%%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. |
| September 4th Prompt: If the Internet disappeared tomorrow, how would you continue to share your love of food? Hmmm, another what if contemplation. As I sit and ponder I munch on a graham cracker discovered in a concealed box forgotten in the pantry. No, I did not think to check for an expiry date before I partook of a bite. I must have purchased this treat some time within the last year, or two. They taste unstale. It's an alternative to a cracker, not too salty, or too sweet. Why don't I eat these more often? I like a graham cracker even without the usual camouflage of marshmallow and chocolate, ( a s'more). Double hmmm, I am sharing this particular tidbit via the internet. How could I accomplish this earth-shattering feat without the mighty internet? This is the moment I divulge that I do not nurture a bevy of carrier pigeons basking on my roof growing rotund on a steady supply of bird seed. Really, how far could big-boned birds fly anyway on a moment's notice? I have no faith in their stamina. Oh, and don't carrier pigeons require training of some sort? Where would I have accessed such knowledge? A You Tube instructional video sourced from the internet? Not that I make this a regular practice, but if I wished to share a tantalizing pic of my food choices online and circulated amongst my Facebook compadres, what could possibly be an alternative? Facebook is somewhat immediate, isn't it? The resulting reactions are, too. Snapping and then pursuing the actual printing of a photo before I snail-mailed it to all pertinent contacts would be time-consuming. If this provoked any replies they would be received long past a time I cared. During that interval I'd have moved on to other pressing concerns and probably other foodie concerns. I suppose I could actually meet with people , right? I could host a phenomenon known as a dinner party. To that end I'd prepare a certain amount of delectables. Seeing and tasting is believing. Wait, why not share a plethora of food? Everyone could contribute their favourite dishes in the manner of a potluck meal. Now, my mouth is watering and I commiserate with Pavlov's salivating dog. The power of persuasion is strong. No matter if the Internet exists or not, this evening I plan to enjoy a raucous bbq meal with my family at our seasonal campsite. We will share ribs, laughter and non-stop conversation. A few friends may drop in, so the more the merrier. Sharing face to face will always be my preferred method. |
| September 3rd prompt: What is the hardest part of your job? Tell us how you deal with it. Job? Full disclosure. I no longer am employed gainfully, or otherwise. I have not responded to a schedule, or a timeclock, or expectations for several years now. That's not to say I am completely idle. People find projects and errands to keep me busy. Sometimes,I'm the chauffeur for medical appointments. Sometimes, I ferry items between persons, so I act as a courier. Occasionally, I am asked to be an entertainer, a teacher, a clown, a snuggler and a play buddy for my two-year old grandgiggle. The two older granddaughters seek my assistance with homework and they utilize me as a sounding board. My services are varied. For the past forty three years I've toiled as the chief chef, bottle washer, acquisitions procurer, and accounts manager in my household. Some may refer to this as juggling, but it's all necessary, no? Yes, I did once venture forth to earn a living and contribute to society. During that period in my life I visited people in their homes and assisted them / supported them to maintain their independence. Personal dignity was key. A rapport developed between me and my clients. Everyone likes to talk and share. I never failed to marvel at the tenacity and the compassion of my mainly senior clients. Not once did I loathe our interactions. I anticipated their stories and insights. What did I dislike? There was never enough time allotted to satisfy the seniors' need for socialization. All my visits were exercises in time management.Chatting was squeezed in while bathing, cooking, cleaning and more. If shopping, or other errands were deemed necessary they ate into the scheduled visit. Did I deal ? Did I cope? As I already stated, time management was critical. I multi-tasked. I deferred the least important tasks so, I prioritized. If a client lived locally, I might take care of the errands on my own time. As with too many jobs, bureaucracy could be overbearing. After each visit, I was expected to write and submit a report. I understand this requirement, but I had issues with the fact that they were seldom read. I'd mention problems and they were ignored. Ah, well, this was all water under the bridge and I survived. I do miss hearing the varied bits of living history. |
