%%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. |
| DAY 2779 June 26, 2020 Remember those long summer afternoons sitting outside with Sun In in your hair? Tell about your best (or worst!) hair moments. No, I never applied that Sun In gunk to my hair. It has always shimmered with natural blonde highlights, although when I could claim to be young some referred to my hair colour as 'dirty blonde.' As if. Oh, I hated that description! I took great pride in my flowing tresses and I've never used so much as any styling products such as hairspray or gels. I hail from a family of true blondes and my hair is light brownish, I suppose. I also hail from a family of pale-skins. We are most definitely white skinned, fair-skinned, pale, ghostly even. As such, our delicate skin tends to burn. In my foolish youth, I spent far too much time outside in the summer exposed to the full effects of the blazing sun without sunscreen protection. I confess I even slathered myself, a few times, with baby oil. All of this I endured in hopes of a tan. Oh, I broiled and basted myself in the pursuit of even a hint of colour. Be careful what you wish for 'cause I did sport some colour, but not anything in the brown range. I coveted a tawny, dusky, or honey hue. Ya, right. I've never liked red, yet that is what I earned sunbathing. The most apt descriptor is that of a broiled lobster. I resembled a burn victim because that's what I was. My poor skin glowed red. I could've shared some of that radiating heat to warm houses in the winter. After the first days parading around with only the taut skin surrounding my eyes remaining white and resembling 'raccoon eyes' thanks to my ever-present sunglasses, I would begin to peel. Yep, damaged skin sloughed off me and oh, did it itch. I'd admit to being a slow learner. Every summer I pursued the elusive tan. Sure, a scant few sunburns were the result of cavorting in the water when the sun reached its zenith and the deceptively refreshing water acted as a reflector / conductor. Most blessed me because I chose to languish on a beach towel willing my body to turn brown just once. What do I now have to show for all my efforts? I have freckles, lots of freckles. Too late wiser, I now avoid sun exposure. My worst hair moments in the summer? Huh, I could share a few. I've always preferred my hair to be long, well past shoulder length. That has created some memorable 'hair-raising' incidents. I recall a boat ride across a lake at dusk to access a store with ice cream. What I hadn't anticipated was my long strands whipping across my face as I struggled to lick a rapidly melting ice cream cone. I also didn't appear so together and attractive to the new boyfriend. During a car trip in a convertible, my long tresses snapped, whipped and tugged at my uncovered head. Inevitably, they were snarled into a frizzy mop that required a great deal of extreme brushing to eradicate. |
| June 25th, 2020. July Gems What’s not to like about July? For most of us Canadians, the snow is finally a memory and we can indulge in warmer weather fun. Oh, what a glorious freedom to shuck parkas and mukluks in favour of swimsuits and flip flops. July permits us to enjoy the sunshine and bare our skin. Sure, we all celebrate Canada Day on the first. Who doesn’t tear up when they see the ol’ red maple leaf billowing in the breeze? A few of us may hum a few bars of our national anthem proving it’s unforgettable. Many of us anticipate fireworks and barbecues, but not necessarily at the same time in the same location. July stirs memories of my wedding. July 22nd burned bright with a steamy, sultry stickiness, and no, I’m not writing of my honeymoon. The actual day of this most auspicious ceremony featured all that a typical summer soiree could deliver. The sun blared and glazed, or perhaps I blazed and glared. There were not enough words to convey how overheated we all felt. We dripped. We gasped. We wilted. Nary a breeze caressed us. We chose a humid day to invite friends and family to bedeck themselves in formal wear. Hairstyles drooped. Makeup melted. Perspiration stains grew. The poor parks appeared withered and desert-like. Underfoot, brown brittle stubble snapped. Flowers sagged in defeat. The background of our photos resembled a desert. At the reception hall, one and all bravely persevered with the celebrations without air conditioning. All we could do was hydrate. Many swear that inebriation proved impossible. Anyway, I’m still married and I suppose this means I can withstand heat and a bit of necessary perspiration. Yes, I know it’s said that if you can’t stand the heat stay out of the kitchen, but I believe this applies to matrimony as well. As of this July 22nd, we will have been cooking together for gasp, forty-two years. Forty-two humid July months! A few years ago, the hubby and I chose to get away for a spontaneous road trip. We aimed our vehicle towards Ottawa and enroute we decided to veer off into Quebec. We’d chosen la belle province to be our honeymoon destination, so this felt nostalgic. After a day of exploration, we required a room for the night. At the first hotel we espied, we balked at the exorbitant pricing with my partner snorting he only wanted to rent a room for one night not buy the establishment. We were forced to continue our search, but we came upon a motel. To our delight, one room stood available and we snatched it up. My usually reserved husband exited the motel’s office laughing. He swore that he’d just met Phyllis Diller’s clone, a woman with wild white hair, a plethora of facial wrinkles and a deep, throaty laugh. She even threw around the word ‘darling.’ Now, this date was July 20th, close to our anniversary. This final remaining room just so happened to be the honeymoon suite. Our hostess offered to rent it to us for the same rate as the other rooms. Was it coincidence that this honeymoon suite had the number 35 at its door and our 35th anniversary would arrive in two days? Oh, it turned out to be quite the room! A raised king-sized bed rested on an elevated platform beneath a ceiling of mirrors. At the foot of the bed sat a gas fireplace with its own remote control. Across the room, a loveseat nestled next to a tiny café table framed by a crystal chandelier. White lace and pink fuzzy material smothered all surfaces. Plastic flowers sprouted everywhere. In the bathroom, a deep jacuzzi tub dominated the space. Of course, we snapped photos of our one-night haven. It had taken thirty-five years, but we were in a honeymoon suite, tacky or not. Fast forward to July of 2020 and I’m surfing from the comfort of my computer chair. Oh, it’s bucked me off, but that’s another story. I discover that July 22nd is known as Flitch Day in Great Dunmow a market town in the Uttlesford district of Essex, England. Every four years, or if you prefer every leap year, this town holds a ritual ceremony concerning the state of matrimony. A judge, six local maidens and six local bachelors hold court. Newlywed couples appear before this unbiased panel to proclaim the state of their marriages. If they can satisfy the court that in a “twelvemonth and a day they have not wisht themselves unmarried again” they win a flitch of bacon. What is a flitch of bacon you might rightly ask? It’s a side of bacon or half a pig cut lengthwise. The successful couples are paraded along High Street and cheered. What a fun, novel and positive way to promote marriages! Not a bad deal for the groom, a blushing bride AND lots of bacon. Hmmm, could I possibly plead my case and win a flitch of bacon here in Canada? This could prove to be a wonderful trip in the future. The next leap year may find hubby and I presenting ourselves before a British court proclaiming the strength of our union to earn some bacon. I’m sure we’d uncover eggs nearby to create a giant breakfast feast. I can just picture my hubby and I flitching with the natives… |
| 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. |
| June 14th, 2020, a sunny Sunday spent reflecting... Ack! I just realized I missed yesterday's momentous holiday. How could this have happened? It's not as if I didn't know about this auspicious day. I discovered it during a random Google search for all things June related. It's mind-boggling the things I learn surfing from the comfort of my computer chair. Sigh. I can't believe I missed Sewing Machine Day. As if... How does one celebrate Sewing Machine Day? Is there a Hallmark greeting card? I do hope there's a card for belatedness. Hmmm, is that even a word? Should I have taken a sewing machine out for lunch? Could I phone a florist and order a bouquet of flowers? What flowers are associated with this? Forget-me-nots? Oh, I know. Are there flowers known as buttons? Do sewing machines like gifts? Should I purchase thread, or a new needle? Here's the thing. I do not actually share my home with a sewing machine. Am I expected to go find a suitable machine and offer to spend time with it? Are there borrowing agencies similar to a library? Could I sign one out? What would we do to pass the time? I don't speak 'sewingnese'.I'm not adept with one either. Oh, my maternal grandmother earned a living as a seamstress and she attempted to school me in all things sewing machine. I balked. I resisted. My mind blanked. I failed to learn anything useful. Over and over, Nanny showed me how to thread the machine, and over and over the thread would snap and I'd forget her patient instructions. The thread had to be passed through a doohickey and then a whatchamacallit. Somewhere, it twisted 'round a thingamabob and headed for the needle. Yes, I recognized the shiny, pointy, moving thing as a needle. Oh, and under the needle inside a port lay a bobbin. A fun word to say, yet still a mystery to me. Why did the thread insist upon breaking? And if by some miracle it stayed temporarily attached, why did the thread snarl? Ugh! Here is where I confess that I am not the least bit coordinated. Rarely have all four of my limbs cooperated as a cohesive team. To operate a sewing machine one of my feet had to control a foot pedal, the floor-placed gizmo my Nanny did not like my calling an accelerator. To describe it as finicky is an understatement. I'm certain the wee bit of pressure exerted by my baby toe caused it to rev and race. Holding my breath did not help. I never liked the sharp needle whirring up and down. I did grasp the concept of feeding cloth to the needle, but I never placed my vulnerable fingers anywhere near it. I suppose this explained the bunching and thread knots. Despite my poor efforts, my seams were never what anyone could deem straight. That sewing machine and I never developed a rapport, an understanding. I still believe it smelled my fear. Perhaps missing Sewing Machine Day is for the best. I enjoy a wonderful life free of this contraption and I do not wish for my status quo to unravel. Thanks Nanny, we know I'm no sewing machine wrangler. Carrie adopted your ol' work horse and she has stitched together a mutually beneficial partnership. Over the years, she has offered to set me up with that machine, but I refused to accept. It's thriving in its present home. Why sever their common thread? |
