ponderingsat80’s posterous

When I first met Dora she had been widowed for nearly two years; she was terribly lonely and very unhappy.  I had agreed to visit her as one of my shut-ins and realized she needed to get out of the house.  She lived in a tiny little place and I imagined her staring at the four walls with no one to talk to all day.

 I began by picking things up for her at the grocery store; but what she asked for mostly was iceberg lettuce.  It almost seemed s if that was what she was living on!  One day I asked if she would like to come with me to the grocery store.  “Oh, I am not strong enough,” was her reply.  “You can wait in the car,” I said.  “It will change your thoughts to see people on the street.”

 She agreed to that and began coming with me, not only to the store where I convinced her to eat more than lettuce,  but to the shopping mall where she found the energy to walk around.  Eventually, I took her to buy shoes, blouses and pants – whatever it was she needed.  I took her to see the podiatrist, the dentist, and the doctor who, without a second thought, patiently renewed her prescription for anti-depressants.  On these outings we’d stop for lunch or afternoon tea.  Unfortunately, it made no difference that we had been out, gone for a drive, or had lunch together - she was never happy -  and there would be a littany of complaints all the way home.

 Her daughter decided to move her out of the little house into an apartment where she might feel less lonely without the memories of her husband.  I picked her up at the new apartment, and found it was quite nice.  She spent every Sunday at her daughter’s and often went there for the whole weekend.  Dora enjoyed her granddaughter, yet it was never enough - just back from her daughter’s, she would call saying she was unbearably lonely!  I had stopped pointing out the good stuff to her – she just couldn’t see it.   (Nina had warned me about the ‘yes, but’ people in the world and I quickly realized that Dora was one of them.)

 One weekend, while visiting her daughter, Dora fell and broke her arm. Because she needed help, the daughter suggested she move in with her for a while.   However, when the arm healed and it was time for Dora to go to home, she became depressed and did not want to leave.   What to do? . . .  With the help of the doctor the daughter was able to get her into a nursing home where she might be less lonely and could become involved in the social activities that were offered.  I forgot to mention that during the time I was helping Dora, she also attended a Senior Drop-in Center where she could meet people and play bingo. She frequently won money; one time she took a taxi home carrying over $200 dollars in a paper bag!      

  She fared no better at the nursing home.  Although it seemed quite nice, she continued to complain and was as depressed and lonely as ever. At her wit’s end, the daughter moved her to an Assisted Living Centre where people were independent; came and went as they pleased and were definitely more active.

 When I went to visit her one day, I got the surprise of my life:  Dora had changed completely!  I found a smiling woman who looked ten years younger and wonder of wonders, she was happy!  Her hair was dyed, she had put on a few pounds and she now had colour in her cheeks.  What a transformation! What had caused this incredible change?

  Within a few minutes, I had my answer.  “I’ve met someone . . .  he has a car and he takes me out for drives and dinner; and we often go to the movies.  He is wonderful!”  She exclaimed with shining eyes and a smile on her face.   “This is marvellous news, Dora –  sounds like you've found what you’ve been looking for – sounds like you are in love!”    She blushed and answered, "Yes."

 So there you have it: Neither the daughter, the granddaughter nor I had what Dora needed:  At 70 + she met a man also in his 70s who was lonely;  they found each other, fell in love, and rediscoverd romance.  Dora changed – she became another woman - it was amazing.  I had heard you are never too old for love and romance - it can even be found in a Senior Residence!  Dora and her boyfriend are a perfect example of that.  Bravo for them if they managed to find happiness!  

What is there about going to the dentist that is so terrifying? Terrifying to me that is.

 Yesterday, while sitting in the dental hygienists chair, I tried to focus on why I was so scared of the dentist?  Truth is, it was not the dentist that scared me - it was her!  She is new to the office and she uses a different technique to what I was used to; the last couple of times, instead of a water pressure thingamabob,  she used the old way of cleaning; she scraped and picked at my teeth and gums and it really hurt. It also seemed to go on forever!  The dread I felt as I was driving towards the office was not because of the dentist – it was because of her -  I remembered the pain!

 The dentist uses novocaine . . .  such a blessed relief.  (When I was young dentists drilled minus the use of novocaine. How much better it is to have the area anesthetised – for both dentist and patient..)   My dentist is quick and efficient and I am usually out of his chair in a flash.  I have no problem with him.  Not yet anyway.

