Let Me Tell You About my Bunion.

PS I don't have bunions. And the illustration reflects the graphic nature of the medical conditions shared with me.

What is the secret of good conversation? I was really driven to question this today. I know there are certain so-called “rules”. You know, ask questions, listen to the answers, try not to stick your own oar in the waters all the time. Evaluate your responses, be thoughtful. Really hear the other person.

I put this to practice today. We had our monthly book club meet and Elsie, a person I don't know very well, asked me to give her a ride home. We had already engaged a little in the kitchen where we were plattering the lunch. She'd asked me if I were going to Ireland this year and barely waited for my answer before launching into all the (medical) reasons she couldn't go there this year, this being the 10th year in a row she couldn't go there. A blow by blow accounting of 10 years of medical history. And yes it was savage and awful. But hey, behind her now. She survived. Maybe it is just me and maybe I'm being harsh, but lawdy, everyone I meet lately launches into med-speak with me, from their hangnails to their bowel movements, from their meds to their tumours. And their tests, their scans, their MRIs, their ultrasounds. It can get extremely wearying. Especially when the person is standing in front of me, alive, vertical and in motion. And it's all behind them now. It's history.

Maybe I'm lucky with my health and if it fails maybe I will grab you by the lapel or blog-wrestle you to the ground and blister on (and on) about it too. But it is completely boring. It would be completely boring even if you were a beloved family member/friend.

Don't get me wrong. If you are in hospital or need any kind of assistance to get to one of your appointments, hospital tests, anything, I'm there in a heart beat. Lean on me. Or if you are currently ill. One of my friends is and I listen intently to the symptoms and the medical assistance she is getting. I love her. It is important.

But for Dog's sake – leave the history of every health travail in your private journal once you are well again.

And that ride home with Elsie? More about her gall bladder than I would ever need to know - even about my own. This was after she asked one question about what road races were coming up for me and before I even mentioned the first one she launched into the 99 reasons she couldn't do it. All of them medical. All of them historical.

Needy. Yeah, I know. And I don't lack compassion. But shyte, at some point in 60+ years on the planet there should be a smidgen of growth, of self-awareness, of interest in others. Especially if you've shown a curiosity in the greater world by joining a book-club?

So Young

There was a time when I would be flattered. Not anymore.

I was leaving an older friend's house today. I dropped off something and stayed a while to chat. She gets lonely. She has kidney disease, genetic. Nothing anybody can do even though her sons offered their kidneys years ago. A transplant wouldn't help.

I was out the door, heading down her path when I overheard her say loudly to another friend:

"My gawd, she looks so young, are you sure she's as old as she says she is?"

My awareness of ageism is at a high level. I see it everywhere, even coming from other elders with their "cute" posts on FB, you know the ones: as if seniors are all one brick short of a load, one bulb short of a lighthouse. Some are more offensive than others and poke fun at elders' sexuality, teeth, weight, forgetfulness, clothing, incontinence. You name it. When I address this with them and say: put an aboriginal in place of that elder, put a negro there in that cartoon or a gay person. See how unfunny it is now?

Ah, they say, we can poke fun at ourselves, can't we?

Erm, no, it's not funny. All these "innocent" little jokes and innuendoes and othering leads to abuse. It's called discrimination. And ageism. You're telling the whole world out there that all elders are feeble, simple and stupid and can't take care of themselves. And those "funny" jokes reinforce that perception. Aging is to be feared. Anti-aging is an enormous industry - Botox, Viagra, hair transplants, teeth transplants, skin abrasions, liposuction, pills, cosmetics.

And if you'd done all the research I've done on elder abuse, you would GET it. It starts with the "Depends" jokes and then moves down the hill to all elders are smelly and stupid and are one big joke - giving those who "care" for them the right to take over their lives, their possessions, their bank accounts, etc., and they'd be too stunned to notice.

So no, I am not flattered when others call me "young" for my age or OMG I'm jogging, or I'm writing, or meeting friends who are at the other end of the age spectrum for dinner or planning new adventures.

