo?  Well, the baby girl’s name is . . .  I kid you not - Boo!   I won’t quickly forget her name.

 

 

 

Once Upon a Mountain

 Last weekend I sat looking at a group of eight or ten kids, no doubt teenagers, snowboarding down the side of the mountain.  They were like little black dots on the snow zigzagging down the hill at an incredible speed.  I held my breath as each completed a run, and was grateful there were several and not just one in case of an accident.  What skill it takes to manoeuvre a board like that!

 A thousand years ago when we were living in Europe and I was oh-so-young, we decided to rent skis as we visited the Swiss Alps one day.  It was a great idea for my husband and 14 year old son – they were good skiers, but I did not know how to ski! . . . It seemed OK as we went up the hill, but when I got off the lift I realized I had to go back down!  Accomplished skiers whizzed by as I stood there not knowing what to do?  I started to slide sideways and in no time gravity was taking over and pulling me down the hill . . . I panicked!  What to do . . .  I was able to stop the slide by digging my poles into the snow; then sobbing and terrified, I berated myself for the situation I was in:  How could I have been so  stupid  . . . what was I thinking!  My hands were shaking as I bent over and unhooked the skis from my boots – the only thing I could think of doing - I leaned the skis against my shoulder, and, sinking into the snow up to my knees,  began my descent on foot.

 Skiers were forced to detour off the path to avoid running into me; they  cursed, swore and shouted at me as they went by.  Who could blame them –  I had no business being there and by walking  down the hill was ruining the trail.

 Furious with myself  as well as with my husband, I screamed, when we met at the bottom of the hill, “I will never try to ski again – how could you have let me?  I will never, ever try to ski again – do you hear me?!”  I shrieked.

But I was wrong – this experiene was the harbinger of things to come.

When we moved back to the States my daughter and I took ski lessons.  There was a little hill nearby which made it easy for us to do in the evening and on weekend afternoons.  We were taught to snowplough and this alone gave me the confidence to tackle bigger hills in other areas.

 Soon we were skiing as a family and it was lovely to ski in the evening by moonlight or by artificial light provided by the ski hills.  I was doing well until one day while skiing under my usual control, the ski patrol passed me saying, “if everyone skied like you we would never have any trouble.” No sooner had they said that, that I hit a mogul and fell hard on my backside (I literally saw stars)!. I picked myself up and took off my skis.  On my way home I began to feel pain, and by the time we got there I was in agony.  I swallowed two aspirin and sat in a tub hoping the hot water would ease the pain.  We were expecting dinner guests and although I had everything prepared, I had to be the hostess.  Aspirin and wine got me through the evening but the next morning found me at the doctor’s office looking for help.  I had cracked my coccyx so was given a prescription for pain and told to not sit on it until it had healed – I was to sit on my hip instead (like I didn’t know that already)!

 As if that weren’t enough – I received a scathing letter from my father admonishing me for my behaviour; reminding me of my responsibility to my children  . . . had the accident been more serious  ( my sister was  in traction for months - the result of a ski accident). Feeling guilty, I hung up my skis.  For a little while.

 When we moved to Montreal I joined a ski club and took lessons in earnest.  Finally I was taught to parallel ski. What fun.  We were taken to ski hills up North and in the Townships. One day as we were being given a lesson, a woman came charging down the hill and I was terribly impressed . . . what incredible speed!. I thought – I want to ski like that some day.   I could not have been more wrong.  She flew past us screaming:  “Help me!  Somebody help me – I can’t stop!”  She ended up hitting a fence and fell to the ground.  Luckily she was not hurt - she obviously did not know how to ski - let alone stop.   She was the perfect example to us taking lessons of how not to ski.

 I eventually graduated to a higher level and was quite enjoying myself when it happened . . .  Not to me – to a friend with whom I was skiing.  The hill was  icy and conditions difficult to handle; my friend was leading the way when suddenly she lost control, twisted and turned and fell on her back, while I, hoping to slow my descent, snowploughed behind her;  unable to stop, I tumbled over her!  Ski poles and skis were  entwined and I lay there laughing hysterically (the old giggle thing again) but my friend was not laughing  – she was hurt!  I don’t know how I managed to summon help but when they brought her down on the toboggan  she was in dreadful pain; and when later at the hospital I was told she had broken her back, I went home and  hung up my skis.  For good this time.