| September 2nd Prompt: Where do you see yourself five years from now? Where will I be in five years? What will I be doing? Hmmm, short answer is I dunno. At this moment, I have no plans for that far in the future. Sometimes, I am loathe to consider five minutes into the future. Of course, I would like to still be alive and kicking in five years. Ideally, I'd like to experience life as an older version of myself. Within that all too brief span I plan to continue being the me that indulges in too many delectable cookies and sips copious cups of tea.There are thousands more conversations to enjoy. Heaven forbid that I no longer engage in chin wags with those dearest to me and those I hope to encounter. I plan to continue my enthusiastic involvement with my life partner, my children and my grandgiggles.There are joint adventures yet to be undertaken. In five years I will have rearranged, reconfigured, and reaffirmed a plethora of words.I have no plans to cease writing. Oh, and did I mention the joy of reading? For my entire existence I've been an avid reader. Everyday is a grand day to devour a story. I am certain I will never be bored. Perhaps in five years time hubby and I will be touring North America in a RV meandering along roadways that beckon us to explore them. Becoming gypsies could be fun. If I set that as my future, I should utilize the next years to downsize, purge, cull a lifetime of accumulating stuff. After all, isn't it said that we can't take it with us? |
| PROMPT September 1th Well, let's get this official month started with a different sort of prompt... What room in your home do you use the most? The least? Sigh, all the rooms of my home are currently gathering and supporting dust bunnies. There may be a few musty tumbleweeds roaming at will as well. Quite possibly cob webs festoon neglected corners. Yes, the scatterbrained maid has been vacationing all summer putting her feet up and lifting nothing heavier than a paperback novel. I doubt visions of a feather duster dance in her head. I, er, um, the maid has retreated to a seasonal trailer tucked into a serene forest bordering a freshwater lake. Her favourite room has no walls whatsoever. Day after day, this weary dust warrior settles into a comfy chair and props her legs up on a cushioned ottoman. Oh, her special piece of heaven isn't entirely silent. Out on the wooden deck, the steady whisper of turning pages is accompanied by a cacophony of constant sound. In a nearby towering pine tree, an agitated red squirrel slashes his tail and chitters in a rat-a-tat fashion. From the ground, a vibrating chipmunk with disheveled fur 'harrumps' in reply. Both parties attempt to out shout the other. Flashes of blue streak across my the languishing maid's peripheral vision and foliage rustles, branches snap. Blue jays chase each other in an aerial game of tag. Echoes of chick-a-dee-dee-dee reverberate. A skittering, scrabbling startles the engrossed reader and she looks up from her novel to witness a cheeky chipmunk, its scruffy tail at attention, saunter across the deck's floor to her feet. The encounter is brief. The red squirrel scampers up the ramp with a high-pitched 'chirr' and his target skedaddles. It may well have been my her imagination, but the floorboards rumbled. Something whines and buzzes about my her head. Careful to keep at least one finger tucked into her book, the disturbed reader swooshes it through the air swatting at the determined intruder. A caressing breeze carries muted hoots and laughter from the direction of the lake. Motors grumble to full roar. Snatches of music swirl. With a sigh, I, oops, she rises to her feet, stretches, and shuffles into the humid trailer. In her least favourite room, the stuffy kitchen, she rifles through a cupboard in search of a snack. From the fridge, she retrieves a cold drink. Returning to the deck, she once again settles into her favoured reading spot. It's the waning days of August and too soon she will be forced to return home to await the return of winter. Maybe she will tackle the dust then. |
| Groan. The racket has once again awakened me at the ridiculous hour of four in the morning. What could the squawking birds be sharing the moment the sun clears the horizon ? What do they have to be chipper about? Do they ever sleep? Can't they hear their raucous, amplified voices? Punching my pillow and rolling over I wonder if an RV exists with soundproofing. My right hand fumbles at the window and reaffirms that it's closed. Where are these early birds perched? Are they directly overhead? Do they expect me to stumble from my warm bed and revel with them? I may be half asleep, but I know I did not request a wake-up call. I'm camping, I don't need an alarm. Try as I might, I have no idea what they are declaring / sharing / blaring. Great, now I'm wide awake and my brain is considering this. Hmm, what are they saying? Is it a