Random thoughts from an older perspective, writing, politics, spirituality, climate change, movies, knitting, writing, reading, acting, activism focussing on aging.
I MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING SO REALITY DOES NOT DESTROY ME.
Joining with many others in this feast of forgotten, overlooked and meaningful photos. Here are some participants:River is one, Andrew is one. Messymimi is one. Kylie is another. Drop in to their blogs and have a look.
It's hard to capture the amount of snow here but out today, with the sun shining (and melting), this is the side of the parking lot.
Daughter, granddaughter and grandson-in-law and I had a treasured trip here a few years back. It's a remote island off a remote island and the lit up cottage is where we stayed. I bought the prints and daughter framed the three. Reflections are unfortunate but at least you see the house.
The top one is mine from the last place I lived, and the bottom is an oil painting of the colours of Ukraine when an artist friend was raising funds for this fierce, brave country. I won the bid.
Stuffs as Andrew would call this collection in my hall. And this is only the half of it.
Do cushions breed? Asking for a friend.
River posted a picture of her shower curtain so I'm posting a picture of mine. The bathroom is done up in that turquoise blue you see on the whale. We are in whale country here. My bathroom is also an art gallery of treasured wee pictures too. But that will be for another week.
The above is my morning mantra along with "Pull yourself together and get on with it."
This is one of those freaky morning shots where I caught the reflection of my wee indoor garden on my TV screen and it looked like a painting.
This was yesterday outside my building and it got worse.
But the sun just came out and all is well. I just heard from my doctor and I'm scheduled for another iron infusion. But I'm fairly stable otherwise, kidney function up and down, which is the pattern now. I feel fortunate I have lived this long.
And I look around the building here and wonder if I would switch places with anyone else and the answer is no.
Grandgirl is showing me the finer points of AI. And I am curious and will remain so about this world and the universe as long as I am able. I stay engaged politically and pull away now and again when it gets painful and horrifying.
I have enormous compassion for my USian friends as I read the insane rantings from their leader and the absolute freedom he has to crime all he wishes without consequence as he loots the treasury. Unaccountable to anyone. I wish I believed in an afterlife and hell for this creature.
I am grateful to live in this wonderful country of ours and even more grateful I live way out on the edge of it on a rock in the wild Atlantic. Like an afterthought. But a lovely one.
I haul that word out now and again. A perfect descriptor of moments, of little memories, of slivers of gratitude. A word used a lot in the Ireland I grew up in.
I had what I call a "shyte day" yesterday. I cancelled a physical therapy session as the chair yoga I had been doing caught up with me and I literally had pain from top to toe. Add this to the ongoing back misery and I was unfit for just about everything. But so grateful I had purchased a huge quantity of prepared salads a few days ago as I was way beyond cooking anything. Sobeys do the most amazing salads and include protein of all kinds, chicken, fish, hardboiled eggs and a huge quantity of various vegetables. A good ol' Canadian chain. Founded when God was an altar boy. An elder's gift for prepped meals.
But today is a cherish the moments kind of day. Pain has taken a mini-vacation and as much as I despise the unpredictability of each day from a mobility perspective, I grab the ones which don't get in the way of any kind of enjoyment.
I actually have a "visitor" coming today. A friend I haven't seen in a while. I avoid such encounters when I am in the misery of pain and discomfort. Who wants to listen and observe others struggling?
I'm listening to some lovely music (music of my life) which has carried me through challenges and grief and all the ills us humans suffer.
And the moments we cherish and can relive at the touch of a button. I hope you enjoy this duet from The Pearl Fishers.
Joining with many others in this feast of forgotten, overlooked and meaningful photos. Here are some participants:River is one, Andrew is one. Messymimi is one. Kylie is another. Drop in to their blogs and have a look.
I'm under the wire here, barely making Sunday.
Just finished this 440 page charmer of a book about a gay artist who inspires a young homeless girl. It's beautifully written and had me crying a few times.
A Valentine's Card from the management of my building with a personal handwritten message inside. Very touching.
Daughter brought me this pen back from her trip to Scotland last year. I feel important when I write with it. Which is like every day.
My new knitting bag. Knitted, of course.
And I've been longing for one of these for a while, working in two colours. Handcrafted and gorgeous. No more balls rolling all over the floor.
A close up of my Hyacinth which brought me such joy.
Enjoy your week my dear readers as we cruise into Spring here and into Autumn for my readers in Oz.
Joining with many others in this feast of forgotten, overlooked and meaningful photos. Here are some participants:River is one, Andrew is one. Messymimi is one. Kylie is another. Drop in to their blogs and have a look.
