%%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. |
| June 23rd, 2020. June is the month of my birth and as such it's always held a special place in my heart. One year, okay, I must confess thirty-eight years ago, my son joined me as a June baby. I'm certain he's forever grateful that I did not hamper him with the moniker of June, but it's the least I could do for someone who is also a fellow Gemini. We both are eternally elated not to be known as 'the Junes.' I don't however believe either one of us realized the many unique holidays that transpire this special month. Thanks to Google, I can now declare that I am officially enlightened. As a cookie connoisseur, Chris appreciates a day set aside to celebrate the peanut butter variety, a personal favourite. This auspicious day also coincides with National Flip Flop Day. I myself am rather fond of this footwear and I choose to set forth in them each and every day until the inevitable snow arrives. June 12th marked both of these occasions. This is brilliant really because if perchance one were to over-indulge in those p.b. cookies, flip flops could still be forced over fattened feet. On the first of this month, some people perhaps the Evel Knievels of the world, celebrated Dare Day and Flip A Coin Day. Is this a common practice for daredevils? On the toss of this quarter, I dare you to risk life and limb. The first has always been my birthday and the most I do is dare to age and celebrate being another year older. June third is World Bicycle Day and this reminds me of a long-standing bet my son and I share. Well, technically it could be construed as a dare. He has known me as the klutzy, accident-prone parent and he has never ever witnessed me riding a bike. Well, he believes I do not know how to propel a bicycle and hence our bet. My glorious vindication has been delayed by a series of knee surgeries, but I shall amaze him one day. It's a proven fact, isn't it? Why would 'everyone' say it's like riding a bike if it wasn't unforgettable? I think I have muscle memory... I confess that I did not properly embrace June eighteenth and recognize International Panic Day and National Splurge Day. Just how does one celebrate panic? Should I have dialled 9-1-1? Should I have run screaming through the streets? I have experienced panic, but not on this particular, specific date. I comprehend a splurge. It's a treat for just because days. I can rationalize any purchase as being a splurge meant to make me feel better. I usually avoid credit card debt, but hey, too much of that could cause panic. Now, June nineteenth is my kind of intriguing celebration. It is the day to commemorate kissing, road trips AND sauntering, as if. All three are more than doable and possible and memorable. Who doesn't appreciate a great saunter especially one that entails smooching. Personally, my gait is most often a stumble, but I can rustle up a walk with an attitude of nonchalance. For this road trip, I'd forgo a vehicle and hoof it. You never know. The strangers I meet might be up for a heartfelt kiss. I can travel without an agenda or a map. This could be a second day of splurging, too. There's no need to panic though. If my kiss is refused, I shall just saunter on my merry way. The next day is meant for those who raise their voices, you know outdoor voices, and those who prefer to throw their objects around. Yep, June twentieth is National Hollerin' Day and World Juggler's Day. Yesterday might have provoked a wee bit of hollerin'. As a mother of three, I know all about juggling. There never could be time for finesse or grace. I managed several figurative balls up in the air and I defaulted to a fair bit of yelling, too. Hollerin' is a coping mechanism, a warning, a venting of frustration, and more. Now, if I caught my three juggling, oh say knives, there'd have been loud, loud hollerin'! Huh, June twenty-seventh is National Onion Day and Sunglasses Day. I subscribe to both. I do eat onions, but I never peel and chop them while wearing my sunglasses. This poor vegetable is often maligned. I deserves recognition and understanding. How should I celebrate my faithful sunglasses? Perhaps I will spoil them with a long overdue polishing. If it's not squintingly sunny that day, I could assign them a day from duty. I suppose I could also try to place them in their protective case more, too. All of these spectacular days bring me to June twenty-ninth, Camera Day, Hug Holiday, and International Mud Day. Two summers ago, my family unwittingly celebrated these days, all three of them at a Mudder's Mud Run. I acted as the 'mamarazzi' snapping a plethora of photos as my two daughters and my daughter-in-law competed in an obstacle course marathon. They rolled and stumbled through lots of mud and they hugged each other in victory. I can appreciate a special day simply set aside for hugging. There's nothing quite as satisfying or loving. My cell phone camera is always with me ready to capture any and all moments. Happy June! It's a month not to be missed. |