This is what an elder looks like and behaves like.

A Surprise in Every Day.

Someone said this to me a long time ago: To watch out for those lovely wee surprises as one always falls into every day and we can miss it if we're not aware.

I know when the Black Dog visits it's hard to recognise these little drop-ins. But today? I was very half-hearted about my office job. I wanted to keep editing (and editing) this short story for a competition. The deadline is tomorrow. But everything went really well in the office in the morning and I worked on the story in the afternoon and then the phone went and this trip to the Ould Sod fell into my lap. A friend of a friend had changed his mind about going and was giving away the ticket for just about 1/2 price.

You know me and YES.

Make that a HELL YES.

And I'll keep my eyes open for tomorrow's one.

Nostalgique A Deux

This was an ad that appeared in the paper this past weekend. Click to embiggen.

I know. Hard to believe in this day and age. I also love the absence of phone number, address and website.

As if everyone should know where they are.

I might just head myself off and do some fishing with their rod and their bait.

After my breakfast, of course.

who knew there was so much fun to be had for a total of $10?

Nostalgique

My front garden, at sunset

Well, it isn't really a word used by us English speakers, is it? But I do like the sound of it.

I think back to the days in Ontario when I knew a few female alcoholics and when they introduced themselves thusly: "Je suis un alcoolique", I would think to myself: that sounds so much more fun, so much more glamorous, so much more carefree than "alcoholic".

A couple of web friends have kicked the bucket. One out of Limerick who died in January (of a brief but unremitting cancer) but my FB feed has a mind/agenda of its own. Posts normally at the top of my lists get subsumed by the bots at whim to the nether regions. This is what happened to my friend John's obit news. He was one of Ireland's foremost atheists, a never ending battler for women's rights, a wit, an artist of some renown and a scholar and a gentleman. We'd had some pleasant exchanges over the years. Some Irishmen just make me proud. He was one of them.

Mike I'd followed for many years due to his online magazine, his documentaries and a radio show. He ruminated on many topics - ranging from oil as a finite resource and the underlying conspiracies of corporate interests in political affairs. I had been an admirer of his for about 13 years and befriended him in his transition to FB. Since he has died - by his own hand - some troubling facts have come to light in regard to his declared sobriety (he wasn't), a sexual harassment charge, and his extreme paranoia resulting in a self-inflicted gunshot wound when he'd wrapped up his last radio show. So my opinion of Mike, and now his political slants, have taken a jolt.

Sometimes I do wax nostalgic for simpler times. But were they ever simple? I look at the pictures of Old Cork, a new group on FB that has brought such richness of historical experience to my home city via these thousands of old photos and movies. Many now vanished train stations and trams, unsullied strands, majestic ballrooms, shoppers in hooped skirts, all looking innocent and almost childlike. But I also remember the slums of Cork, now thankfully no more, where lonely old women ate meagre food on tin plates with the damp running down the walls. As "Children of Mary" in secondary school, we would have to visit these old people in their tenement rooms and bring food and clothing to them.

At times like these, I need to step out of Nostalgique, a fine place to visit for sure, and pour myself a stiff cup of reality laced with a hit of cynicism.

Back to normal, in other words.

Our Lovely Humanity

It's never the perfect dinner parties I remember. You know, where everything is just so. Everything matching, flowers at attention, napkins crisp and clean and even, linen spotless, best silver aligned.

No. it's the wee touches of carelessness. Something the host/hostess forgot to put away or got thrown in a corner to be dealt with later just when the oven beeped.

I am included in these family get-togethers at friends of mine. All festive occasions. Between this couple they have 13 siblings plus their partners (or not), plus cousins and in-laws. I find it hard to talk about it without crying. Happy tears I should add as this huge family reminds me so much of my own when we all pile in together. And by now I'm like this stray sister as they tease me and ball-hop me to a huge degree. Acceptance.