The simple things.
I like these clever cartoons.
A bowl of blackberries for breakfast this morning,
I gifted these two dishcloths I recently knitted yesterday. They last forever and never hold an odour.
I gifted myself this lovely wee hyacinth yesterday.
I gifted myself a sit-by-the-ocean-and-nothing-yourself for a long time yesterday. I call days like these #40shadesofblue.
I glanced out my window the other night. I was struck by this oul fellah struggling along on his cane to the requisite 25 feet from our building. Snow was coming down fast, the plows had been around three times already.
He balanced himself carefully on the stick and lit up. Rules are no smoking in the building or within 25 feet of it. The rule is taken seriously. Even when you're dying of lung cancer.
As he is.
As a recovered nicotine addict (2 packs a day when it was allowed everywhere even on planes and post partum in the maternity wing - yeah, I know, appalling breathing smoke on our newborns, you would be dumbfounded if you saw a photo of back then, I do have one somewhere) I sympathize with him. We attribute my late brother's death to tobacco, he had quit for years and then went back for about 10 years which, I believe, nailed him to the cross of cancer.
All 6 of us siblings were smokers and quit along the way. My own withdrawal (no medical support back then, 38 years ago) was so terrible I knew I could never smoke again as I would never quit again.
This poor fellah tried to quit. I just know he did. All smokers do whether they say so or not. And now, in his late sixties he's dying one of the worst kind of deaths. Fighting for breath, plugging in tanks, yearning for the one thing that would bring him a comfort he defines.
Yeah. I'm so sad for him.
PS I can't post this on local social media as many would know him.
So there you have it, the list of books read or dropped (DNF) for 2025. Rated with 5 for superb and thus downward. At my advanced age I don't have time for books not to my interest anymore. Our Annual Jolabokaflod (literally book flood) celebrated at Solstice/Christmas yields treasures for the year ahead. We put great thought into our book selections for those we love. So these gifts are treasured and endure. And it has the added bonus of taking all the angst out of the seasonal gift madness.
I also get quite a few books out of my local library which also has access to multiple libraries across Canada and will haul in any special request for me along with holding book requests (best sellers) for me. It's always lovely getting to know your local librarian and to be greeted by name when you walk in. They also offer a delivery to my home for the mobility challenged. When I lived in the outports they had a books by mail service until I founded the library in my town back then which still flourishes.
Below is the haul of unread treasures from this past Jolabokaflod, I have read a few already.
Let me know if you have questions on the 2025 books or share your own favourite reads of the past year. I do recommend keeping a book journal. I have done this forever, it seems.
Joining with many others in this feast of forgotten, overlooked and meaningful photos. Here are some participants:River is one, Andrew is one. Messymimi is one. Kylie is another. Drop in to their blogs and have a look.
I love my indoor garden. These orchids are a constant source of joy as they take turns blooming. This one has 8 more buds and the blooms last as long as 3 months.
Dinner dropped off by a caring friend during the week. I am forever grateful to those who understand my frequent (far too) immobilizations and endeavour to cheer me. And they do. Food is such a visible expression of love.
I keep this prettily framed photo of my last four-legged companion, Ansa, on my desk. You can see the love in her eyes here. She was a never ending source of inspiration to me. A beloved rescued border collie and constant companion.
This is part of the tiny fishing village of Quidi Vidi (pronounced kiddy viddy) which is part of the city of St. John's near my home. An enchanting wee place.
It's hard to maintain a balance in life, especially once we get older. I believe, also, that the advancing years can make us more impatient, more immediate in demands, more hurt by invisibility and lonelier as dear ones die.
I remember being at a gathering many years ago where we were asked individually what troubles we carried into the room. And we all got very honest and shared exactly what we were worried or grieved or in grief about.
And at the end of the evening we were all asked what troubles we would exchange with anyone else in that big room. And the answers were we would prefer to keep our own, thank you very much. Incredibly revealing.
It reminds me also of our human habit of comparing our insides to someone else's outsides. "They look happy all the time, what not me?" being a classic. Many project happiness and carry sorrow within. I know I've done it.
I remember this jolly older man, always joking, a little flirty and one time he shared with me that all three of his sons had committed suicide over the past 10 years. Yet there he was, doing his best, getting on with it and probably crying into his pillow at night. Books and covers come to mind and speaking of......
I'm reading this wonderful biography of an actor I've always admired. And he is a classic example of being wretched for years and wearing a sense of uselessness and stupidity (reinforced by his father) and letting that define his persona. How he surmounts many challenges is inspiring.
