%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT November 15th You and your two best friends are going on a month-long road trip. Where are you going? What three items must be in your luggage for this trip to be a great experience for you. Nancy my 'bestest' pal and the other Nancy also my 'bestest' pal plus moi have chosen to partake of a momentous road trip. Sure, we may imbibe a few cocktails and a few bottles of wine, but we are not interested in breweries, or vineyards. Our taste buds fancy an eating / sampling tour, or two, or three. We wish to put our teeth into our adventure so to speak. Our motto: have sweet tooth will travel. Ugly Covid and all its restrictions have put a halt to our ultimate dream of visiting Switzerland for its chocolate. Where else can a gal or three with a passion for chocolate travel? We dreamed of sending sticky, smeared post cards back home. We'd imagined ourselves daintily perched upon outdoor cafe chairs sipping bois du chocolat and peering from behind our shaded eyewear at the vivant locals. Now we have adapted, adjusted, made other plans. Thanks to an evening of Google research, we've plotted a route that will take us down the eastern seaboard and over to Texas after a few days of pretending to be in Europe by way of Montreal. We will create a chocolate tour and dedicate it to the explorers that set forth to establish the Spice routes of days past. If anyone can do this, we can. We shall sniff out the chocolate. We shall drive and drive with chocolate as our reward. This heavenly concoction / confection shall be our guiding star. Before we ventured too far and in need of something to fortify us and whet our palates, we veered off to Niagara Falls to grab a quick travel bag of things chocolate. Yes, this is not strictly speaking the direct route to Montreal, but we had urges, okay? Sated, we waved farewell to Ontario and motored to Montreal just over the border in our neighbour, Quebec. Thank goodness we'd decided to be sensible and packed comfy walking shoes. In this marvelous city, we'd committed ourselves to two different walking tours which we had the foresight to schedule with a rest and recovery day in between. Day one found us partaking of a four and a half hour chocolate-tasting and walking tour. Hobbling, wobbling and teetering on heels would not have been a pretty sight as we gobbled sampled the offered treats. I may have lost count, sugar does cast a spell, but I believe I enjoyed nine sweets on this glorious day. I also recall sipping decadent cocoa drinks. On our third day here, we embarked upon another four and a half hour walking tour of Chinatown. Oh, the savoury smells tickled our noses and the delicacies satisfied our exotic whims. Promising to return in the future, Nancy, Nancy and I bid Montreal au revoir and praised each other for escaping the worst of our calorie expedition. We agreed it had been a most fortuitous idea to leave our belts at home. As is our habit, we nattered nonstop in the car and before we could complain of the cramped quarters we arrived at our next stop, Brooklyn, New York. Once more we set out to tour the premises of master chocolatiers and indulge in their delectable offerings. I believe there may be several selfies as evidence of our attentive devotion. We all packed our cell phones with their indispensable cameras. With the additional walking, we felt calories could not possibly catch us. Our foray found us in Hershey, Pennsylvania next. Now this is a town devoted to all things chocolate! It is created as a theme-type park, Chocolate World. Throngs of chocolate lovers tour factories to witness the creation of this treasure, to sample it, to create their own chocolate bars, and to amuse themselves on chocolate rides. Because we were unabashed Canadian enthusiasts we purchased chocolate wear, or as the bubbly cashier corrected us, "merch." This is why we never leave home without a credit card. Impulse purchases come at a cost. The car's trunk is sagging a bit lower now with all of the loot we've stashed there. So far, our spirits have not sagged, and our sugar levels have not spiked. The euphoria of chocolate sustains us. In Savannah, we ooh and aah on another tour fortified by coffee. So, in a stately square we espy the infamous bench where Gump utters his profound words, "Life is like a box of chocolates." Many of the heads on our tour bus seemed to nod in agreement. We hit the open road and wandered over to Dallas. We were ever so pleased that this state boasts more than barbecue and cowboys. Yep, we found another chocolate tour. Be still our beating hearts. So many people share our fascination with chocolate. It's so sweet. Here, Nancy, Nancy and I discover Mexican chocolate. It's infused with cinnamon, sometimes nutmeg, or chilies. This is an intriguing combination. Chocolate chicken? Chocolate chili? My taste buds tingled. During our return drive back home, one of the Nancy-s wondered if we could volunteer as chocolate ambassadors somewhere. I must admit, it is food for thought .We have a taste for it. |
