It can be a lonely time up here in the north in the winter in one's senior years. Luckily, we don't have to go outside in sleeting, blowing, freezing weather to earn a living (thank-you children of Baby Boomers everywhere who will be paying for our retirement into their retirement) but that fact leaves many isolated and stranded in front of the wasteland of the flat screen. There is much angst and unhappiness that accompanies viewing non-stop Ellen Degeneres re-runs apparently; so much that great hordes of perfectly sane 60- and 70-somethings perform financial gymnastics in order to escape to the warmer climes for months at a time.
On around March they start planning and conniving for the following winter, spending vast amounts of time (and money, I guess) searching rental sites, inspecting possibilities and paying down deposits. Once that is settled a great collective sigh must be heard being exhaled across Florida, Texas, Arizona, Mexico, Belize and Costa Rica. Then the trek home must be navigated; vans and trucks hauling trailers and RVs of every description clog all northbound thoroughfares, driving slow in the fast lane.
For those who prefer to fly to a warm destination, there is the time-saving miracle of departing from Point A in the morning and arriving at Point B by day's end. At one time this was a glamourous mode reserved for the well-to-do and well-dressed. No one who has flown since 2001 is under that illusion.
In order to get from Point A to your assigned seat you must pass through the agony of airport security. I liken it to being dragged from sleep in your warm bed, pummelled with questions that make no sense, firmly pounded on the forehead with one of those rubber stamps they like to bang around on all your official documents, kicked in the shins for good measure and then told to quickly get back to bed and sleep. I have been yelled at for leaving my shoes on, taking my shoes off, carrying a travel size toothpaste in my purse, offering to turn on my iPad and trying to wear a neck scarf through the x-ray machine. I watched my 80-year-old mother get roped off and stranded until a female security officer could snap on her blue gloves and roughly go over my mother's artificial knees.
There's nothing like the soul-soothing start to a vacation than getting all your rifled belongings into your backpack, your shoes on the right feet and the correct passport in hand. Usually before you've had a cup of coffee.
So now I take a pass. I sadly bid adieu to friends and family as they desert me in early January and I wish them well, I really do, as I read their posts and see their photos of beaches and sunsets. I send back gushing reports of the ski and snowshoe conditions. (This week I was fortunate enough to cross-country ski at the Wasi Ski Club, downhill at Antoine Mountain and snowshoe out my back door.) And at the end of the day my hot tub was bubbling away waiting for me.
It has been a wonderful winter so far and I am hoping it lasts until about the end of March. Then my friends will return and be ready to carry on with real life. In the meantime they are all wishing me lots of snow and I am wishing them a good time in the land of The Donald. Who knows what hoops they may have to jump through in March.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Monday, December 12, 2016
The Seasonal Ride
Is it bad form to blog a Christmas message to your loved ones? I don't know and, in a maelstrom of emotion, one loses all perspective. One day you're bumbling along and it's November; the next time you look up the count down to Christmas is dangerously near single digits and the card and donation request pile is blithely undisturbed.
This morning I did that. As I swung my feet to the floor it was the first time in weeks that I did not feel like I was stepping off a roller coaster and I opened my eyes to the good intentions blanketing my dining room table.
2016 was an emotional roller coaster which glided to a peaceful stop this weekend. My 60-year-old brother died after his valiant struggle with stomach/esophagus cancer. He was at home until the last 36 hours, ever positive and witty and enjoying his visitors. I was honoured to spend much quality time with him and his family on that precarious, emotional ride. And, yes, I am glad it is over for him and everyone who loved him.
So Christmas will happen again this year, if a little weary and tattered around the edges. A new year will be rung in and life will go on, as it should.
2016 was also an important year for Peter and I, as we celebrated 40 years of wedded bliss with a European river cruise. It really was worth it. (The trip. The marriage..... just kidding.) We also travelled to Mexico in January, Calgary in May to meet Caitlin's Mom and enjoy the hospitality of Darren and Caitlin in their new home, and moved to the cottage for the extended summer months where we enjoyed visits from many friends and family. Peter got in plenty of snowmobiling last winter and hunting and ATVing in the fall. Mom and I visited Dawn and Mary Anne in Florida in January and I was able to fit in my three weeks of Avoiding November in a Florida Condo with great girlfriends and Jackie. I have also enjoyed many weekends away with ski girlfriends, quilting friends and my sisters.