| June 21st, 2020. Today is Father's Day in Canada. Hooray! Yippee! This selfless parent deserves a special day to himself. My Dad left this earth a year ago and I miss him. I still regret that his mailed birthday card had been delayed and he died before knowing that I hadn't forgotten him. We kids never gifted our father with ties or fancy clothing. This is not to say that he never wore a suit and tie. He could and did dress up and clean up for special occasions. I always remember he matched his tie to his socks, so a coral tie had a brother pair of socks. I adopted this fashion tip and attempt to colour coordinate my own socks and shirts. Most of the time, he chose to be casual. He preferred to be barefoot and shirtless. At the garage where he toiled as a diesel mechanic, Dad wore what we referred to as work clothes, simple right? I don't believe he ever mastered oil or grease avoidance. In a pocket a raggedy rag lay crumpled and waiting. It didn't always wipe his hands. I called him Father B. No reason, I just did. This man loved to cook. Spoons were rarely necessary. Those black-stained hands were never shy or ashamed. They tackled mixing and measuring, peeling and chopping , shaping and patting. Dad seemed to have a fondness for onions and they regularly appeared in all his masterpieces. To his daughters, he promised they would put hair on our chests. He swore onions would be good for us and I must admit they have yet to do me harm. As promised, the various spices cleared out our sinuses. To this day, head colds avoid me. Perhaps my nasal passages are burn scarred? When I choose to replicate one of my father's dishes, I imitate his disregard for measurement. This does require me to compromise though because his pinch or a handful dwarfs my own. My three hand scoops equal his one? Confession time, I dislike sticky hands, so I employ spoons for stirring. Sorry, Father B. Oh, how I can still smell the savoury smoke wafting from his pipe. That type of smoking appeared civilized and harmless. The various tobaccos perfumed the air. I'd sit and watch him prepare his pipe with a practised ritual. First, he'd clench his pipe between his teeth and consider something for a few seconds. Then he'd knock the contents from the bowl and if they proved stubborn, he'd flick open his pen knife and chisel out the spent tobacco. Selecting a pouch, Dad would shake its contents before he pulled out fingerful tuffs that he stuffed into the pipe's waiting bowl. Tamping it down tight, he'd strike a wooden match and hold the flame to the tip of the tobacco stash, puffing through the stem. Often, this important step needed to be repeated as he huffed and puffed to encourage burning. I can picture him with that pipe clenched between his teeth, aromatic smoke curling up 'round his head, while he lost himself in a book. Yes, Father B. set a wonderful example for me. He taught me that reading is the ultimate escape and enjoyment. All it demands is a bit of time and undivided attention. Reading adapts to any and all environments. Sigh, today is also National Selfie Day. No, Father B., never acquired this practice/hobby/addiction/habit. He'd adapted to all things computer and played with his to send e-mails and such, but he'd never had the urge to snap a photo of himself. A year before he passed, Dad purchased his first and only cell phone. He never had any intention to use it as a mobile phone for communication purposes. He wanted the camera features. His initial attempts to capture our faces frustrated him. According to him, the pictures disappeared never to be seen again. He did not understand that the cell phone automatically stored his photos in a file, a file he knew nothing about. Ah, it became his learning curve. He had to admit that the photos possessed a far superior quality than those from the 'old days' of point and shoot cameras with attached flash bulbs. In an instant, he could see for himself if a picture could be deemed worth saving or sharing. I cannot imagine Father B. posing under the hood of an immense transport truck for the purpose of a selfie. If he had attempted a selfie, that pipe would have stolen the spotlight. Now selfies of him cooking would've been fun. He claimed that the cutting of onions did not make him cry, but a selfie would've been the ultimate proof. Happy Father's Day Father B.! We shared eighty-one of them. |
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