I went for my eye exam yesterday and was told the cataracts observed last year had not changed and there was no need for surgery.  I am fortunate and grateful that at my age there is no sign of eye disease either.   Still . . .  had I needed surgery, I would no longer need distance glasses . . . Oh, I am so hopelessly vain!

 The last couple of days I’ve been cleaning out drawers and cabinets trying to create space for the things I’ve carted to the city.  Why do I keep all this?! . . .  My son says we are in the process of downsizing which means we should be getting rid of what we no longer use.  He’s right of course, and yet, we still hold on to things --- why?  As I continue, however, to empty drawers and put things in piles to throw out – or better still, give away - I feel an enormous sense of relief and I am actually glad to be doing this.  I no longer need all those coats, shoes and handbags; and why do I have so many sweaters, blouses and scarves? It feels so good to be making piles of stuff that crowds my closet and drawers.   We are meant to simplify our lives as we get older – to lighten the load – to share . . .  My son is right – this is the way to go and it is definitely refreshing.

 Life changes; we change --  I no longer have my hair dyed – I like that grey adds dignity to my face;  I now use very little make-up – it no longer hides my wrinkles.  High heels are a thing of the past – flats are fashionable for a woman my age.   Comfort is what I aim for now and It’s great to feel free to dress as I please.   Out go the fancy clothes and shoes, and no more trips to the hairdresser – other than for a trim now and then.  This morning I gave two bags of clothes to the poor, and I feel richer for doing it – not money richer but happier for letting go of all the things that held me captive to fashion.

 I still have books, dishes, pots and pans and furniture to give away and to sell.  But first there is Christmas . . .  For the past several years I have given my jewellery, china,  crystal and silver to my family as gifts; what fun it is to eat off one of my plates or drink from a crystal glass when I visit.  I get so much pleasure out of seeing my daughters and granddaughters wearing my jewellery that it is a gift for me, as well.    

 Back to my original thought – I will not have 20/20 vision for a while and perhaps never; but wearing glasses can be fun if I find the right frames!  Now that I’ve decided to dress as I please, I will buy frames that are bright and colourful – frames that will give me a boost but hopefully won’t shock the neighbours.  Most important in all of this, is to remember I am letting go of fashion, ‘un peu,’  but not giving up on fun!

They’re not gone - the demons, I mean – they’re hiding, waiting to pounce when my guard is down - when I least expect them.  This morning as I cleaned out a couple of drawers, throwing out stuff or organizing it to take to the city, they appeared in full force and I found myself almost overwhelmed.  Memories came flooding back: an old spoon, a plate or a glass . . . each with a memory of its own; boxes of old photographs – mostly of the children and grandchildren taken in the country and carted here when I moved. I have no place to put them in the city and must now dispose of them or at least sort them out and take as few as possible. When my demons attacked, I fought the urge to stop what I was doing and simply sit down and weep.  

 I understand now why I am having such a difficult time,  it’s because this is the end of living in the country – there won’t be, as when I sold my house on the country road, the excitement of looking for another place where I could live near nature and feel secure.  There won’t be another little condo like this one where I have been happy for so many years.  That part of my life is over.  I will accept this - I will - but this is the end of something I loved and cherished, and I am grieving.    

 It’s important that I keep busy; soon I will put up decorations for Christmas to make the Holiday Season  cheerful and merry.  And it will be, if I remain positive and see the good side of getting down to one home.  We had a goal:  We wanted to get down to one car, and we’ve done that; we wanted to get down to one home and we’re almost there.  If I can concentrate on that and feel proud of our accomplishments, the sadness will gradually begin to fade and I will settle down.  I must not ignore the pain I’m feeling - it is real and it hurts.  I must acknowledge that this has been like a death and I am mourning.  But as I said in an earlier entry, I am moving on and I will settle down;  and one day soon I will see all of this as good.  But first,  I must rid myself of these demons – once and for all.

After spending a week in the city I am back in my little condo – my refuge - in the country.  As I unpacked (yes, unpacked) my bags yesterday, I began to wonder where I would find the courage to let this place go?  How can I leave this lovely little home that has sheltered and offered me frequent breaks from the life I share with my husband in the city?

This is negative thinking, and I must stop before it pulls me down. It is time to let it go – I know this in my head, but in my heart . . . oh, it is such different story.  I have had 12 lovely years here; I have had alone time; and time to go on walks, to listen to music, to read and to write . . .  I have been blesssed. 

 I managed to keep these negative thoughts at bay until 4 o’clock this morning when the demons attacked with a vengeance . . .  all my fears and anxieties about living full-time in the city returned, and the only recourse I had was to get up and face them head on.  

 I made myself a cup of tea and sat in my recliner where I fought the urge to give in to this painful and destructive negativity.  What must I do to rid myself of these dreadful feelings?  How do I remain positive? I sat struggling with these thoughts for some time . . . Then I began to take stock of what made this place a warm and cozy home.  What made it so inviting?   How can I bring some of this warmth and beauty to the city?   

I then knew what I would do:  I will replace some of the furniture in the city with furniture from here - the color and fabric will make the the place brighter and feel warmer; and when I hang my lovely paintings - it will definitely look less formal. Yes!  I will do that!  I will, but I must first decide quickly what furniture to take - already people are expressing interest in certain items.  I sat sipping my tea as these positive ideas replaced the negative ones and I felt myself begin to relax - I had overcome my demons - for now.  Tomorrow I will take measurements and try to imagine where to put things and  how they might look?   Tomorrow I . . . I sat back on the recliner and slowly, without realizing it, drifted off.  When I opened my eyes, it was daylight and the demons had vanished.         

 After breakfast, I took out the tape measure to begin my task.

 But what was I thinking? It  is a gorgeous day. Why am I dwelling on furniture and decor when the sun and mild weather beckon and invite me to do what I enjoy doing the most --  go on a walk!

 How easy it would have been to have let myself sink into negativity; how dreadful to give in to those feelings . . .  I am truly  grateful that next year I shall not have to worry about the weather or the road conditions for driving, and there will be no fixing or having to repair things - I will no longer have that responsibility – not here, at least.  It is a relief to know that I will be living in a lovely warm and attractive condo in which I will be comfortable and where I will accept, and at last begin to realize, I am finally settled.

