Waaaay Bigger

We never predicted anything like this. Seriously. The whole movement has taken on a life of its own and we are planning for a type of town hall meeting in a few weeks where politicians will be invited to answer questions from seniors.

We have a federal election coming up so this is all very timely.

I have been exhausted from the interviews and talks and planning and responding and dealing with those who want instant answers and telling me how to run the group in no uncertain terms and quite aggressively.

I am learning so much and was let down quite badly by one interviewer (radio) who distorted my words. He wanted me back to the studio with a few more seniors to interview but I am x-naying that due to lack of trust. Lesson learned: Tape my own audio along with theirs.

I've booked beach time with family tomorrow, it would be good to see little ones with buckets and spades and sand-castles and I will knit, as I always do, on the beach. And we will picnic.

I ordered a pink cardigan on line, on sale. Do you ever do spontaneous shopping like that? It's effortless and immediate. i thought the cardie looked lonely and realized before I pushed buttons that I didn't have a pinkish scarf (I'm a mad one for the scarves, alright) out of this enormous collection of scarves I have, so ordered another sale item: a black floaty scarf with large pink flowers. Then those charcoal grey socks looked comfy and then there was a grey bra, I'v never owned a grey bra and it matched those socks - I know irrelevant so there you have it. The basket. On its way.

I've never been a pink girlie person, never, so this should be interesting. I loved the lines of the cardie and every other colour had sold out. (Ha!). But I remember, of all things, my sister=in-law's mother wearing a lovely pink cardie over a grey turtleneck with matching grey linen pants and I thought she looked stunning.

This is inside the mind of a person completely bowled over by all that is happening around her who wants to run for the hills. But grips her computer and credit card tightly and clicks on silly things.

Notoriety and Backlash of Unwashed Dishes

So the media coverage on this has been phenomenal and we will be featured in a TV programme airing tonight.

We are prepping for the official launch tomorrow and more elders in poverty are coming forward with their stories.

So I'm keeping you all in the loop, my dear blog buds.

I completely forgot to take pics of the camera crew and set up of the 2 hour interview yesterday. Swept up in all the attention and trying to remember how to speak my words. This has been bigger than we ever hoped to achieve.

Today we rehearse and gather our props (more on that later) and gear and handouts and organize the presentation in both a humourous and heart plucking way. Difficult. More on that when it is behind us.

But meanwhile, here are the two piles of dishes that were bathed in my loving suds this morning.

So very grounding.

So very real.

Oh Me Nerves!

We launch our Support our Seniors activist group this Thursday. The preparation has been exhausting and exhilarating all at once. I curse my mobility issues at times. I want to be bouncing around as in the olden days, plastering up posters and engaging citizens on this crisis of seniors (mainly women) living below the poverty line.

I launched the Facebook page. I prepared posters both large and small. My partner in crime secured all the links for our data, oh the statistical data. Binders and binders of it. She did the running around to community centres and grocery stores slapping them up. A younger media savvy friend gave me every single media contact she had in her precious index.

Grandgirl designed the logo. Isn't it smashing? Sinking below the wave of poverty with a lifebelt hovering above out of reach.

Do you think T-shirts are called for?

Some of the seniors in my building are energized with this, like they've come to life outside of the cliquey, gossipy circles in the gardens and community rooms. This can only be a good thing. We've deliberately held some of our meetings, including a rehearsal, in the building and I can see them lurking and listening from the balcony. (We truly have a gorgeous building and gardens, I must take photos)

So fingers crossed, I won't be webbing much in the next few days apart from wrangling new members for our FB group, but I'll get around to reading y'all soon.

I found this meme on the web and it speaks to my heart.

Most Popular Post of All Time

I think I've been blogging for about 15 years, I should check.

And I've written about a mish-mash of topics, some serious, some not.

But by far my most popular post of all time is this.

I know.

Shocking, right?

Words for Wednesday

This week's words are hosted by River. Go visit her and see what others are up to.

Here are the words:

This week's prompts are:

1. peril*
2. coral*
3. sure*
4. rocky*
5. lampshades*
6. furious immobility*

Along with a photo of a trail which River herself has walked.