| f "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 2766: June 13, 2020 Please don't post a response until after the message is posted. Day 2766: June 13, 2020 Prompt: Write about your relationship with food. Ah, mmm, food! Food is intoxicating. It makes my mouth water and my stomach gurgle. There's nothing quite as pleasing and teasing than the aroma of food wafting through the air. Imagine a steak sizzling on the barbecue, or a batch of cookies baking in an oven. The initial bite of tangy citrus explodes on the tongue. Ice cream both numbs and electrifies. Yes, I enjoy a satisfying relationship with food. I'm an adventurous eater. I will and do sample anything. Once on vacation in Cuba, I astonished a vendor when I devoured a raw hot pepper that he had jokingly labelled as ' free chocolate.' I'll admit it had some zing, but my eyes never watered and I suffered no ill effects. I subscribe to the 'see food diet.' So far, the only veggie I dislike is the cucumber which is strange because I like dill pickles. Food has never turned on me. I've never known acid reflux, indigestion or heartburn. Perhaps my iron stomach is the result of conditioning. Growing up, my Dad relished his role as the family cook. He never measured ingredients and he loved to improvise/experiment. I never saw him consult a recipe. His day job had him toiling as a diesel mechanic and this stained his hands black. Dad never embraced stirring with spoons if his hands could do the mixing. Was there a transference of that motor oil? Perhaps. Food and eating figure in our language. How many times have I heard someone declare 'I'm so hungry I could eat a horse.' Who hasn't said 'I'll eat my words.' We slip in a 'chew on this' or a 'food for thought' when we speak. To engage in conversation is 'to chew the fat.' Strategizing is referred to as 'cook up a plan' or create a 'half-baked idea.' We explain our pondering and our travelling as a ' thirst or hunger for knowledge, adventure and truth.' Apparently, we are always considering food no matter what we do. I remember my Mom's edicts re home menu choices. Most likely I heard her spew these words when I balked at eating cucumbers which she loved and included in all salads. I resorted to picking them out and giving them to my siblings. This provoked her to say. "You don't like it? There are starving children in Africa. Take it or leave it. It's no skin off of my nose." Food has always been plentiful/abundant in my life. I cannot fathom never enjoying it. I am blessed with variety, too. There are plenty of veggies that taste better than yucky cucumbers. I suppose I really like baked goods and this could well be my motto. How do I like my eggs? In a cake. Actually, eggs are delicious in muffins, loaves, cookies and pies, too. This is true of many veggies, also, although I do find veggies to be delectable in their pure form as well. I must congratulate the genius who decided carrots, zucchini, potatoes, and more could be transformed/elevated into desserts. What an inspired wizardry! Never have I discovered a recipe for cucumber cookies though. Alas, these baked enticements come with something that alters my physique, calories. Calories are the ultimate buyer's remorse. They are insidious. They stick around, they cling, they refuse to budge. Oh, how can something that tastes so incredible and is but a moment on the lips metamorphose into a stubborn lifetime on the hips? Christmas time is my most tempting/alluring season. In an attempt to control my impulses, there are sweet treats I only create and inhaleer, um, sample during this holiday. I cannot resist them and I resort to dealing with my 'fondness' with words. I suppose I could say chew on this, or here's some food for thought. CHRISTMAS CALORIE REMORSE Christmas calories lay lurking all 'round the house stuffed into each nook and cranny, ready to pounce. They sweet-talked my will power, urged it to denounce the wiggle, the jiggle of my broadening bounce. Sigh. Writing about my glorious relationship with food has prompted my stomach to voice its displeasure. It feels neglected. My memory has shared that there are a plethora of homemade muffins in the freezer. The two of them are in cahoots. I must appease the rumbling. Perhaps once frozen calories are less effective? |
| I attempted to celebrate today's, June 12th's special day, I really did. It's National Flip Flop Day and like a good devotee to all wacky/holiday days, I set forth for my daily saunter along the main street in a favourite turquoise pair. Too late, my bare feet relayed their discomfort and I shivered. Is it June 12th or January 12th? Where's the heat wave of a few days ago? How can it possibly be barely double digits in the temperature department? In the Celcius range? My mukluks have been relegated to a back corner of a closet and I have not wrestled with socks lately. Did no one inform the weather bringers that it is June and I expect to be perspiring? I swear my flip flops iced up and my exposed toes curled up. A raw wind howled as it pushed me along the sidewalks and snarled my hair. Are those white caps crashing onto the deserted beach? Where are the screeching sea gulls and