And the food is awesome, this afternoon and into the evening it was all kinds of fish. Fresh crab, a clam chowder that would make you groan in pleasure, fresh cod, brewis, fish cakes and fresh baked rolls. And scrunchions. I don't eat desserts by choice but the selection would make you weep. Layered trifle in a huge bowl, 7 cup pudding with rum sauce, this fancy cinnamon roll that comes out like a swiss roll. And enough to feed hundreds. And masses of tulips and daffodils in jugs and vases everywhere.

The craic was 90, as my people say. But it was when I was in the bathroom that I smiled and felt so touched. We've all had these little slips, these forgetfullnesses. Like leaving the big tube of haemorrhoid cream beside the sink. I'll admit to walking around my own dining room serving guests with a trail of toilet paper floating behind me.

And them? Neatly arranged on three hooks at the back of their bathroom door were his underpants, her knickers and her bra.

Happy season of renewal and rebirth and re-invigoration to you all.

Charging Off

I was stunned when I got here today and realized I hadn't posted one single word in over a week. Most unlike me. Which means I haven't read any other blogs either.

I hasten to amend the situation.

Yes, I have been charging off in a different direction. More on that later. I took a huge chance. I won't throw a lot of bad cess on it by talking about it. Nothing may come of it and I won't look foolish in front of the lot of you. You know how that can be. No? It must be just me then.

Other than that, family stuff, interesting other projects on the go, weather is balmy, over 20C today so everyone is charging off and getting caught up with friends, etc., like there's no tomorrow. Moods have lightened. Jackets have been peeled off and boots thrown in the corner.

And the birds, oh the birds. Chirping, cooing, flying and floating. They're everywhere.

And the bay? Just look at it!

Inspissated

It's not often I come across a word I have to look up but today I did. I always jot such words down, take a blind guess at what they mean and then google them and chortle in glee if I'm close to correct on my assumption. I find searching them out holds the word like glue in my brain. I had a father who was in love with words and we would do the crossword together every night. The Evening Echo of Cork, a reasonably challenging crossword. A fine way for a 6 year old to start developing language skills. We would look up any word we didn't understand.

Take a shot at the above word. I, of course, went right to the "piss" of it. And as the weather was "inspissated" in the story I thought: "beginning to rain." I should of course, know better than to go with the slang of "piss".

So take a shot at what it means......

Here's Merriam-Webster:

Definition of INSPISSATED


: thickened in consistency; broadly : made or having become thick, heavy, or intense


First Known Use of INSPISSATED

1655

in·spis·sat·ed adjective \in-ˈspis-ˌāt-əd, ˈin(t)-spə-ˌsāt-\ (Medical Dictionary)


Medical Definition of INSPISSATED



: thick or thickened in consistency

—in·spis·sa·tion noun

Along with some rather squeamish medical definitions involving breast ducts. We won't go there, alright? And the illustrations for the word - many horrific images. Avoid.

Susan Hill, recently discovered by moi and on whom I have a serious woman-crush, used it to describe the thickening of a mist into fog.

So there.

I learn something new every day.

The Fighting Irish

I sometimes go into things expecting huge battles. I don't know where I get this girding-my-loins-for-a-war mentality. Perhaps in childhood. Girl children in my time in the Catholic Ireland I grew up in had to choose their fights carefully. We had outlets on the camogie front, of course, and if you think camogie is like field hockey, think again. if you ever saw a hurling match you'd get the picture.

Camogie was the female version of hurling. Back then, in my time: No protective gear, no fancy sports bras, think thin black plimsolls, skirts (yeah skirts - and underneath regulation bloomers) and best of all? Black nylon stockings! It was a viciously tough game, where ankles were shredded and fights broke out at every game. We did not repress our rage. We took it out on the opposing team in camogie. Of course now they've fancied it all up with helmets and knee pads and ankle protectors and elbow protectors. Not in my time I can assure you. I had a foot broken and a finger broken. Others had teeth smashed, ribs shattered, one girl had two casts simultaneously on her arm and her leg. We raised Irish women right tough in Ireland back then. We came by it well through Cumann Na mBan the Irish women's military organization formed in 1914.

