%%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. |
| Saturday Night Drive-In Movie Prompt - Take a drive down memory lane and arrive at the Drive-In Theater. (circa ????) Tell us about your first experience attending a Drive-in movie. Be as descriptive as your memory allows. Only write about your very first experience. We'll have 3 more Saturday night Drive-in prompts this month. Brother Nature Sig #3 Made in Canada Imagine three kids racing for the family car, jostling, okay, shoving each other as they hollered,"Shotgun!" Our father had announced he had a treat planned for us and all we had to do to discover this surprise involved our following his command that always signaled something fantastic. When he pushed back his chair from the supper table, jangled the car keys and ordered, "Say goodbye to your mother," we hustled. At the ol' Pontiac we hip-checked each other as we scrabbled to climb into the front passenger seat. The two 'losers' were left to grumble and tumble into the back. Dad had not teased us with any clues. We had no idea where we were going. Could the impromptu ride end at a store offering ice cream? Perhaps we'd stop at the park to run around and burn off some energy? Our questions hung in the air unanswered. My younger brother and sister amused themselves lowering and raising the windows, cranking the handle over and over. I swung my legs and shimmied back and forth on the slippery vinyl. No seatbelts cinched us tight, or restricted our movements. They would become mandatory in the distant future. Before our fidgeting ' got on dad's last nerve' he steered off the road and braked behind a line of vehicles, red tail lights glowing. We could see bobbing heads. In fits and starts we inched forward towards a strange shed-like structure with a sign 'Box Office.' When we stopped beside it, Dad nodded at the young woman who leaned out an open window. "Three kids and me," he drawled. He chuckled when she shook her head. "You're brave." With four white tickets clutched in one hand, our chauffeur nudged our chariot under an arch of twinkling rainbow-hued bulbs. A ginormous field, an open area of gravel and grass spread out in front of us. Parked cars and trucks stretched in rows. The most gigantic all white screen rose up from the ground. Children scampered and shrieked as they climbed yellow metal slides, or swung from blue swings. The chains clanked and squeaked. Our noses twitched as we smelled fresh popcorn. Dad maneuvered into a spot next to a black metal pole topped by a black box tethered by a cable. As he pulled this box into the car and then hooked it to his window Dad proclaimed, "Welcome to the drive-in. Wanna see some movies?" After fiddling with a switch music emanated from the speaker box. Our heads swiveled to see everything. Dad shooed us away to join the kids at the playground. According to him, the first movie would not start until 'dusk.' We shrugged. Whatever dusk was it hadn't happened yet. We whooped it up until the sun faded and something magical occurred. Flickering lights illuminated that humongous screen. Our lengthening shadows shared space with dancing, flipping cartoon hot dogs. Candy and popcorn marched in a parade of snack foods pounding drums and blowing bugles. We learned this cartoon signaled the first movie would now begin. Car horns blared and headlights flashed. We kids raced back to join our father. He greeted us with a cardboard tub of fresh, buttered popcorn. Dramatic music boomed and words skipped across the screen. Now I recognize this to be opening credits. As the sky darkened and the moon rose figures battled before our unblinking eyes. Apes dressed in clothing spoke. They spoke English. They expressed emotions. They imprisoned people. They seemed bemused by their captives. We were viewing Planet of the Apes, the original version. Kind of a twist for impressionable kids. After this first movie finished and during a pause, Dad encouraged us to settle down and sleep. From somewhere he'd produced blankets and pillows. Sleep? We had other plans. We wrestled. We kicked. We tickled. We jumped from the back seat to the front seat, and vice versa. At some point during the second film my baby sister gave in. Without a whimper she curled up and succumbed to slumber. I could not. The bigger-than-life moving pictures, the non-stop action, the rousing score , the dramatic dialogue keyed me up. I became hooked, engrossed, fascinated. Sleep? Impossible! I enjoyed every moment of that first introduction to the drive-in. ' |