I took this photo out my living room window tonight. the white bit at the top of the pictures is an overhang of snow from the roof above, dangling like a canopy.
And finally a pic of my supper, one I make frequently as it is so easy. A tortilla in a pie plate, throw in 3 eggs and some cottage cheese, whisk, add layer of spinach leaves and chopped red pepper, cover in shredded cheese (I use parmesan) and bake in preheated oven 425 degrees for 20-ish minutes, depending on the cottage cheese amount. Does me two meals. It reheats well in the oven. Micro would make it too wimpy.
I was playing this album for the umpteenth time today and had this heart stopping moment when I realized I fell in love with it 55 years ago!!
Which got me thinking of other songs, other albums other earth shaking moments of music. 62 years ago I heard this. I was 19. A man (boy?) I dated for a while (oh what a handsome fellah, from Liverpool, attending our university in Cork) who gave me a copy of this from one of his friends, John Lennon, from around the corner from his home). A brand new sound, no idea of the upcoming fame to come.
And then the song my father sang me every night (I was an only child for a while) and I loved it and still do. I am sure I drove him mad, night after night. "Singie Kacky, Daddy" was my first complete sentence. The song was "I'll take you home again, Kathleen".
And oh my God, when I was searching for it on line I found this: Elvis Presley sang his own version of it. WT...?
But this fellow below does a version very close to my father's, he was a fine tenor, my dad. Frank Patterson. Very pure. over 80 years ago when I heard this song first.
Don will never read this. He is basically fairly illiterate. He comes from a very well do to family who have given up on him through many rehabs, handouts, and giving up between bouts of giving in.
When he lived here I gave him the odd job of cleaning off my car from snow and ice. And doing a fine job if it was in the mornings, which it usually was. And gave him the odd handout and then stopped realizing I was enabling him. He often took my garbage out to the big bin and I'd slip him a five. If he was passing, he took my groceries up from my car. There was a great kindness in him. Sometimes he refused a tip, waving me off.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, his behaviour when he was drunk with other tenants in the community rooms was often aggressive and confrontational and threatening. Too many times. So his tenancy was terminated. And the management found him another placement in a building they have for troubled and addicts. He was brokenhearted leaving here, last September. But most of those who were involved in community activities were relieved. Understandably.
I open my door today and in the hall with my boots was a stuffed green bag and a card.
From Don.
It was packed to the brim with either gifts he had been given - warm gloves, a beanie, socks, soaps, deodorant, toothpicks, toothpaste, toothbrush, or freebies from motel rooms. You get the picture. Small packages of treats, a travel kit.
And I broke down and cried.
This is one of the the most wonderful gifts I've ever been given. And as I write this, I'm still bawling my eyes out. The time, the effort, the lovely card, his access to our building. His walk from where he lived.
He had no way with words did Don. He was a pretty broken man from the booze and whatever pain he suffered in his life. I will never forget him.
You're a star Don. And a gentleman. And you will never know it.
.....As we used to call this time. The time of "Santy", the time of anticipation, a mad excitement infecting all of us - as children, then as parents, and, if lucky, as grandparents.
I was chatting with a dear friend this morning when it struck us both that these feelings are now absent. I said, and meant it, I think I'd prefer if I was alone, to savour some memories, to play my own music, to not worry if I am unable to leave the family parties early as I don't drive at night, to just work on making myself smaller, more invisible in the excitement around me. To forget, if I can, the constant pain punching in my back lately which makes me sleep deprived and balancing pain meds so I don't zombie out but find that delicate balance of pain reduction while still being alert.
I received a lot of cards but didn't have the energy to send out any this year. I become stingy with meting out my energy, some days I use it only for medical appointments, this past week it was a sleep management expert and a calibration of my home BP kit which was reflecting high BP for the past couple of months but at the clinic was proved false. I'm within normal for my age and condition.
I miss the old guard of my friends, now passed on or in brain deterioration of some kind. One in terrible depression.
I tried to keep up with Grandgirl who stayed with me for a few days. She is wonderful company and we "Swifted" out together watching the Taylor Swift documentary. If I were younger, I would be one of those mad fans at her concerts. Maybe I could get an obliging young 'un to push me in a wheelchair? Worth a thought, right?
So a selection of random photos to Celebrate Sunday Selections and to remember dear Sue, what an awful loss. She lives on in so many of us.
A "boreen" (little road) from West Cork, Ireland. Undated. Taken about 20 years ago.
Another one of a boreen on Sherkin Island that I took. I had frameable prints made of this for all my siblings. John Willie was the famous ferryman who was drunk quite a lot and assigned a passenger to take his boat over to the island. At the age of 13 I was so designated one night. In a storm.