George, I'm getting fed up with Mother. You know how that is. She keeps reliving the glory days of the one time she completed the 100 metre dash in the Olympics for France. She didn't even place, but it made her an expert on all things running, hiking, walking and marathoning.

Let's face it, George, I was a disappointment to her. I was the type of athlete that fell over her own shoelaces. I tried, of course, in my teenage years, but I'm more the intellectual type as you know. The fact that I'm a physicist Mother finds so amusing. She's always apologizing for the way I've turned out.

Now that she's in the wheelchair, I guess you could say she's sure in a permanent state of furious immobility. She always dresses in her favourite coral tracksuits and I have to wheel her out every day onto the rocky trail near the home. But not before she demands her "perils". Mother has never mastered the English language even though she moved to the UK long before I was born. So I fetch her pearls for her and place them around her neck. Incongruous really with the track suit. Then I have to make sure she wears that ridiculous lampshade of a hat, that huge purple beast, so that the sun won't damage her perfect skin. You could at least take your turn doing all this, George. Stop avoiding her. And me.

Honestly, George, it's a miracle I don't upend that wheelchair and let it slide down the cliff.

No one would be any the wiser.

Sunday Smatterings

Of cabbages and kings....

I put all names in the hat to receive my cards and bonus, added another card so extracted 6 names rather than 5.

So here they are:

Cup on the Bus
River
Gigi from Hawaii
Twilight
Tom (Sightings)
DKZ

I am also sending one to Elephant's Child in thanks for her mailing a beautiful Monet bookmark and card to me ( I have your address EC).

So please, send me your snail mail addies ASAP to wisewebwomanatgmaildotcom. You know what to do with those ats and dots.

In other news the show was a roaring success, sold out both shows. I can't tell you how thrilled I was to be back on stage again but more so it was around the special type of energy that only a theatre crew can produce, it is highly intimate and gratifying.

My birthday was wonderful in every way. I do wish I had more energy, I know this seems like a constant bleat from me but hell, aging, winding down, you know. One of my siblings sent me the most wonderful email and I will treasure it. As some of my family of origin need some massive healing this meant more than I can say. It's never too late to "do the work" as a wonderful shaman once told me. And it is good and rewarding work to throw out the old patterns and embrace the joy.

A dear friend treated me to the most wonderful gift, a writers' festival weekend in Cape Breton. The brochure above has a painting done of her thirty years ago. This painting will be auctioned off at the end of the festival. The painter has dementia now, a beautiful talented woman with that wonderful long flowing white hair many of us desire in elderhood but are rarely gifted with.

I decided to fly. I've been adverse to flying for a few years now. I don't truly know why. Grandgirl convinced me as did my generous friend. One of those elder "notions". I can get assistance, and it's not about that, truly. It's the airport and cramped seats and overall discomfort and herding cattle atmosphere. Anyone else feel like that or is it just moi? I mean I'd fly at the drop of a hat before but now it's with a feeling of dread.

So onward as I embrace the new year for me ahead. We just never know, do we, what lies ahead and that's a very good thing, I would think.

Words for Wednesday

This week's words are hosted by River. Go visit her and see what others are up to.

Here are the words:

1. "then I was going to bed, where I planned to stay until Christmas"
2. "I'm always careful," I said calmly, stepping straight into a puddle.

And here is the picture:

I'd suspected he hadn't been paying attention to me for quite a while. When we travelled to Lucezia, his idea, backpacks, keeping it simple, hostel staying, his ignoring of me got worse. He was preoccupied. But not in an attractive, intellectual way. More like his face wore a permanent 'I'm not with her' grimace walking way ahead or way behind me. I thought he might be going deaf. I began to test the waters, so to speak.

Like walking along Gallery Lane, I started talking away to him.

"I think I might be six months pregnant," I announced.

"If you insist," he responded, in this dead flat voice, and stopped in front of the ice-cream booth, not looking at me as usual.

