Blog Jam: Music.

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.

Blogjam

Sunrise from my window a few mornings ago, the deep crimson red was breathtaking and the phone-photo doesn't quite capture it. That's an owl (my spirit animal) pendant - a gift - on the window. It captures the light and moves a rainbow across my floor every day when the sun shines.

We soldier on. In spite of. Because of.

Or do we? I confess to being absolutely knackered by the latest cases of Covid with one case of Omicron here, contained, but hey. Anybody else feeling a sense of gloom and defeat?

I mean we can sway in the wind from time to time and shrug and carry on and then at others feel like crawling into bed and staying there as The Plague, in all its iterations, takes over the planet and thumbs its nose at us. Even those of us fairly safe with an abundance of caution and the health experts taking control of protocols and not the politicians. Like here in my province, Newfoundland. 

It's not good news out of Ireland and the UK and Ontario, Canada, et al. I haven't checked the US lately, I'm hoping you guys are OK with the New Man in charge. Australia has this abundance of caution thing going as well.

Meanwhile in my country of birth, the prime minister has admitted to being "worried" as Omicron gallops through his country with no end in sight. And old Boris in the UK is folding, it looks like.

So we all agreed yesterday, the writing workshop keeps us going like never before and all the writing is remarkable. It's a great way of losing one's self, immersing in an imaginary plague-free world.

I watched For Life which was on Netflix here. Quite good.

I watched some of the Irish series  Single Handed not bad so far. On Amazon Prime here.  Great views of the old sod and seascapes. For those of you not Irish, turn on CC. The accents come flying at you quickly.

Reading Anxious People (Fredrik Backman) who wrote A Man Called Ove which I loved. It's very unusual. And I'll reserve my review until finished.

Blog Jam

Sometimes I feel like a pretzel when I get out of bed.

I sit on the edge, waiting for everything to uncontort itself, to unwind. Sometimes it takes a while. I take the opportunity to reflect on the day ahead and tick off some internal boxes. Enough food? Enough books? Enough meds? Enough contact with those I love? Enough knitting? Enough writing ahead? Enough ideas? Enough games of delightful and amazing Scrabble with the 12 daily games I've been playing since the invention of the internet? Enough Zoom meetings? Enough money to pay the bills?

Not necessarily in that order. But you catch my drift. It keeps me in gratitude. Because there is enough. And sometimes, if I need to shop for essentials, I find the body rebels that particularly day so I take it easy on myself and look in the freezer or the cupboard and laugh out loud. So much food.

A breakfast I bake regularly.It's good hot or cold. And is one the healthiest ever as it is completely balanced. This has 4 servings.

I was thinking on kindred spirits. Some tell me they're my kindred spirits but I believe a kindred has to be an innie if we're "getting" each other at that level. I wrote about it here. Nothing has really changed since that post. I don't need lectures that I read too much or I write too much and I should get out and "shop" - retail therapy. An Innie would never do that. But the Outies do.

Most of my readers are kindreds, I can just tell, they are thoughtful and have dug deep into their inners and continue to do so judging from comments and their own posts. It is so delightful we find each other on the interwebz.

I picked up this from my mailbox yesterday. A postcard from Daughter. I absolutely love it.

Grandgirl is planning on coming for a month starting mid-July. She will self-quarantine. Her city, Toronto, is doing really poorly with Covid, we are doing remarkably well with no new cases now for a month.

But not everything is open yet. But "caution exhaustion" is setting in with its consequential carelessness. Only 1 in 10 are now wearing masks.

Blog Jam

Living in a seniors' building, death knocks on doors periodically and is a reminder of our own mortality. One of The Ladies died on Friday night. She was having trouble sleeping as her sister was sick and she was worried. The doctor refused to give her sleeping pills as he was afraid she would get up in the middle of the night and fall. Her sister died on Wednesday night and then Gillian (a pseudonym) died on Friday night. They were both in their nineties. I know, a great age. But the judgement of the doctor I do question in not prescribing her something, anything, to help her sleep as she was most distressed.