| PROMPT November 14th A Mystery Genre prompt tonight. You are researching your genealogy and find that ancestors from different generations and different countries made visits to the same remote place. Tell us about this remote place. Why were your ancestors going there? In 1903, Joseph had endured a crossing of the Atlantic Ocean to leave his life in Ireland behind. Though he feared the rough swells and the endless seasickness would kill him, he landed in Montreal with the clothes on his back and a determination to make something of himself. Saying farewell to the ship he said a quick prayer he would never have to board her again. Without one ounce of regret he set out for Shawville, Quebec on a journey that saw him walk and hitch rides in passing wagons. Once amongst his cousins, Joe settled in to work with the local blacksmith. Customers coming in regaled him with tales of riches to be had if a man were strong and willing to relocate. Before too many months had passed, he boarded a train for British Columbia and set out for a cross-Canada trek. Now it was 1904, the perfect time to begin anew. As the train rattled along, Joe swayed in his seat and dared to dream. He smiled as he thought of his destination's name, Mission. What an apt name for his new adventure. Hours blended into days, and Joe became disoriented. To add to his shock, three gruff man brandished weapons one day and demanded the passengers' money. He remembered the conductor shouting they were near Silverdale when asked at the end of a gun. Not wishing to be shot, Joe handed over the few dollars in his pocket. The one thief, more silver-haired than his partners, tipped his hat and actually said thank you. As if anyone had willingly forfeited their monies. It may not have been a fortune, but it was all he had and he'd worked hard for it. With his skills, he'd never worried he would find employment amongst the logging and mining communities. He'd packed light. Joe never forgot the terror he'd felt aboard that train. Unarmed, he'd hesitated to raise a ruckus and irk the bandits. In Mission, he volunteered to join the search party for the thieves. For weeks he slogged through thick forests and climbed rocky ravines without so much as a glimpse of the wanted men. In time, Joe accepted he would never recover his meagre stake and he settled into his new life. Years later, he returned to Quebec and his tale of witnessing a train robbery earned him a few drinks from fascinated listeners. Fast forward several decades and Nathaniel a Canadian descendant of Joe decided to recreate his ancestor's western trek. He'd heard the stories over and over. Were they myth, or legend? Could he see for himself where the bandits had jumped from a train and disappeared? Where had they absconded? Had they buried their loot as they fled? Could it still exist under layers of leaves and branches? The idea of trekking about in terrain that had not changed noticeably excited Nathaniel. Would he find the robbers' stash that rumours insisted had never been located? Would he stumble upon a bleak skeleton guarding that ill-gained treasure? Would he discover anything at all? Could he coax the locals to share their memories of the great train robbery of 1910? Did anyone aid and abet the men? Perhaps one of the seniors would be a thief hiding in plain sight. Now that would make for a great story. |
| November 13th prompt: In your world, all citizens are temporarily neutered at birth. When you want to become a parent, you must prove to the government that you'll be suitable caretakers and providers before you are allowed to procreate. How do you prove to the government that you'll be a good caretaker/parent? Well, I'm not much of a whiteboard presenter. A klutz such as myself should never wield a pointer, or move amongst potential obstacles. For every one's sake I do not have charts , or graphs. I do not have a slide-show presentation either. Coloured pictures may appear wonderful, but they are merely flashy and lack substance. I will present my appeal to be a potential parent as if I were mounting my court case before a judge. My lack of physical grace not withstanding, sincerity would be my strong suit. I would prove my suitability with a series of character references. Was I always a parent-in-training? For years, I chose to be a babysitter, a child-minder, a childcare worker. I enjoy the company of kids. They fuel my creativity. They approach life with a joie de vivre. Their exuberance is refreshing and contagious. For many years, I volunteered with youth groups accompanying them camping and on various field trips. I never lost anyone. Everyone survived with all of their digits attached. My sanity did not suffer permanent damage either. To put forth my intentions to become a minder, a teacher, a nurturer of my own offspring I will present the testimonies of all the parents and children I have been privileged to know. Surely they recognize my heartfelt desire and will welcome me to the elite sanctum of parenthood. Perhaps I could offer to attend a child-rearing boot camp? Of course, I'd have to endure countless days of no sleep. I'd have to acclimatize to wailing, mewling, whimpering, screeching even if I were the one emitting such a ruckus. My olfactory senses and my stomach would have to adjust to a variety of odours most foul. I'd prove my prowess and skill at diaper-changing a squirming infant by doing so one-handed and blind-folded with another baby clutching at my ankles. After a stint in a sensory deprivation tank listening to non-stop nursery rhymes, I'd emerge unscathed and capable of conversing with another adult. Granted I may stumble and stub a few toes, but I would traverse an obstacle course consisting of Lego, building blocks, Little People figures, strewn baby bottles, bakeware from the kitchen, and prove my stamina. In short, I'd be prepared for anything. Let the de-neutering begin! |