November was an unpleasant month when I lived alone in the country. The weather strangely enough did not bother me; I, in fact, enjoyed the mood. I liked the shorter days, the darkness and the rain . . .  I liked the smell of dead leaves and water soaked earth – I liked the cosiness I felt when I lit a fire in the fireplace and curled up with music and a book; or baked cookies and made applesauce that added to the settling-in feeling.  And it was exciting when the first snowfall of the season arrived – everything looked bright and fresh as the snow stuck to the trees and covered the ground with a light dusting.  I liked it because I knew it would not stay - the ground was not yet frozen and it would quickly melt.  I also loved that the trees were bare and I could look deep into the woods and see the neighbour’s house up the road. But as much as all this pleased  me, I chose to pack up and leave.  Why?  Because November was also hunting season, and the woods behind my house were tremendously inviting to hunters. I worried I might be easy prey for reckless or inebriated men armed with rifles or bow and arrow.    I felt terribly vulnerable as a woman living alone, so I packed my things, grabbed my little dog and fled to the city.

 I was not alone to feel this way - people around me were wary at that time of year; it was not uncommon to hear of a stray bullet coming through a window or hitting someone's car!  Hunters lurking in the woods made me uneasy about driving on country roads and I avoided that as much as possible.

 Twice!  I got broken into during the fall season.  The first time happened when I left for only a short trip to the city: I came back to find the door kicked in and everything turned upside down; clothing and items from bureau drawers were scattered  everywhere; mattresses were turned over and lay half off the beds, and contents from my kitchen cupboards and drawers were spread all over the place.  But other than a small Dictaphone belonging to my husband, nothing was taken.   There was not much for them to take – the television and radio dated back to the beginning of time, and in the drawers were mainly baby clothes belonging to my little granddaughter who had stayed with me for a few days. It was scary, and I am amazed I was able to live there alone after that.

 The second time I was broken-into was much worse:  The house had just been renovated:  New doors and windows, new bathroom . . .  fresh paint throughout the house.  It was November and hunters again were on the roads and I once again made my escape to the city.  A few days later I received a phone call from the neighbour to whom I entrusted a key and who checked my house while I was away. “You’ve been broken into!” He yelled into the phone, as though he needed somehow to impress me.  He was terribly agitated and although I was upset, I kept my calm and asked if he would go back to the house and call me on my cordless phone so that I could walk him through the house and he could tell me what was missing.  It was a much bigger haul this time – they took all of my electronic equipment (except the old television that had been passed on to us from an elderly uncle).  In fact, the caretaker had to use my regular phone – the cordless one was gone!    

 I cannot believe I had the courage to drive out and sleep there that night.  But I did.  And the next day – before calling my insurance agent – I placed a call to an alarm company, and within a week, an alarm system complete with panic button next to my bed, was installed.

 An alarm system in the country! where living near nature should have meant peace and quiet and joy . . . An alarm system that scared me more than it helped – I kept worrying I might set it off by accident which happened on more than one occasion and the police came for nothing.   I knew that if there were too many false alarms I could be fined – or worse – they would not come at all!

 The robbers had taken more than my meagre possessions - they had ruined my quiet life and taken away my peace and feeling of security.   Shortly after the second break-in I put my house up for sale.

 It is  now the month of November, and I write in the security of my city condo; there is an alarm system to alert in case of fire or a break-in, and a panic button to summon help in an emergency.  This system is not only necessary, it is reassuring -  especially for older people living alone.  I gaze out my kitchen window and see bushes and trees nearly bare of their leaves and I see an empty swimming pool that belongs to the Sporting Club next door; yet, in spite of the comfort and security offered to me here, I still miss the melancholy feeling I experienced when living in the country, and the cosiness of an open fire . . . the smell of applesauce now simmering on the stove, permeates my kitchen and fills me with nostalgia for that part of Novembers that I loved and remember so well.

Seems I will be unpacking my bags after all (c.f. earlier entry) – I sold my condo this week.  A lovely couple came to visit, fell in love with it and made me an offer I could not refuse.  The wonderful thing is I do not have to leave until June!

 I am actually in the state of shock – I did not expect this – it had been a slow market, and this is a big surprise.

 I must not dwell on what I am giving up but look forward to what is ahead. The city is not where I preferred to live but there is positive in everything, and yesterday on my walk, when I began to feel heavy-hearted because I would  be leaving this lovely haven, I decided to dwell on the positive aspects of living there:  My doctors are just across the street, as is the pharmacy. And there is a lovely little cafeteria – not only for lunch but where I can pick up takeout food.  There is a small shopping mall within walking distance – 2 minutes by car if necessary; and several lovely parks where I can walk my little dog or sit on a bench and relax.   It is not the quiet of the country, true, but it offers other things: Theatre, concerts and nice restaurants for when we feel like eating out.  I will adjust, I always have -  everything happens for a reason.  It is actually kind of exciting to wonder what will happen next in my life and what new adventures await me?

 I have much to do before the move: Furniture to sell, clothes to give away and a complete cleaning and emptying of the condo.  The children will visit and take what they need – or like - but before that, we will spend the Holidays here and enjoy our last Christmas in my little condo in the country.  I will then stay and begin the work I am so familiar with – the pattern I have lived all my married life -  I will be packing and selling, giving away, and getting ready to move . . . the beat goes on.  And in the spring, I will, like an old pro, close the door and not look back.

 I am happy and sad this morning – the time has come for another change – another move, but I have had 12 wonderful years here and for that I am grateful.   I shall miss a lot of things, yes, but I will also remember with joy the happy moments shared here with family and friends.  There is a time for everything and the time had come for us to get down to one home.  I cannot imagine my life without packing and unpacking and living out of a suitcase but I am confident there will be different, but many happy days ahead, as I begin full time living in the city.  I am moving on but not checking out – not yet.  I have a lot of living to do and a lot of stories to write.  I’m just moving on.  