conversation? Should I feel paranoid? Are they commenting about me? Have I offended them with my desire to sleep in at least until dawn arrives? Wait, is it dawn now? Since I clearly am alert and thinking, I begin an attempt to translate this intimate exchange I cannot avoid. I am not an eavesdropper. There are no hushed tones or efforts to move this cacophony elsewhere. Is this what they are saying? "It's returned! It's back again! Do you see it, Bill? The darkness has disappeared and the sun is glorious." "Yep, it sure has,Flip. I never tire of seeing that sun. The way it beams through the branches is breathtaking. I wouldn't miss this moment." "Got any plans for today, Bill? Where are you off to?" "Don't you ask me that same question every morning, Flip? You're nothing if not predictable. I dunno. I might check out that new bird feeder on the other side of the park. I'm curious what they have. I'm not a fan of those sunflower seeds." "I'd like to find a secluded branch and catch a quick nap. The kids kept me up all night with their chirping. I threatened to sit on them, but the wife shot me a glare. When I built that nest it seemed so roomy. Now it's crowded." "You did scout the perfect location. I envy your lake view. That branch is a sweet one for sure. Are you thinking of renovations?" "Naw, the missus will be kicking them out of the nest soon enough. I can wait it out. Have you spied any grounded, featherless, two-leggers yet?" "Not a one. The day is passing them by. They're cooped up in their shiny cocoons.It's a shame." "Well,I'm more than ready for that me time now. See you around, Bill. Oh bother, the wife is screeching. I tell you there's never a dull moment with those chicks." "See you at the next sunrise, Flip. I'll just stretch my wings now. I feel kinda peckish." Oh, wonderful. They'll be back to torture me anew tomorrow. Bill, Flip, could you please turn down the volume? I'd appreciate it. |
| Lounging in my new comfy camp chair, lamenting the humidity and avoiding any unnecessary exertion, I noticed the tag of another seat hanging limply. Since it could be said that I appeared to be idling my mind decided to follow along. I realized that I'd never read this tag. My eyes were not perspiring at that moment, so they indulged my whim. Despite being mildew stained the bit of material seemed to be intact with legible printing. Its host chair presented as tattered and weathered. The canvas sported burn scars proof that this outdoor furniture had been present at many a roaring campfire. Huh, this tag discretely dangling for numerous summers was a warning label. How had I missed this? This chair had been proffered to family and friends alike. What dangers had lurked? What precautions had I ignored? Apparently, I've been remiss in not weighing the sitters before they relax. According to the first line of the tag this chair has a maximum load capacity of 102 kilograms, or 225 pounds. I've never thought to embarrass my guests. I put their comfort, their ease, their very privacy before their safety. The second line urges a potential user to "exert care during assembly / disassembly of frame so that fingers are not pinched." Obviously, this does not refer to a theft, but I robbed everyone of this specific alert. Yes, this chair doesn't require assembly because it simply folds, or unfolds, but I should have at least issued a "be careful." The manufacturer reiterated "exceeding maximum seated weight capacity may cause personal injury and / or damage to product: user must ensure weight is evenly distributed." First, this assumes that a user will indeed sit. There are occasions when a chair acts as a temporary step ladder. I must admit I've never considered the conscious effort of even weight distribution. My weight is contained. When I drop / flop / submit to a chair it's all or nothing. Where could a potential sitter shift their weight? Don't most butts spread during the act of sitting; isn't this a reflex? Should I chastise guests and correct posture? Do I presume every sitter is new to the science, the intricacies of sitting? The wording of this next caution is my favourite. "To avoid injury and product failure, any user should carefully enter / exit fabric seating." Sigh, there's that word 'careful' again. Who stops to map out a sitting strategy? Should intentions be expressed? "Just so everyone knows, I plan to park myself in that grey chair over there next to the tree. Yes, that'll be an entry. Be quiet now. We don't want to spook it. I'll approach slowly. Does it look to be agreeable? Hi, may I sit with you? I'm just gonna lower myself nice and easy. You let me know if I need to redistribute my weight, okay?" |