| PROMPT November 11th A reminder I could say to myself before I’m tempted to respond to anger with anger, to fear with fear, to negativity with negativity is... This too shall pass. I need to stop, take a calming breath and consider if my reply, my input, my reaction is necessary. Often people explode and express overwhelming emotion as they experience something. They could be in shock and in the throes of a sudden incident. Their anger, or fear, or negativity is not always directed at me. It is not a personal assault. They are having difficulty processing something very real and raw. I need not exacerbate the situation. The extreme emotion can roll of my back. Often when we're angry we need to vent, blow off steam. During this we may not be in a receptive state of mind and we may not hear anything other than reciprocated anger. We recognize what we are projecting when it returns as an echo. Further anger amplifies ours. Rage feeds off rage. I could remind myself to walk away. Do not engage. Do not take the bait. Do I need, or want the drama? Years ago, I worked in a highway-side restaurant that catered to a clientele of mainly travelers. One late afternoon a family walked in and sat at a table. The parents strapped their toddler son into a high chair and then attempted to shush him as they perused the menu. The boy screeched louder and louder. He pounded and kicked the table. Anything offered to him he threw. His grandparents tried speaking to him.That poor kid had just been released from the confines of a car seat where he'd been tightly belted for who knows how long. Now he was similarly confined. Everywhere he looked there were strangers. The restaurant was a new environment. He'd had enough. He did not have the skills to verbally and reasonably express his frustration, his irritation, his objections. He expressed his displeasure in the only manner he knew. I admired what the frazzled father did next. He did not respond with anger. He did not shout. He did not strike. He pulled his wailing son from the chair and carried him outside where he deposited the boy on the ground. Dad stood nearby as the boy screamed and kicked the stone wall. He permitted his child to vent and he removed the temper tantrum from the diningroom. He just stood and waited out the storm. When the child had spent himself, Dad hugged him and spoke quietly to him. They returned to their table hand in hand where this young man climbed back up into the high chair and accepted a much needed drink. He'd expunged his anger. Perhaps that patient parent believed this too shall pass. |
| PROMPT November 11th You are desperate to use the bathroom. But, you share this with several others. It's down the hall (waaaay down the hall), and it's cold despite the heat being set to the 'normal' temperature. Being an older person, your legs and ability to hold it ain't what it used to be. How do you handle this dire situation? I gasp and shiver as my feet hit the floor. I rub my eyes as I lurch toward the door. The bladder that woke me a moment before signals a battered floodgate strained to its core. The kegels I crunched to strengthen my muscle wave a red hot flag to hurry my hustle. My knees bawk, groan, creak, irked by the kerfuffle. They spasm and jerk, each step a slow, stiff shuffle. The walker frame squeaks as I wince, huff and puff. I push-propel myself past obstacle stuff. My new knee squawks at this arduous trek rough, but my bully bladder demands it, blunt, gruff. I can almost taste it, it pounds in my ears. Those two cups of tea haunt me, dribbles I fear. My midnight mission, frantic foray is clear. Do not delay, imminent release is near. At long last the once distant bathroom beckons. blessed relief is at hand, few more seconds. A blur breezes past and a shrill voice sprechens, "You're not quite there yet, I have time I reckon." ( sprechen is German for speak and it rhymes with beckon and reckon... 'spreckens' ) 20 lines, 248 words |