 Why is everyone driving so fast – so recklessly – aren’t they aware it’s windy?     What is wrong with everybody? This is dangerous.  Be careful!   I am upset and wonder if they see me mouthing “idiots!” as they pass me on the bridge?

 I hold the steering wheel tight as I feel the car pulling to one side.   “What a strong wind!”  I mutter to myself and to my dog sleeping in her carrier beside me.

 “I hit heavy wind as I drove out here.” I tell a neighbour as I park my car in the garage. “Lucky you have a small car and it’s close to the ground.” She remarks.   I agree and give it no further thought.

 But . . .   while driving back to the city I feel the same pull - the same wind.   Then it happens . . . the car shifts to the side and I suddenly hear thud, thud, and thud.     I have a flat tire! 

 Okay . . . now is the time to use my cell phone. “Stay calm.” I tell myself as I dial CAA.  Luckily the battery is not dead and my payments are up to date.

 I am told to put my hazard lights on and to stay in the car; that someone will call me for particulars. They do. They are adamant I not get out of the car.

 I eventually see a truck pull up behind me; ignoring the instructions I climb out onto the busy highway.  A guy gets out and checks the back of his truck.  “Are you from CAA?”  I ask.  “No.”  He answers without  showing me any kind of concern.  “I have a flat tire.”  I shout, over the roar of heavy traffic whizzing by at way above the speed limit, I am sure.  He continues to ignore me. Two women sitting in the cab of the truck yell out for him to lend me his cell phone. “It’s okay.” I answer.  “I have one.  Thank you.”    

 I get back in my car and wait.  I turn on the radio to distract myself.  My dog sleeps.  At least there is that; it would be awful if she too were nervous.   A car – a Camry I think, passes and stops a short distance away; two well dressed men, one looks to be in his fifties, the other younger, get out of the car.  They walk towards me, and in a foreign accent, offer to change the tire.  By then, however, I have become paranoid and have decided to follow instructions; I lower the window a couple of inches and indicate I have a cell phone and have called for help.

 I feel vulnerable – I am scared.  Why? What on earth would they want with an old lady and a dog?  They smile graciously and I smile back but remain locked in the protection of my vehicle.

 They take off and I am somewhat relieved. But I am also alone on a very busy highway and I continue to wonder what will happen. It has begun to snow.  Oh, no!  That’s all I need . . .  .

  An hour later (feels like a day) a tow truck arrives; a young man jumps out and tells me to move the car further onto the shoulder.  I am convinced I will go into the ditch, but he is right, there is plenty of space.  I get out to empty the stuff from the trunk of my car that has garment bags and suitcase and bags of food..... (I do not travel lightly --- remember?)  The young man reaches in for the spare tire – the spare  . . . is nothing but a tiny little wheel meant for a kid’s tricycle!  He takes it out and orders me to get in the car and stay there!   I am quiet and subdued as I climb back in the car; I watch him as he quickly switches the flat tired wheel for the tiny little ‘tricycle’ wheel.  He is right about the danger- traffic whizzes by at an incredible speed - nothing but a whirr – a buzz - one car or truck after another.  I am struggling with the idea that no one, except the well- dressed gentlemen, had stopped to offer help.  Were they truly good Samaritans and did I remember to thank them I wonder? . . .

 The young man finishes his job, puts my luggage back in the car and hands me a paper to sign; he then tells me to keep my hazard lights on and to drive no faster than 80 kilometres an hour. He is good at what he does and I am very impressed. He leaves and I feel alone and vulnerable.  I weave my way back onto the highway, lights flashing, the car feeling off-balance because of the tiny wheel, and drive ever so slowly towards the city.

 My kids have scolded me for not checking my tires:  “Before you leave the house and especially before you head out of the city, mother!”   They scold.  They are right - I should have suspected a problem when I crossed the bridge?  Why did I think it was only the wind?!    I learned my lesson well.  So well, in fact, I have driven the gas station attendant crazy asking him to check my tires every time I stop for gas.  “You can tell.” He says.  “Just by looking at your tires, you can tell they don’t need air.”   “I know.  I know.” I reply.  “But did I mention I had a flat tire while on the autoroute alone with my little dog and it began to snow?.  . .”  He gives me a good natured smile and walks away shaking his head - he has heard my story before  . . .  over and over again.    

 After developing hearing loss, what’s next? -  Cataracts.  At my annual eye examination last year the ophthalmologist told me I had the beginning of a cataract in each eye.  “Nothing to be concerned about”, she added “cataracts, like grey hair, happens to everybody as they get older.”   Oh, happy thought.  

 While walking towards the lobby of our condo building one day, I noticed 3 elderly people standing around talking – none of them wore glasses, while I trotted along wearing bifocals. How can this be, I wondered?  They’re older than me . . . . Then I remembered . . .  all had had cataracts removed and now have 20/20 vision.   Except for reading, these people no longer need glasses.  Does this mean we should all aspire to cataracts in order to have perfect vision! 

 I began wearing bifocals ten years ago when carting two pairs of glasses became a nuisance. I needed a pair for reading and another for distance.  Switching back and forth eventually seemed silly.  It was vanity, of course - I did not want to wear glasses at all!   

 A friend of mine has macular degenerative disease and is completely blind in one eye.   She’s an artist – she paints.  Or rather, she painted.  What a huge disappointment this has been for her – painting was her life.  She is the one I mentioned in an earlier entry that bought a house and is now having it renovated; she plans to buy a dog when it's finished.    Bravo for her - she’s hanging in there – she’s an admirable and beautiful woman of nearly 80.   I’d be lamenting my fate and complaining to anyone who’d listen.

 My dog, Mimi had a cataract and could not see out one eye.  She adapted to this situation beautifully and it was amazing to see how well she got around.   

 So . . .  this is old age – the golden years - more aptly named, ‘tarnished brass’ by a friend.  This is when the body begins to fall apart like an old car, and each year demands more maintenance.  What next, I wonder? . . .  I will visit my ophthalmologist next month to find out if the cataracts have developed further? And if I need surgery to have them removed?  What next, indeed.  But wait a minute  . . . this could mean I won’t need glasses except for reading.  There’s good news in old age after all.  Oh, such vanity ---  Omnia Vanitas   All is vanity.  Even at 80!  