Needless to mention a pall descends on the building when this happens, we are all quite subdued and reflective.

I realized in meditation this morning that I just don't have enough hours in the day to Get Things Done. The things I want to do, the things that bring me joy.

I have a great idea for the CBC memoir contest and have been scribbling notes everywhere I go and on bits of napkins, etc. More on that at some later date. But for now, I am laughing at some of my memories which start out as being sad but turn a corner. A lot more work is needed.

Then my niece showed me this one needle method of knitting socks, yes! including turning the heel!, and I thought this old dog can learn a new trick if she works really hard at it. And yes, dropping stitches as I went, nevertheless I persisted, as I am wont to do with most new skills. And this started to climb up the needle.

I am reading this rather wonderful book: A Gentleman in Moscow and I can't get enough of it. I have to pace myself because of all the other stuff going on. I think it was Anne Brew, a frequent commenter here, who recommended it. Thank you!

Next week there is something on every day which necessitates putting on my nice face and leaving my nest. I shouldn't complain as the alternative is where Gillian is. I am glad she kept going, with her erect, proud, tall, military carriage, right to the very end.

Moving On

Rumination:

Do you write with your heart or with your head or a combination of both?

I tend to write from the heart.

Opinion pieces tend to be distancing I find and ring false and judgmental as the personal experience is absent.

And passion. Passion is absent from so many lives, isn't it? Being in this lovely village which is my complex I am puzzled as to why it is lacking in so many lives. Enthusiasm. Delight. Joy. Self-deprecation. We need lots more of these. How to stoke those internal fires?

Home:

My long awaited custom chair was finally delivered today. I had to send the incorrect one back 2 months ago as it rocked. This one is perfect. I test drove it like a child after the delivery men left. Now I'm finally ready to play with my space.

A perfect bathroom mirror I found. I'd been looking forever.

Travel:

5 more sleeps till I leave, but it's a busy 5 days, jammed with meetings and a paying tax project which finances part of my travel expenses.

My Cape Breton friend has planned a trip on our second day together to her local wharf to await the lobster boats coming in and then gorging ourselves silly in the wharf cafe on fresh lobster. I will photo this feast.

Travelling by car enables me to pack quite carelessly which I love.

Crafts:

"Not your Granny's dishcloth"

I made this dishcloth and I couldn't believe the response on FB. I've made quite a few more as so many want to buy them.

Blog Jam

My mornings

Water bottle
Tao meditation
Candle
Journal
An Indian Ocean sunset from a blog friend received in the mail yesterday.
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Elder Daughter

She researched a little on how mothers might live longer. Discovered that daughters, spending more positive time with their mothers, extend their lives immeasurably. Every time we get together now, she calls it "my life extension programme." I have a living example in my building. An 84 yo woman - who would put women half her age to shame - bounces out of a different car in the parking lot around 7 each night. Turns out one of her six daughters take it in turns to pick her up for dinner each night of the week. I had wondered why she was always so happy. She should live to be 180.
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Love

I had been looking for a headboard for my bed for a long time. Nothing appealed. Then Daughter arrived on Mother's Day lugging this beauty along with her tool kit to install it. It is so perfect I could weep. My bedroom doubles as my den so I like the distinction of the sleep area. Plus: bonus stuff holder.
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Blog Jam

This is a joke I posted on Facebook. I love jokes that are clever and clean and have a surprise at the end.

Laugh of the day~~~

"You're both in your nineties," said the judge to the elderly couple, "Married 70 years! Why would you want a divorce now?"

Said the old woman: " We were waiting for the children to die."

I have a film crew coming on Sunday to make a short film in my house as it is old and hasn't been drastically renovated but has the original exterior and interior. Interesting, I think. Now I'm thinking it's a huge disruption. Then again......