the waddling ducks? Most of the time these birds are competing for food scavenging in 'my' sleepy village. Not one surfed on the grey waves. As I hurried home and dreamt of thawing my feet in a pair of fluffy slippers, I realized that I'd not been swatting and waving my arms. Nothing whined about my head and nothing dive-bombed me in a swirling black cloud. Sure,I stomped my feet, but my circulation needed the kickstart. I did not stomp in a futile effort to repel blackflies. Both those pesky buggers and I prefer warm, sun-kissed flesh. This reminds me that June is also Effective Communications Month. I fear that the blackflies thumb their little noses at this. They make no attempts whatsoever to communicate in a mutually-beneficial manner. As I mentioned, they swarm. They attack without provocation. They display no politeness or consideration. I've yet to hear a please or a thank you expressed. They are takers and extremely greedy. Do they not hear my cries of no more, or enough is enough? There is no reasoning with them. Obviously, they ignore the one important aspect of effective communication. They refuse to listen. I'm certain that my actions and my words express my extreme dislike of them. Why do they interpret my flailing as an invitation? Do they understand my dousing in Deet to be a skin marinade instead of a repellent? My lighting of citronella candles is not meant to convey a party atmosphere. My brandishing of a fly-swatter is not an attempt to play and encourage vigorous return volleys. Did I mention that June is also Fight the Filthy Fly Month? No? I Googled this auspicious celebration and it's a nod to houseflies that annoy. Huh, this fits the profile of the bloodthirsty blackfly. I fight/ do battle with them more than with the dimwitted housefly. Unlike the sneaky blackfly, the housefly does not comprehend stealth mode. It buzzes around and bumbles/stumbles its way indoors where it bashes itself against a closed window or screen, over and over. Its size provides a virtual bull's-eye for eradication. Like a prize fighter, the housefly can survive more than one well-aimed blow, but eventually it surrenders. The black fly weaves and evades swatting. Now, no one specified that flip flops were to be worn today, although I did do this for a brief time. Has anyone else considered using their flip flops as a weapon? From practical application, I can verify that they make an effective fly swatter. ( I re-discovered a bit of my writing re flip flops. Someday, I must expound on this. I remember being out and about with my grandgiggle Sydney and teasing her that her wet flip flops sounded like a duck with their "quack, quack" noise when she walked. This is how I described her reaction. Sydney waved her arms and she stomped on the ground, but pink rubber flip flops don't make much sound... ) |
| Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 2758 June 5, 2020 Ray Bradbury asked, “Why the Egyptian, Arabic, Abyssinian, Choctaw? Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder go when it dies?" I've always considered weather to be emotional and reactionary. In Canada, it's definitely fickle, moody, capricious, and unpredictable. Clouds are described as being brooding and angry. Winds howl, shriek and batter. Rain pummels and slashes. Snow whips. Lightning strikes. Even the word stormy portrays harsh, punishing, mercurial conditions. Clouds float and billow. Breezes caress. Rain pitter-patters,dances, splatters. Snowflakes swirl, scamper, sparkle. Does weather also express itself with language? Again, I believe it has a body language or an emotional language. We recognise dark, co-joined, low-lying clouds to be ominous and threatening. Several white, fluffy, wispy, high-in-the-sky clouds permit sunshine to reign. We attribute our actions to the changing weather. To strike, or slash, or pummel, or caress connotates human motion. Are words spoken and understood? Who speaks cloud? Does thunder only boom and clap? Do winds whisper, or shout? Is sunshine mute? All man-made dialects reflect emotions and are used to communicate. We all experience weather no matter where we reside and we all bemoan or praise it, too. It's an integral part of our lives, inescapable. We bestow our feelings upon it in an attempt to accept it. Perhaps we empathize and personify weather. For a positive, smiling person we say they are sunny. The scowling, upset, maybe angry person is said to be stormy. People with fast reflexes may be compared as being quick as lightning. A change of mood is akin to a cloud passing over. Do we assign a storm to a country we associate with turmoil? Does rain originate in a beneficent nation? Where does snow call home? A brutal, totalitarian state? Can we assign hurricanes and tornados to areas of political unrest, or atrocities perpetrated against its citizens? Hmmm, where does thunder go when it dies? Does it die? Does it lay low to recharge? Is it always in cahoots with lightning? Are they an exclusive, mutual pair? Is its trademark boom and clap described that way in other dialects? In French, is it 'le boom' and 'le clap?' In German, it could be 'das grossboomenclappenruckus.' Perhaps thunder speaks German? It does sound guttural and harsh. Often, it is prolonged and we all know the Deutsch love their immense compound words. As always, I merely speculate... |
| : 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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