Why is being with someone who is hard of hearing so funny at times?

 My sister suffered hearing loss, and when she would visit it was all we could do to hold ourselves together when she misunderstood a word and repeated a similar sounding one that had absolutely no connection to what we were saying. “How about some tea?”  We’d ask.  “It’s much better, thank you.”  She thought we'd asked about her knee. We’d have to escape to the kitchen so that she’d not see us crack up.

 And one time while chatting with and elderly couple in the lobby of our condo building - he being hard of hearing  and with two obvious hearing aids cocked his head and asked, “What was that you said?” And his sweet but somewhat impatient wife dropped her arms, stamped her foot, and shouted what I had said into his hearing aid.  I had to turn around and fake a cough to cover a laugh! 

 My brother called one day and within minutes of our conversation I realized he could not understand a word I was saying - he answered yes or no when I knew he thought the opposite – he simply could not hear me! That was not funny.  But being with a person who is hard of hearing sometimes triggers in me almost uncontrollable laughter.  Why is that?

 And . . . guess what? -  I am the one amusing people now.  I am the one who has hearing loss – in both ears!  I must now use a tiny but very expensive hearing device in each ear.   They are inconspicuous, and I am grateful for that, but should I forget to put them in, and even when I do, people often have to repeat things, which is very frustrating for everybody.   Eating in restaurants is another challenge for people with hearing aids - not only do we hear ourselves chew, we hear the neighbour!  And more upsetting is trying to maintain a conversation with the person you are with – you hear mainly the people at the next table! The clatter of dishes, not to mention the music, makes it almost impossible; one must sit facing the other person in order to read their lips.

 When I first purchased my hearing aids, I made the mistake of leaving them on my night table when I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk.  I never imagined my little dog, sleeping on my bed, might find the shiny little devices interesting; I returned just in time to find her chewing one of them to bits!  Luckily they were insured and I was completely reimbursed, but when the insurance agent asked, “You lost it, really? - Lots of people report their dogs eat them.” I suppose I was technically correct in using the word ‘lost’ but felt myself blushing - he knew . . .    It’s not uncommon for dogs to chew remote controls as well as hearing aids . . . shame on me for lying.

 But not shame on me for laughing when a person with a hearing problem misunderstands a word – it IS funny. And now that I have joined the ranks of those with hearing disabilities, I know what’s going on when people retreat to the other room or hide their faces when I misunderstand a word – it is not only funny, it can sometimes be hilarious!

 I am not meant to unpack my bags – not yet it seems.  For years I have lived between city and country . . . and after selling my house, I pined for the country and bought a condo in a small town where it would be more secure for me to live part-time alone.  I now, however, lack the energy to go between two places and wonder if it may be time to sell my condo.  Unfortunately, the market is slow; people are looking at houses only – if at all.   So . . . perhaps it is not time   to let go - perhaps it is not yet meant to happen.

 When I began to travel between city and country, I carted almost all my wardrobe in garment bags, and practically lived out of a suitcase that was never completely unpacked. (I know what my eulogy will be:  Mom and her garment bags and an unpacked suitcase  . . . they will chuckle, I hope, for it is really funny when you think about it.)

 All of this feels terribly frivolous in the light of the last few days: There is sadness and grieving in our family:  My sister-in-law who had given fierce battle to ovarian cancer, passed away yesterday, and my son-in-law’s mother died last week.   Both were my age.  My daughter-in-law’s father, who has been ill for months, lingers in God’s waiting room.  I do feel awfully foolish to be wondering about where to live and what clothes to cart with me . . .    

 Yet . . . this is my journey.  They have finished theirs, and no doubt have begun another adventure.   My son called to say his neighbour asked him to help save a newborn kitten that had been abandoned by its mother on her doorstep along with 3 others that have died. He and his little daughter took the kitten home and have been feeding it with an eye dropper round the clock.  Already this tiny little creature has perked up and is showing signs of surviving.   My son held Toby (its name) to the phone so I could hear him cry, and oh, how sweet . . .  It was the sound of hope - a desire for life- just what I needed to hear today.   

 I agree with the Dalai Lama, I do not believe we die.  The body dies, of course, but not the spirit.  I believe we go on to another form of existence. And just as Jesus taught:  We find our true selves in the resurrection of the spirit.  We become one with the Spirit that is all.   

 So how did I get from garment bags to an unpacked suitcase from city to country to this?  I have rambled . . .  my thoughts are all over the place.  I guess what I am trying to say is,  It doesn’t matter that I am wondering where to live and what garment bags or suitcases to cart . . .  it is not frivolous – it is where I am at on my journey.  And as the monk suggested (cf. previous entry), I will do what presents itself; I will continue to live part-time in the country, until a buyer comes along, and no doubt, continue to cart garment bags and not completely unpack a suitcase.  My inability to travel lightly will one day provide the children with a laugh.  What am I saying?  It already has!   

“Guess what I’ve just done!”  I shouted to my youngest son as I came through the door. "I bought a car!" 

 I was so excited - I was shaking.  In fact, I shook all the way home from the car dealership. My son, a law student at the time, had come with me  to look at cars, and when we had narrowed it down to a couple of makes and models and I was ready to buy one, he abandoned me and I ended  up having to to buy it alone!

 I had no idea what I was doing – how could I?  I had never done anything like this before.  I had a car of my own; one my husband bought for me when the lease on the car he was driving expired and we were given the option to buy.  This time, however, I was looking for a car to drive in the country – something safe to drive on ice and snow – perhaps a 4wheel drive? 

 What did I know about cars . . .  I sat in the office wheeling and dealing and shaking.  The salesman  must have has  been smiling behind his sheet of options and prices.  I remember well, there were two of them sitting across the desk from me rattling off numbers, offering accessories and so on, while I, naive and ignorant,  sat nodding my head yes and no.  After much discussion – discussion?! . . .   With spinning head and trembling hands, I signed the purchase form for them to place the order.