A view from the front of my building where you can see both the lake and the ocean in the distance.
May the season be kind to you and those you love and the coming light dispel any darkness or distress.🌲❄️🎅
A longish post dear readers but I could have tripled the size. Count your blessings 🤣💕
Peter Paul and Mary sang it best. "We are only one river."
One
can make the most of it or the worse of any situation. Choice, I know
is a facile word. And sometimes overwhelming situations remove the luxury
of choice.
I’m
in that mode where I find I shut myself off from the old protestations of
others’ entrenched, harmful positions on race and emigration and
the othering of peoples they don’t even know and if presented with
an opportunity, would turn away in disgust.
When
such people are in your own circle it makes things challenging for an
old woman, whose voice is often discounted. Who is basically
invisible to most now apart from her own generation who often sigh,
accept the inevitability of aging and keeping their mouths shut just
get on with it
Old
hippies should simply fade away. We should stop spouting tolerance or
compassion or empathy for those “others”.
And mother of god shut up about that wokey stuff.
I
have learned most from talking to strangers. From my brave delivery
people who bring in my groceries, clean my home, deliver my medications, take my laundry and
return it pristine and folded. Some are young. Some are refugees from
appalling war-zones, starvation and threat. Eking out a living in a
new country, struggling with English, hoping for a better life,
taking menial jobs. One I have been blessed to know is from a
“shithole” country as the Fat Felon likes to call them. He is
taking classes, drives for DoorDash in his cousin’s car, shows off
with his carrying of multiple bags to my home, balancing a coffee cup
in the other hand, making me laugh. I always tip these wonderful
helpers extra. A tiny boost along the way. What did you leave behind I ask them. "lady, you don't want to know" is a common response.
You
see, I was an immigrant myself, I struggled in a new country,
learning Canadian English, very different from the Hiberno-English I
was brought up in. Learning completely different accounting systems
from library books. Trying to fit in and knowing now how lucky I was
to be white.
Immigrants,
no matter the country, are NOT a monolith. They are never the same
religion, race, sex or sexual orientation. They have the same desires
and hopes I had. And many of the same reasons I left Ireland in 1967.
To
“other” immigrants is to tell more about yourself than any self
declaration of “I’m not a racist, but...” or ”you can’t
tell a good immigrant from a bad immigrant.” Well, the same applies
to any human, buddy, white, brown or black or mixed. It applies to
you when you spout hatred and intolerance as if it’s normal
discourse.
A 10 year old photo from where I used to live right on the bay. I love the sky and the reflections of the boats.
I always like the way Andrew says "Stuffs" referring to minor tasks or items and have used it now in family settings. It's far, far better than the singular "stuff". Apologies to so many of you for what Blogger does to your comments. I just went through Blogger Jail and rescued so many of your comments on my blog which were trashed without rhyme nor reason - many of you frequent bloggers. I will try and make an effort to make this part of my routine now - checking the blog comments.
As to other stuffs, I've been busy writing an article for a magazine based in England. It's about my mother's experience with birthing which was an absolute hell of a torturous experience for her. More on that later.
The other bits of writing is my own memoir of a period in my life where the participants and identifiers are now all passed on so I am free to write about it.
More is editing of a anthology which is hard going. Some of the writing is great, others not so much and requires far too much extensive editing. And this I find exhausting and maddening which is not good for my innards.
I waited and am waiting today for a call from my nephrologist to follow up on recent lab work. Nada. Already an hour has gone by and here I am, trapped, writing the blog, neglecting leaving as I have my own on line lab-work results in front of me and I have a myriad of questions on the line items ticked for "not normal". I imagine elders (and I have anecdotal evidence) are shoved aside in a stretched health care system that focuses on the more viable of its patients.*
I am reading Richard Flanagan, an Australian author I have fallen in love with. His writing is superb.
*update she did call and apologised for delay. Amongst other stuffs I have to go to hospital for more blood infusions. I've been struggling with exhaustion and putting it down to old age. Relieved it's not that.
I'm the eldest, in the middle, with baby sister on my lap, surrounded by my four brothers.1959.
We come together from 4 different time zones every Sunday afternoon and have been doing this for nearly 6 years. We never miss. We tune in from cars, from parking lots, from beaches, from cabins, from little nooks in our homes away from everybody else. We are siblings.
The conversations lasts for hours. You'd think 6 people would have run out of topics, out of conversation. Some of us quietly get served dinner or lunch or a snack by spouses or grandchildren who tiptoe away quietly knowing this is a sacred, private time for the 6 of us.
