%%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. |
| : Sent to members of "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 2756 June 3, 2020 Did you know a raccoon always wears a mask, and compulsively washes his hands? What took us so long to get it right? Write about raccoons in your blog today. Maybe a funny story you've seen or an experience you've had with a raccoon. Oh, I've seen and experienced raccoons. One rather portly, scruffy specimen insisted upon wintering atop my camper at my seasonal site. Before winter, he'd methodically and deliberately knock down all the aluminum pieces protecting the roof of my trailer. Somehow, he'd haul himself up and into that sheltered space nice and cozy. He left odiferous calling cards in immense piles. In the Spring, he'd emerge bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I suspect more graceful and limber raccoons would scamper or leap to the ground. My tubby rolled himself to the roof edge and grabbed at a wooden support beam before plummeting to the grass. After tumbling a few feet, he shook off the dirt and waddled away. His neighbour, an equally chubby groundhog resided under my trailer. For the most part, he kept quiet and to himself, but once in a while he would whistle. My hubby referred to them as non-paying tenants. Many years ago, my father-in-law returned from England and purchased a used vehicle, or more accurately a land yacht. He bought the biggest full-size station wagon he could find. That poor beast suffered the indignities of barrelling along dirt roads and hairpin turns. One evening, Bob phoned to ask for our assistance. He thought he'd struck a large rock and something had broken in that car's suspension. When we arrived, we discovered the unfortunate remains of an immense raccoon under that vehicle. Bob always referred to that incident as the time he hit a 'rockoon'. One of my senior clients regaled me with the tale of feeling something crawling up her legs as she slept in a tent. When she peeked, she saw two beady black eyes staring at her nose to nose. A baby raccoon had wandered into her tent probably curious enough to explore. My client held her breath and eventually her intruder departed, but not before leaving a wet, smelly calling card. Yep, she was christened by fresh urine. I wrote the following tale about a troublesome raccoon.
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| Today is June 3rd. Lately, I've been feeling a bit deja-vu'ish. It's as if I've been here experiencing similar stuff before. I cannot shake this sense of familiarity. I know this date and it knows me. Wait a minute! It's June 3rd, two days post my birthday. Of course, I feel deja-vu. Every year, I reflect on another three-hundred and sixty-five days that join the other accumulated time and pronounce me another year older. They're quite gleeful the wee buggers, dancing around and clapping their hands. I swear several even high five each other and slap themselves on the back. They seem proud of their accomplishment. They've accompanied me into the future and they've been dogging me for a considerable time. Okay, Okay, I'll admit to 'seeing' this date before, many befores. A June 3rd is nothing new. The weather is most often a repeat of the past with fixed predictable variables. It'll either rain, the sun will shine smartly, or the sun will blaze away during a cloudburst. Today is National Repeat Day and that explains so much. Every June 3rd is recycled, repeated. Here we go again. Sunrise, sunset, day after day. I'm officially another year plus two days older. Sigh, grumble, moan, and scratch. In the spirit of repetition and familiarity, the ravenous blackflies and mosquitos have returned to pillage and plunder. Earlier in May, they were thwarted by blizzards and a Covid-19 self-isolation that kept potential victims safely indoors out of reach. Now, with more appealing temperatures, and a lessening of restrictions, Canadians are streaming outdoors with exposed, succulent skin. This is something we do each non-winter. We sacrifice ourselves. We express hope that for once the buggers have forgotten us. We've willfully buried our memories of past skirmishes. That first unmistakable, irritating, itchy welt opens the floodgates of memory and we mutter, "Here we go again." Or is it more of a shriek? "Not again!" I wonder if the blackflies and mosquitos circle a date on a calendar? All through the interminable freezing winter they shiver and count down the days to Feeding Frenzy whatever, 2020. Do they watch the weather channel for updates? Do they plan their infiltration? Do they plot and scheme the inevitable invasion? Do they pass the time getting in tip-top shape? Do they heft tiny weights in an attempt to buff up and impress other bugs of a similar persuasion? Do they pour over flow charts and graphs predicting their next yields? In their production meetings they probably discuss their modus operandi and decide if it ain't broke don't fix it. Our spring attacks are always guaranteed to be a success. It's a program with real teeth. Our tried and true formula: swarm, bite, repeat. I'm sorry, ranting and raving about annoying insects is a habit. It's a Canadian reflex repeated over and over to anyone unfortunate enough to listen. What better day to complain than National Repeat Day. Did I mention I celebrated my birthday recently? If so, I apologize. With my advancing age, my story repertoire is dwindling and my recall is selective. I really must commit a few words about the marauding buggers, eh? |
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