I had two rejection letters. How do you deal with rejection? I had loved these two submitted pieces, and so did others, so I felt rather very crushed and then got so busy later that I forgot to feel sad but now that I'm here at the end of the day I've got time to brood and flay and tell myself give up, I'm useless. So I'm writing here instead for the 4 or 5 that do read me and appreciate. Thanks guys.

Yesterday, I visited my friends whose daughter died and actually made them laugh helplessly about the first marriage proposal I received out here in the Far East. Have I told you I've had hilarious marriage proposals? I will some day. It could be a book. I always cry in my car when I leave my friends, I can't imagine their suffering. Now they are putting their daughter's Jeep and house on the market. She was only 40 and death stalked in, in the middle of the night, and grabbed her. A congenital heart defect. I discuss books with him, he's an avid reader of all things Newfoundland - he was a coast guard in his time - and make them both laugh. I don't plan it that way but I'm glad it works out that way when I visit. Getting out of bed is their enormous act of courage for the day.

I had this friend, well, she's more of an acquaintance. When I moved here she'd phone me about once a month. Strange conversations. She'd never a ask a question but would launch into a sort of list of people who'd let her down by not phoning/dropping in/not picking her up/not letting her know about events, etc. She had a stroke many years ago, I remember visiting her every day in the hospital, not an easy thing as the location of her hospital was both a subway and streetcar ride away from where I was headquartered then in downtown Toronto. But I knew visits to her would be minimal or zero from others during the day as she lived way out in the outlying suburbs and the hospital was in the west end. And there were other occasions too when I filled in as her caretaker on weekends away. All this to say, I was up against myself in dealing with her. I never felt close to her but I would still feel guilty, the stroke for one, and the fact she didn't establish deep friendships with anyone mainly because her demands never stop when you're with her. There are always extras you have to do and there is no acknowledgement of driving out of your way or picking up extra stuff along the route. And then guilt again for feeling like that. It's a vicious cycle. I dropped my landline months back and now I'm just on mobile. And of course she doesn't have that number. But lawdie, now she's phoned many of my friends to demand my mobile number but none feel they want to give it to her. So today she calls a buddy in Florida and he immediately puts her request for me to phone her right away on my FB wall. She is tenacious. And truthfully, normally I don't think about her at all. Guilt again.

So yes, I will call her. If I don't forget yet again. I need to brace myself. I don't wish for more friends to get harassed by her. There's none as queer as folks. If it were me, I would have given up long ago and put it down to disinterest and move on. But not J.

I take official possession of my home in the city tomorrow. Exciting times. Though I won't be moving there full time until the fall for there's a lot to wind down here over the next few months.

So new pastures, new opportunities await. Sadness too at leaving this little paradise behind.

But I'm ready.

Small Things Noticed & Praised.

Petals of Asiago cheese.

Jars of red jewels - partridgeberry jam - on my counter. I can't put them away.

My dog, Ansa, who now sleeps in in the morning and has to be awakened. A reversal if ever there was one.

The smell of wood-smoke and a beautiful meatloaf in the oven at this very moment.

A nearly completed knitted "window worm" for another drafty window.

Playing around with the book cover possibilities for the anthology I put together with the writers in the writers' workshop (see above) - I wish to incorporate the old and the new. And now that I look at it again I think the addition of an oil-lamp alongside the laptop would be a nice touch, what do you think? The intent for the image on the cover will be fairly blurry but catchy.

Blood sugars manageable.

Another session tomorrow with my grief counsellor.

Thanks for all the comments, so heartfelt and helpful, on my last blog post.

I sure am at the stage of life where stuff is not added but rather taken away.

30 Days - Day 17

No, not this one. But yeah, this is near where I live.

I sold another photo. I'm always so desperately pleased when that happens. It's not the price you understand, it is the thrill that someone, or two, out there, like one of my photos. I get so much pleasure in taking them, going out there, wandering around, taking 20 for that one glorious one. The one that catches my eye when I troll through them all and then catches the eyes of others too.