| Thursday, May 5, 2020 You decide to join a book club and the first book you need to read for discussion is Les Misérables. What is this book about? WRONG ANSWERS ONLY. Too many people garble language and in the process mishear vital information. Diction and pronunciation are key to communication. Speaking and reading one language has its difficulties, but introduce a foreign tongue? English has its quirks, but French may seem strange to the untrained ear. Les Miserables? Au Francais those ending s are silent and the middle s sounds like a z. I imagine most non-speakers would pronounce les as less, or Les short for Leslie, or Lester. Less miserable? Is there such a thing? Is it possible to be more, or less miserable? Less uncomfortable? Less grouchy? Lester Miserable? Lay-meez-eh-rab-le rolled off the tongue may become distorted, twisted and slurred into ' lame is a bull.' That's it, eureka! I've just read a book about the survivor of a bull fight narrated by the unfortunate beast himself. It's a classic tale of enticement and its aftermath. The bull is lured by the colour of passion, a red flash that teases him to react. To the screamed shouts of 'ole', not "olly' he struggles to elude a swift, sharp blade intent on piercing his heart. This book has it all, drama, chaos, action. The bull's voice resonates. |
| Today's Prompt For Home Sweet Home Blogging Challenge! If Andre visits your Town, what are some places/sites/locations he should visit? 2. Famous locations or places to see in the town/area So, Andre, are you considering a visit to Sundridge? Will you be arriving by some sort of motor transport? At the moment, driving in is the only way to get here. You're in luck. Bus trips have just recently been re-instated. Of course, if you prefer to drive, or hire a chauffeur that is a viable option. I don't recommend you attempt to parachute into the area and drop in on us. If you miscalculate your intended landing, you may create a splash in Lake Bernard, or more likely hang yourself from the tree canopy. Oh, another form of transportation is possible, not guaranteed, or particularly comfortable, but doable for the adventurous sort. You are a monkey, correct? You must be strong and flexible, no? Do you see yourself swinging aboard a freight train and rumbling North in a box car? One well-planned jump and you'll disembark here in Sundridge. No matter your chosen mode of transportation you are most welcome. I have another question. Are we discussing a look-see in the near future? Weather does alter the local landscape and outdoor activities. Had you arrived during the winter I'd recommend such pursuits as ice-fishing, skiing, snow-shoeing, snowmobiling, and dog-sledding. You haven't lived until you've endured plunging temperatures that numb your extremities. There's nothing to compare to the tingle of thawing digits and the tearing of both eyes and noses. Tell me have you ever had the pleasure of wiggling into long underwear? Tich, it's officially springtime now. It is a brief season sandwiched between holy-***-I- cannot-feel- my -lips and bloody-^^%$#!!^- what-bit-me-now season. This latter time period is not for the faint of heart, or the anemic. To say the insects are blood-thirsty is an understatement. No one is safe from their ravenous appetites. Scourge is too nice of a word. You've just missed the local harvest of maple sap from which delectable maple syrup is magically created. Too bad, you just may have tapped a tree instead of a beer keg. I've mentioned the trees, right? If I'm not being presumptuous, monkeys seem to enjoy tree climbing, swinging and such. Oh, any of that is more than feasible here. Have you experienced zip-lining? Unfortunately, banana trees refuse to thrive in Sundridge. The evergreens, maples, birches, and oaks, are somewhat territorial. Did I mention the oldest provincial park is at our door step? Yep, Algonquin Park, all 7000 kilometres of it, nestles nearby. Think of how many steps you can take for a fitness plan. Would you like to explore a logging camp? Perhaps you'd like to hike, or canoe, or set up a tent in this immense forest. If you hope to see wildlife this spot is ideal. Nothing compares to the magnificence of a moose, or a fox, or a beaver, or deer, or birds galore. Trust me, you will never forget the melancholy call of a loon. How about experiencing the thrill of a wolf call? At dusk, the roving packs will return attempts at howling with the genuine article. With no extraneous lighting the stars sparkle in the night sky. Campgrounds dot the local landscape. Most are situated near fresh water for swimming, canoeing and boating. I recommend a roaring evening campfire. I did state Sundridge is a rural village did I not? Visitors seek out our slower pace of life and our attractive outdoor amenities. The citizens, the blackflies, and the mosquitos are partial to new blood. Drop by any time.( 606 words minus the 32? prompt words ) |