I was all girded up, in my recently new position, to go to battle for a new town hall, a performance space, a meeting place, a community party room. The old space was commandeered by the RC church. Even though the land was originally donated to the RC diocese by their parishioners and the old hall was built free of charge, etc., etc. All over Canada (and I'm sure in other countries too) the RC church is selling off 'their' properties and paying off lawsuits brought by the victims of the heinous perversions and horrors inflicted by those in their employ on innocent children. This whole reactive process by the church makes my lobes explode. Now the seniors, who contributed so much over the years to the support of their local churches, are unceremoniously turfed out of their card games and little tea dances, etc., and have nowhere to meet courtesy of these very same churches. Bloodsuckers. Don't get me started. Well, I have, haven't I? I'll stop now.

So here I am fighting for a space for my wee town so that we could have a non-denominational meeting hall, small, granted, but enough.

I get an estimate to convert an existing building into a wee village hall - the space will be lovely, light and airy - and now - and I'm really over the moon about this - the powers that be approved it tonight.

It turns out I was the only one in this anticipated battle.

Colour me ungirded.

I Get Mail

Well, we all do, don't we? All kinds of mail. I was reflecting on this. Reflecting on an old lover who recently re-contacted me and sent me pictures of a flood in his basement and then proceeded to tell me how he was repairing it along with a contractor, and, (anticipating my questions, no doubt) insurance didn't cover it as he had been away in Texas when it all went down and no one was caretaking the house so the policy was invalid. I did not find this renewal of contact in the least bit romantic, colour me yawning, but then he was older than me to begin with and perhaps any romantic inclination, whether through the florid prose of written desire or the heavy breathing of a phone-call (I'm in the book)has now entirely deserted him. Hence what is he trying to renew? Or is he just taking my virtual pulse to ensure I am amongst those fortunate to be looking down on the daisies too?

Some bloggers who were my regular visitors (and me theirs) have fled. I hope not dead. A few are my virtual friends too and I see them regularly scampering amongst selfies on FB. On to finer things than a blogging life, no doubt. I look at my report of "dead feeds" and I think "abattoir". I'm dark that way. Not that I would wish....but there were some lovely writings back then amongst these now silent keyboards.

I get lovely personal emails from readers. Some who newly discover my blog and eagerly read every single post. I think there must be 1500 posts or thereabouts now. But they read them all. I am flattered and awestruck. What perseverance! I think. And how very kind to let me know. There were three in the past few weeks. From far and near. A shout out to you dear fans, you touch my heart!

The interwebz has been a tremendous gift in my life. Through it, I've made new friends and met more than a few in the flesh. Friendships established virtually have converted seamlessly into actual friends and we chat and write off blog to each other. Extraordinary how uplifting and enlightening technology has been.

I truly treasure each and every one of you out there in blogland and the support, in private emails, through my recent depression, in no small measure, helped to shoo that Black Dog right out of this room.

Mortifying Metaphors.

I finished this book. Yeah, I had quoted it in a blog post. But it was not in the way of a recommendation for any of you readers out there.

For the book was a slog. Normally, I shove such books aside. Donate them half-read to the thrift shop. I don't know why I kept going. It was 562 pages of my life I'll never get back.

One of the reasons was to see how many appalling metaphors the author could cram into those 562 pages. Did I mention there were 562 pages? Oh yeah, sorry, three times now.

Samples, just a few out of hundreds ~

When a fellow's hair lifts off his forehead:

"It settled back to his temples like roosting doves."

On a small sound from someone:

"Like the wheeze in the chest of an asthmatic, or the faint whimper of a small creature dying at the side of the road."

"The inquiry team were starting to dissipate their energies fruitlessly, like men urinating into a strong wind."

Reflecting on a picture of a six year old girl:

"Fair hair cut raggedly across her forehead and a selection of teeth and gaps like a half-demolished wall."