The power went out in the middle of my bread-making today. That pisses me off. No warning. We've had about 8 outages since January, now I have the wood fire back I don't care as much. But my bread, wah. And the tax returns had to be put on hold.

I'm off to town tomorrow and it feels like a month since I've been there, I'm excited as I have more 10 items a day for 100 days to drop off at the thrift stores. Not to mention all the books I've deposited at the library, things are looking rather spacy around here. I'm thrilled! And once the bookshelves are offloaded I'm thinking I need more of my own photographs on my walls.

I'm working away at my knitting project and watching The Good Wife Series 5. One of the more intelligent series out there, IMO. Good company during the knit/purl.

So there.

Catch y'all later.

Blog Jam

Yeah, I deleted a post. Why? It felt really incomplete even though I had stroked it and stroked it as us writers do. It was missing some element that I couldn't quite nail and I took it down to work on it some more. It's a hugely important topic for us emigrants and I need to do it more justice before publishing it. Thanks to those of you who responded to it in depth both on the blog and in private emails. I am never alone in these horrible, painful episodes of my life.

But? I found a cure!

Seriously.

When in pain from unkindness I've found that if I transform this into kindness to others it eases the load. Tremendously.

So that's what I did today. I wrote a few letters, made a few long overdue phone-calls, mailed a few gifts and some of my cards and projected out into the universe peace and healing to those who hurt me. Tons of it. There's really no more room in my life, at my age, for inflicted pain and grief and hurt and sorrow. I fill it up with love. Remind me of this statement when I'm less forgiving please.

And, interesting wee bit, I heard from this older man (yeah, older than me!), a retired policeman from Co. Clare and he starts off by saying:

"I've read every word you've ever written for years and years and years and I want to be your friend."

I just love it when lurkers make themselves visible.

Jack, if you're reading this, bravo my new friend!

Blog Jam

My first PG (Paying Guest) at The Tigeen has just left. Yeah, things went well. Very well. Yesterday and today are foggy, mauzy really, and I caught myself. You know when you have guests and the weather doesn't behave itself. "I'm so sorry about the weather. If you'd been here earlier...." as if you (and I) had omnipotent powers and the weather was all our fault. Apologizing for our personal magic wand misbehaving.

It's been a busy few days and I'm backing away from today to regather myself. I've scheduled a long overdue nap in the afternoon before heading out this evening with friends.

And tomorrow, well tomorrow is the first meeting of a running/walking/hiking/shuffling race participating club I inadvertently founded nearly a year ago. I'm way excited about this. The challenges faced by the back of a pack in these events are too numerous to list here. Not least of which are the shutting down of the course before the time is up: water stations evaporated, roads reverting to the hazards of traffic (and traffic lights) and even the drinks and food packed up at the finish line when guarantees are made at the outset the course will be open for the entire duration of the race. Older/more challenged participants pay the same money and deserve equal treatment. And often are the real heroes of such events. So there must be power in numbers to change the status quo, ya think?

Blog Jam

I was immeasurably delighted recently to receive an email from a 90+ year old uncle who has recently embraced the web. I have long wondered as to his whereabouts and distance from our tribe but am overjoyed in this day and age that we can reach out and touch long vanished family members and friends. And so easily.

How wonderful it is that our US neighbours are finally getting what we have long taken for granted here and in many other countries: health care not tied to personal wealth or status. Declaring personal bankruptcy or dying because of the cost of life-saving cancer treatments or surgeries or "pre-existing" conditions is completely unacceptable for any citizen of any so-called civilized country.

My potatoes were harvested by a good friend today (pictured above). My own potatoes. Thrilled doesn't cover it.

Indian Summer continues unabated in this enchanted land out here on the edge of the Atlantic. Smiley faces everywhere and shorts-wearing runners. Oh, yeah.

Blog Jam

I bring you an iris from my walkabout the other day.