| Prompt: Write about something you lost that you’ll never get back. With my forty-fourth wedding anniversary looming in the near future I can think of one thing I lost. Not that I miss it, or regret the loss. I will even go so far as to confess I enjoyed leaving it in my past. Of course, I accept that it's resurrection would require a miracle of epic proportions. As far as I know this has never been restored and rightfully so, it had an explicit no return policy. I cashed in my only copy and that led to another inescapable loss. Hubby and I cast aside all caution, or is the more acceptable term we threw all caution to the wind and embarked upon the perilous journey of parenthood. Nothing swirling in that wind struck us on the head to bring us to our senses. No smattering of cold water shocked us into a second consideration. We dove headfirst without life jackets. We embodied the sink or swim philosophy. One child wasn't enough. Two children, one of each persuasion, weren't enough. We went all in with three progeny. Most items come in pairs, ears, eyes, hands, feet. I came equipped with the standard two and pitted them against three pairs of similar design. I created this imbalance, three versus one. Child-rearing stripped me of my balance, my equilibrium. Some days, I lost an inkling of up from down. I careened along a rickety roller coaster. My stomach could plummet to my quaking knees or batter my windpipe. I swear I heard shrieking and whooping. My pulse pounded in my ears. Did I breathe or gasp? White knuckles tensed as I held on. An endless loop of blurred days caused me to question my sanity and I believed I'd lost my mind. It deserted me and left me stumbling in the circus. I chose to become a mother? I forfeited all rights to my privacy and my alone time. "Where are you going, Mom?" I learned to reply, "I'm going crazy, want to come along?" "Mom, why's the door closed? Whatcha doin' in there? I'm hungry." "I looked with my eyes like you said, but it's not here. Mom, you're good at findin' stuff." "How long are you gonna be in there? The dog barfed in the hall." Despite my vows to never be like my mother her voice welled up unbidden and spewed forth. "Because I said so, that's why." "Mom, he's breathin' on me!" "Mom, she's starin' at me!" Ugh! Those whirlwind days are behind me. I survived. The offspring survived. Thank goodness we shall not experience a repeat. I've realized the worry, the fear for their safety and well-being never abates. I shall never regain my pre-mother innocence. Do I wish for it's return? No, not on your life! |
| *Banana* "May 2022 Blogging Challenge ~ Where Do You Live?" *Banana* Prompt # 1 May, 1st. '22 — A bit about the history of your town/area. Every place has a history. Some towns were founded to support gold rushes, others were close to oceans. What's the History of where you live? What was the early industry that made your town the place to be? Who founded your town and when? First may I congratulate your semantics. Where do you live NOT where are you from. That second question is open to interpretation. Some will understand this to mean the place of their birth while others believe it to mean where they currently reside. Of course, those who consider themselves clever answer they are from their mothers. So, to answer today's blog query I am living in a village in central Ontario, Canada situated midway between North Bay and Huntsville. Sundridge is its official moniker and before anyone accuses me of misspelling the name, yes, that first 'd' is supposed to be in there. I called southern Ontario home when I attended school(s) and inevitably every September upon return after summer break my teacher would correct my spelling and point out that incongruous letter 'd' that had to be unnecessary in my what-did-you-do summer essay. I reside in Sundridge with a 'd.' Had the original intention when this spot received incorporation in 1889 been to christen it 'Sunny Ridge?' According to the all-knowing and wise resource Wikipedia this is a possibility and that first 'd' resulted from a postal office error. A bureaucratic bungle could not be amended? How many citizens and visitors have asked, "What's a dridge?" Sundridge is classified as a village and according to the most recent census of 2021 938 persons call it home. Yep, it's not a bustling metropolis, not