"Tears crawled over his skin, like tiny slugs, slow and painful."

Apart from these, there were also times when metaphors were needed as in two sets of parents with murdered daughters not reacting to the loss and horror. At all. In fact, one couple doesn't bother to come back from their vacation. A face etched in grief at the death, a small sob over the casket? Not at all. No funerals even mentioned.

And the resolution at the end was so forced along with the perpetrator being signalled from Page 1 or 2.

Oh, boy. Someone should have told Mr. Booth that appalling metaphors takes a reader right out of the story as she contemplates those slug-like tears and teeth like a wall or a pile of men urinating into the wind, while her mind frets over the conundrum of that chilly pair of non-grieving parents.

I have this girl......

Well, a girl she will always be to me. She's a middle-aged woman now. How did that happen? I'm supposed to be middle-aged. Well, late middle aged. OK then, a "senior". Senior what? Senior middle-aged. OK. OK. I'm an elder. This is what an elder looks like, feels like, behaves like, dresses like, walks like, sings like, talks like.

We invent our own elderhood. And a fine place it is. Most of the time. Compared to the alternative.

So this girl? This girl is Daughter #1. We've had our trials and tribulations. Oh, yes. Anyone who tells you they haven't had trials and tribulations and troubles and temper tantrums with their children are liars. Or disconnected. Or on drugs. Or in la-la land and don't know their children from the neighbour's dog. Or don't give a shyte. Trust me. Raising children or watching them raise themselves? It ain't easy. Best book I ever read on parenting was "How to Raise Children at Home in your Spare Time." I just Googled it and it's still kicking around. I know. Use me as target practice all you helicopter parents out there.

Anyways, as I was saying. Daughter has moved here. To accompany me into extreme elderhood. I never expected this. And I certainly don't feel I earned this wonderful proximity. We're not living in each other's pockets - she lives about 50k from where I live. Right where the whales come in - nearly on her doorstep. When she announced her moving here we all thought she'd last a month tops and be off on her travels again, to Peru, to California, to France. But she is loving it here. In spite of the weather, the winds tossing her house around all the time, the washed out roads, the snow, the cold. She is in love with the people, the community she's in, the slower pace of life, the clean air and it shows in every fibre of her being. She glows. She is happy. What more can one want for their child?

Today she brings over lunch, a gorgeous soup and a bread she'd made, gluten-free and with cinnamon and chili peppers and bokchoy built into it. Scrumptious. I cooked a pot roast with all the root vegetables on hand for our dinner. On the fire. We had a long walk as the day was glorious and the sea sparkled and we picked up our eggs from the chicken lady and talked to her for a while tossing stories around.

It had been a while since I felt so carefree. I wasn't going out much in this dismal weather. And it showed. I know it contributed to my recent depression. Walking and connecting with others and the outdoors is essential for balance.

Yeah, I have this girl.....

The Peculiars

I'm reading a book at the moment. Nothing unusual in that, I'm always reading a book. Not the same book all the time, I hasten to add. I turn them over every few days. Some I love, some I toss, others I wade through if I'm committed like to my Book Club or to the loan from a friend or rellie who tell me I really, really, really will love the book and I'm puzzled by Page 102, enraged by Page 240, resigned at Page 425, relieved at page 450 that the agony is over, and then drum my fingers for a week wondering what to say to the passionate lender.

All challenges should be so small.

All this in the way of telling you about this book I'm reading. My favourite genre of thriller-crime: a soupcon of savagery flavoured with a heavy undercurrent of character exploration topped off with the police having their own psychological issues. Multi-layered in other words.

Well, there's a scene in this book, post the crime/murder, where all these sightseers pack their rucksacks and go off to view the bloody crime scene, middle-aged trekkers, young parents with children, elders on sticks. Making a day of it. The police are challenged to control them, there are so many of them and so few of the police. Ordinary people, like you and me, all anxious to get their thrills from the bludgeoning death of another human being. Much like the rubber-neckers at a car accident. But these people are taking a journey to get there. Sometimes a whole day trip from 100 miles away. (These crimes only take place in the English countryside - don't they all?!)

