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 |    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 May 20th If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you choose? So, basically this prompt assumes I may lose some, if not all my marbles if I live to proclaim I am four score and ten. Also, the prevailing assumption is that a ninety-year old's body has perhaps exceeded its best-before-date. There's plenty of time between thirty and ninety to wreak havoc and mayhem. Sixty additional years of memory both muscle and cognitive. I believe I'm going to require a bigger brain and a new memory chip. I'll take the mind of a thirty-year old please. My knees were already protesting and refusing to cooperate when I celebrated our thirty year partnership. They never had any intention of carrying me for another sixty years anyway. If they must accompany me into the extended future, they'd be perfectly happy tucked up in a wheelchair, or scooter. Oh, right, they'd prefer an electric scooter with a parasol, they're partial to a green one, and a jaunty red flag, er, no, a banner. They don't care one way or another if a new, younger, guaranteed- to -function -as- an-always-youthful brain moves in and attempts to boss them around. They never obeyed the original brain either. I need this thirty-year old brain because I expect it will be malleable. I have plans to train it, exercise it, and well, yes, exploit it. By that tender age, it should not have been exposed to so many bad habits that it refuses to consider alternative solutions. I expect to witness some initial balking, but the added elasticity and flexibility will mould supple improved pathways. Like a fine-tuned motor, the neurons will fire on all cylinders. In sixty years, this brain will cover a lot of ground. I anticipate an engaging travel companion even if we don't always move in the physical sense. Meh, I can't fathom a thirty-year old body paired with a ninety-year old brain. The cerebral self would be craving constant power naps while the skeletal/muscular frame would be raring to go, anywhere, anytime. The joy and pride of a perfectly executed ski run would be lost. Why bother with a marathon? A tired brain may not comprehend or appreciate physical prowess. The youthful body could atrophy. What a waste. With advanced age comes the very real chance of confusion and memory loss. Where am I? What was I doing? Why am I doing this? My forever thirty brain will never tire of exploring and attempting new skills. In that sixty year span, I can and will manage the physical deterioration of my vessel/body. It will prove true that saying 'mind over matter.' I won't mind a glitch here and there because I will troubleshoot a solution. My rebellious knees will be surprised. During a sixty-year long stretch the thirty-year old brain will persevere. It will possess the certainty, the infallibility of youth. Shirking will not be tolerated. Stubborn will meet resolute. I'm looking forward to this. I'm not keen to be seen in a scooter even if the parasol is my favourite colour. |
| May 19th Prompt:One year left to live. Would you change anything? What would you change and why? So, this is happening. My time is up? I'm not being renewed for another season? Huh, this is unexpected and disappointing. Three-hundred and sixty-five days do not seem like much. Well, the first decision I would make involves food and the enjoyment of all things food. It's said that you can't take some things with you, but I want to take my current body as is, current weight and all. Why fret about calories, or diet, or exercise more? There is no tomorrow for a sleeker, more flexible, stronger me. Cookies, cakes, pastas, whatever, I shall enjoy them.I will taste and savour more cuisine. |
| May 18th Prompt: What chore do you most dislike doing? Tell us a creative story about how you might get out of doing it. Grumble, groan, shrug. I dislike cleaning the oven. I once owned, or so I thought, a self-cleaning gas oven. I set the onboard controls to clean and walked away. The unmistakable odour of imminent destruction lured me back to discover a glowing, red hot appliance, locked door and all. That experiment destroyed the oven's element. My current electric oven is toiling under a thick blanket of gunk. If I recall the worst culprit correctly, a double chocolate cake batter erupted in there like Mount Vesuvius. Oh, the dark roiling waves oozed everywhere. I dealt with it by sprinkling salt in the molten mess. Now a greasy charcoal armour encases the oven floor. I reckon the only solution is to find an oven-cleaning afficionado who will respond favourably to my baking inducements. Yes, I am forced to resort to bribery. First, I will need to ensure that the windows are open during a stiff breeze. Then I will strategically place a platter of freshly-created chocolate chip cookies next to that opening. Someone will take the bait and follow the enticement wafting around them.Once trapped, er, sufficiently lured, I will lament the sad state of my overworked oven. Imagine the quality, the flavour of future cookies from a clean oven. If you crave more treats, complete this one worthwhile task. Of course it goes without saying, but I will endeavour not to re-gunk the oven. So, who wants some delectable cookies? |