at all. Some may comment we reach the teeming category during the height of the summer tourist season. At that point the two-block long main street, known simply as Main Street, bulges with looky-loos demanding attention and first dibs on the scant parking spots. At one time I'd been one of those summer people, a terrorist tourist. My family chose to spend the short season of no snow camping in Sundridge. We'd visit my maternal grandparents themselves Sundridge transplants. We'd swim in Lake Bernard a body of freshwater with the distinction of existing with no island. Long ago, this same lake had been stuck with the name Stoney Lake. True locals mumble a more appropriate title should have been Leeches Lake. ( Not an attraction for tourists?) To be geographically accurate it should be Shallow Lake 'cause the sandbars create an extended area of wading depth water. I've often wondered if Bernard existed and if so did he know he'd become a lake? Nope, gold has never settled in our hills. We are no where near an ocean. Oil has never oozed. Maple sap does flow in the early Spring though. Black bears prowl in our forests and rummage through our landfills. Moose saunter along highways and pose for impressed gawkers. Our biting insects are second to none and they appreciate new blood. Occasionally an ambitious beaver will flood a road and destroy a bridge. In 1876, James Dunbar earned the honour of becoming the first settler and therefore he's considered the founder. The voracious blackflies and mosquitos did not drive him away. His new home became an extension of the Canadian National Railway, CNR, which completed this route in 1885. Freight trains still rumble through Sundridge, but the passenger service ended years ago. There has never been a train station, or depot. At one time, travellers would be dropped alongside the tracks. I imagine the early settlers were seeking farmland and abundant natural resources with which to build their homes. Logging still carries on today. Farming perseveres. The area is rich with underwater springs. Tourists are attracted year round, but more so in the summer. Industry? I am proud to say that Sundridge is more than a one-horse town. Many residents/riders own more than a single horse. Sundridge has always been a one elementary school village. Teen-aged students attend their high school in a nearby town. Three protestant religions erected churches with two still standing. At the moment, we have one grocery store and one bank. Two car dealerships boast Sundridge to be their homes. Restaurants come and go with a few managing to remain in business. For several years, the village has enjoyed the convenience of two traffic lights installed on the same stretch of road one entire block apart to coordinate traffic as a highway bypass was built. Now, Sundridge is no longer situated on Highway 11 and the vehicles are rerouted elsewhere. We have a new address without the hassle of a move. Sundridge claims to be a new section of Highway 124. Locals refer to it as "the one two four." Of course, it will never be "the real one two four." Nope. You can search to your heart's content, but you will not discover a mall, or fast food outlets. We do not have strip malls, but the closest we do have is a multi-unit building housing a few enterprises at ground level. High rises do not exist here. Not to deny progress, Sundridge lays claim to both an official website and a Facebook page. High speed internet access continues to expand. It's situated within driving distance to far bigger cities such as Toronto, otherwise known as the centre of the universe which is about three hours distant and Ottawa which is about five hours distant. We residents are free to wander off and return at our leisure. We choose to enjoy our rural lifestyle.( WORD COUNT: 951 minus the 68 prompt intro.?) |
| PROMPT November 30th Wow, it's the end of the month! With Thanksgiving behind us (here in the States), and Christmas on the horizon, what, if any, are your Christmas traditions? If you have no holiday traditions, do you have any plans for this month? Ah, yes, Christmas. I have it on good authority that it will be here before we know it. Peering out my window, the scene appears to be one from a typical Christmas movie. The silent street is shrouded by a thickening blanket of snow. No foot prints, or tire tracks are visible. A day of blizzard-like conditions have obliterated them. Flakes swirl faster and faster. Should I break out in a carol, or two?Snowflakes fall, are you listening? They're very white and they're glistening. It's the last day of November, snow's