 “So, what kind did you buy? He asked.  "And when do you pick it up?”  “They'll  call me when it's ready;  in a week or two, I think.”

 I could not believe that I had bought a car!  . . .  When I finally got control of myself and found the courage to take another look at the purchase order, I  saw the model that I had bought and I relaxed - both my son and I   agreed  that I had made the right choice.  

 It arrived sooner than expected and I had to go pick it up, which was another, not only exciting, but terrifying day.  I drove through heavy traffic in a new car I had not driven before and I was sure I'd have an accident, put a dent in it or scratch it.     

 When I related  all of this to friends at a dinner party a few days later, several of the women admitted they'd  had a similar experience.  What was it in those days that made buying a car so frightening?  Why was it so daunting and overwhelming?  Many of us had had babies, surgeries, sick children, moves  . . . and far more taxing things to deal with.   We all agreed, however, that it had been a positive experience;  one that was stimulating and exciting and one that showed we had the ability to make sound decisions; it also taught us to be more assertive and in so doing develop self-confidence.   

 I have bought several cars since then but now, have come full circle - I am ‘sans’ car, by choice.  We recently became a one-car family when I ‘sold’ my car to my granddaughter.  I am proud of  this decision – not only  did this provide her with a much needed means of transportation, getting down to one car is better for the environment and it definitely makes it easier on the pocket book!

 Owning a car is necessary for people who live outside the city, in small towns where public transportation is not offered and in the country, when one lives far away from things.  My husband now uses public transportation to go to his office and I  try to limit myself to shopping or driving to the country only.  Two cars are no longer necessary and certainly no longer important.  It is shocking to see what man has done to the environemnt; we can only hope it is not too late to turn things around.  Climate change is real and I am ashamed to think we have contributed to global warming, or as the saying goes,  left our own carbon footprint.  I would be happy to buy an electric car should  the need arise.   At my age, however,  I feel I may be spared that ordeal.  Wait a minue, what am I saying?  It could be fun, it would be exciting and  I might find myself wheeling and dealing again!

(for Alessia)

 “We’ll stop by at 10 tomorrow morning, and we’ll stay for lunch.” They said.

 Thrilled at the thought of a visit from my granddaughters, I chased around the next morning trying to put something together to feed them.  Slighly panic stricken, I asked my husband to pick up muffins and seedless grapes to go with the vegetable soup I'd prepared; cheese, apples and bananas then completed the meal. That ought to do it. I thought.

 I had no sooner organized it when they were at the door. “No need to have fussed, Nana – I brought my own food.”  Said my well-put-together healthy looking granddaughter, as she opened her bag of goodies. Meanwhile, her sister, more casual and much more relaxed, looked on with a smile.“What you have prepared is fine” She added, with love, a look of pride and a tiny hint of arrogance in her voice.

And that was when the lesson began . . .

 She outlined the nutritional value of each item I had put on the table, then went on to enumerate the important ingredients in the concoction she had prepared, describing the vitamin content and benefits to our bodies and the importance of protein and calcium in our diet.  I was very impressed and listened with great interest; her stew looked like healthy fare indeed, and it was almost with a guilty feeling that I ate my soup and bit into a muffin.

 A thousand years ago when my kids were little, Saturday mornings turned into a cooking frenzy:  I baked bread, pies and cakes; chocolate chip cookies were the domain of my daughter who baked and ate them  as they came out of the oven!  With impeccable timing, the boy next door would show up as I was pouring cake batter into the tins - just in time to lick the beaters and scrape the bowl! 

 It was indeed a busy day as I went from baking, to stirring soups, to preparing pot roasts, casseroles or meat loaves for the weekend; by Sunday night it had been completely eaten and there was nothing left!  This routine went on for years; my kids grew big and strong and I felt satisfied that I had done a good job.

 Until now. . . .

 We understand so much better today the importance of a healthy diet and exercise; my granddaughter’s demonstration and ideas were not lost on me but I have always said, and continue to say, let’s not go overboard, there should be moderation  in all things: In what you eat, in what you drink and how much you exercise.

 My granddaughter learned this lesson the hard way: wanting to lose weight, she starved herself, depriving her body of important nutrients, and exercised till she dropped.  She eventually went in search of books and information on the importance of good nutrition when, having collapsed, she found herself in front of her doctor suffering from malnutrition and anaemia. This is now her main topic of interest; she hopes to become a nutritionist in order to prevent others from making the same mistakes.

 Meanwhile I will no doubt continue to eat soup with perhaps too much salt and muffins with perhaps too much sugar but I am now more aware and will try my best to live up to my granddaughter’s lesson. Oh, and by the way, I did invite her to come by any time . . . while insisting she bring her own food of course.  

 At the beginning of creation my brother and I  would sit on the floor next to a large radio straining to hear the Lone Ranger, or The Green Hornet. My girlfriend and I would sometimes listen to Ma Perkins, a soap opera, in the afternoon. On Monday night, Lux Radio Theatre, presented radio adaptations of movies or plays, and I was allowed to listen if my homework was done. The war news was ever present on my parents’ minds so the radio was always tuned for the latest update.  My brother and I were too young to understand the importance of what was happening in Europe; much more fun for us were  the play by play descriptions of hockey, especially during the playoff season.  

 When I grew up and married, television came into being.   We bought our first black and white television in 1960, and I frequently watched the Late Night Show with Jack Parr, replaced later by Johnny Carson, while nursing a baby. For years we resisted buying a television seeing it as a bad influence on our children. Our kids, smarter than their parents, outwitted us, however, by slipping out to their friends’ house to watch the Saturday morning cartoons.  Those parents were ‘cool’ as the saying goes today.      

 In today’s affluent society, people have more than one colored television (black and white a thing of the past).  VCRs and DVDs now allow us to view the latest movies from our living rooms. Or record a program to be watched at a later date when it would be more convenient.  (Some of us have yet to learn how to program a VCR!) 

 Not long ago, I learned to use a computer, and at that time, wondered why I needed to do so?  I  quickly discovered how exciting it was to keep in touch  via emails with family and friends all over the world!  Surfing the net became, not only informative, but fun.  And I soon began to use my computer to do my banking.  Things changed rapidly:  I went from using  an old-fashioned typewriter, to  an electric one, and from that, to a Word Processor. 