May 18th Prompt:Fictional road trip with fellow 30 DBC bloggers? There's nothing like a road trip to open one's eyes and clear the ol' cob webs from the self-quarantine stilted faculties. Fresh air and scenery will revitalize us. A few smooth beverages will mellow us. I propose a cross -country excursion by motor coach with California as our destination. Let's hit the road SB Musing  Sumojo  Kåre Enga in Montana  Cheddah  QPdoll  Toffeeman1957 ! On board we'll put our collective feet up and sing ol' camp songs at the top of our lungs, off key, raucously, off colour.We shall imbibe copious amounts of adult beverages. Not that we need this liquid courage, but our tongues will be loosened. I for one have never visited California. Hollywood doesn't pique my curiosity. Are you ready to meander through a vineyard? I will arrange for SB Musing to be ferried about the grounds via wheelbarrow. No cane and stumbling for you! Perhaps we could all visit the vines in a horse-drawn carriage. I suppose we'd be too intoxicated and giddy to safely traverse the grape grounds on foot. Why don't we shuck our foot wear and dip our toes into a grape vat? How difficult can it be to stomp grapes? Will it feel like mud? I 'm not certain we need to be sober for this. We've all tasted and enjoyed things made with our hands, but with our feet? Let's get down and dirty. As writers, we write squelch, squish,splort, squirt, and more. Let's feel these descriptors. Our recovery day shall be spent relaxing on a beach under voluminous umbrellas. From behind our dark shades, we shall people watch undetected. We can always use what we witness as fodder for future musings. |
| May 16th Prompt: Do you believe in ghosts or other supernatural entities? My short answer is no. I've never met a ghost. I will admit there are times when I swear an invisible being , an obnoxious being, has shoved or tripped me just to witness my tumble. When items turn up in inexplicable places, I wonder why I did not hear or see anything. I know with unswerving certainty that I did not drop the t.v. remote in the fridge. Why anyone would hide my cup of tea in the pantry is a mystery. No haunting noises emanate from my home although I hear the occasional groan or shriek.. Sigh, my knees frighten me. |
| May 15th prompt: Writè about a time when you or someone you know acted selflessly. What was the motivation and what were the results? My hubby has the habit of scouring the roadside as he drives. Over the years and kilometres, he's spotted many an accident. He's rescued stranded travellers from simple engine stalls, crashes, injuries, and miscalculations re fuel supply. During a family trip down a dirt backroad that caused our kids to squeal with glee as their stomachs seemed to drop to their feet, Paul braked suddenly and threw our car into reverse. Of course, we questioned why. As he pulled into a u-turn and stopped opposite a long curving driveway , we saw the reason. Off amongst the trees, a large station wagon type vehicle rested about a hundred metres from the road. He warned us to stay put and he fought his way through the thick underbrush. Paul discovered a shaking woman at the wheel and two teenaged girls in the backseat. He shouted his intentions to force the doors open, but first he had to manhandle a few tree stumps away from the body of the wagon. I must mention that my hubby owned a car restoration business and knew his cars. He immediately recognized that this particular model's windows opened electrically and the car's engine wasn't running. The people were trapped unable to escape via those closed windows, or the locked and blocked doors. He freed them and helped them to our car. One of the poor girls had a wire dental halo encircling her head and it cut into her cheeks and mouth after her face striking the back of a seat. When the sobbing eased, the still breathless driver pointed at the driveway and dropped a bomb. It was her home up that hill. Her husband was up there oblivious to this accident. She and the girls were expected to be shopping in the nearby city for hours. This happened in pre cell phone times so she could not call for help. I cannot fathom being trapped in my sedan within sight of my own driveway. Eagle-eyed Paul had spied them.As I mentioned, this is just one of his many rescues. |
| PROMPT May 14th What was the best/worst letter or email you ever received or wrote? Write about the situation surrounding that letter, and why it was so significant. This is a lovely memory from the year 2012. Sigh, yes, I realize that's eight years ago... already! My grandgiggles Sydney and Emily would be in my company every day before and after school. One morning, someone tidied my bed,tucked in the sheets and straightened the duvet. I pretended not to know who did it and remarked that it must have been a visit from a bed-making fairy. Both girls nodded their heads and tee-heed. From this a letter-writing exchange began. The next morning, I placed a printed letter atop my newly-made bed and directed the ten-year old and five-year old to read it. Here is what I initially wrote. Dear Bed-Making Fairy, First, I'd like to say thank you for making my bed. This is very nice of you. May I ask you some questions? Okay? Are you a he or a she? Are you big or little? How old are you? I'll wait for your answers. Sandy-with-the-tidy-bed Sydney and her sister, aka the bed-making fairies, replied that they were two sisters, Rosey and Lola. In their letter, also placed atop my bed, they described living in a tree house with a family