 My husband is one of these extremely relaxed individuals who can actually sleep during these procedures.  He puts his head back and off he goes . . . Not me – I’m awake - ready for the pain that I am convinced will follow.

 The only pain I felt yesterday was from the hygienist.  Before she even began her task I found myself sitting hands clutching the arms of the chair; counting each tooth as she went along with her dreaded pick!  I cannot believe it took so long  . . . surely she had other people to torture besides me!

 So what should I do?  Should I tell her she hurts me? Should I mention this to the dentist?  Would he believe a woman who insists he wait to make absolutely certain the novocaine is working before allowing him to work on her teeth?  Is the pain due to tension – the fear it might hurt – before it actually does!

 I truly am blessed with good teeth – so instead of complaining and dreading all this, I should be grateful.  No doubt, some day, if not already, I will thank her for being so conscientious and thorough.   Having good dental hygiene is important - it contributes to one’s good health.  Fear of the dentist, or the dental hygienist, should be put in perspective – I am fortunate to receive such good care.

 Now that I have written this and given myself a pep talk, will I be less terrified to go to the dentist?  Will my next visit be a breeze?  I doubt it.  I still hate the whole idea! 

Who abandon animals on the side of the road with the idea that a farmer will take them in and feed them?  A much too common practice is that of adopted kittens, that once grown into cats, are left on a road to fend for themselves.  Kids who have perhaps grown attached to these cats are reassured they will be taken care of by a farmer.

 A friend of mine could not resist – she was forever giving these abandoned cats a home.  At one point she had 11 cats running around the house!  She would have them neutered and, true to what the parents had said, she would take them in and feed them. Eventually her daughter put a stop to all that – there were 3 cats in the house the last I heard.

 Even worse were the dogs that were abandoned . . . they usually found homes but farmers were beginning to complain – they simply could not handle these dogs anymore!

One time, as I was preparing to leave for the city, I noticed a beautiful, but rather thin looking blond mix of lab and something else roaming.  It sat on a neighbour’s porch for days.  I thought it belonged to her.  Days passed, the dog sat there, but the neighbour seemed not to be around. I felt sorry for the animal and began leaving food on the rocks for it to eat.  It seemed high strung and nervous, and would not approach the house.    I watched as it fed ravenously, looking for more; If I tried to get close, it ran away.

 A few days later I left for the city, and hoped the person who owned the dog would come home, or that some farmer would feed it.  (I was no better than the irresponsible people who had abandoned the poor dog.)

 Weeks later I learned that a woman, walking on the road, heard a noise coming from an abandoned shack.  It sounded plaintive, and upon investigation she discovered a very thin and sick dog lying on its side nursing 4 pups.  The woman asked the nearest farmer for help;  after taking a look, the farmer carried the dog and her puppies to his truck and took them to the Humane Society.  The dog was fed and treated for rabies, and at the farmer’s request, was spayed.  Days later he adopted the dog and one of her pups.  The woman took the other two puppies.

 This story ends well but something like this should never have happened – it was a cruel thing to do to an animal. These irresponsible people should have been found and fined.  I too was irresponsible – I should have called the police!

They were not my dogs.  Well, not exactly.

 I have always been a walker and when I lived in the country I walked 2 to 4 miles a day.  In the morning I would walk towards the farm up the road where my young son learned to drive a truck and ride a tractor.  I think the cows on that farm knew me – they saw me so often.  I almost gave them names!  In the afternoon I would walk in the woods with Mimi or in the other direction, to the top of a hill where I would stand and look at the magnificent view of the valleys and mountains in the distance.

 I enjoyed these walks until one day when I headed out, and noticed two huge dogs standing mid-way up the hill watching me; and as I approached I realized they had no intention of letting me pass! What am I going to do?  Do I turn around, walk past them - what?   I kept walking.

 They stood, blocking my way, and I found myself, perhaps foolishly approaching two very tall and ferocious looking male dogs of mixed breed: German shepherd and something else - definitely scary.  They were not, however, growling, nor were they baring their teeth.  So I spoke to them and said, “Hello you beautiful animals, will you let me go by?  This is my favourite walk - I really enjoy the view up here.”  I sounded a lot more confident than I felt!   