 Computers are truly a blessing for seniors; we can keep informed, research a subject, or write a story!  Look at me - I’m blogging -- who would have thought! . . .  Best for me though is the ability to communicate, sometimes on a daily basis, with my children who live far away.

 We now have cell phones that offer security for when we are driving – especially good for me as I go between city and country; bank machines - no need to wait in line to see a teller anymore - although, I miss the personal contact.  New tchnology is very exciting and I am full of wonder.

Cell phones would have saved our sanity had they been around when my daughter was a teenager.  She would talk on the phone with her friends for hours!  No sooner would she walk through the door that the phone would ring and it would always be for her! To solve the problem, we  gave her a phone for Christmas.  Did that help?  No. When her friends called her line and received a busy signal, they continued to call ours!  One day, when the phone rang, my son in exasperation, picked it up and without asking who it was, yelled, "she's dead!"  Nearly causing my friend on the other end of the line to faint!  

My grandkids indulge me with a smile when I tell them my cell is for emergency use only -  they know God created cell phones for them - not to call, but to text message their friends all day long.  That might have been the solution to our problem when our daughter was growing up.  

 Am I forgetting something?  Perhaps. Technology is forever changing, and keeping up with it is a challenge for older folk, but  life is about change and moving forward, and if we don’t at least make the effort to understand, we will grow old fast and soon find ourselves completely left behind! 

 She sits at the desk writing a card; the words will be hard to decipher as she is old now and her handwriting is shaky.   She reaches for the address book at the back of the drawer in the desk; it is old, the pages are worn, and several names have been scratched out.  So many people gone, she thinks. So much time has passed . . . my history and theirs is in this little book.  It has been with me all my life – well, almost. She has two such books; each of them filled with the names of people she has known over the years, in different cities and in different countries – people  with whom she has promised to keep in touch.   She does so religiously at every Christmas and whenever she remembers someone’s birthday.

 She thumbs through the pages in search of an address.  There are so many names, so many people – so many lives . . .  Yet, not for her are the pocket organizers so popular today; neither has she bothered to enter these names in the email contact list of her computer – many of whom she now sends emails to, as well.    She likes the idea of an address book – she likes the feel of it in her hands.  She thinks of it as old friend - one that has travelled with her and shared much of her life.     She also feels this way about newspapers – she prefers to read the news in the comfort of an armchair with a cup of coffee by her side rather than sit at the desk reading it off the internet.  She knows this is an old fashioned way of thinking, but so be it – this is who she is – this is what she enjoys.

 She sits turning the pages, pausing at each name to reminisce;  her mind switches back to the time they met and wonders how they are doing . . .   As she sits there, the afternoon light begins to fade and she is surprised to notice how dark it has become.  When did I turn on the light, she wonders?    She smiles – she knows she has been lost in the memories of things past.  She sighs, and feeling a little sad, she picks up the pen to finish the task she had begun.  

 Then, with the greatest of care, almost with reverence, she places her old friend,  the address book, back in the drawer.  

Angie was a dear friend.  It was she who had an encounter with a bear while weeding her garden;  well, not exactly an encounter, but a scare when she looked up and saw him standing behind her!

 She was widowed around the same time my friend and neighbour with the dog died.  When I called to offer my condolences, I asked if there was anything I could do for her?  “Yes,” she replied.  “Call me once in a while.”

 And that is when our friendship began:  I started calling her once a week and soon we were talking on the phone every day!   Even though she was surrounded by friends and family, she seemed to need me, and I needed her! We went on drives; went shopping and often had lunch with friends . . . It was a lovely time.

 The lovely time was not to last, however, Angie had a serious heart condition and was told she needed bi-pass surgery. Things did not go well, and after the operation Angie ended up in a coma.  I sat by her side every day for several weeks with her brother who came to be with her from California.  We had no idea how things would go, so it was a surprise and a  great relief to find her smiling and talking to her brother when I came to visit her one morning. She picked up quickly after that and was moved to a convalescent home.      

 She recovered amazingly well and every day began making plans:  She would sell the farm and move to a small house in town where she would be near her doctor and have easy access to stores and things.   “One must always have something to look forward to."  She would say, and with great enthusiasm, each year would make little improvements to her home.

 She loved to garden but because of her health had accepted she no longer could grow her own vegetables; a neighbour seeing her disappointment planted and tended it for her. In return she gave him cookies and cakes she had baked in the morning.     

 With only a grade 6 education she was smarter than a lot of people where business was concerned --- she could have majored in business had she gone to college.  At 16 she married a farmer and lived in the same house all her life.  It was interesting to hear her tell of growing up on a farm and going to school on horseback through the woods in all kinds of weather.  She described how glad they were when the electric lines were installed on the road and how exciting it was to pull the string and see the light shine from the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling!  Living was primitive in those days:  First came electricity which allowed for running water;  then came the telephone with the amazing party line that served four or more people, allowing gossip to be spread, if not accurately, then at least quickly, every day!         

 I loved Angie’s stories and I loved her sense of humour; we had a lot of fun together, but it often seemed we spent more time in Emergency at the hospital than anywhere else.  And when I wavered about selling my house to move to a condo where I would feel more secure, Angie gave me the gentle shove that encouraged me to do it.  "It's time she said." And I agreed.

The bi-pass operation extended her life but it did not give her a stronger heart, and although it felt like much too soon, Angie was admitted to Intensive Care where she lingered for nearly a week before she died.  I had the honour of being with her an hour before she passed away – leaving her side only when the immediate family arrived.

 Angie had a deep spirituality and we discussed death and dying on many occasions. I think she left this world smiling the way she always lived and I have no doubt her Faith sustained her till the end.  It was a privilege to have known this sweet and lovely person and a joy to have had her as a friend.  

Then again, perhaps I’ve always been a little eccentric.  I talk to my plants.  I talk to my dog.  I talk to birds, squirrels – anything I meet in the woods.  Whoa, what do I mean I am becoming eccentric – I am eccentric!