| A week has passed, but something is still bugging me and it's not the ravenous mosquitoes hovering about. I'd like some answers, yet me, myself and I shrug their collective shoulders, roll their eyes and sigh. Their lack of interest irks me. Can't they recognize a mystery when they see one? How can they not want to know what happened? On this particular late evening after the darkness had descended and we'd enjoyed a reunion with our camp neighbours, hubby and I met at the rear of our vehicle. Why? That detail escapes me now.I glanced at the license plate and for a brief moment I could not process what I was seeing. I even doubted the date specifically the current year. I had to convince myself that it was indeed 2021 and this is important because the plate sticker clearly read 2020. Huh? Our vehicle plate registration sticker had expired? This had never happened before. This car was not our first. As responsible owners and drivers we understood the law. For years, every October, hubby's birth month by the way,we'd renewed that vital sticker without fail. Sure, we bemoaned the expense,but it was the cost of being independent. Oh, and of course we'd rather not incur a fine. How had neither of us noticed this egregious faux pas? For many years, my partner owned a garage. Licensing vehicles occurred frequently. This car had recently been at its dealership of origin for re-installation of summer tires and an oil change. Had the attending mechanic not seen our outdated sticker? No, "hey, that sticker is old, eh?" All of us had not noticed? The best we could recall, when we'd purchased our new car last July the salesman had promised to give us a plate sticker valid to October of this year. He'd mentioned it being ridiculous to apply one good for only three months. So, we never verified it. Hmmm. And the usual vigilant government had not mailed us a reminder either. Double hmmm. This is not the mystery. What follows is strange and inexplicable. Hubby's first reaction that fateful evening was to consult the vehicle's paperwork. The last we'd been aware of it it resided inside a black pocket-sized pouch relegated to the glove box. He yanked open this cubicle and rummaged around not finding this pouch. I suggested that perhaps it had fallen under a seat and so with the aid of his cellphone's flashlight, bright enough to signal aircraft, he searched. Bear in mind it was late evening and the car's interior is black. "It's not here," he grunted. This is the same great hunter who cannot espy a jar of peanut butter right in front of him on the pantry shelf. He will holler, "Don't we have any peanut butter?" So, I couldn't help myself, I had to ask. "Are you sure?" I believe he snarled. I then requested he check his pockets and this earned me a glare. Hey, he's absconded with important documents before, but I did not rehash that. When the eldest rolled her father's newly restored pick-up truck along an icy embankment, the ownership and proof of insurance had not been up against the roof as he suggested. They'd been safely tucked into his wallet which was with him hundreds of miles away. Anyway, this time he did not possess said paperwork. We tossed the interior looking for it to no avail. This car and I have racked up the mileage and all of it illegally.I fail to comprehend why I was not detained during a border lockdown that saw me waved through by two different police forces? I just had to blurt, "Where are they?" Hubby glared once again as if I hadn't read the first one and snarled, "I don't know." Okay, I admit I may have said this more than once. I replied, "I told you I don't expect an answer. I'm just exclaiming out loud. You know, rhetorical." After a collision with a wayward deer several summer ago all I could repeat was "oh dear." So, the car's ownership, the proof of valid insurance and the plate registration were all missing. Why? When? How? We could do nothing that Sunday evening but retire to bed mystified. First thing the next morning we rectified our lack of valuable documents. Stopping back at home to awaken our computer we printed a copy of the insurance slip. Then we visited the local Ministry of Transportation office to purchase a replacement ownership and a current plate renewal sticker. Before anyone else had discovered our lack of proper vehicle verification we'd fixed it. Now this car is legal to be driven on the road until October of 2022. Everything has returned to normal, but I still wonder. Where are those documents? What became of them? What possessed me to notice the expired sticker that night? Why had it not been apparent months ago? Why is this still bugging me? The never knowing is irksome. |