And I was reminded of this engineer I worked with. A mild wee man, married forever to a rather pretty French woman. Childless. He blamed her and she blamed him for this infertile state. I don't think they knew that about each other. Anyways.....

There was a terrible car accident about 30 miles from where we worked in which five teenagers were killed rounding a corner on a narrow country road, speeding and crashing into a huge tree with the car bursting into flames. They had all recently graduated from high school.

I asked Phil, during our Monday morning coffee break what he and Claudine had done on the weekend.

"Oh," he said, "We took a picnic and went out to Caledon to have a look at that accident site. That big one."

My curiosity overrode my revulsion. I mean....what?

"Do you do this much?"

"Oh, yes," he said pleasantly, chewing on a muffin, "All the time. But only for the more serious accidents, where there's at least one fatality."

"And what do you do when you get there?"

"Oh, we set up the picnic nearby and spend the afternoon looking at the scene and any remains or burn-marks or bits of wrecks. And then we watch people bring flowers and teddy bears, you know how that is if young people or children die..."

"All afternoon?"

"Oh yes. We meet the same people usually, others like ourselves who like to see the aftermaths, we rate them you see. Compare them to other scenes we've been at. Take pictures sometimes if they're particularly interesting."

Ghouls.

They walk among us.

Passing for normal.

A Giggle

You'd think to yourself there's nothing funny about the confession box. That now nearly obsolete emblem of the Roman Catholic Empire's control on its underlings.

Especially when you read that the confessional was often used for grooming little kids for paedophiliac priests.

In my time, from the age of six onwards, confession was a weekly Saturday afternoon ritual. I, along with reams of other children, had to confess all our ill-doings, our sins, our pratfalls, our disobediences, our impure thoughts, to the Holy Fellah behind the screen of Da Box.

Queues of us there'd be. All watching each other carefully as we emerged, often red-faced and sweaty, sometimes crying rivers of snot, after the "interrogation". Remember- we were all of six years old.

It would go like this:

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

"What did you do, my child? Leave nothing out. For your Father in heaven can see everything you do. And if you leave anything out, anything at all, He will know and you will not be forgiven and you know what happens then? You will burn in hell for all eternity."

"Well...I back-answered my mammy." (I'm now shaking and trembling)

"And?"

"I stole a penny out of the dish on the sideboard."

"And?"

"I hit my brother."

"How many times?"

"I dunno. He's very bold."

"Remember now about hell. How many times?"

"Every day since last Saturday." (gulp)"And I lied to my daddy when he asked me if I made my brother cry."

"Did you have impure thoughts or actions?"

"What's that?" (I'm puzzled).

"What's that, Father." He uses an intimidating, deep voice.

"What's that, Father?"

"Touching yourself."

"What?"

"What, Father." He's irritated.

"What's touching, Father?"

You get the picture. In light of today it was downright nasty child intimidation, both corrupting and suggestive. And yes, this all happened.

On finally emerging from the confessional there was a slew of prayers to be said. Often many Our Fathers and Hail Marys to atone for these hanging offences. It was a twisted badge of honour when we were this tiny, to be on your knees for a long time in the pew afterwards. Your friends were awestruck at your confessed naughtiness and begged to be told what you actually did to incur such a punishment by the Holy Father. Invention was huge. I remember telling the boys I had stolen a tricycle when I hadn't and had to say a whole rosary - this at an age where I could barely manage the answer to the first question in the catechism ("Who made the world? - God made the world!"). I was a hero for the week. A dangerous lying criminal to be both feared and admired.

So Grannymar herself suggested that I write a play about the whole experience of growing up while a mini Irish Catholic and I'm taking it on.

I've already written the outline and am actually giggling all the way through this.

A comedy.

Yes, it's a comedy.

The Upside of the Downside.

Many positives can be extracted from the negatives, right? That being a scientific fact 'n all.