 While visiting me one day a friend remarked, “do you realize how much you talk to your dog?”  I then began to pay attention to myself, and lo and behold, she’s right!  I talk to my dog all day long.  Of course the reason is the dog doesn’t talk back to me. She doesn’t care what I am saying and she doesn’t think me crazy.  Instead, she wags her tail and acts interested – especially if I’m holding a cookie in my hand!

 I used to talk to my cat Tara, and she talked to me every time she came in front outdoors, or when I came home. She talked a blue streak! If only I knew what she was saying . . . On the other hand we talk to people who have no idea what we are saying – half the time they aren’t listening!

 My daughter has a cockatoo that hates me! I can’t approach his cage without him screaming insults at me, and the one time she let him out when I was there, he bit me!  There’s one guy from whom I’ll keep my distance.

 Not all birds hate me though; I fed them when I lived in the country;  they waited and watched for me every day. Some even ate out of my hand!  Once on a walk I became aware of a bird chirping and flying from tree to tree – all along the road.  I suddenly realized it was talking to me!  Chirping, it followed me home from the farm. I was told there are little birds that love the attention and company of humans and I wondered why I had not noticed this before.     

 So yes, I am eccentric; I talk to animals and I talk to plants.   Plants supposedly respond to our voices and thrive on having us praise them.  And my dog is happy because I tell her all my troubles . . . it’s a good thing she doesn’t understand.  Well, perhaps she does but is respectful enough to pretend she doesn’t.

 Friends of mine talk to their cats, their dogs and their plants, just as I do; perhaps I am not so crazy after all.  Or perhaps because we have  a need to communicate with all living things we are labelled eccentric.  In which case it is natural and it really is okay to be eccentric.

(for Claude)

Came Minou and Minette.  They were the proud parents of 4 baby kittens born in my daughter’s bureau drawer.  “Come see, Mommy!  Minette has had her babies!”  My little girl cried out one morning, all excited.  “Come and see - they are so tiny!”

As suggested . . . before Wisty and Tara we had several dogs and lots of cats who were part of our household when the children were growing up.  

 We adopted Minette, a beautiful Russian blue cat.  She was tiny and delicate with gorgeous dark grey fur.  Minou was a regular grey and white guy that we decided could come along as we headed out of the SPCA.

 These tiny kittens quickly grew into mature cats and before we knew it Minette was pregnant.  This was not a surprise; in fact, we saw it as an opportunity to teach the children about life and babies.  So, when our little daughter announced the birth had taken place in her bureau drawer, everyone came running, and with great enthusiasm viewed the scene.  It was fascinating.  We pointed out how Minette had cleaned up after the birth; the kittens had been licked clean and in the drawer was not a speck of blood.

 We moved them to a basket in the basement without Minette objecting.  She was, in fact generous, about letting us pick up her babies.  There was one exception, however, Minou was not allowed near them!  If he dared approach the basket, she would hiss at him until he went away.  We made sure he had no access to the basement when we saw how Minette was protecting her kittens; we thought he might perhaps have tried to kill them.  The children invited their friends to see the kittens and this went on for several days until one day, they came up the stairs crying,  “they are not in the basket, mommy – the kittens are gone!”   

 We looked all over and finally found them in the closet under the stairs.  Not understanding why she’d moved them, we put them back in the basket. An hour later she had moved them again.  I was puzzled and at a loss to explain why she was doing this until my cleaning lady explained, “She is protecting their eyes.  She will leave them in the dark until their eyes open.  Leave them alone – that’s what she wants.”

 I was very impressed with her motherly instincts – how did Minette know to do this?  And I enjoyed pointing this out to my children.  Minou eventually lost interest and no doubt went on to look for other conquests

 We adopted Sydney the year we bought the country house.  I remember him as being the first dog we ever owned, but I may be mistaken.   He was a one year old medium sized mixed breed with a gentle disposition and he quickly bonded with the children.  We picked him up the day we drove to our new country home – having no idea how he would behave.

 Soon after settling into the house the kids found friends up and down the road, and while our son was play-fighting on the front lawn with his new friend, thinking he was being attacked, Sydney ran to his defence; he began tugging at the other boy’s pants and was  ready to bite if we had not called him off and stopped him.  He had been with us for only a day yet already he realized we were his family!        

 Unfortunately, he was not with us for long:  We had returned to the city and I wanted to take him for a walk; without thinking, I  left him waiting on the stoop while I went to get my jacket; when I  came back, I heard the screeching of tires, and to my horror realized Sydney had been hit by a car!  Unaware of the danger, he had tried to cross the street.  He died on the way to the animal hospital.  I was full of regrets: Why had I left him alone? Why had I not anticipated this might happen?  We were all heartbroken.  Sydney had been our pet for less than a month!

 It was shortly after this incident that we adopted Wisty, followed by Tara whose stories I have told.  Having pets teaches children about loyalty and love and it offers them the opportunity to show affection and develop a sense of responsibility.  This tradition started in my parent’s home and I carried into ours.  Our children now have their own families and each of them has a pet or two.  The tradition lives on!   

(for my children)

  Once upon a time there was a dog named Wisty and a cat whose name was Tara. They lived in a house with 8 people: A mommy, a daddy and six little children. Wisty was the first to join the family and he knew the drill so that when Tara, a country kitty arrived, he took it upon himself to become her protector.        

  Our family lived in a big house complete with dog and cat.  It was a busy and active household with kids in school, hockey, baseball, ballet lessons and all the usual growing up things that go on in a family.  Wisty, the third dog we’d adopted (the others did not work out) was a long-haired Australian shepherd. He quickly recognized his place in the pecking order and refused to respect our youngest son, although without any doubt, would have protected him with his life!

 Wisty was high strung and nervous and was a great watchdog. True to the big dog’s reputation – he loathed the mailman: He would lunge at the door and grab the letters as they came through the slot.  Our bills got paid with teeth marks in them!

 Each evening Wisty would wait at the top of the stairs until everyone was home.   Our daughter, nearly always the last one in, would bribe him with a cookie so that he would sleep in her room.