Sometimes old clichés - tried and true wee sayings - keep me going when everything else seems to fail.

Focus on what works and not on what doesn't is the mantra of the moment.

I've been doing that lately. A lot. It staves off depression that keeps banging on my door. Depression over stuff that doesn't work. Family shyte as I term it. Puzzling and powerful and wounding and awful and unfathomable at times.

So what's working?

Leo cleaned out my chimney. Leo whipper-snipped the meadow and around the trees. He was off in his own wee world for a while and I was beginning to think I should get a sheep. Or a goat. Sometimes I think I've got too much land. And then he defugues himself and I come home to a sparkling chimney and outside haircuts on all the grass.

Some new friends and I ploughed the Rennie's River Trail yesterday. It was wonderful. I didn't know the city of St. John's had this magical hidden path running through it. We walked up hill and down dale in this fairy tale setting. Waterfalls, flowers, all kinds of blossoming trees and wildlife.

Daughter calls with good news of full steam ahead in the disposal of her Toronto house and her potential move of her base of operations to here. And Grandgirl's annual flight out here is booked for September (she's a working student now).

And tonight, an old friend, this makes me choke up, thanked me for saving his life three years ago. And meant it. He had severe depression and was suicidal and all I did was listen. And understand. And share some of my own flirtations with death with him. Sometimes we don't know when we're helping people, do we? All that's needed is time. And a willing ear. And compassion. He made my year so far. I had no idea of how close he was as what he didn't tell me that night was about the hose he had stashed in the trunk of his car. And ending it all that very night once I had left.

I need to stay focussed on these positive items at the moment as other stuff, that I can do absolutely nothing about, is trying to send me over the edge.

Blog Jam

Life is full of wonder, isn't it? My dog is extraordinarily playful. Playful enough to play hide-and-seek which we do now and again. She always finds me. I think it's that smell thing, 10,000 more powerful than a human's. She is ecstatic when she locates me and my catch phrase when she does is: "You found me! You found me!"

But the other day, wow, a first. I let her out through the back door and I was busy tidying up the back hall of winter stuff that needed storage when I felt two paws on my bum and turned around and there was the dog looking absolutely delighted with herself. She had raced around the house to the open front door and tore in and around to surprise me by jumping on me. And she did. I was laughing so hard I had to sit down. None of my previous dogs had this marvellous sense of humour she has. And when she's pleased with herself this huge grin spreads across her face.

In manifestation news. I mentioned to a select few I was doing the Tely 10 at the end of July, come hell or high water. And now others are joining me. And some supporters too. It's another dream come true. I was stubborn enough to do it alone but having other participants AND supporters is the icing on the cake as far as I'm concerned. I used to have it in Toronto back in the day of racing so having this comraderie in St. John's is powerful and validating and well, heart-warming.

Blog Jam

Mitt Romney scares me. As he should everyone. Along with his cohort Paul Ryan.

As does Stephen Harper, he of the glacial blue eyes and hidden agendas.

Isn't it odd how these men are so goodlooking in a mannequinish kind of way?

Then again, so was Ted Bundy.

It's funny that. How we expect the ogres of our time to look like monsters out of fairy-tales. When they're always so good-looking. This is how they access their victims. We should teach our children to beware of the good looking ones with the excellent teeth and perfect hair.

I am reading quite a wonderful book at the moment called Ghost Written by David Mitchell.  It is full of luscious lines like:

"The mountains toss and turn and then lie down until the grasslands begin."

and

          "Sometimes language can't even read the music of meaning."

Books can elevate us out of the mundane. Act like balm to the soul. Fill our imagination to over-flowing. Replace thoughts of bills and work and hunkering down for winter.

I was inspired by the autumnal red in my wee trees out back, even on this dullish day. And sadly, beside the glow of the crimson there is Mabel, all chopped up and drying out to keep me warm through next winter.

Losing the Run of Myself

Up on the hill behind the house the cornflowers grow wild.