 Soon after that my husband and kids switched from alpine to cross-country skiing, and I took up snowshoeing.  I had found a new way to enjoy the outdoors without the fear of falling and breaking something: I could go into the woods, feed the birds and lead the way – make trails for the skiers to follow.   This somehow helped erase the memory of the incident in the Alps when I had not only gotten in the way of skiers, but had ruined the trail for them as well. It felt good to  be preparing a trail for skiers and not be wrecking one instead.  

 As I sat looking out of the window I could not help but reminisce . . .  

 

 

 

     

 

-

Time is . . . what?

 In a great books discussion group I belonged to eons ago, someone defined time as a measure of change.  This definition applies to the concept of time and space; it is the system used to sequence and compare duration of events.  But what does it mean in our everyday lives?   Expressions such as, we’re wasting time, or time flies, etc. are harmless and we all use them, but being told, “I have better things to do with my time, or I don’t have time for this,” when we ask someone for help, is painful; and if these same words are used to dismiss or ignore us, they can seem downright cruel. We have all felt the sting of rejection – it hurts.  And we have all done this to others at one time or another: distracted, busy or preoccupied with our own cares, we fail to notice theirs.  We inflict pain and walk away . ...  But to hear respect and concern in the voice of one who responds with “I have all the time in the world”- when we know full well they don’t, fills us with joy and hope - it is heavenly.

 The way I see it, time is a gift – in it we are meant to help one another, and it is in time and often through difficult trials that we learn to love, and in so doing  discover who we really are!  It’s as simple as that.  Well, perhaps not so simple.       

 I was thinking about this as I tread cautiously through the woods yesterday. Deep in thought, I suddenly became aware of a young man looking at me.  He smiled and said hello.  It was such a lovely gesture that I could not wait to pass on the joy I’d received from it. It’s true that a smile is contagious:  I smiled at the person coming towards me, and with complete confidence knew it would not end there.        

 They’re back . . . my demons are back!Before I could open my eyes – before I could gather my thoughts - I sensed their presence.   I could almost see their devilish little tails and horns as they surrounded my bed this morning.  My real or imagined hurts; anger, jealousy and envy; feelings never dealt with or perhaps never explored, cropped up, and I felt almost overwhelmed.  What a temptation it was to give in to that negative energy and begin my day feeling sad.  NOW, I realized, NOW is the moment to say, I HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO WITH MY TIME – I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!   I left my positive energy to do battle and headed to the kitchen to put on the coffee. I was, at that moment in time, at peace.  

  YOGI

 Every winter Marlene takes her dog Yogi for a run on the frozen lake behind her house --- but this year there is too much snow – they would both sink, Marlene up to her knees, and Yogi to his chest.  Snow shoes are even required  to put seed in the bird feeders in her back yard. All this snow, however, has not prevented Yogi, a calm and gentle Shih Tzu and Bichon mix from making his twice-weekly visit to a Home for the elderly.  Yoki does what is called Pet Therapy.

 Marlene, a retired as school teacher, needed to keep busy, and taking care of a  garden  wasn’t enough – she wanted to do more for society, so she and a friend with  a dog similar to hers, decided to train them to do pet therapy.   Benefits from these visits (for those who love animals) are enormous:  blood pressure is lowered and spirits lifted;  feelings of loneliness and isolation vanish –  for at least a little while.  Pet therapy is a well known treatment  for sick children as well;   these animal have to be under the control of their owner (dogs on leash) and they have to be clean and gentle.    Visits from pets often  contribute to  the healing process when the children like and respond to them..    

When I lost my other dog to Addison’s disease and seemed unable to get over my grief – my son insisted I get another one – even at my age.  My husband, however, was somewhat reluctant, so I walked into my doctor’s office and asked for a prescription:  “A prescription for what?” she asked.  “For a dog.” I replied.  She laughed and completely agreed that this was what was needed.  She did not write the prescription, of course, bur shortly after, with the help of my son and granddaughter, we convinced my husband it was the medicine for me.

 The little dog I now have is not  trained to do  therapy but  she does wonders for me and I might add, for my husband  as well– even if he won’t admit it.  And she does wonders for strangers we meet on our walks: many of whom, looking sad and dejected, respond with a smile to this friendly little dog who loves people.   For a short while, she brightens their day.

  Dogs like Yogi and Boo (my dog) play an important role in life – they teach us how to love unconditionally   - it ia the only kind of love we all really need.