Jackie and Serge are always welcoming and I take advantage of the mother-in-law suite more often than I probably should. It's just that there is so darned much good entertainment to take in in Toronto. Now that Mary Anne has moved to Barrie, she may tire of my frequent visits but I am really hoping to fit in some skiing at Hardwood Hills some year before she departs for the warmth at New Years. Not this year alas but some day....
She and I are going to fit in a lecture by Ian Brown downtown and The Nutcracker at the Four Season's Centre this week, battling the elements all the way likely. But hey! Life is short and meant to be lived. Bring on the Sugar Plum Fairy in her sparkly tutu and tiara.
I'll be hugging my loved ones a little tighter this year and, if that means doing it through cyberspace, so be it. My one wish is for good health for all. (And maybe a little less bluster from south of the border please?) Merry Christmas, Elaine (and Peter).
This morning I did that. As I swung my feet to the floor it was the first time in weeks that I did not feel like I was stepping off a roller coaster and I opened my eyes to the good intentions blanketing my dining room table.
2016 was an emotional roller coaster which glided to a peaceful stop this weekend. My 60-year-old brother died after his valiant struggle with stomach/esophagus cancer. He was at home until the last 36 hours, ever positive and witty and enjoying his visitors. I was honoured to spend much quality time with him and his family on that precarious, emotional ride. And, yes, I am glad it is over for him and everyone who loved him.
So Christmas will happen again this year, if a little weary and tattered around the edges. A new year will be rung in and life will go on, as it should.
2016 was also an important year for Peter and I, as we celebrated 40 years of wedded bliss with a European river cruise. It really was worth it. (The trip. The marriage..... just kidding.) We also travelled to Mexico in January, Calgary in May to meet Caitlin's Mom and enjoy the hospitality of Darren and Caitlin in their new home, and moved to the cottage for the extended summer months where we enjoyed visits from many friends and family. Peter got in plenty of snowmobiling last winter and hunting and ATVing in the fall. Mom and I visited Dawn and Mary Anne in Florida in January and I was able to fit in my three weeks of Avoiding November in a Florida Condo with great girlfriends and Jackie. I have also enjoyed many weekends away with ski girlfriends, quilting friends and my sisters.
Jackie and Serge are always welcoming and I take advantage of the mother-in-law suite more often than I probably should. It's just that there is so darned much good entertainment to take in in Toronto. Now that Mary Anne has moved to Barrie, she may tire of my frequent visits but I am really hoping to fit in some skiing at Hardwood Hills some year before she departs for the warmth at New Years. Not this year alas but some day....
She and I are going to fit in a lecture by Ian Brown downtown and The Nutcracker at the Four Season's Centre this week, battling the elements all the way likely. But hey! Life is short and meant to be lived. Bring on the Sugar Plum Fairy in her sparkly tutu and tiara.
I'll be hugging my loved ones a little tighter this year and, if that means doing it through cyberspace, so be it. My one wish is for good health for all. (And maybe a little less bluster from south of the border please?) Merry Christmas, Elaine (and Peter).
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Whoo-Hoo
The sun is shining brilliantly on red, orange and yellow leaves and I am lucky to view them in two directions from my favourite chair. This alone is enough to calm the soul and make one thankful for all we have but the autumn display is also the harbinger of a zen confluence of far greater magnificence. It is hunting season in Northern Ontario and the women-folk have been "abandoned" to their own devices.
Disclaimer: I know women who have bagged all manner of moose, deer and bear. They look forward to hunting season as excitedly as I, for different reasons. These are amazing women and I wish them well out there. I don't understand them but nor do I claim to know why some people like scrapbooking, running marathons or, heaven forbid, playing the bagpipes.
Never mind that hunting widows have been counting sleeps and mentally ticking days off calendars. Every year the weeks of preparatory guy phone calls, assembly point of all things camouflage and lethal and final exodus of trailers full of enough food, ATVs and alcohol to tax the sustainability of those tiny tires fill me with a delightful anticipatory thrum. Every year I find myself writing essentially the same blog about this most wonderful time. I can't help myself. It is my equivalent of the athletic airborne heel-click; the fist pump; the Facebook gush.
And what, you may ask, do I spend those precious days doing alone. In all honesty, not much. Except it is all about me. I get to finish sewing projects uninterrupted, read through mealtimes, watch girlie television (thank-you Netflix) to my heart's content and dine on the culinary delights of smoothies for breakfast, creative salads for lunch, popcorn and ice cream for dinner. I've been known to rip apart an entire room, paint it and get it back together before he gets back home. It is always interesting to see how long it takes him to notice the change in colour.