Seems like that, lately. Three half-read books on the go, a knitting design that won't settle in and throw itself down.  A writing deadline that mumbles around in my head. Half-finished files of the paying kind languishing beside the desk.

A handyman who is thousands of kilometres away but promises to be here next week to finish off some half-completed essential work.

Idiotic paragraphs assemble themselves like soldiers in my head.

"She held herself like a rebuke to the rest of them: tall, spare of flesh and hair, without bleach or cosmetics.  By comparison, her companions looked overly plump, peroxided, lipsticked, almost tartish."
 

I completed a long and winding grant application to sustain me through the weather of writing another play which is in my head and encompasses, possibly, Skype rehearsals. Two countries, one play kind of thing. Unfortunately, I can't afford to hold my nose and jump into the uncharted waters of no income while this gets created. If only dreams were crusts of bread. La sigh.

My sleep-dreams are about my father. A very helpful father who points out the error of my ways and assists me in setting all my (real) ducks in a row.

As my friend the Jungian analyst says to me: when you dream about your father it means that you are slightly (a lot - he is kind) out of control and your inner male is emerging to help.

Daughter arrives tomorrow for a week, having travelled the length (width?) of Canada from Vancouver, tenting all the way just about and on her own. Brava Daughter, the adventurer.

On the home front, Hurricane Leslie murdered one of my oldest maples which was just reddening up for the fall. I felt unreasonably anguished at the sight of her all horizontal, bruised and broken. But the oddest thing, as soon as her branches were chainsawed off, she rose from the dead and righted herself, proud and tall. I plan to reshape her into some garden furniture once she's dry. A picture of this astonishing sight will follow when I gather my vanishing wits and exit with a camera around my neck.

Blog Jam

There is so much I want to do right now but I am completely engulfed in the work that pays my bills. Nearly.

I think a combination of age and a desire to be doing OTHER STUFF is the major burden I'm working under. I tire easily and lengthily. I neglect self-care. My writing life is shoved to the side. I rarely get out and take art photos. I want to experiment with some photographic software. I briefly jot down some knitting designs. Oh to execute!

I was sending off - by mail, how quaint - one of my cards to a friend who has been diagnosed with a mass in her lung. She quit smoking too late. And get this - she was an emergency room nurse. I've known her an awfully long time. She was married lots before she outed herself, having surprised herself immensely by falling in love with a woman late in life. She had great movie and Scrabble parties. And you'd think that would be all there is to her, right? Well, no.

You see about twenty years ago she went off to Africa for two years. Her mission? Both to prevent and heal clitorectomies. How many of us can say that we made one small change in the world that would go on and on and on? Well, she did.

She did.

And do you know what she said to me, among lots of other positive stuff today on the phone?

"I'm ready to go if that is my next step. I've had a bloody marvellous life".

I felt immensely cheered after the phonecall. I was expecting tears and grief for I love this woman.

I looked around the scads of files, the mountains of paperwork.

I thought: one file at a time, duckie, one file at a time.

And be glad of it.

Blog Jam

Yeah, June 1st and I have the fire going. Grateful for this. Why? I can't stomach the humid solid heat of other places I've lived.

Day 13 of ear infection. Battled by two antibiotics and ear drops now and only a teensy improvement to hearing and pain. Back to the doc on Monday if no change.

Day 3 of stomach flu, not as bad as yesterday but I am self-confined to barracks.

Being alone gives me time to reflect and create. I need a lot of alone time. I designed a baby afghan in my beloved aran knitting for a child arriving in August. I outlined a new play.

Mantras are helpful in reprogramming the brain and distancing from hurtful behaviours of others. I no longer take on the rejection and spite of those who profess to love me. It is their issue and not mine and I will not make it mine.

"My reaction to others is entirely controlled by me."

Fall back mantra:

"I am far too old for this shyte."