| Perhaps this pandemic and the ensuing months-long lockdown of retailers has messed with me. Yesterday, I discovered that a new brand of cereal perches upon grocers' shelves hoping to entice curious buyers. Were the product promoters of a certain manufacturer asleep at the concept meeting? Who decided that a cereal tasting like chocolate Kisses would be a winner? Does this fulfill a fantasy foiled by mothers? No, as I've repeated countless times, you may not eat candy for breakfast. Did someone dump a package of Kisses into a bowl, smother them with a layer of milk, and declare this a delicious idea? Hey, how can I replicate this? Can this experience be somewhat legitimate? If it's slurped via a spoon and not unwrapped from a coloured tinfoil cocoon, it becomes something else. After all, this is a cereal that tastes like chocolate not actual candy. It's a breakfast food. There's a difference. I suppose these are the same geniuses who did not like their marshmallows roasted on a stick over a blazing campfire, but created in rainbow hues and mixed in with their cereal instead. How delectable, not. Stale, chewy bits do not enhance the first meal of the day. Again, this is a have-your-cereal-and-candy-too mindset. Cereal is a treat only palatable with extra sugar? Another strange marketing ploy is doughnuts as cereal. Are doughnuts swimming in a bowlful of milk considered tasty? Soggy mini doughnuts? I like mine as the finger food they were created to be and enjoying one once in a while for breakfast will not hurt me. Chasing my doughnut(s) 'round a bowl with a dripping spoon...no thanks. I hope the chemical giant that developed the formula to duplicate the flavour of chocolate made his / her fortune. Even Cheerios adopted this trend. General Mills must be set upon dominating the cereal market with their varied versions of the little oat 'o.' What flavour don't they have? Honey nut, frosted, whole grain, banana, and more. As I've mentioned, I'm new-product naive.Imagine my surprise when a lone, wee, plain Cheerio fell from a box and it resembled a heart. At first, I considered this to be an anomaly. I'm no stranger to the iconic shape of this cereal that my eldest insisted upon calling "ro-ros." Perhaps, somehow, the machine stamping out zillions of tiny circles suffered a glitch. Was this a one-off? I shook more oat hearts into my grandgiggle's bowl before I thought to cast my uncomprehending eyes upon the box. Ah, heart-wise Cheerios. A cereal with a message? Inconceivable! A breakfast food advocating healthy choices? Campaigning with a familiar brand? While it's debatable as to Cheerios' heart-healthy self-aggrandizing promise, this may well encourage people to consider their hearts. Make heart-affirming options in your diet and your exercise. Remember your heart. Heart strong, heart wise. Despite this not being subtle, this message resonates. It nags without the whining voice. It implies the eater of this cereal is important. It bolsters a feeling of self-love. If cereals exist for those with a sweet-tooth and the health-conscious, why can't there be a cereal to alter bad habits? What about a cereal that aims to discourage smoking? It's obvious that gruesome depictions of cancer-ravaged individuals splayed across cigarette packages do not disturb smokers in the least. They are not appalled or worried by images of blackened lungs either. Bold lettering decrying horrific effects do not seem to attract their hooded, smoke-clouded eyes. All printed warnings are ignored. These repeated cautions do not cause smokers to stop and consider the consequences of their habit. Are they impervious? What could this anti-smoking cereal look like? Should it resemble curled cigarette stubs? Should it be white with a red tip to depict a glowing 'smoke?' Or should each cereal bit represent a full ready-to-light ciggy? Perhaps a few bits could be shaped like portable lighters? Maybe throw in a handful of ashtrays? Would it be possible to make the milk change to an ash colour when it dampens the cereal? Surely a smoke flavour exists? There are nicotine-flavoured gums, right? Could this flavour increase in intensity near the bottom of the box? Would it be possible that this extra infusion numbs the smokers tongue nullifying the smoking experience? Am I indulging in wishful thinking? Most smokers probably do not have working taste buds. The cereal box would be created to seem like a cigarette box, bright blue or red. Of course, it would fold like a cigarette package, too. To open the interior and access the cereal, a tinfoil liner would need to be pierced, torn, whatever. Some smokers tuck their lighters into the box ready to be used. With this particular cereal the eater would be encouraged to tuck their favourite spoon inside. Oh, this box must be small enough to fit into a pocket, or wedge up along a vehicle sun visor, as well. Nagging and threats do not dissuade smokers. I think this galvanizes their incredible stubborn streaks. Would a soggy cigarette butt cereal do the trick? |