So wish me well in my solitude. I may be alone but I am never lonely.
Disclaimer: I know women who have bagged all manner of moose, deer and bear. They look forward to hunting season as excitedly as I, for different reasons. These are amazing women and I wish them well out there. I don't understand them but nor do I claim to know why some people like scrapbooking, running marathons or, heaven forbid, playing the bagpipes.
Never mind that hunting widows have been counting sleeps and mentally ticking days off calendars. Every year the weeks of preparatory guy phone calls, assembly point of all things camouflage and lethal and final exodus of trailers full of enough food, ATVs and alcohol to tax the sustainability of those tiny tires fill me with a delightful anticipatory thrum. Every year I find myself writing essentially the same blog about this most wonderful time. I can't help myself. It is my equivalent of the athletic airborne heel-click; the fist pump; the Facebook gush.
And what, you may ask, do I spend those precious days doing alone. In all honesty, not much. Except it is all about me. I get to finish sewing projects uninterrupted, read through mealtimes, watch girlie television (thank-you Netflix) to my heart's content and dine on the culinary delights of smoothies for breakfast, creative salads for lunch, popcorn and ice cream for dinner. I've been known to rip apart an entire room, paint it and get it back together before he gets back home. It is always interesting to see how long it takes him to notice the change in colour.
So wish me well in my solitude. I may be alone but I am never lonely.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Summer Meanderings
Is there anything more bliss-inducing than finding yourself free of obligations with a comfortable chair to nestle into, a stack of interesting-looking books at hand and time to just let your mind wander? Freed of the monotonous soul-sapping thankless drudgery of running a household, the unexpected potentiality is somewhat daunting.
I am contemplating just such a delicious, precarious pile of tomes of eclectic persuasion, gleaned from the basement archives of the Powassan Library, commonly known as the used book store. Into this cool little cave are regularly deposited everything from the contents of Grandma's cottage bookshelf to the detritus of the departing college student. Such has been the largesse of donations lately that library staff had begun to beg anyone who looked like a volunteer and could employ the enviable skill of alphabetizing to please, please have a go at weeding out some of the less saleable material and shelving the rest.
So it was that I recently gamely headed down, only to emerge hours later with the bounty described above, now perching on the side of my desk. The cost of such a treasure is a donation of my own choosing. And while I hope to assist in the basement again I can't imagine it happening any time soon. If I get my nose into any one of my chosen dozen--and my butt into said comfortable deck chair--I fear I will be listed as AWOL by family and Facebook friends and library staff needing a hand.
A stunning, possibly mind-boggling array right? Ahh.
*****
The charms of summer have their ways and I have learned it is best to go with the serendipitousness. If company cancels, one should immediately freeze the planned meal ingredients, check that the supply of hot dogs is bountiful and dive into the nearest book. Thus it was that I found myself on the cottage deck with tears of laughter rolling onto the pages of David Rakoff's Don't Get Too Comfortable. It is an autobiographical collection of humorous essays by a former Canadian living in New York.
At one point, he riffs on the matrons who attend the couturier shows during fashion week as only a gay man can. Even though that scene is so far out of my milieu I can envision "those fabulously wealthy Ladies who actually buy and wear the dresses. They are a small group and, as far as I can tell, not related, but it is extraordinary how many of them look as alike as sisters. Perhaps it is their universal whippet thinness, the shared knife-blade noses, or the full, pillowy mouths. Or is it the look of constant surprise in their unnaturally wide, unblinking eyes? The Ladies are an uncanny cluster of genetic coincidence..."
No matter the topic, be it "the indignities of coach class, the torments of low thread count, the never-ending quest for artisanal olive oil and other First World problems", the book's subtitle, he succinctly documents our truths and ridiculousness in an intelligent David Seders-like style.
Sadly my discovery of this author has been tempered by research into his other publishings. They stopped abruptly in 2013 due to his death at 47 from cancer. So even though I have sworn off restocking my recently decluttered book shelves, I may have to make an exception in this case and scour about for all his works. Don't tell my husband.
