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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. |
| 30 DBC PROMPT : If you could eliminate anyone disease or illness from the world, what would you choose and why? I would eradicate the scourge known as Alzheimer's. It is a thief. Simply put it erases memories. Everything we are and everything we do is based upon memory. We learn to speak, read, write, and communicate because we warehouse the required knowledge. Through imitation, trial and error we process core memories. Speaking becomes second nature. We are hard-wired to retain sounds, word patterns, nuance and more. From a young age we build relationships that also depend upon emotions experiences, and such. All of this is banked in our brains and accessed throughout our lives. The skills we practise originate in both muscle memory and reasoning. Our memories are vital. Alzheimer's erodes those memories, Bit by bit they fade away never to be remembered again. Relationships are forgotten. Triumphs and heartaches disappear. The disease strips away the vibrancy of being. A friend's husband gradually succumbed to the devastation of Alzheimer's. Slowly, irrevocably, Ken slipped away. Joanne described handing a dish towel to her partner expecting him to make the connection and help dry the dishes. He twisted the cloth in his hands and stared blankly. If she handed him a dripping plate , he just stood still, neither swiping it nor handing it back to her. He could not place that same plate in the cupboard. He had to be prodded and led to the bathroom as if he were a toddler new to the concept of urinating. When left unattended he would relieve himself in the wastebasket, or leave a puddle on the floor. The first indication Ken had become someone else, a stranger, occurred when he could no longer remember the names of people in his village. Unlike his wife, Ken always knew who was who and how they were related. Joanne had always depended upon him for that information. One day he could recognize familiar faces and seemingly overnight he could not. Ken progressed or is that regressed to not recognizing his three adult children and Joanne. He would nod at them and that was it. He never greeted them by name or asked what they were doing. One afternoon Joanne phoned me from a phone booth on the side of a rural highway. As she began to speak I heard the receiver drop and Joanne shout, "Ken stop. Where are you going?" Talk about a dropped call. Ken had taken the opportunity to unbuckle his seat belt, slide over to the driver's side of the car, put it in gear and drive off. Meanwhile he had not handled a vehicle for a few years at this point. Like a child he had observed what Joanne did and copied her. All concepts re rules of the road had escaped him as he made his escape. Another time Joanne phoned me indignant and unsure. The caregiver sent to assist Ken daily for a few hours and provide respite for Joanne, had phoned her in a panic refusing to set foot in the house. Ken had greeted her at the door with his rifle in hand. Joanne failed to see the imminent danger to both herself, Ken, and the aide. She believed the gun to be unloaded, but even if it had been, it had not been locked away from its former user. If he had a childhood memory of handling a gun, he would also have that early memory of loading it. His intent would have been muddled, but he could still play with the weapon as a curious child might. Did he recognize it as a rifle? Did he remember ever shooting it? Early in his dementia journey Ken accompanied Joanne and I as we hiked with our Girl Guide group one afternoon. He'd always been an outdoorsman, but on this day he clung to his wife, stumbling, and unable to participate. The girls did not speak or ask him why he did not join in our activities. The man that had once baked bannock over a campfire seemed lost. They took turns holding his hand and standing silently beside him. Ken's family mourned his passing long before he actually died. His shell persisted and withered, but Ken had become a shadow. No one could share a remember when story with him, or ask him to relay some family lore. The thief Alzheimer's had stolen Ken and his essence. |
| 30 DBC PROMPT: "Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experiences that reveal the human spirit." e.e. cummings Oh, I felt that all powerful resolve, that spontaneity rising in me the moment I pulled the refrigerator door open. No possible way could I ignore the sight before me. The feeling rose from my toes, ( ah, a bit of a rhyme there), and raced to my unprepared stomach before assaulting my nose. Of course, the only reflex involved nausea and retching. Perhaps this is where I back up and provide a wee bit of context. For months I have languished at the seasonal camper. Any housework, er, um, camper work is minimal. Wash dishes. Meal prep. Sweep the floor. Make the bed. Simple, mundane chores requiring next to no effort. It's all easy breezy. My eldest has been availing herself of the empty apartment. No problem. This past Friday she mentioned that something looked kinda gross and might need cleaning. Silly me presumed she'd take care of this. After all, for the past few months she cautions me with ya, I know the sink is full of dishes, but don't touch them, I'll get around to them. So, back to this morning. I returned