  They separated – backed off and let me pass; and to my amazement, began to prance and show off – they actually wanted my attention!  Perhaps this was their plan all along when they saw or smelled me coming up the road! They followed me; and when after admiring the view, I started back down the hill, they came with me and escorted me all the way home.  I could hear Mimi barking as we approached the house – poor little dog was never allowed on the road, and here I was walking with two other dogs!   She gave me the cold shoulder for hours after that.          

 Every morning the dogs came to visit, and every morning Mimi herded them out of the yard.  But they knew my routine, and waited for me up the road.  They waited and walked with me, either to the farm or to the top of the hill.  They became my pals and I decided to name them Ruff and Tuff.  Had I before been nervous walking alone on a country road, my fears were now put to rest - Ruff and Tuff, my two new companions, were there to protect and  to guard me.

 Would they have become my friends had I turned around – retreated from them as I climbed the hill?   Was standing up to them and being friendly what caused them to retreat themselves? They were, after all, from neighbouring farms and were protecting their territory.  I was to them an intruder.  What made them a friend and not an enemy?    And why, when they came to call, did they respect Mimi and leave the yard?  It would have been so easy for them to hurt her. Respect and trust between animals and humans is fascinating;  a positive attitude appears to have been the right approach, at least in this instance.   Unless, of course, their plan had been to befriend me from the start?

 A neighbour up the road had a very different experience:

 While weeding her garden one morning, she became aware of a shadow behind her; thinking it a hired hand, a grandson or her husband, she ignored the presence and kept weeding.  Lucky for her she did, for when she looked up, she saw a bear!  She froze and tried to remember how to behave in such a situation? But the bear had no interest in her – he simply crossed the road and went into the woods.  What would have happened had she panicked and screamed?    An encounter with a bear is quite different story to my meeting Ruff and Tuff who were harmless.  On the other hand, had they been vicious, the outcome might have been very different!

 I saw wolves, coyotes, raccoons and groundhogs – and herds of deer grazed in the fields across the road. They also slept in my rocks and ate apples from our tree – and not so nice – they ate our roses!   Nature and wild animals surrounded me and filled me with wonder and joy.  It was important, however, to respect their boundaries - that is how we got along.

 I went on to enjoy walks on the road with ‘my’ dogs, and with Mimi in the woods, and I was extremely grateful that on none of those walks did we ever encounter a bear!

 I wonder why, instead of doing volunteer work and taking part-time jobs, I did not go to school; learn something and get a degree?  I have no answer really, other than it never occurred to me to do so. Why, after being exposed all my married life to university graduates, professors, scientists . . .  did I not want this for myself?

 I was a convent girl.  We were taught to be polite, do manual work and be obedient.  All the things my parents had already taught me.  When we finished school, we went on to be secretaries, nurses and school teachers.  A few went on to college and university but for most it was the norm to work until you got married, then stay home and raise a family.  In fact, in those days, it was frowned upon to go out to work and have a career.

 My career was my family – my children.  I loved family life, even if hectic at times; it gave me a feeling of accomplishment.  I also helped my husband with his career.  I never objected when after a few years at a job, he got offered one in another city or country and we had to move. I entertained for him, moved the family with him – doing most of the packing and organizing myself.  It was my job!  Or so I thought.    

 Being the kind of person I am, I would never have traveled the way we did – it was for my husband’s work and career that we traveled.  I, of course, benefitted from all of that – I was exposed to different people and different cultures and I learnt about other countries.  We made friends all over the world, some of whom I am still in contact with.

 That was my career – my vocation.  But what about later, when the kids were grown and out of the house – why did I not go to school?  I think I was afraid.  Afraid I was not smart enough.  Afraid I would fail.  A thousand years ago I attended a party where a handwriting analyst was invited to read our handwriting and when she analysed mine, she exclaimed, “We have a writer amongst us!”   I almost shrieked with delight!   I always wanted to write, but never thought of myself as a writer.  She said my handwriting showed I had a gift.  “You must use this gift.” She added. 

 When taking a course at a college, and achieving the highest mark in the class, why did this not give me the urge to go on?  Complete my education; learn how to write? I was insecure and lacked confidence, but it did not stop me from getting a job and succeeding at it . . .  I had a lot of issues I had worked out with Nina, but not this one?  She would have set me straight.