*******
The other lovely discovery of my summer has been another Canadian author, Robertson Davies. (Also dead but at least he lived into his 80s and left us a bountiful trove of trilogies, novels and plays.) I am happily in the middle of The Cunning Man, enjoying the talent of a true wordsmith as he moves his story through Sioux Lookout and Toronto. I wonder if Canadian Lit students are studying him these days. In a way I hope not. Although he is a treasure I would hate to think of how the joy and artistry would be beaten out of his works in a typical high school novel study. Maybe better to spread free copies of his works around cafes and the internet for young people to discover.
Or convince them to spend some quality time in the new or used sections of a library. Happy reading.
I am contemplating just such a delicious, precarious pile of tomes of eclectic persuasion, gleaned from the basement archives of the Powassan Library, commonly known as the used book store. Into this cool little cave are regularly deposited everything from the contents of Grandma's cottage bookshelf to the detritus of the departing college student. Such has been the largesse of donations lately that library staff had begun to beg anyone who looked like a volunteer and could employ the enviable skill of alphabetizing to please, please have a go at weeding out some of the less saleable material and shelving the rest.
So it was that I recently gamely headed down, only to emerge hours later with the bounty described above, now perching on the side of my desk. The cost of such a treasure is a donation of my own choosing. And while I hope to assist in the basement again I can't imagine it happening any time soon. If I get my nose into any one of my chosen dozen--and my butt into said comfortable deck chair--I fear I will be listed as AWOL by family and Facebook friends and library staff needing a hand.
A stunning, possibly mind-boggling array right? Ahh.
*****
The charms of summer have their ways and I have learned it is best to go with the serendipitousness. If company cancels, one should immediately freeze the planned meal ingredients, check that the supply of hot dogs is bountiful and dive into the nearest book. Thus it was that I found myself on the cottage deck with tears of laughter rolling onto the pages of David Rakoff's Don't Get Too Comfortable. It is an autobiographical collection of humorous essays by a former Canadian living in New York.
At one point, he riffs on the matrons who attend the couturier shows during fashion week as only a gay man can. Even though that scene is so far out of my milieu I can envision "those fabulously wealthy Ladies who actually buy and wear the dresses. They are a small group and, as far as I can tell, not related, but it is extraordinary how many of them look as alike as sisters. Perhaps it is their universal whippet thinness, the shared knife-blade noses, or the full, pillowy mouths. Or is it the look of constant surprise in their unnaturally wide, unblinking eyes? The Ladies are an uncanny cluster of genetic coincidence..."
No matter the topic, be it "the indignities of coach class, the torments of low thread count, the never-ending quest for artisanal olive oil and other First World problems", the book's subtitle, he succinctly documents our truths and ridiculousness in an intelligent David Seders-like style.
Sadly my discovery of this author has been tempered by research into his other publishings. They stopped abruptly in 2013 due to his death at 47 from cancer. So even though I have sworn off restocking my recently decluttered book shelves, I may have to make an exception in this case and scour about for all his works. Don't tell my husband.
*******
The other lovely discovery of my summer has been another Canadian author, Robertson Davies. (Also dead but at least he lived into his 80s and left us a bountiful trove of trilogies, novels and plays.) I am happily in the middle of The Cunning Man, enjoying the talent of a true wordsmith as he moves his story through Sioux Lookout and Toronto. I wonder if Canadian Lit students are studying him these days. In a way I hope not. Although he is a treasure I would hate to think of how the joy and artistry would be beaten out of his works in a typical high school novel study. Maybe better to spread free copies of his works around cafes and the internet for young people to discover.
Or convince them to spend some quality time in the new or used sections of a library. Happy reading.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
It's The MOST Won-Der-Ful Time Of The Year
You're probably thinking tinsel and malls, peopled by harried grandparents on the quest for the perfect gift card and the poor down-sized buggar whose name floated to the surface in the unemployment centre's pool for a Santa.
No. And I'll give a hint. It is All Hallow's Eve. So you're now thinking miniature goblins and superheroes carrying pillow cases and UNICEF boxes.
You're getting there...but, no, Halloween is not a reason to celebrate (in my books). However, in an effort to be hauntingly correct (akin to political correctness but with more sugar) I did artfully plonk the illuminated plastic pumpkin into the planter by the front door in anticipation. I expect an onslaught of ten or so about 5.30 p.m. and then I will spend the remainder of the Zombie Apocalypse in the hot tub.