on the ground. People are bundled, muffled and bound. Today it is chilly, tomorrow might rain. Canadian weather is tough to explain. So, the appropriate setting is settling and reminding me to prepare. Tomorrow I may well choose to decorate. If my Mom was still alive, she'd have booked my seasonal services for the first. Somebody has to unpack and assemble the fake, no, as she'd insist 'artificial' tree. That same someone would lug several bins into her livingroom, unload the red, green, white, silver and gold contents onto all of the furniture, and re-pack them with the 'everyday' ornamentation. One immense bin sheltered all of the tree ornaments collected and reflective of her life. Then her assistant / chief decor engineer / elf , moi, would stoop, stretch and situate Christmas cheer at her direction. Every surface would be Christmas-ified. Grinning snowmen vied for elbow room with beaming angels, jolly Santas, prancing reindeer and magnificent blushing poinsettias. When satisfied, Mom perched amongst her own version of a Christmas display window. Her piece de resistance had to be the silver-filament tinsel she wished to have "artistically draped" everywhere. I disliked it and resorted to flinging handfuls which landed in glittery globs. Mom would sigh, recover those finicky, foil blobs and separate each shiny strand. That bit of Christmas haunted me. It clung to me with all its static might and hid about my jacket. So, traditions? As a family we loved creating Christmas crafts for each other. We'd paint discarded light bulbs and transform them into snowmen ornaments for our trees. With bits of coloured felt, ribbon, googly eyes and pipe cleaners we'd bring elves to life. Using our imaginations we'd envision Santas and reindeers rising from spools and corks. No two looked alike and each one gleamed with its own unique personality. One year, we played with clay, baking our decorations. Sometimes, we'd stitch holiday themed gifts such as place mats, towels and such. Another absolutely-must-do is baking. It wouldn't be Christmas without our favourites to stuff ourselves with. Almost every delectable treat is composed of chocolate to which we add nuts, cocoanut, caramel, and more. Cookies never go to waste, but meh, they may settle at our waists. Part of the process is the inevitable sampling. Over the years, we've assembled and decorated our fair share of gingerbread houses and figures. I suppose some now refer to them as 'gingerbread persons.' One Christmas, my youngest decided to mix up some gingerbread dough with my two eldest grand giggles. The three of them were perplexed by the dark brown, sticky substance that refused to be rolled out and stuck to everything. Flour swirled in the kitchen and dusted every surface as they tried to 'fix' the problem. After surveying their frustration, I troubleshooted. Aha, Danielle had misread the instructions using far too much molasses. The girls delighted in referring to this mess as 'poop.' Their aunt did not mince words. To a couple of gasps she declared the disaster to be 'shit.' Anywho, the poor kitchen table was never the same. It took days of vigorous scrubbing to remove most of the stain. So, tomorrow may be a great day to start preparing for Christmas. My apartment is not the most conducive space for a tree. Oh, I've dragged 'real' evergreens up the nineteen steps and squished them into my limited floor area. Each year I am amazed that the quivering tree has not fainted at the sight of my many decorations, or succumbed to fatigue from their amassed weight. A few times, I strung evergreen boughs across the doorways and pretended I had suspended mini trees from which to display my ornaments. In the past, I've contended with felines and kids who were fascinated with the Christmas tree. They've climbed the trunk. They've swung from the branches. They've pulled and stripped handfuls of needles. They've chosen ornaments to chew on, throw, dis-assemble, and kick. Ah, good times. Yes, tomorrow I may pull out my bins, blow off the dust, and resurrect some Christmas cheer. I'm not in a hurry to begin the baking of cookies though. They tend to tease and tantalize me. They know I cannot resist. I'm certain I will imbibe/ consume my fair share of Christmas calories when the time is right. |