We were six siblings, now we are 5. We lost our third eldest in November last year from cancer. It broke us all for a while. So 5. We changed the name of our group to his name.
We go on Zoom religiously for this weekly meeting and check each other out, talk of health, talk of childhood, talk of memory and challenges.
It was fairly uptight when we started, little deep or personal sharing but as the years swept onwards, there are no holds barred and often we go on our private WhatsApp during the week too if things are getting a bit rough with one of us. We are carrying the fifth born of us at the moment with a rare form of cancer he has been diagnosed with. He had an operation last Friday.
We have the odd political disagreement but are secure, very secure, in the knowledge that we care deeply for each other and are there through thick and thin.
We don't talk about how extraordinary this is. But we have said to each other we have come a long way in getting to this place of peace and love and harmony. Something that would have been impossible to imagine even a decade ago. There were mini-alliances within our sibling framework and a lot of petty infighting and yes, jealousies and failures. Magic like this doesn't happen. It is work and consciousness and someone breaking the mould of silence and secrets.
But we did it. We now trust each other without reservation. And look out for each other in thick or thin.
Some of you may not be aware that when Trump launched his trade war on Canada there has been a huge rebellion in Canada on travelling to the U.S. and buying U.S, products here. Some I know are disposing of their US real estate and refusing to travel through the US to countries elsewhere. Usually inconvenient but nevertheless adhered to.
Canada is not a flag-waving country nor into the jingoism that characterises some countries. But there's a fierce patriotism nevertheless.
I feel for my dear US friends who suffer from this embargo but they understand our rage. Tourism and exports have been massively affected in the US. Hotels and inns are shuttering and other businesses (Liquor, farms, etc.) similarly affected.
We are their biggest trading partner and it must hurt.
Meanwhile our prime minister is trotting around completing trade agreements with other countries.
I offer you this:
Mandarins from Spain (along with orange juice) - a huge deficit for Florida.
Many of us now buy only cereal made in Canada. Goodbye Kelloggs.
Ketchup made in Canada. Goodbye Heinz.
And these heavenly biscuits (cookies) made in Australia. Real chocolate, organic. Note most US"chocolate" is actually "chocolate flavoured" whatever the hell that is.
I'm also noticing that everything I buy is much tastier, more flavourful, less sugar. Shelves are clearly marked in grocery stores and on line. "Canadian Made or Canadian sourced.|"
But for my US readers, I wish you this for your Thanksgiving. Fervently. With love.
I've been meaning to write about this for quite a while. With some distance between my thoughts from then to now.
In my very long career as a business consultant (financial planning, corporate and personal tax services, management, controller) I was involved with many millionaires. Supreme wealth of the yacht, race horses, multiple homes in multiple countries types. Some were in media, others in industry, some in entertainment.
And I have to say the majority of these self made millionaires were very smart but incredibly selfish. They gave little to charity and had the utmost contempt for those who were in poverty or struggling. They resented any kind of social programmes, calling all who availed of them welfare bums. If they could make it, anyone could. But people were lazy, holding their hands out, watching TV, smoking and drinking beer all day while everyone else slaved to support these layabouts.
All of them inspired their underlings to accommodate their every whim whether through unpaid overtime or in a couple of cases manage their personal life styles as well. As examples of that I will offer assuring their wives they were off to Bermuda on a last minute business trip with a Russian financier when, in fact, they were off with the latest blonde. Or managing personal bank accounts with pay-offs (read blackmail) to ladies of the night or some unexpected results of a one night stand, or obscure payoffs to foreign bankers for looking the other way.
I was privy to many business conferences with tables of millionaires eating caviar and drinking champagne for lunch. In my younger and more foolish days, I wallowed in the reflected glow of being around these people, dropping their names casually into conversations, sharing my benefits of desirable theatre seats or visits to television show sets. It had an infectious quality to it all. I realize, in hindsight, how absolutely obnoxious I must have been in my champagne coloured Mustang with my matching business suit. I was at all the important meetings, taking notes for my boss, reviewing different financial statistics with him in consultation with the others, acquiring more assets, disposing of others.
In chatting with a multi-millionaire one night at one of those exclusive steak houses that didn't even have a name out front, I asked the question: when does anyone have enough money, adding it was a serious question. My companion repeated the question to the entire table, about 8. The response was laughter, genuine laughter.
My dear, said one, down the table from me, there is never enough, there is always more.
More laughter followed - me, to my shame, joining in.
And there you have it, dear reader, now you can understand the Trumpian World.