| Emily, my middle grandgiggle, has discovered a new passion.Photography piques her interest. My role is to chauffeur her around, or in modern parlance I uber her from shoot to shoot. I also act as crowd control, site scout, equipment monitor,keen-eyed observer, enthusiastic-approver-of-each-shot, snack provider, and a sounding board. Basically, I'm her shadow. I trail along in the background at her beck and call. Strolling along a rock-walled waterfront one gloriously sunny afternoon, dodging others intent on partaking of fresh air and a dose of Vitamin D, I espied a gash in one of the immense boulders that cried out for Em to explore it. On closer inspection, she discovered a hole , a two-inch hole that seemed to have been bored straight through like a port hole and framed a peek of the lake. She hunkered down to snap a few pics from this rock's perspective and captured its glinting metallic veins splashed by the restless waves. When we viewed her efforts the hole in the foreground resembled a damp tunnel leading to a body of water. I christened our find 'Emily's hole' and considered out loud whether I should post it to social media with this title. Of course, I kidded. I respect Em's privacy, I'm just that kind of Nanna. Inukshuks originally beckoned us to stop and snap images of their rugged beauty set against the wind swept backdrop of the lake. Creative types have balanced stones and rocks atop each other to fashion several of these inukshuks and then placed them along the winding wall. No two are alike and they exude personality. A pair resemble side-by-side dancers frozen in a spin. A few are squat while others stretch on spindly legs to the sky. Curious Emily stuck her lens into buzzing blossoms exposing fuzzy-looking bumble bees dusted in pollen. A white lilac appeared as popcorn in her view. Pink and mauve petals duplicated stars.A kaleidescope of colours caught her discerning eye. Reds, yellows, oranges glowed.She captured the roiling, bubbling surf of crashing waves. On another of our forays we recovered an abandoned red double-decker bus, a die cast replica, from a wooden bench. It became the subject, the focal point of her photos. She and I had great fun scouting unusual sites for that toy vehicle. It modelled in the sand and the surf. It perched in a vibrant green pine tree. It hid in the shadow of a tangled thicket. It balanced atop an inukshuk. It swung precariously on a swing. Emily preferred close-ups and the size of this bus became skewed. On the face of it, this bus seemed to be traversing rocky terrain under an azure sky. Inspiration struck a couple of days ago, and once again I accompanied my grandgiggle as she filmed slo-mo video of her little red bus in action. I suppose I acted as the stunt coordinator / equipment wrangler. Okay, I was the schlep. As per her instructions, I climbed a slide and released the unsuspecting bus at her command. Squatting at the slide's exit point Em captured the bus careening in its descent, flipping in mid air and spiralling into a crash. The best shots saw the out of control bus slam into the camera. I thought it could be how disaster scenes of a tornado are filmed. Who manages to send a full-size bus spinning through the air? Perhaps Em has a future career as a special affects creator? At the moment, Emily is enrolled in an integrated art program which is gobbledy-gook for a photography course. Each day she receives assignments and sets her imagination soaring. Her reluctant dogs have been subjects. Various household paraphanelia such as coloured pencils, clips, books, and more has been incorporated into her shots. Pine cones, dandelions, chipmunks, house flies, and blades of grass pose for her pics. Yesterday's project asked her to take a selfie with script. "I'm not scribbling on my body with permanent markers," Emily exclaimed. I commiserated. Once was enough for me and I only did it to amuse girls at a Girl Guide camp. The cartoon faces I drew stayed with me for two weeks. I guess they were my temporary tattoos. We had to be creative and resourceful. I'm now ensconced for the summer in my camp trailer and supplies are limited. I do keep a bag of Sharpies here, but as per Em's wishes, they were not to be used on her skin. After much thought and a looming deadline, I rummaged around in the craft supply cupboard, ( every self-respecting Nanna has one), and found self-adhesive flower stickers made of coloured foam. I adhered them to my sunglasses and we wrote ' i c u' on them. Next we loped down to the beach and I snapped photos of my grandbaby. This represents her shyness and her keen eye. She is always observing. Even if she thinks she is somewhat hidden behind a pair of sunglasses she is watching and well aware of what's transpiring around herself. True critical teenager that she is, Em demanded I not take a photo of her profile. She has decided she does not like the shape of her nose at that angle. I'm just the loving Nanna and the photography assistant. Emily is gorgeous, but what do I know? I possess almost fifteen years worth of photos to prove my unbiased point. |