The older I get the more I realize that I have to make time for play, running (OK, loping) on the beach, collecting little treasures as my forty-mumble daughter does, making ridiculous scrapbooks, playing hide and seek with the dog, wearing a bright red floaty shirt just because, trying new recipes, playing music far too loudly.

And I will reflect daily on the line of the old song:

"And always remember the longer you live, the sooner you'll bloody well die."

Make each moment count, my friends!

Blog Jam

(1) I've had a horrendous tax season mainly due to the unpredictability and/or unavailability and/or disconnectivity of my cellular internet connection and how much I desperately need it even for Taxware updates which are no longer provided on CDs and necessitate a high-speed connection. Not to mention e-filing.

(2) Moving into another business venture here I realized how absolutely slow-brained I can be. Well, duh, I need highspeed for that too.

(3) All of which gives me enormous doubts as to whether I persist in staying on here. Seriously.

(4) I have exhausted all political avenues and even the newspaper - which has always published me heretofore - now no longer publishes my rants of frustration on the lack of even the most basic business infrastructure.

(5) On a slightly lighter side: Other opportunities present themselves. This week I was asked to hold the auditions for a dinner theatre in another area which was a wonderful experience.

(6) I feel I'm becoming a one-note samba with my incessant and constant rant on the lack of high-speed out here on the Edge of the Atlantic which has me driven to distraction and

(7) A horrible depression preceded by the Black Dog which refuses to leave.

(8) It's not just the internet it's other bitty things which added up has me sourfaced and pissed off. Example?

(9) A guy I don't particularly like or respect reverses his truck onto my property when I wasn't there and just about lops off the roof of my pump-house, completely disconnecting it from the walls. He shrugs his shoulders when I ask him what he's going to do about it. He is clueless and penniless. When I asked him what he was doing trespassing on my property in the first place he also shrugs and mutters about picking up some plastic from Leo.

(10) With no internet in my house in the last couple of days I am in town at Starbucks on my little netbook. I would like to patronize Coffee Matters which is privately owned but the hefty parking ticket from the church parking lot across from it (on-street parking nearby is by permit only) is a complete deterrant.

Signed:
The Grumpy Geezer.

And PS apologies to some of my regular commenters - New Blogger decided all by itself to throw you into the Spam Bucket. Thanks to Ramana for bringing it to my attention!!!

Blog Jam

Today Yesterday is was a monochromatic day in the outport between the snow and matching sky and water. Even the trees can't assert themselves with their white cloaks.

Everyone is hunkered down, in front of the fires or the big screens or their i-phones.

Ah, the i-phones, bleeding what's left of outport cellular internet connection to leave me with sporadic or worse - the message “searching for network”. All day.

I took the opportunity in the last few days of ploughing and pruning through all last year's cards and my shamefully overflowing in-box of 1,100 emails. Between the cards and the emails there is some pre-dump hesitation. Always. I feel so callous rubbishing some – the thank-yous for the sympathy, the notes I get from good people who take care of the elderly and homeless, love-notes from friends and family, photos that really don't mean much to me as they involve other unknowns, like a friend who was re-united with the child she gave up for adoption 65 years ago. Yes, you read that right. A most happy and wonderful re-union. Unlike most. I've had other friends who attempted the same and were firmly rebuffed. It must be like playing Russian roulette. It takes huge courage. And it does not end well in 80% of cases.

And on the same theme, I hear other stories of long ago, whispered in the night, of young girls giving birth in secrecy and their parents “taking care” of the child. A sad little pile of dirt behind the barn. All because of Christian censure by the clergy, neighbours and family. A secret murder being more honourable than the birth of a bastard and a daughter being “spoiled”.

And of young sons being whacked across the back of the head with a shovel before puberty and rendered simple. Simple enough to take orders without question for the running of the farm sans the desire to leave it for big city lights. And who was to notice or judge back then, when others were doing the exact same thing. Indentured slavery.

Ah, the stuff I hear, don't be talkin'.