home to water my indoor grow op which consists of a multitude of greenery. Since the return to this place is imminent I decided to check the cupboards and the fridge. Ack!! Something spontaneous and possibly combustive occurred in one of the veggie bins. A viscous mud lapped at the clear plastic walls. There may have been galooping with eruptions of boils bubbles. She did describe it, kinda gross. I suppose some poor veggies expired, no decayed, fermented, in that drawer of despair. Slimy might be the most apt descriptor. I know this because I did not glove up for the extraction and sterilization process. Veggies in this deplorable state are not at all appetizing. It may be a serious stretch of time before I ever consider creating or imbibing soup. At the moment that bin is soaking in hot, soapy water. I am happy to procrastinate for the time being. If it didn't crawl or swim away before today, I'm somewhat sure it'll stay put. To wrestle that refrigerator accessory from its spot I had to push the entire body out from the wall. Great, now I espy a layer of dust bunnies squinting in the sunlight. Sigh, I started this, didn't I? |
30 DBC PROMPT: Satire. Draft an outline for a satirical novel based on any image. Include the image in your post. Wow, let me say I am honoured to be considered as the subject of a novel. I mean, this is so humbling, so life-affirming, so gosh darn exciting. Little ol' me featured in a book? A book at least one reader may possibly glance through . A book perhaps designated to a shelf in both a bookstore and a library. I never dreamed this could ever be possible. Will there be a depiction of me on the cover? That's a thing isn't it? Will I be posing for a portrait ? What do celebrities do? Do they proffer their best side? I'm not exactly on board with this project. Never have I sought the limelight, or been noticed front and center. I complete my job without a murmur or a moan. I know my place. Some may believe I tend to stick to one task at a time. I never intrude where I am not wanted. Often I am pushed into completing my duties. I suppose that means I'm not a self-starter. Oh, did I mention I work in different locations? Not to brag, but I'm versatile like that. At any given time I could be hanging around in a newspaper's bullpen, or holding down the fort in a detective's den, or on duty at a school cafeteria / library/ principal's enclave , or overseeing the action in an election's office, or helping out in a kitchen. Most of my energy goes to paperwork. I possess the magic touch. Papers and I understand each other. They probably will not admit this, but they need me. They tend to be scatter-brained and loose, I organize them. What am I? Here, see for yourself.  Yes, I am a pushpin. The stories I could regale you with. I have held tight to campaign posters, crime photos, memos, schedules,performance reviews, budgetary notes, disciplinary reports, and more. You could infer that I know things. |
| 30 DBC PROMPT: Which popular advice in the writing world do you disagree with and why?{/b} As with much else in life there are rules, writing rules. Do this not thats. Expression cobbled. Aren't rules made to be broken, or at the very least tested, stretched, skirted? I am Canadian. This is not a random or superfluous statement, one of those supposed no-nos. It serves to explain that I do not follow the rule of American spelling. As I write I honour and favour the word colour with that all important u. Now this is the point where I break another writing rule and launch into detail that could be unnecessary, tedious, at risk of losing the reader. That wee letter u reflects our unique French roots, the French that has invaded English and refused to depart. Honneur morphed into honour and couleur became colour. I refuse to avail myself of spell check and editing programs. Are they rules or merely suggestions? Not all suggestions need to be accepted. Another so-called rule I refuse to adapt is Never use a verb other than said to carry dialogue, avoid words like gasped and grumbled. Forgive me, but at this point I both gasp and grumble. English is a rich language. A plethora of words exist just waiting to be summoned and utilized. Yes, I understand that gasp and grumble are action words, but speaking is an action. It rarely occurs in the vacuum of no nuance or emotion. Many words serve double duty. They can both be active and emotive. Nouns are also verbs. This is English after all. Take the utterance of the word no. He said, :No." That's it. No underlying pathology if you will. He simply said no. That's the end of it. Now, if he happened to grumble no the emotion, the nuance surfaces. Could he resent having to say that no? Could he have been coerced ? Could this hint at the speaker's character? Could it colour the circumstances in which that no left his lips? I am not claiming that favouring said with dialogue does not serve a purpose. I am claiming it is boring and perhaps redundant. Of course, he said no. No cannot be delivered vocally without a voice and the act of saying. I favour the nuance, the colour of other words. |