Although I scribble and scrawl with a pen, specifically a ball point pen, I never stopped to consider its origin. In my limited understanding of this I thought it magically appeared on store shelves after being harvested from some sort of manufacturing haven. Like money, I knew on an instinctive level that pens did not grow on trees. They were plentiful. They were affordable. When one pen gave up the ghost I tossed it without a second thought and quickly replaced it. I've never known a time without a pen. Pens accompany me daily tucked into a knapsack, or a purse, or a pocket, or a desk drawer, or a car's console. Without a pen I'd be lost. When inspiration comes calling I must be prepared to commit its message to paper. Sometimes, I employ a pen to create lists. On the occasions I decide to treat others with snail mail, I compose letters with the aid of a pen. What else could I use to complete a crossword? Pens are without a doubt my favourite writing tool. It is only fitting then that today is National Ball Point Pen Day. Well, also on this date back in 1943, the ball point pen was officially patented. Of course, it was a revolutionary alternative to the humble pencil and the fountain pen. Did someone holler eureka at the concept of a pen that contained ink and did not require a constant dip into a messy supply? Finally, writers need not wait an eternity for their script to dry. With the clumsy method of old no spontaneous notes could be left about. All missives had to be carefully planned. Blotches, spills and smears were former bothers. Writers bore telltale stains. Left-handers must have wept with joy at the advent of this writing marvel. No longer did they risk losing their trains of thought or miss transcribing an important point waiting for ink to dry before their awkwardness smudged their efforts. Viva quick-drying ink! Imagine stuffing a bottle of ink and a quill into your pocket. The new pen introduced itself as portable. It did not require re-sharpening which also caused a pencil to shrink and eventually whittle away. Ink proved more permanent than pencil renderings which could fade, or be erased. My pens are humble and affordable Bics. Of course, I am not referring to the other infamous Bic immortalized in ads with the tag line "flick my Bic." That contraption permitted smokers to light their cigarettes. Now, I do not write with Bic's For Her pens, or lady pens either. What was this company thinking introducing a gender-bias writing tool? Who conceived of this? How had women survived handling other pens since the 40's? Did someone honestly believe regular pens to be too heavy, uncomfortable, unwieldy for women? Had any female been disfigured, maimed, or permanently injured by her use of the original Bic? I prefer the sensible workhorse of a pen. It needn't be fancy or sparkle in a glimmery rainbow colour. Sure, there are times when a retractable pen feels like a luxury. No one enjoys misplacing a cap, or discovering scribbles across their white leather wallet. My pens are shaped as a slim cylinder, but some exist that are hexagonal to prevent them from escaping rolling. Mind blown! I just put up with pens that disappear and wobble under furniture. I will bemoan the fact that pens must be held somewhat upright for ink to be dispensed. They dislike writing on anything but a flat, level surface. They also do not appreciate cold temperatures and when exposed they balk. Some finicky pens prefer clean, dry paper. Mind blown encore! Ingenuity and a generous research budget has reincarnated the ball point pen in the form of a tungsten carbide gas-charged marvel dubbed the Fisher Space Pen. It boasts a shelf life of one-hundred years and was patented in 1965. Why have I not heard of this? It's a super writing tool that will work in zero gravity, a vacuum and extreme temperatures. Wonder of wonders it also works under water, at any angle, and on wet, or greasy paper. The creators marketed their pen to NASA which had failed to develop a similar product. The only reliable writing implement in space had been the pencil. Another ingenious reinvention of the pen originates with a Swiss company and their Caran d'Ache 825 Wood Chip Pen. This pen is sourced from 60% renewable materials created and collected from this company's manufacture of coloured pencils. The hexagonal body is composed of wood chips and wood cellulose. Wow! I celebrated this momentous occasion with a couple of my current pens. I took them on an excursion to the local laundromat where I utilized their specialist skills to solve a crossword and record a few of my flashes of brilliance. They never faltered. They did not run dry. My pens are dependable allies. Not one of them is aware of the super pens that exist out in the world. They plod along with me. |
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