| PROMPT November 10th Your neighbor’s hay crop is ready to harvest. Everyone in their family is sick and their Combine is broken. How do you respond to this situation? Combine? I'm only familiar with combine as a verb for bakers; combine the flour and sugar. I'm thinking of the act of mixing, stirring. Wait, am I being called to a different type of action? Am I expected to leap into help mode? Should I stir and rouse myself from my comfy easy chair? Even if the piece of farm machinery mentioned above was fully operational, it would be rendered useless by my lack of experience. How do I control it? Do I point and steer? I suppose it doesn't have voice control? Does Siri, or Google, or Alexa assist when summoned? This is where I mention that I hail from a long line of immigrant farmers. Of course, I never had the pleasure of meeting them, or visiting their spreads. A span of at least a hundred years made that impossible. Could it possibly be a genetics thing? Maybe I inherited the farming ability? Could the skill of handling heavy machinery be pulsating through my veins? Should I hope the knowing voices of my long past kin guide me? I must confess that I mix up hay and straw. One is for bedding and one is for eating. I've always wondered why some growers bundle their grain into varying shapes. I've driven by fields that hold large, round bales that I've dubbed Muffets after the cereal and other acreages that prefer square bales. Some farmers store their grain in barns and others wrap their harvest in white plastic that they then leave outside. I took a wee, brief Google break to learn a bit more. Okay, the hay is considered fodder and the straw is for bedding. Wowzers, those large, round rolls of hay could possibly weigh 1,500 pounds. I'm fairly certain I would not be of any help whatsoever to lift that. I do not own a tractor, but I do own a pick-up truck I drive. I realize it cannot harvest the hay, but it sure could carry a few bales for transport. I believe I'd need to rally the troops if I intend to help my neighbour. Just up the road, a community of Mennonites have purchased several farms. I admire their work ethic and family values. They are experienced farmers and they succeed because they toil together. I shall ask them to assist with the hay harvest. In return, I will offer to aid them in kind, a you-pat-my -back- I'll-pat-your-back. When they are feeling better, my neighbours will be grateful to return the favour, too. I will provide a lunch for this army of harvesters. That is something I can manage. If I ask nicely, perhaps one of them will teach me how to drive a combine. It could be a valuable skill in the future. |
| PROMPT November 9th You are having a very realistic dream. In this dream, you are approaching a castle. What unusual reason do you have to be at this castle? What do you say to the two guards standing outside it to gain entrance? Guards: "Halt! Who goes there?" Me: "Huh? You can see quite clearly that it's me. Let me in." Guards:"Do you have a castle pass?" Me : "What's that? Is it a ticket, or something? Did I miss the ticket agent?" Guards:"None shall pass." Me: "None like no one? I'm a somebody I assure you. Announce my presence, you'll see." Guards:"There's a list, a privileged list." Me:"Am I dreaming? I did not waltz over here for the sake of my health. I was summoned." Guards:"You couldn't have been. The Royal Summoner was called away." Me: "He spoke to me a day ago." Guards: "He's a mute." Me:"Oh, that's unfortunate. Someone requested I make an appearance. Is there a secondary Summoner? Maybe a Sub-Summoner?" Guards:"Well, there's Bob." Me:" Great, What does Bob do?" Guards:"Bob's a floater. I think today he's ringing the bell." Me: "Up in the turret? I'm here to check the bats in the belfry. Can you get in touch with him?" Guards:" Nope. Rapunzel's away, too." Me:"Rapunzel? The one with the long hair? What's she got to do with Bob?" Guards:" He's trapped up there. Rapunzel pulled him up." Me:" Do you not have a ladder? Isn't there one lying about since the last storming?" Guards:"Storming of this castle is prohibited. The local union frowns upon such unnecessary action. Basically, we stand here, look stern and deny entry." Me:"This doesn't make any sense." Guards:"We're just extras in your dream. We don't know what to tell you. Maybe you meant to visit another castle?" Me:"That could be a possibility. My vehicle needs a new windshield. Before I fell asleep I was leafing through the yellow pages of the phone book. I believe there's a Castle Auto Glass. That doesn't explain the bats though. Guards:" Don't make us say it lady. Your dream, your crazy thoughts. Come on, you know. Bats in the belfry?" |
| PROMPT November 8th What would you have to start doing now so that in 10 years you feel like you just had the best decade of your life? Is this a self-reflection exercise? What do I see myself doing in ten years? Should I adopt some healthier habits? Should I contemplate a makeover? First of all, I have no preconceived expectation that the next decade of my life will come to pass, or that it might prove to be the best time of my life. Like anything involving the day-to-day nothing is for certain. If I give up partaking of all items baked such as cakes, cookies, and muffins what will I have achieved? Will I have shed weight? To what end? Do I really wish to be an image-obsessed senior citizen pining to regain her youthful figure? I am no longer a shadow of my former self. Neither am I morbidly obese . Sure I cannot hope to participate in a marathon and remain unscathed, but then I never did, nor did I ever wish to do so. I have never had a burning desire to scale a mountain, or throw myself from a tall structure. I am blessedly healthy. My diet has not harmed me