| 30 DBC PROMPT: The Birth of Agriculture? Fun Fact: Ants began farming in the Amazo n rainforest 60 million years before humans ever started growing crops.{/b} I presume a history minded ant or an ant adjacent creature did not stalk trail a colony of farming ants all those years ago to record their pioneering endeavours. I mean how tiny would those video cameras have been? Seriously though how can the above claim be verified? Did ants master the art of the written word and store manuscripts in ant approved vaults? Do they practise an oral history and regale each generation with their tales of extraordinary innovations? And if the above statement is true why do the ants in the here and now no longer engage in farming? Drought? Floods? The inconvenience of a meteor strike or two? Wait, am I presuming they no longer engage in the agricultural arts? The local ants seem preoccupied with surmounting my camper's defences. I know for a fact they dispatch search parties to scope out the supplies, a trade or is that raid route. A few days ago, a few ant scouts surveilled my SUV. I consider it a preemptive ploy. That very vehicle ferries home the treasured groceries. But let's return to the concept of farming ants. How did that come about? There had to have been that one ant willing to attempt something other than foraging. I imagine he campaigned for his cause and rallied the troops. This pioneer began with that spark of inspiration and that first step. Picture if you will an undulating dark line of ants marching single file through a lush green rainforest. Think military parade. Day after day they set out at dawn to search for sustenance. Our hero, our rebel, acts upon his conviction.Those wearying ten-thousand daily steps provided plenty of pondering time. Without a backward glance, Jed, ( a farmer'ish name suitable for this supposition), breaks formation and scuttles up next to the fellow ant who he'd followed for far too many forays. Since he already had blown caution to the wind why not go all the way. Jed attempted to initiate a conversation. Hi. I'm Jed. Wow, you look so different from this angle.How long have you lived in the colony?I guess you didn't want to be on the construction crew, eh? Have you ever considered a new way of obtaining food? See those buzzing bees overhead? They have mastered something called pollination and propagation. They are busy bees. Hmm, what's that? No, not propaganda, heaven forbid. Propagation. the growing of plants, farming. We don't have to be foragers. We've got brains and brawn, we are more than capable of the hard work. Just have a wee think. See you later. With a wave Jed hurries to trudge side by side with the next ant in the chain.He interprets the startled look as an encouraging sign. Good,. He's being noticed. Hey, have we met before? You look familiar.. Maybe a friend of a friend, or a cousin? I have to confess there are so many cousins. My name is Jed. Maybe you've noticed me milling about the ol' ant hill. Any who, do you enjoy this marching every single day, rain or shine? Doesn't it get boring? Are you open to trying something new? I believe we can farm and grow what we need. It's referred to as being self-sufficient. What? No there wouldn't be any fish. Ya, they are kinda scary. Risks? Perhaps, but plants do not bite. True, a fish bite is nightmarish. Oh, is that what happened to your cousin? Ouch. Well, thanks for listening. Ta ra. for now. Poor Jed, his brilliant idea had its hurdles and resistance. He must have been the ultimate optimist. How many times did he bolster his resolve by muttering to himself an ant farm wasn't built in a day. |
| 30 DBC PROMPT: What was a big mistake you made, what did it cost you, and how did you solve the problem? Um, define the word big. It can be such a subjective measurement. Are we thinking humongous, ginormous, spectacular, or just something a bit more than noticeable? I do not have a criminal record.I have not cheated nor have i murdered anyone. Those are about as big a mistake as anyone can make. I have not adopted an alias, nor have I been whisked away into protective custody. As Popeye says."I am yam what I yam." I am stumped. This prompt presumes a big mistake. Could my mistake be that I cannot own up to a mistake? Oh no, am I delusional? Is my memory selective and perhaps locked? Has Alzheimer"s fiddled with my recollections and self-awareness? Wait, could I possibly be living with amnesia? Is it possible for a mistake, a forgotten, forlorn, ignored mistake to stage a grand reappearance? I don't suppose it'll knock on the door and shout,"Ta da!" What does such a mistake look like? I'm imagining a shape-shifter of some sort somewhat ominous in appearance. Maybe I've watched too much television and I'm thinking of Death, bleak, pasty-skinned, hollow-eyed stare, silent. That could be guilt, too, right? Don't mistakes go hand in hand with guilt? Nope, I've got nothin'.Well, now I have questions. |