 In the country he guarded the house, as well.  No one would approach once they saw him, teeth bared and growling, through the window.   “We were terrified!”  Said a cousin who came by once when we were away. “Your dog looked so vicious.  Don’t worry about anyone breaking in when you’re not there.”

 Tara came to us from a farm up the road. She was a small black cat who took down rabbits bigger than herself!  In the morning we would find pieces she had left on the steps for us to share.  She hunted birds, rabbits and mice.  Our youngest son took a shine to her and in no time became her slave.  It was to his window that she meowed every night to be let in.  On more than one occasion she brought in, not one, but two mice in her mouth!  “Check her mouth before letting her in!”   We yelled to him.   

 When summer was over and we moved back to the city, life changed not only for the children, but for the animals, as well.  Wisty soon became Tara’s protector and guarded her territory.   Woe to any cat that would dare set food in our yard!  In the evening they would play together: Tara would approach a sleeping Wisty and start pulling on his tail; he would then jump up and chase her across the room.  This scene was repeated every evening, and it was great fun to watch.  

 Then  came another move and things became hectic:  Some of the children  would remain behind to attend university and had to be settled in an apartment;  we had a house to sell and a new one to buy; and our two boys coming with us, had to be registered at university and high school.

 Wisty became the first victim of this move: as mentioned in another entry, he was very upset when I left to help my husband at his office, and showed his frustration and anger by doing his business all over the house.  Scolding did nothing to make him stop, and every day we’d come home to find messes on the walls and carpets.  Because of the move there was no time to get professional help and the only answer – which I now regret – was to have him put down.

 Tara moved with us, but missed her friend Wisty who had protected her territory and when we left her alone for a period of 3 days, we made the mistake of leaving her outside where she could hunt, and her food and water on the porch for her to eat.  We realized our mistake as soon as we came back and found not only the food missing but Tara as well.  There had been a fight: Dishes were overturned and there was fur everywhere.  What had we done to this poor little cat?!

 We felt just awful. Then, about three weeks later, my son came through the door holding a black furry object, ”look what I found, mom, ” he said.   I leapt from my chair and with relief grabbed Tara who was a sorry mess!  She was scrawny and dirty with dried mud and blood clinging to her fur.  The vet  checked her out and within a few days she was back to herself – almost.   From then on her hunting days were rare and she stayed close to the house.  How she must have missed Wisty! 

Once upon a time, a beautiful dog and cat lived together with a family.  The children grew up and moved away and the pets are no more, but those were happy days for Wisty and Tara and for the family who had the joy of their presence – if only for a little while.

Is there anything more annoying than waiting for the plumber?  They never arrive when expected - they can keep you waiting for hours.  “What time will he be here?” I asked.  “You should expect him between 8:30 and 9 o’clock.” 

 We hurried through our breakfast so that I could have the kitchen picked up before he got here.  Why do I feel such a need to have everything tidied up; breakfast dishes, beds made – everything neat and tidy.  For the plumber!

 Wait a minute.  What’s going on?  Why am I like that?  Why must everything be organized as though I were expecting a dinner guest?  I have always been this way; whether it is a plumber, an electrician or a handyman – I just cannot relax.  What do they care if my house is picked up?  Did they leave theirs neat and tidy?  Did they make their beds?

 I am not alone to feel this way:  I know of women who clean their house before the cleaning lady comes!  My daughter is embarrassed to have a cleaning company clean her house because she thinks it is too dirty!   Are we nuts or what?  Would we not let someone cut the grass because the grass is too long?  Or weed the garden because of the weeds!

 Something is off balance here.  I do not hesitate to get my hair cut (styled) when it gets long, although I must admit; I am a little embarrassed to walk in the salon with it all out of shape.  Why?  This is what stylists hope for – it’s what they do!

The plumber arrived two hours late and he is now well on his way to changing our hot water heater;  he had nothing to do in the kitchen or the bathroom or the other parts of the house, and I’m absolutely convinced he could not care less if the beds were made or not.  The next time I need a plumber – or whomever . . . 

Oh, why bother - I will behave as I always have: I’ll be up early, ready and waiting with everything neat as a pin; as always the plumber will keep me waiting, and when he arrives I will be happy to see him; but while waiting, I will continue to complain - Is there anything more annoying than waiting for the plumber? 

I walked through the mall this morning and suddenly realized the fashion world had jumped ahead and left me behind – or rather, had pushed me off the planet!   Everything I saw was meant for younger people.  Whatever is an old lady like me supposed to do?  . . .

 I’m exaggerating, of course, there are clothes for older women but one is hard pressed to find a salesperson to help sort them out.  Sizes, for instance are totally different to what they used to be – one has to try on a dozen pair of slacks or skirts or whatever before finding the proper fit – if indeed, one finds a proper fit.  Sweaters are either too tight or too bulky, and for me neither will do.  I must have disturbed a dozen neatly stacked sweaters in order to find what might be my size. Soon I became exhausted and left without buying a thing.  I will, of course, go back and give it another try – either that or hide and never leave the house!

 I have never been a good shopper: when I need a new outfit for a special event, I do not shop ahead and look for bargains; I buy what I need at the moment, and often discover a week later, that same item on sale!  I lack the patience to be a smart shopper: I usually buy the first outfit that seems reasonable and hurry out the store.  Some women are great shoppers: they find what they need, note the price and wait until the item goes on sale.  For some reason that seems to work for them, but not for me – if I don’t buy the item I need when I spot it, it will be gone the very next day!  Because I lack patience, I buy outfits that don’t blend and colors that don’t match anything in my closet. The worst part is, I end up paying far too much for everything.

 Maybe someday I’ll learn to shop.  Maybe someday I’ll like to shop, but I doubt it.  Today, my effort was a disaster.  I was frustrated and got overtired and came home feeling  my clothes are all out of fashion.  I could not find my size, could not find my color and none of the styles were right for me.  I am either too old or too small and  I was definitely too tired to look any further. At least not today.  The fashion world is moving so fast that I feel forgotten - it's like I'm being pushed off the planet!

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!