and my size/build has not been a burden. Why would I alter this? This then will not be a pursuit pour moi. I have no complaints re the other decades of my life thus far. Over the years, I've enjoyed many a highlight. I've earned every wrinkle, laugh line and grey hair and they were inevitable anyway. During the close to two decades my offspring and I co-habited I weathered once in a lifetime events, triumphs, milestones, etc. They had a place in my life and they can never be repeated. For the immediate past twenty years, I experienced getting to know my kids as adults and liking their company. We've travelled together. We've welcomed new members to our family. I've become Nanna to three splendid grandgiggles and nothing whatsoever can surpass that. To survive another decade I need to relax and savour all the moments. I need to be present where the action happens. I need to breathe. All of my decades have been the best. |
| PROMPT November 7th Today's prompt is taken from a book I own. "Great Quotes From Great Leaders", published by Motorola, my employer. This one is from Norman Vincent Peale. "The trouble with most of us, is that we would rather be ruined by praise than saved by criticism." Do you feel this is a valid statement? Tell us why you feel the way you do. Is this a spare the rod spoil the child philosophy? Are children coddled and then likewise their adult selves? Like all statements, quotes, declarations this is shared as a broad perception. Of course, it cannot and does not apply to everyone at all times and in all circumstances. Nothing is that black and white. Children and child-rearing are complicated. People are nothing if not complex. Ol' Peale assumes we will fall apart and fail without praise. He assumes all of us care what others think. He assumes we never make a decision, a choice without outside approval. We cannot succeed, or be satisfied without a nod, or a pat on the back. I'd be willing to admit that sometimes a little praise boosts my ego, but that ego is not so fragile and easily bruised that I fail to function without it. I am self-aware enough to know if I did, or did not harness all my skills and exert all of my effort in the pursuit of a goal. I don't want false flattery. I accepted long ago that I am not and never will be an expert of everything. As a kid, I participated in team sports, but I never dreamed of being a star. I did it for the fun and camaraderie. I never expected to receive an M.V.P. trophy, or quit playing because it was denied me. I was not rewarded with a participation trophy either. I made an effort and that's all my coaches and team mates wanted from me. My mother on the other hand lamented that a klutz such as myself should not be running around all willy-nilly just asking to be injured. I suppose this could be interpreted as a type of criticism. It certainly was a negative position, but I brushed it off. I simply wanted to be one of the kids who did not worry about their uncooperative knees. Mom never praised me for this decision. She'd sigh, purse her lips and bandage me when I returned home. My three children enjoyed competing in team sports and it was their choice. They did not always win medals, or trophies, yet at times they did. They never pitched a fit and refused to continue if their efforts were not acknowledged, or rewarded. They understood the reality that one team wins and one team loses. No one wins all the time. They were encouraged to try again and not throw in the towel. Criticism is a harsh word. Too much of it could be detrimental. Who wishes to be nitpicked, demeaned, corrected constantly? Do not most people respond more favourably to constructive reinforcement? A thanks for your contribution is better received than a rebuke. What happened to hearing it's okay to fall, everyone does, get up and try again. Granted too much praise isn't ideal either. It can be empty and insubstantial. Lack of effort may be rewarded. The it's -good -enough philosophy doesn't encourage anyone to better themselves. Why praise mediocrity? ( This is where I'll insert a rant, a pet peeve if you will. Children are being taught English in a far cry from the methods I learned. Phonetics is considered outdated, passe. No need to learn what letter combinations create which sounds and thus learn to sound out words. Okay, some of this involves memorization, too. Now children are taught to take a stab at the word by looking at the first two, or three letters. Do you know how many words in the English language begin with the same two, or three letter combo? Today's students are also taught to express themselves without the preconceived ideals of grammar and spelling. They just need to get across the 'gist' of what they're attempting to write. So, misunderstandings and confusion are accepted? 'Close enough' is the motto. Are kids supposed to somehow grasp the finer points of grammar and spelling later? Yes, English is complicated and any rules that exist are constantly broken, but to write and be understood the basics still must be followed. A few of the local teachers that have taught my grandgiggles have no grasp of English, but they 'teach.' ACK!) Of course there will always be exceptions. Circumstances such as intelligence and mental health play a key role. My autistic cousin who lacks an awareness of social graces and empathy demands attention from his parents. Woe betide them if he perceives a slight, or believes he is due rewards. If he senses criticism, he shuts down and refuses to engage, listen , learn. He on the other hand is free to find and express fault. Is this a learned behaviour? Did his parents overdo the praise masking it as encouragement when he was a child? Is this his autism, inexplicable and uncomprehending? |