"I'm always careful" I said calmly, stepping straight into a puddle, deliberately splashing mud and petrol all over his fine khaki pants. He didn't even notice.

He bought himself a gelati and started licking it absently as he walked away from me. Like I wasn't there. Like I never had been there.

"Stop!" I screamed after his retreating back, his muddy pants. He ignored me. As always.

I ran to catch up, it wasn't hard, slightly uphill.

I wasn't through with him yet. Not by a long shot. For now, I would try once more to connect with him, then I was going to bed, where I planned to stay until Christmas.

I miss him so. My grave is a very lonely place.

Back on the Boards

My attention here will be sporadic as I have two performances coming up. Yay! - we sold out the first show but the toll on this old body will be what it is.

Along with that there is a Lughnasadh party on Friday which will be attended by my local coven including Daughter. Co-incidentally it's on my birthday, which will mark 76 turns around the sun completed.

On top of that we have the ongoing preparation for our Seniors' Activism Group and then the grand media announcement/press release, with a number of demands on government to ease the plight of so very many senior women living well below the poverty line. That is all geared towards August 29th. It was supposed to be at City Hall but hey, no parking, no access for disabilities and unbelievable liability insurance for a 2 hour gathering, no assistance with put up and tear down of tables, chairs and mikes. Our tax dollars at work. We were furious but will expose all that at a later date. For the moment we concentrate on rallying senior anarchists. We are now looking towards hosting this at a kindly nearby church.

Plans are afoot for September, a trip out here by a couple of dear friends, we should be able to spend 4 days together before they tour the rest of the province, a weekend away on a knitting retreat on Bell Island with my niece - another avid knitter - and then a week away in Cape Breton Island with another friend whom I stayed with last year. I'm beginning to haunt her, I'll have to watch that.

So all in all some lovely plans. I am learning to pace myself. I turned down a studio TV interview tomorrow morning as I knew I would be zapped for the rest of the day and my performance would suffer.

I'm senioring quite responsibly these days.

Free Floating Fridays

I have my new card in at the printers.

(My name has been removed from both for anonymous blog purposes).


This is the picture.

This is the story poem that goes with it on the back of the card:

Faded Blue

Memories escaping
From tired windows,
The brooding chimney
And silent doors.

Music, feasting,
Laughing, storytelling
Now tumbling across
The sunny meadow

Seeking a new home.

(An abandoned house in Pouch Cove, NL, Canada.)

Please note the inside of the card is blank.


I hold the odd giveaway here in gratitude to so many of you.

If you would like me to snail mail you one of these cards, please let me know in comments or email me at wisewebwomanatgmaildotcom.

I will draw 5 names next week.

Words for Wednesday

This month's W4W are being hosted by River. Thank you River! You can find her here. Please visit and see what others are doing with the words and maybe join in yourself. It's a lot of fun cranking up the writerly wheels.

Here are the words:

1. derision*
2. mendacious*
3. plethora*
4. manuscripts*
5. unfamiliar*
6. gently*

and/or:

1. vaguely*
2. expression*
3. ornamental*
4. peppermint*
5. spinning*
6. narrowed*

And this is a picture to go with them:

He left the building and discovered his legs couldn't quite hold him up. The day had been so full of promise and expectation and now this crushing disappointment. So he sat down abruptly on the bench outside, throwing his portfolio underneath and fishing a used drink-cup out of the garbage can next to him so he would look like he was busy and not seething and shaking internally. He glanced upwards again at the fourth floor of the publishing house and found the peppermint coloured ornamental blind he had sat next to as the two editors sliced and diced his work.

Maybe the publisher was unfamiliar with his type of manuscript? Surely Gothic-Crime-Romance-Anime was a recognized style? But to be met by derision and a plethora of vaguely hostile narrow-eyed expressions? What was all that about?

His head was spinning. He was grateful to his uncle for setting up the interview with his college friend the publisher. But he hadn't anticipated such mendacious behaviour.

He sighed deeply and collected his portfolio from under the bench.

"Grant? Your name's Grant?" Her voice was low and gentle. Ah, the pretty receptionist from the lobby. He nodded.