 A friend of mine asked what there was to look forward to at our age.  I almost answered death.  But that would have been morbid.  I have my writing and she travels.  We both have reasonable health so what more can we ask for?  Another friend nearing 80 is selling her condo to live in a bungalow which she has redesigned and will have renovated during the winter.  She also plans to buy a dog.

 That’s the spirit we should all hold onto - at any age.  Live in the moment and enjoy every minute of it – it is gift.

 I still have not answered why I did not go back to school, but I refuse to think about it anymore – I shall do like  my friend who bought a bungalow – she is  designing;  and I  am writing.  I will write my little anecdotal stories - hopefully, for a long time to come.  To put a spiritual spin on all of this:  we are no doubt where we are  meant to be; we are given the urge and desire to do what is asked;  we should feel at peace with ourselves.  As the monk said (in an earlier entry) "do what presents itself." Had I been meant to go to school, I would have been given the desire to do so. Is this too simplistic an answer, I wonder?  I did what was asked (I think).

Hopefully, I will continue to ponder life’s little mysteries  for many years to come.

After closing Nina’s practice I was feeling at loose ends – I needed another job. The one that followed proved to be a very different experience . . .

 The phone rang as I came through the door.  “Would it be possible for you to come in for an interview tomorrow?”  I had that morning left my resume at a medical clinic that had just opened its doors, and was surprised to hear from them so quickly.  After a brief interview I was hired.

 I was made personal assistant to a French speaking paediatrician and was also to handle appointments at the front desk.  Being in a busy office was exciting and I looked forward to a stimulating environment.  It looked like fun, until . .

 The assistant to the chief of staff, an older woman, was insecure and jealous of her job.  I was seen as a threat.   Before I’d spent a day with her I knew I was in for trouble.

 The paediatrician was a delight to work with and I adored helping with the children.  It was at the main reception desk that things got a little scary – I should have been taught to use the phones which were rather complicated for a newcomer.   I should have been taught the filing system and I should have been taught protocol.  

 Instead I was left on my own to figure things out.  Needless to say, I made mistakes: I put people on hold when the call should have been transferred, or worse, they got disconnected.  I misfiled papers and the appointment book code was a complete puzzle.   And then . . . when given reports to type . . .  for some stange reason,  one or two pages of the report went missing - got lost.   What was going on? Was I being sabotaged?  And why was I not being properly trained? 

 I muddled through for several weeks, but became suspicious when a patient’s file kept getting shoved to the bottom of the pile as he was waited to see the doctor - he was kept waiting forever.   Why and how was this happening? Was it because he was a friend of mine? Who was doing this?   This sort of thing went on for weeks: files misplaced, reports lost, patients made to wait if they happened to be a friend.  I had my suspicions - I pretty well knew who was responsible; but not wanting to cause trouble,  I kept quiet and quit my job instead. I had always been told, and agreed, that when a part-time job ceases to be fun,  and you don't have to work, it's time to quit! 

 Then began the doubts:  Had it been my imagination?  I was not that stupid. How could so many things have gone wrong?  . . .

  Several weeks later while putting groceries in my car at the supermarket someone called out.  “You should know,” said the paediatrician I had worked with, “the two women who replaced you, also quit within a few weeks. One of them was reduced to tears - she was so frustrated and upset.” She continued . . .  “We began to realize something was wrong.  We suspected and were proven right - the senior assistant was responsible for the trouble – she had sabotaged not only your work but theirs as well.  She was fired last week.”

 Halleluiah!   I felt vindicated. 

 Shortly after that conversation, I was contacted and offered a job in a cardiologist’s office.  “You come highly recommended by the doctors at the clinic.”  They said.   Oh, how sweet is vindication but how ironic that we were, once again, preparing to move to another city!  

 .   

Moving Nina’s practice (cf. earlier entry) to her home was a great idea:  she benefitted from it; her patients were relieved and thrilled to be seeing her again; and Eugene  . . .  well, he fed me!

 Nina’s husband, Eugene, was a gardener and a cook.  He grew his own vegetables as well as berries and apples.  He was a retired engineer and spent most of his summer days in the garden.  He also loved to cook.  And when he met me, I became a challenge – he was going to fatten me up!

 It was such a warm and pleasant feeling to walk into the house to the smell of freshly brewed coffee every morning.  At the regular office, brewing coffee had been part of my job.  But Eugene had taken it upon himself to have a fresh cup waiting for me every day.  Nina used to say, he saw me as his daughter and wanted to take care of me.