Thanks for all the supportive comments that I received. Depression is normal. Especially for those of the creative and/or addictive bent. I choose to remain unmedicated. Caveat: I respect those who choose otherwise. Many years ago, medicated, I lost myself. I flat-lined. I chose (for me) not to live that way. So the 5% rough and tough facets of me co-exist with the 95% smooth - this ratio was a lot, lot worse, believe me. Sometimes it's a bumpy ride. I lose the run of myself for a while and I retreat. And breathe. And get sad. And morose. And prickly. And overly sensitive. And choose, very carefully, who I spend time with (Yeah, I know: with whom I spend time. How distancing is that CORRECT sentence structure? Just sayin'.)

I had to appear, yet again, on public media yesterday. And because I'm in the sub-human (all too human, really) condition I'm in, I didn't give a rat's you know what which serves me extraordinarily well as I'm not in the least bit nervous in front of the cameras and I can look grim and forbidding and no-nonsense (downright saucy my granny would've called it) which was just what was needed. You should see the emails on my "magnificent" performance.

Little do they know the prerequisite is the Black Dog.

I fooled 'em all.

Side-swiped

Things go along really well but then, like a bolt out of the blue, that Old Black Dog thunders into my psyche. I'd been in denial for a while. Noticed some subtle changes in my behaviour and the absence of any kind of joy. Desiring just to be Left Alone. Not reading too many blogs, not doing much of anything apart from socks. I couldn't stop knitting socks. Ripping socks. Re-knitting socks.

Avoiding the phone. Lurking. Pretending I'm alright Jack at unavoidable social events. Fooling myself. And nobody else. Mentioned depression once to others, tossed it out there into the conversation pit, nobody bit, drew it back in again.

Just dying to get back home. And hide. And avoid.

"Aren't we all a bit bats?" said an old friend from Ontario on the phone today: by a fluke I picked it up when she rang, my 200lb telephone, "I think there's comfort in that, don't you?"

Well, sort of. My oldest friend is away, sunning herself on some beach in Portugal, unplugged. I miss her. This is completely illogical as she lives in Dublin but we track each other every day by email and the odd mailing and phone-call. And the Black Dog is our familiar, we bat him back and forth.

My perception of the world, in this condition, is that everyone is having a great time and I'm stuck somewhere, poised between frowning and lemon-faced, miserable, desperately lonely and wanting to stay that way. Forever. Being completely unfit for company as I am.

Did I mention the awful dreams?

They truly are.

Bear with me. This will pass.

I throw it out there as I know I'm not alone.

Amn't I right?

My good blogfriend Stan over at Sentence First waxes eloquent on the topic of "amn't".

Dear readers, you wouldn't believe the shellacking I took for brazenly using "amn't" when I moved to Canada. Laughter, disbelief and mockery ensued.

"Where didja learn da English, eh?" they'd mock - (and I won't start on the use of the Canadian "eh" sprinkled like salt on every sentence that was uttered to me. My ear told me "A" and I was constantly wondering where "B" was.) But this language outcast holds most of these stories for another time. I do not forget. You will get them.

One of Stan's points is we say: "I'm next, --- I?" and we say: "aren't I?" - which is an anomaly of grammar. "Amn't I?" always sounds more correct (and bloody hell - logical) to me.

Anyway, go read Stan's excellent take on this vexation. I'm sure my Irish readers will breathe a sigh of satisfaction.

Amn't I right?

Busy Bee and the Sofa Years

I am looking forward to some downtime. I've been one of those hives of activities, everything crashing into the one time frame of two lots of theatre tickets, one women-in-theatre workshop, two (yes, two)presentations of my elder abuse workshops at far flung venues, one municipal meeting added to a full day of preparation for that. This all happening over a period of 6 days.