| PROMPT November 6th You work alone from home, logged on to your work PC. One day you log on, and start your routine. You look at the clock on your desktop and eight hours have passed, but you have no memory of getting any tasks done. Tell us what might have happened to you during those eight hours. Is this an episode from The Twilight Zone, or did little green men whisk me away in broad daylight for some sort of convention of body-snatchers? Did they need a 'fresh' victim sample to parade around? Were they hoping to impress their colleagues? I'm no prize to hold up for scrutiny. "With this exhibit we present to you a semi-recluse often alone with her own company for days at a time. Notice the paler than pale complexion, the blood-shot eyes, and the dark under eye circles. We believe she sustains herself on a steady diet of cookies and copious cups of tea. We discovered her dwelling amongst the largest, fuzziest dust bunnies we have ever laid eyes on. It's as if she ignored their existence. To our disappointment she failed to struggle. Is she that desperate for a close encounter? All we could understand from her mumbling is that she just wants to get out of the house." Naw, this is not a likely scenario at all. Come on, it's too far fetched. It's much more of a possibility that I blacked out from a binge of some kind. Cookies have never affected me in such a drastic manner before though and my tea is only spiked with a dribble of milk. I've heard of sugar spikes , but not sugar amnesia. Okay, that's another theory put to bed. That's it. Perhaps I wandered off to bed and enjoyed a good, long, extended daytime nap. I have no recollection of doing this, but the completely-relax-and-forget-everything-naps are without a doubt the most restorative, or so I've been told. I've never experienced such a rest break, but a girl can dream, right? Just to test this I checked my bed and alas it does not bear so much as a wrinkle. Nothing happened in, or on it. No muss, or fuss occurred. I do admit to indulging in a spot of daydreaming now and again. You know how it is, one random thought floats into another and then meanders into a second one which bounces off a third and so on. The entire chain reaction process effortlessly chews up time. But for a continuous eight hours? Within that time frame I'm certain I'd assuage a craving ,or two for some sort of sustenance. All that rambling burns calories. I'm also certain at least one of the extended family would've contacted me with a request, a fresh pic ,a frantic medical consult, an amusing meme, a burning question re their childhood, a memory confirmation, or an invigorating natter. No mother on earth has ever managed such a ginormous block of uninterrupted time to herself. If by some miracle, or mystical realigning of the stars this had ever materialized, the rare event would've been met with outright skepticism. It boggles the mind. This is the stuff of wishful thinking, fantasy. Did I trip and tumble down a deep dark hole like Alice? Again, I fail to see this. Oh, I have tripped and stumbled. I misstep and stagger on a regular basis. Despite residing in this same home for years I continue to injure myself upon / against the unchanged furniture, the walls, the doors and the sneaky nooks and crannies. Familiarity breeds accidents. Not that I've consciously made it my mission to discover and experience every conceivable means to fracturing toes, but I've tumbled upon a surprising variety of ways to do so. Also I have yet to find an actual hole in my abode. Could I have fallen and struck my head rendering me unconscious for eight whole hours? Did I slide unbidden into an abyss of darkness? While unawares did I fail to record anything in my environment? I poked and prodded my skull. No new lumps, lacerations, or bruises are apparent. My ears are not ringing nor is my head pounding. None of the furniture is freshly marred, or dented. The dust bunnies have not scattered. I should think a great jarring thud would disturb them. I am stumped. The only activity that causes me to lose blocks of time is reading. I've always been grateful that breathing is a reflex. While immersed in a book everything else falls away. The story becomes my focus. Usually, I finish a novel in two hours. But being so absorbed, so lost in a book for eight straight hours? Without my undivided attention for that exorbitant amount of time the earth would spin off its axis. Has anyone witnessed what three unsupervised, exuberant children can unleash in eight minutes let alone eight hours? |
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