 Not only was there coffee waiting for me, before long there were mouth-watering smells coming from the kitchen – Eugene was making soups, casseroles - he made his own sausages! - Baking, or whatever.

 Mid-morning he would bring me a little tart or a cookie to go with a second cup of coffee.  And I never went home without a package of whatever he’d been up to in the kitchen that morning.

 He also did pickles and preserves – it was endless and he loved it.  I was being fed and seldom had to worry about dinner - he’d send me home with it!

 Nina got a kick out of watching him and said my presence had given him a new lease on life—he’d found someone to cook for!

 They had a cat that soon accepted my presence and would curl up under the table at my feet.  Truly, it was a wonder I could get any work done. It was such a homey atmosphere.  I felt like I was a member of the family.

 Eugene’s sister came to visit and she soon joined in the cooking frenzy. We were nearing Christmas and her specialty was sweets:   She baked tarts, cakes and cookies which she offered as gifts.  Needless to say, I benefitted from that as well.

 There was a problem though . . . with all this eating and sitting around, I was putting on the pounds – something that was unfamiliar to me.  And when I mentioned this to them, they insisted, “you need it! You were much too thin.” 

 Nina delighted in all the attention I was getting, and I have to admit it was an easy thing to get used to. I truly enjoyed being spoiled!

 I felt totally lost, when because of Nina’s illness, I was forced to close down her practice. I missed going to her home and I missed my new ‘family.’  What had begun as a job turned into an amazing friendship.  What a privilege it was to have known her, and of course, Eugene.  I miss that time in my life, but the kindness and warmth I experienced from these wonderful people will always remain in my heart.  

In the late 60s and early 70s women all over America were being told to get out of the kitchen; go back to school, or get a job!

Many of us heeded the call. We shed our aprons and headed out of the house where we excitedly looked forward to being part of that big exciting world called the work force.

 Nurses, who had stayed home to raise a family, retrained and went back to work; other women sought work in offices and boutiques; while others went back to school to either complete or get a degree.

 Because I still had children at home, I chose to do volunteer work. Perhaps because it left me more flexible and perhaps because I was scared!  Imagine being scared . . . after raising six children, traveling with them all over Europe;  packing  and organizing;   attending events and receiving my husbands colleagues at dinner parties;  buying and selling houses . . . organising, organizing, and organizing.

 I began at a children’s hospital where I directed patients to the various departments where they would receive treatment. This lasted only a short time as volunteers were frowned upon by the unions: We were seen as taking jobs away from paid employees.  I then worked at a telephone information and referral service at a local radio station. I loved this!  We gave telephone numbers and referrals to people looking for help from the various organizations and services across the city.  I quit this only when my husband’s assistant at the university had to leave and he needed someone to help him in the office.  I jumped at the opportunity to gain experience, and accompanied him to the office three days a week. (Our German shepherd was not happy, but that is another story.)  Not only did this prepare me for future employment -- I was able to polish up my skills and learn new ones.  I enjoyed working in the university environment as well.  

  I felt qualified and confident when after moving to another city, I went looking for work.  I began as translator for a jewellery company where I stayed for a year.  I then became secretary for the Multicultural Council – a three day a week position.  I found this interesting and very satisfying.  During that time, I also worked at the volunteer bureau and took on a couple of shut-ins.   With only one son in high school now living at home, I had lot more time to get involved in the community and having a part-time job was just enough to keep me busy.

  Then I met Nina.

  Nina was a psychiatrist, and a desire to work with her when her assistant retired, became almost an obsession.  I applied for the job and was ecstatic when I got it.

 We worked together for three wonderful years.  However, she suffered from extreme back pain and eventually was forced to undergo surgery for a slipped disc.  We closed down the office for a month while she recuperated.  The surgery did little to alleviate the pain, however, and Nina became despondent.   She was now forced to use a cane to get around and she began to express a desire to close her practice permanently. 

 Her husband Eugene (another story to tell) and I were adamant she get back to work in some capacity or other.  We suggested moving her office to her home; this would prevent her having to leave the house, which was especially difficult in bad weather.  She eventually agreed.  With Eugene’s help I moved the files to their basement and turned a bedroom into an office where she would receive patients. 