Each night after dinner I crashed on the sofa for an hour. Daughter calls these my "Sofa Years". I never would succumb to couch-naps in the past. But now? Hey, I look forward to it when I feel the sags during the day. And I am so very grateful that when I picked out a sofa to replace the threadbare, spring-sprung sadling that came with the house, I chose a delicious, soft, wide obscenely comfy looong one that holds both me and Wonderdog stretched out together snoring in harmony (in the key of C minor I trust).

Throw in a few goodly hikes with Daughter when the days nudged around the zero (Celsius) and you get the picture of a dense calendar. This week cheers me. Only two or three items in the boxes.

I may now get around to some interior painting. I have hoarded the tips from Grannymar that she so kindly sent me a couple of years ago for Da Day when I might be inclined. I am thinking I'm so inclined now.

Meanwhile Daughter presented me with a luscious hank of gorgeous painted wool. Socks, Mum? she says appealingly.

The thing is, but don't tell her: she may have to wrench those socks off my cold dead feet.

Humbled

Cod drying on a clothesline

I spent a lot of time as a parent with adult children travelling with my father who was in the same, well, boat.

I love this 'destined to repeat' aspect of my life. For now I spend time, frivolous, playful time, with Daughter who is herself the mother of an adult child.

We were walking the roads today with Ansa and she linked me and stopped me dead in our tracks. And we looked down over the sunny sparkling bay with all the boats in a row nestled in the harbour, the two offshore islands with a red hulk of a barge lurking on the horizon, and she said: "My God Mum, we live in paradise."

And on the way back, we stopped in at friends who have been incredibly kind to me (and now to her) over the years. I had this small bag of boxed gourmet chocolates. Not too big a token, not too small. I felt it was just right. The couple were leaving to go visit her 90 year old mother but immediately threw their coats off and invited us in to their roaring fire where we cuddled with Jeff and Buddy, their large cat and small dog for a while.

So we get up and I was feeling that surge of joy one gets when you feel loved. For nothing really. Just for being yourself. This couple have always made me feel this way. I just look in their eyes and I feel loved. And I don't have to do anything for it. It is so very rare that feeling. And so treasured.

And here's where the humbling comes in. Daughter and I are leaving, hugging them goodbye, and we are each handed a bag of freshly caught halibut and a huge salted cod.

And we look at each other, tears in our eyes, as we drive off.

"I've never known people like this," says Daughter emotionally.

Me neither. Me neither. But I'm too full of gratitude to verbalize it properly. But this says it for me:

Scatter/Scattered

scattered p ppl EDD ~ 1 ~ few; SED iv, 921 Co, ~ few.
1 1986 Nfld Herald 15 Mar, p. 33 Merasheen Farewell [recording] is available in scattered stores around the province and can be purchased by mail order.
2 1981 PADDOCK 25 "Camp Seven": A scattered spruce is fit ta pile;/But only try ta git it!/You'll 'ave ta cut a t'ousand firs--/Each one will make a picket. 1987 POOLE 1 [We left Carbonear] and the meadows where we used to kick football and win a scattered game of rounders.

I love the way that word is thrown around here, it's quite inadequately covered in the above definition from the Dictionary of Newfoundland English.

I hear it used a fair whack - usually applied to people and their doings and not so much to inanimate objects.

"I was some scattered last Saturday with all those shops I had to go to."

"There was a right scatter of cousins at that funeral."

I'm a bit of a scatter myself. I suffered a major disappointment in that the two actors who had first dibs on my play have turned it down due to the scatter of both the demands of their families and the serious commitments to rehearsals and tours for the play.

I wasn't talking about this major setback at all, or sharing it. I'm a right good bottler of emotions at times. It has gotten me into a fair degree of trouble in the past.

But over dinner last night with a friend I was able to let it all out. And alternative scenarios surfaced in my mind as I shared.

I didn't go the normal route (for me) and take it all on board and tell myself it must be a dreadful play. I was surprisingly heartened by my belief in it: in recognising there is a story to be told and it needs to be heard.

I'm finally my own cheerleader and champion.

Logo for the play:

Would anyone like to take a guess as to what the play's theme is?