| PROMPT November 29th Imagine for a moment that you are near the end of your life. What do you want to have done that would make you feel satisfied? What has brought me satisfaction? Well, I never sought a Nobel prize, or an Oscar, or any kind of recognition. The accomplishment that has made me proud is the raising of my family. I birthed, supported and nurtured three children and that feat satisfies me. I managed to keep them alive until they could and did fend for themselves. To that end, I enabled them to be independent, fully functioning adults. They learned that if they wanted something the only way to achieve it was to work towards it. Nothing is free. I believe I served as an example not to take one's self and life too seriously. Go with the flow sometimes. Not everything can, or should be controlled, planned, stilted by regimen. It's more than okay to trip, stumble, falter and experience self-doubt. Get up and try again. No one keeps score. Humour is a godsend, a tool, a relief. I never tolerated any disrespect from them, or the slinging of it to anyone else. No one is superior. We all struggle at times and we all suffer occasionally. Be kind. Be patient . Be accepting. Those three incredible children must have matured relatively unscathed. Two of them have taken the chance, rolled the dice, stepped off into an abyss themselves. They conducted their own procreation and now experience all it is to be a parent. That they are confident enough to embark upon this adventure satisfies me. By the time I depart this spinning planet I plan to have enjoyed my journey with my hubby. Everyday I will have reminded him we made the right decision for us to become partners. Love and respect do not diminish with age. I want to prove I have no regrets whatsoever and that I never pined for a different life. Basically, I want to have loved and be loved in return to feel satisfied. |
| November 28th Prompt: Write about something intangible: faith, magic, energy, power, or creativity. Just choose one topic and write about it. I have never claimed to be in cahoots with a muse. Nothing so intangible has whispered in my ear, nudged me, poked or prodded me, kicked me, swatted me over the head, or cajoled me. No angels have chosen to perch upon my shoulders vying for my undivided attention either. Creativity, my creativity is an idea, an idea that pops into my consciousness often unbidden. Sometimes, it's a flash, a spark of inspiration. It may be initiated by memories, or the cadence of words, or snippets of conversation, or observations, or the challenge of a random prompt. I like to attempt to capture a moment and preserve it. Of course with writing there are many variations , themes, and approaches. Playing with word combos is fun. Once in a while the evolving stories niggle at me and refuse to be ignored. I do not always heed them and choose to engage in more practical, necessary pursuits such as sleeping. Why do I believe I can escape the chain of descriptions, dialogue, and settings tumbling in my brain? They persist. They clamour. "Do we have an idea, or two for you. Is this a good time? Listen. We are just brimming." I toss. I turn. To shush them I stumble from my bed in search of a pen and a notebook. As I scribble I exorcise the insistent bits of rambling. With a sigh, I flick off the lamp, punch my pillow and will myself to relax. Too often, those impish ideas are not finished torturing me. The construct of time ceases to impress when I am immersed and bobbing along. Putting pen to paper does not necessarily mean writing. I enjoy doodling and sketching, too. The challenge is to merge lines into something, anything. Creativity is flexible and portable. It follows wherever I go.Now if it would just leave me in peace to sleep. |
| PROMPT November 27th Things have progressed well in your town/city with the Pandemic. So well that you've been allowed to return to the office instead of working from home. Your co-worker Karly, is sneezing and coughing and refuses to wear a mask. Who do you call, or do you let it slide. Tell us why you would act that way. First of all, I wish to know why Karly is at the office when she is clearly ill. Is she indispensable? Could she not contribute via e-mail, messaging, Zooming, a simple phone conference? Does our company not pay for sick days? Perhaps poor Karly is a mother with ill offspring at home and the only place she can be sick herself in peace without constant demands is at the distinctly kid-free office. If she's going to be miserable, why not be miserable in a setting of her choosing? It could be one less headache for her. I'm not panicking and presuming Karly has Covid. There are a plethora of germs and viruses floating around ready and willing to pounce. She may well be suffering with a cold. It is still a common illness especially in workplace settings. So, she is sneezing and coughing? I'd be willing to bet she is congested, too. Her