of fairies.They claimed they attended a fairy school. And so it continued. Every morning, we exchanged letters and grew to know each other very well. Hi Rosey and Lola! You do a great job of making my bed, thank you so much! You live in a tree? Even in the winter? How do you stay warm? Do you wear a coat, a hat, boots and mittens? Do you snuggle with the other fairies? Soon many trees will lose their leaves. Love, Sandy I laughed when I read that 'my' two little fairies attended a bed-making school. They explained that they had wings and flew up into their tree. My hopes that their tree had an elevator only made the girls giggle. They answered that yes, they slept in beds and had to tidy their own beds, too. I asked if they had bosses, or if they did this because they were nice and wanted to help me. They assured me other people had bed-making fairies, too. Dear Rosey and Lola, Brrr-it's getting chilly. Are you wearing socks yet? (I'm not!) Does your roof leak? (I hope not. It sure has rained a lot!) Do you have umbrellas, or do you like to get wet? Can you fly when your wings are wet? What do you do on rainy days? Do you read a book, or watch a movie? "Dear Sandy, we are the bed making fairys me and my sister. we picked you because you are kind. we are princess to the Bed making kingdom." I learned that the fairies liked to eat what I ate, cookies and muffins. While we were at the local fall fair, the fairies were there too. I didn't see them in the parade because they were too small to be seen. "Dear sandy we are good not harmful. we are good people. Lola is 7 turning 8. Rose is 15 turning 16."I had not known that fairies flew as far as they could and then they boarded planes, fairy planes. They had relatives in Florida. One morning, a letter informed me that new bed-making fairies would be coming to help me. Dear Alex and Max, welcome to my home. Thanks for tidying up my messy bed. This continued for months to my delight. It ended though as all fun stories do with this cryptic letter. "Once upon a time...there was fairies and they was bed fairies and they was nice and they never came back. Then their mom was sad because they thought they would get lost in the woods. From Bed fairies" And just as suddenly as they had appeared, my bed-making fairies vanished. No more letters waited on my bed with answers to my many questions. I wonder if they are still making beds, or have they moved on to other pursuits? I never did discover which tree they lived in. |
| PROMPT May 13th Writing Sprint! Set a timer for 10 minutes and write without stopping about whatever comes to your mind. I challenge you to deny your urge to edit yourself as you write. If you must, you’re allowed to edit, but only after you finish your ten minute sprint. Ready? Set. GO! My brain is asking if this is some kind of test 'cause it hasn't studied and I'm urging it to just go blank and let the creativity flow. There is hesitation, perhaps downright balking. The refusal is adamant, there will be no 'blanking.' I'm cajoling and pointing out this is a ten-minute exercise, just ten measly minutes. How much time has been wasted now? My thoughts are many and jumbled, but the fretting ones are foremost. My youngest had an emergency ultrasound this morning and she sent me a screen shot of the images. This is unheard of to receive a diagnostic test two days after a phone consultation. Huh, no real doctor's visits at the moment thanks to Covid-19. I don't know how to interpret ultrasound images. I'm pretty sure there wasn't a chapter in the Mom handbook that dealt with this. I did a quick Google search though and I did not share my unsubstantiated findings with Danielle. According to the 'wise' site of all things questioned, dark areas on a breast ultrasound image indicate a cyst, or a tumour. Now we both worry as we wait for some kind of results. Both of her grandmothers were diagnosed with breast cancer. A few periphery female relatives also knew this type of cancer. The ultimate goal is peace of mind. Is this the big C, or not? Danielle needs an answer. In the meantime, she messages me with more questions and at least most of those I can address. For now we buoy our spirits with the daily dose of cuteness, pics of fifteen-month old Alexandra. Do I stop typing and put both hands in the air when the ten minutes is up? Whoa, another message has arrived...I hear the... |
| PROMPT May 12th Write about a fork in the road in your life, and how you made the decision to go the direction you did. What would have happened if you chose the other path? I don't recall a neon sign flashing 'over here, turn right here, yes, you, get off the road, this is the path for you, trust me.' That would have saved me a great deal of pain and grief after colliding with cars while cycling, not once but twice. Where did this directional sign hide because I've never noticed it. Granted, I tend to live in forested areas, but still... I'm not sure that I ever wandered off the path. Oh sure, my life has had me stumbling, slipping and sliding, scrabbling and what have you. It's not always been a level roadway easily traversed without pot holes and loose gravel. Sometimes, I've careened around tight blind corners and dropped down steep hills with my stomach flip-flopping and my breath suspended. My life has been a ride and I've never mapped it out. I have no regrets and I don't sneak a peek over my shoulder in the rear view mirror. Okay, I reminisce, but I do not rue what might have been. I am happy with what has been, what is and what will be. Could my journey have been different? Sure, but it is what it is. Each road explored led me to other roads. I've turned left. I've followed the ramblings of a river. I've stopped to admire the scenery. I've travelled solo and with companions. All of it led to where I am now. I have no idea where I might have been. |