| 30 DBC PROMPT: What hobby or activity have you dropped and do you think you'll pick it up again sometime? Sigh, no on likes to admit that they have abandoned something. Who wants to be a quitter? With that admission, yes, I have dropped an activity. If the exact date is pertinent, I ceased my 'hobby' this past Valentine's Day due to conditions beyond my control. I must reassure you dear reader that I am not referring to a lover's squabble. Yes, I remember being abandoned in a frosty parking lot, but that has no bearing upon my subsequent decision. I dropped walking. There I said it. Somehow I fell and injured my right knee that snowy evening in February. The recovery has been painfully slow. I stopped engaging in twice daily walks. You know what i mean. Gone are the meanders, the strolls, the stretching of the limbs, the striding. Oh, how I miss the striding. Strong, confident steps everywhere and anywhere. Effortless, almost a glide. My right knee does not walk now, it balks. It hesitates. It grumbles. It refuses to bend without a fuss. Sometimes, it collapses in a most dramatic fashion. No, I cannot possibly take another step. Go on without me. Sure I drag this recalcitrant joint with me. I ignore the trembling, the stabs of pain, the non-ending aches, the stubborn stiffness. The most effort it will begrudgingly grant me is a tiresome limp, or a shuffle. Fine, I'll accompany you, but I won't like it. Just remember, this was your idea. You asked for this. Some of this has become all too familiar. Granted this knee has experienced more that its fair share of injuries and surgeries, but I thought that was behind us. No looking back and all that. Leave the past behind us. Move on. Now, it's one wobbly step at a time. The left knee is beginning to complain as well. You'd expect a team, a matched set, twins if you will, to share a special bond. At the very least should they not be supportive, encouraging, picking up each other's slack? The ol' we're in this together camaraderie? The groaning, the moaning, the not-me-ing is tiresome. Teamwork has been kicked to the curb. It's every knee for themselves. Both crotchety joints know how to beat that pain drum. They have forgotten that they need each other. They have stopped communicating, or is that coordinating. One attempts a usually simple manoeuver known as stepping sideways and the other, who has not received the memo, refuses to follow. One lifts to ascend a step and the other seems glued in place. Sometimes, they both lurch for a doorway together forgetting all laws of motion. The worst though is when one knee suddenly stops. There is no reciprocal step forward., no follow through, no polite, considerate after you. Will I ever return to my former past time? Ya, that's the million dollar question. It hasn't been a year yet since this latest setback. Anything is possible. The word sometime holds so much ambiguity, hope, possibilities. . Yes, sometime, my knees will reconnect. |
| 30-Day Blogging Challenge September 1st, 2026. PROMPT: What is the meaning of life to you? Hmmm, food for thought today. What is the meaning of life besides all the usuals like shelter, sustenance, health, prosperity, choices, death and taxes? I pondered this as I relinquished my seat at the table in my camper and commenced a drive back home to access my computer. Right there I had choices and the means with which to exercise them. Stay where I had crappy internet signal, curse my sheltered surroundings, and consider skipping my first day of a blogging return, or commit to a drive in the rain? Well, obviously I chose to remove myself from my limiting situation. I am pecking at my keyboard realizing that the commands I remember have morphed a wee bit here. Another choice, adapt or admit defeat. Oh, my computer has decided to test my return also. My attempts to log on were temporarily thwarted by persistent notices that there had been updates. Yes, yes, not now. What is life if not petty inconveniences, delays, sidetracks? Life is struggling out of a five hour sleep at the cusp of dawn,blurry-eyed and yawning, stumbling as you pull on clothing, and wobbling out to the truck muttering to yourself, "I'm up early, but I'm not bright." Life is driving to your pregnant eldest granddaughter's home and while attempting to herd her and her almost two-year old into the vehicle you drop the car seat, not once, but twice. Life is shaking that off and being grateful that it was unoccupied. Life is a sweet little voice babbling from the backseat while we adults groan. Life is chatting during the one-hour trip to the hospital despite reassuring each other we did not need to be chipper because that's what we do, talk. Life is being asked what I'd endured during my pregnancies and sharing my experiences with the next generation. Life is the division of labour when out in public with an active, friendly toddler. Tag teaming is necessary. The chasing and redirecting are seamless. Hold my hand. Do not run. Look where you're going. Yes, that's a bird. Mommy's right there. Do you have Puppy Dog? Sorry, not everyone wants to kiss him. I believe you've said Hi to everyone in this hospital. Ooo, that elevator is a different ride, eh? Please don't climb on Mommy right this minute. Life is smiling at the delight of people waving and returning greetings from my tiny great-granddaughter. People clomping with crutches, people slouched in wheelchairs, people sporting fresh bandages, nurses moved to stop their bustling, they all return the enthusiastic, heartfelt acknowledgment. Life is awaiting the birth of my great-grandson due to make his appearance sometime this month. His Mom has suffered through more that her fair share of the water torture test, the ultrasound, to learn that he has one kidney. That's okay, he only requires one to thrive. Life is being at one hospital while my hubby and son are occupied at another one , hours away, during the same day. Our son, the almost twice over grandfather himself, underwent an angioplasty after months of testing. Apparently, the procedure took two and a half hours and ten attempts to complete. The skilled surgeon understands the meaning of life. He saved another one. Speaking with my son about a trip to a big city hospital I remarked, "Oh, that's one I've never been to. " He quipped, "Me neither. I can cross it off my bucket list." I asked if the angioplasty was something else to add to that list. Experiences, good or bad, joyful or harrowing, they are woven into our lives. The anecdotes, the insider jokes, the small shares, the just being present, add up to lives worth celebrating. |