head probably feels like it is so full it'll explode. Her nose is an annoying non-stop dripping faucet. Yep, she should be at home, quarantined with her own incubating symptoms, but... The reality remains that Karly is present in the office. Sharing her germs. Probably contagious. Startling the rest of us with her explosive sneezes and raspy hacking. We wince. We cringe. We worry. When will I catch this? How productive could any of us possibly be in this atmosphere? I commiserate with the whole wearing-a-mask 'thing.' I do. I for one would not like to detonate a mucous bomb inside a mask. Ew! When I last endured a cold breathing proved difficult. My blocked nasal passages could not inhale enough oxygen and so, I resorted to mouth breathing / gasping. I can't imagine this would be ideal confined, inhibited by a mask. I'd be barricaded behind my mask and my stalwart desk armed with a bottle of hand sanitizer. I'd shoo Karly away. I'd send paper airplane messages soaring to her desk with encouraging words. Karly, save yourself and us. Go home! Take your illness de jour with you. It's not you, it's your germs we dislike. We care about you. Do you not care for us? P.S. Take the tissues. They're contaminated now. We have more in the supply cabinet. Wait, I have a boss and as such is he/she not mandated to be a problem solver, a leader, a decision maker? I suppose I would initiate a formal complaint requesting Karly be ordered to go home. It's not personal. It is a work safety issue. |
| PROMPT November 26th Today is Thanksgiving here in the United States. I know this is the prompt for tomorrow, but I'm going to give you something to be thankful for. The prompt for tonight is to be yourself. Write whatever is on your mind. Provide your own prompt, so-to-speak. I look forward to reading your posts! Someone, somewhere not too distant has been singing, "let it snow." I hope they're happy, ecstatic, delirious with their fresh, white powder. I picture that deluded individual rolling in the snow and heaving armfuls into the air as the flakes cascade onto their upturned face. Their cheeks are flushed and rosy. A grin of delight is frozen upon their visage. They flutter lashes sparkling and wet. I suspect they've already created a snowman and named it. A few innocents have probably been pummeled by icy snowballs. Most likely they were warmly attired, specifically choosing to pull on mittens. Yep, the first significant accumulation has blown into town. It's not as if winter hadn't planned to arrive. It blasts its way into my life every year about this time. It is nothing if not predictable. I'd prepared for this imminent arrival. My trusty vehicle is outfitted with snow tires, its oil changed, and a few snow brushes / ice scrapers are tucked into the hatch. A pair of boots have been tripping me near the front door. I mended a winter-weight jacket with an annoying tear of the liner in a sleeve and laundered another one. All this and I forgot something, an important something. Today, I lumbered down the nineteen steps that lead to street level balancing a bulging laundry hamper on one hip. Before my descent, I'd pulled on those waiting boots and shrugged into the repaired jacket. Of course, I'd been aware of the swirling whiteout clearly visible from an upstairs window. I anticipated digging out my car and defrosting it. I knew from experience that this requires time and muscle. I yanked open a door reluctant to do so due to a heavy layer of ice. I wrestled a snow brush out from the hatch and began sweeping a blanket of snow from my vehicle. I had to return to the hatch for a brush with an ice scraper. I succeeded in transferring most of the snow from my car to my coat. I did all of this without mittens. Yep, I'd forgotten to swath my poor bare hands in a protective, warm barrier. Stubborn, not relishing a climb back up the stairs and thinking I was already committed, I carried on. I may well have come close to frostbite. As a direct result of my carelessness, I've remembered in vivid, painful detail the incredible pain snow inflicts upon exposed skin. This is a repressed memory from my childhood. I replicated that unfortunate sensation today. My red, raw , frozen fingers turned numb until I attempted to warm them in the car. Oh, there is nothing like that stabbing, throbbing, pins-and-needles which signals a return of circulation. Lesson learned? Do not venture forth without hand wear. Tomorrow I will stash several pairs of mitts in my chariot. Maybe I should throw in a scarf and a chapeau, too. |
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