 It took a few weeks to work out the mechanics but once it was set up and patients notified of the new address, Nina began again to work. We quickly saw a change in her - it did her the world of good to find herself helping people.  The dining room table became my desk and it was from there I kept the books, gave appointments and received patients.

 Nina worked three mornings a week – seeing one patient a day to start, and with time, increased it to three.  I became her friend and companion, and on the mornings the office was closed, I took her shopping for clothes, books or whatever . . .  and we would stop for lunch before returning home.

 This went on for nearly a year, and I loved every minute of it. Then, one morning I received a call from Eugene . . . Nina had been rushed to hospital during the night; she had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage and was now in a coma.  I was at the hospital within an hour.  Thus began a daily vigil shared by Eugene, their daughter, a couple of friends and myself.   It was not known when or if Nina would come out the coma, so I closed down her practice for good.

A month later she awoke.  She had no memory of me and she barely recognized her husband.  She struggled to understand what was going on, and aphasia made it difficult for her to be understood. It was painful to watch and a dreadful situation for Eugene. The smiling warm and affectionate person had disappeared and in her place was a lost and indifferent human being.  Nina was gone.

 Once she became mobile, she was sent home. I continued to visit her, but our conversations were limited and tiring, and at Eugene’s suggestion, I began to visit less often and with time not at all.  It was very sad. I missed the beautiful and wonderful person, who had been such an inspiration to us all and I was left feeling abandoned. But what a blessing it had been to have known her at all!

  Nina died two years later.  I exchanged Christmas cards with Eugene but I sensed his sadness – he had lost his best friend and soul mate. His will to live had diminished and he died within three years.   

 I went on to have several more job experiences and have more to say about Eugene, which I will relate in a later entry.

(for Claude)

The German police officer stood over our young son scolding him saying, “Pinkein auf der StrauBe ist verboten!” 

 We were embarrassed and ashamed we had not explained the rules to him before coming to Germany for a visit.   During that time in France where we were living for a year,  it was common to see men use ‘pissoirs’  and if these outdoor urinals were absent, they would relieve themselves in an alleyway against a wall.  I found the custom rather disgusting but to a young boy, this might have seemed bold and manly. So, when he felt the urge to urinate in Germany, he did what he’d observed men doing in France.   

 We apologized to the officer and quickly explained the different customs to our son.  Having him reprimanded for an innocent act that he had perceived as part of being a grownup really upset me,  and to this day, I see him with that puzzled and mortified expression on his little face.  It was too late to prevent his humiliation, but I knew he would never do this type of thing again       

 At 11 years old he was so responsible - he was born a grownup! He was always so eager to please and help around the house.  It was he we trusted to go to the small grocery store nearby to pick up juice, milk and baguettes every morning.  The storekeepers quickly became fond of this young daily customer and the serious manner in which he made his purchases in broken French.   They delighted in him and often included free candy and chocolate to his order.

 The word 'verboten' remained fixed in his mind, however, and he never again did this ‘manly’ thing.  Not even in France!

Our little boy was 2 years old when we lived in Sweden.  He was just learning to talk and his vocabulary increased with each passing day.  He, being our firstborn, made it a new experience and we were thrilled to see his progress. The amazing thing was, he was also learning to speak Swedish!  We had a housekeeper who spoke only Swedish and the elderly lady across the hall who fed him milk and cookies spoke only Swedish, so he quickly picked it up.  While I, on the other hand, had to point to words in a pocket dictionary in order to make myself understood!   By the time we left Sweden, my husband and I had learned a few Swedish phrases but our little boy rattled it off as well as he did English.      

Although surprising, it was perhaps no mystery that years later when he went to live in Sweden for a few months, he soon began to speak Swedish.   Were the rhythm and the sounds familiar to him? Could the language have been stored in his memory?  

When we lived in France our little ones came home from school reciting poems and singing little songs.  There were no words – only sounds and rhythm.  It was delightful and sweet, and to our amazement, in only a few weeks the sounds began to make sense – they had become words and our children were speaking French!

 Language is a verbal skill and I often wonder if having musical ability makes it easier to master.  Our children are bilingual - some are trilingual.  Speaking several languages is such a bonus:  It opens doors - makes traveling in other countries more interesting and certainly makes it easier to get around.  Being able to read in another language or attend theatre, introduces one to other cultures and ideas – it broadens the mind.    

Learning a new language can be an exciting adventure and it was fascinating to observe the process in our children.