| September 7th PROMPT: "The surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that it has never tried to contact us." Bill Watterson What? What is this drivel? You mean those reports shared across the vast voids of the worldwide web and once printed in that venerable rag The National Enquirer are fake? Cousin Jeb was not abducted by aliens, and probed? Space ships are not parked in that Nevada desert known as Area 51? The movie Men In Black is a complete fabrication? Say it isn't so. Do conspiracy theorists know this? So many questions. I still have my doubts. Take the various trailer parks that do exist throughout North America. The various like-minded denizens of these alternative residential spots seem to be awaiting the glorious return of their ethereal leaders. These encampments seem to be temporary. I believe they are killing time. Just look at the antennas and satellite dishes pointed to the heavens. Sure, they accept the occasional television waves, but they yearn for that impending radio missive from the mothership. They all understand that the message must travel light years to reach them. The beams could quite possibly be impeded by space garbage like meteors and such, so, the more satellites the better. Now, notice the plethora of solar powered decorative thingamajigs obscuring the trailer plots. They may look like innocent bric-a-brac, but do not be fooled. These lights are really primitive markers for landing strips. They glow in spite of any weather or darkness. They cry here we are. Land here. Each of those RVs quaintly nicknamed the Rig has been set up for survival purposes. The faithful are prepared with their own water supplies and fuel sources. They can and will dig in for the long haul. Their shiny ships are ready. They are expert at self-sufficiency. Oh, and did I mention the flags, pennants and banners that festoon the trailer abodes? They may flutter prettily in the breeze and lend a colourful ambiance, but they serve a more practical purpose. Again, they mark the covert landing strips and indicate wind shear and such. The alien welcoming committee is alert. The lights are on. Most everyone is home. Come test our intelligence.371 words |
| PROMPT: Music and coffee. Watch a video featuring Tommy Cash sing and dance within the throes of coffee ecstasy. Groan. Grumble. It's the first thing in the morning for me. I survived a night without running water and I awoke to the same situation. The water fairy did not grace me with a visit while I slept. I rummaged in the fridge for a bottle of water left from a camping trip and I sloshed that into the kettle. My morning routine is to slurp a fresh, hot cup of tea. I enjoy coffee when I visit restaurants. Caffeine is caffeine am I right? I slumped into my computer chair ready to visit WDC and receive today's blog prompt. As I multitasked otherwise known as scrolling, reading, and of course sipping, my phone rang with news re the water absence issue. Apparently, the well requires a new foot float valve thingy. Lovely. Why not? It's been that kind of week. It has been somewhat eventful and it all has to do with feet. Yes, you read that correctly. I did blame my recent woes on feet. Let me explain. On Monday, I fractured my right big toe, or as some say, my greater toe. Ya right, there's nothing great about it. Well, it is good for one thing and that is permitting me to wear my favourite footwear flip flops, or thongs. Yep, that toe is once again fractured. That, believe it or not, is not the most pressing problem. Since that regrettable incident I have stubbed said disabled toe not once, not twice, not even three times. That occurred in the first morning. The word I shall use is multiple. I have stubbed that toe repeatedly as in multiple times. To say it throbs is an understatement. Often, it seems as if a sharp knife is stabbing my foot. Despite this discomfort said appendage refuses to look where it's going and instead stumbles/blunders into every lurking corner and furniture leg it is supposed to avoid. In that respect this is doubly painful/mortifying. The total disregard for its well being and its host is mind boggling. The recent weather has also conspired to irk me. Without warning it has become shoe weather. Temperatures have plummeted and rain pummels the ground, so um, at the moment it is a tad chilly. All I can coax my right foot into is a flip flop sans socks. I attempted to force that foot into a slipper, but that did not end well at all. So, I sit and whinge counting down the days to healing. My caffeine consumption both soothes me and creates a state of heightened awareness/readiness. Now, if only more of it seeps down to that careless toe.457 words |
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