She looked around her carefully and then sat down next to him.

"I was the first reader of your work cos I'm training to be an editor," she whispered in a rush, "And I believe you have terrific talent. These guys you met today? They steal a lot of ideas from young writers like you and pass them on to TV studios for production and compensation. But," and here she stopped and handed him a business card, "Here's the contact info for my sister, who's a literary agent. You call her and tell her I sent you. You need to be published and stop this thievery!"

Sunday Smatterings

Two words I don't see anymore and I am sure the two generations in my life don't know their meanings.

I remember a counterpane on my grandparents' bed.

What a wonderful word.

coun·ter·pane
/ˈkoun(t)ərˌpān/
Learn to pronounce
nounDATED
a bedspread.
synonyms: bedspread, cover, coverlet, throw-over, blanket, afghan, quilt; More
++++++++

There was crockery in their simple homemade cupboard beside the open range.

crock·er·y
/ˈkräk(ə)rē/
Learn to pronounce
noun
plates, dishes, cups, and other similar items, especially ones made of earthenware or china.
synonyms: dishes, pots, crocks, plates, bowls, cups, saucers; More
+++++++++
My daughter's cat Mango. He has a full time job catching mice and shrews for his bosses, the local crows, who scream and yell at him if they are not happy with his overnight haul. He crashes out during the day, exhausted. The odd time, he talks back at them in a strange chirpy language they seem to understand and they shut up. We like to imagine what he says.

+++++++++
The last time I was in Paris I took this picture from the wee balcony of our tiny hotel. Some pictures bring back a flood of memories. This one does it for me.

Free Floating Fridays

I've never fit the mold, always chafed against the grain, railed against the "rules" of male and female behaviour, the so-called gender wars, that artificial societal construct which keeps us all firmly in pink and blue, dresses and lumberjack outfits, pearls and guns, advanced mathematics or home economics. (whatever do they call that now?). And effing well knowing our places in a civilized society. I am still looking for mine. Maybe it's because I'm not civilized in the traditional sense. No time for small talk, even less for braggadocios of whom many exist in my family of origin. Mainly of the male persuasion.

It was such a relief to be with one of my Sheilas last week as we share a lot of giggles over the behaviours of our family when we get together. The men never cease bragging loudly and long. If an emotion escapes in the room it is quickly stamped out. The men can swiftly round on us, the single spinstery women, with pitying glances. We can't afford the multiple cruises, or the wealthy clubs, or the endless travel hither and yon, hotels compared knowingly for the quality of spas and steaks. We live in poverty. But, and here's the codicil, it's all our own fault. We should have been nicer to the fellahs who would have taken proper care of us. We're not nice, you see. We don't tumble into that gender slot where the demure wee elderly attached "girls" peep out now and again to approve of the above mentioned luxurious life styles and vote as their fellahs do. "Sure he does all the thinking for us, it's grand." We are expected to admire the expensive dresses, the costly tans, the talking fridges, the marble floors.

I may sound bitter, I am far from it. Sheila and I laughed until we were sick. How we put in what we called "purgatory time" under the harsh glare of our families, she more than me as they live closer and drop in and judge her or broadcast of German river runs, Greek islands and Amazon tours. We exchanged tips on how to respond to the bragging when addressed directly. "Nice", "Interesting," were the favourites.

We also make excellent targets if we bring up the Family Dysfunction. We are immediately shouted down, told never to open those particularly doors even though most in the room could use massive therapy and unwittingly display it with endless loud hostilities towards the One Who Dared mention it.

It's such a comfort when you know you're not alone in a baffling universe not of your own making. Where everything is so superficial and Trump's not a bad fellah and climate change is for stupid arseholes who believe anything. If you believed in God you'd know that He wouldn't let anything bad happen to his creation. QED.

A "normal" male cousin, who's had the therapy and whose heart is open, sent me a long email during the week and enclosed a picture taken when I was around 7. Our two mothers (sisters) are at the back. And our families side by side in age as we were then. I had forgotten I wore corrective lenses for a few years.