| PROMPT May 11th Look at a picture from your younger years. You don’t have to share the photo with us, but try to describe it in as much detail as possible. What led up to the photo being taken and what happened after? First, I must set the tone, the mood, the background of photos from my youth. Digital pics were a concept of the future. I grew up posing in front of a camera loaded with film. Sometimes, a flash would be used and most of the time not used. Some flashes were cubes slotted into the top of a handheld camera and they were good for only four shots. No one could know the quality of those pics until they returned from a developer's printed on paper. There were no re-takes, or deletions. If your head had been chopped off, or the photographer's hand shook, or you looked away for a brief moment, or you sneezed, or anything that could happen did happen, that photo would be revealed later. So, basically the quality could not be guaranteed. Moments were lost never to be recaptured. The cameras I recall were inexpensive. Snap and shoot, and hope for the best. I've always disliked posing for photos. The fussing and arranging annoy me. Hissed admonitions from my childhood to stand still, don't you dare move, stop fidgeting, smile, would it kill you, and for god's sake do not blink still haunt me. In my head, I'd be screaming, "Take the damn shot already!" I see the results;me pouting, me with my eyes clenched tight, me squinting, or my favourite recourse, me 'making a face.' I figured if I was going to ruin a picture I might as well make it funny. The absolute worse environment for me is an outdoors' shot. Bright sunlight almost blinds me. My eyes are sensitive to light and my sunglasses are always perched on my nose. Everyone warns me not to blink, but an assault from a flash triggers my squint reflex. Apparently, photos should be undertaken sans protective eye wear. It is agony to pose and try to repress a blink, or a squint. Despite my best efforts and my outright sabotage, my brother-in-law scoffs that I 'can take a good picture.' In his estimation 'yous Brownlees'look terrible in photos. He lumps my youngest sister in with me. We laugh it off. He attempts to rile us with claims that he's the beauty in family portraits and she obviously married him for his good looks 'cause she can't help but appear better standing next to him. He also laments that there will never be a great pic of us. I just tell him good luck finding photos of me to create a slide show for my funeral. My youngest plans to marry in August and she began warning me months ago about the photos. "You will smile won't you Mom? Can you practise before the wedding?" In my possession is a shot of me after my mother insisted on torturing me with a home perm. I do not recall all the details of that harrowing experience and I suspect the memory block shields me from knowledge of being bound. I was five years old, but I cannot fathom I willingly sat still while this hair assault occurred. I have never tolerated anyone touching, or playing with my hair. It is long, thick and straight. I've seen my newborn pics and I seem to be encased in a wig, that's how much hair I've always had. My hair does not curl, nor has it ever voluntarily supported a curl, not even a wave. Curling irons, rollers, whatever, they cannot force my hair into a curl. My mother though decided her eldest child, about to begin kindergarten, needed a makeover. So, in this photo my considerable hair is piled atop my head and I seem to be sprouting a rather large Brillo pad. I suspect I had the world's first Afro, the very first sandy blonde Afro. My five-year old frame is dwarfed by all that hair spread out in a powder puff formation. I am not smiling, nor am I frowning. I think I appear dazed. A scowl seems to be forming and I am not staring directly at the photographer. I'm wearing a turquoise blue floral jacket over a white shirt and a wee white mini skirt. Blindingly white socks are pulled up to my knobby knees. My legs are little, thin sticks. I believe I'd been cajoled into trying on a new school outfit. To say I don't look impressed would be accurate. Mom admitted that perm lasted maybe a week. My true hair pushed out the chemically-induced curls to swing in its preferred long, straight length. What had she been thinking? What's so great about curly hair? Mom never messed with my mane again. It was mine to brush and wear long and free. Occasionally, one parent would wrestle with it to form pony tails, but I didn't like the fuss. I liked to run with my hair streaming behind me. In some pics, my twin pony tails are not aligned and I believe those are the days my father fussed with my hair. One tail is perched high on my head and the other begins in the vicinity of an ear. The main thing, or is that 'mane' thing, is that I survived my childhood relatively unscathed. I will now admit that no, it did not kill me to smile for photos. |
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