So why am I in such a celebratory mood? Wait for it.....it is the beginning of the delightful season of hunting. In time-honoured tradition, gun-owners of the mostly male persuasion hear the call of the wild and the male-bonding grunt in early November. Great quantities of fat-laden food and beverages of the alcoholic persuasion are gathered and loaded onto the backs of pick-up trucks along with generators, all-terrain vehicles, tools and TV satellite receivers. (Getting the Queen Mary under way involves fewer resources and special requests for favourite foods to be baked prior to departure.)
Eventually, however, they are off. Not without some last-minute instructions shouted in the door about not forgetting which days are for garbage and recycling pick-up. "And I left you some moose steaks in the freezer you can eat while I'm away." Yeah. Yeah. As if.
The first thing I am going to do is empty the fridge. All the dribs and drabs of chicken legs and ribs and roast pork may as well go out right now. In their place will be homemade leek soup, yogurt, inventive salads, a frozen pad thai entree. And chocolate.
More than casting off the meat-and-potatoes regime, however, hunting season is a time to breathe. In and out. Breathing in the cleanness and quiet. Reconnecting with me. And, often as not, just doing what I want and not stopping until I want to stop. Books will be read. Sewing projects will be completed and new ones started. And bags will be packed. Because I now celebrate November, The Dreary Month, in Florida. After a few days of peace and quiet--and, yes, getting the garbage and recycling to the curb on the correct days--I will join other Hunting Widows in warmer, sunnier climes.
And then, when I do return, it will be December. The Christmas decorations will have been in place at the mall for a full month and I may be ready to start cooking huge honking chunks of meat every night again. I know I will be refreshed and happy and brown.
It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
No. And I'll give a hint. It is All Hallow's Eve. So you're now thinking miniature goblins and superheroes carrying pillow cases and UNICEF boxes.
You're getting there...but, no, Halloween is not a reason to celebrate (in my books). However, in an effort to be hauntingly correct (akin to political correctness but with more sugar) I did artfully plonk the illuminated plastic pumpkin into the planter by the front door in anticipation. I expect an onslaught of ten or so about 5.30 p.m. and then I will spend the remainder of the Zombie Apocalypse in the hot tub.
So why am I in such a celebratory mood? Wait for it.....it is the beginning of the delightful season of hunting. In time-honoured tradition, gun-owners of the mostly male persuasion hear the call of the wild and the male-bonding grunt in early November. Great quantities of fat-laden food and beverages of the alcoholic persuasion are gathered and loaded onto the backs of pick-up trucks along with generators, all-terrain vehicles, tools and TV satellite receivers. (Getting the Queen Mary under way involves fewer resources and special requests for favourite foods to be baked prior to departure.)
Eventually, however, they are off. Not without some last-minute instructions shouted in the door about not forgetting which days are for garbage and recycling pick-up. "And I left you some moose steaks in the freezer you can eat while I'm away." Yeah. Yeah. As if.
The first thing I am going to do is empty the fridge. All the dribs and drabs of chicken legs and ribs and roast pork may as well go out right now. In their place will be homemade leek soup, yogurt, inventive salads, a frozen pad thai entree. And chocolate.
More than casting off the meat-and-potatoes regime, however, hunting season is a time to breathe. In and out. Breathing in the cleanness and quiet. Reconnecting with me. And, often as not, just doing what I want and not stopping until I want to stop. Books will be read. Sewing projects will be completed and new ones started. And bags will be packed. Because I now celebrate November, The Dreary Month, in Florida. After a few days of peace and quiet--and, yes, getting the garbage and recycling to the curb on the correct days--I will join other Hunting Widows in warmer, sunnier climes.
And then, when I do return, it will be December. The Christmas decorations will have been in place at the mall for a full month and I may be ready to start cooking huge honking chunks of meat every night again. I know I will be refreshed and happy and brown.
It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.
Friday, July 3, 2015
Quiet. Interrupted. Again.
If you have not had the opportunity to read the book Quiet by Susan Cain I recommend you buy or download it immediately from your favourite supplier. It details the workings of the introvert's mind and mien, explaining much if you have ever felt like the misfit in the gung-ho, team-oriented, rah-rah, let's-share-everything socialized world that we now inhabit.
My only criticism of Ms. Cain's work is that she was, generally, not able to delineate just how an introvert can better exist in the extrovert's world and, specifically, how in the world a peace-loving body such as myself can pleasantly tolerate an extrovert husband who will shortly drive me crazy. Or at least out of the house.
As I write this my husband, who is semi-retired, is home for the day. It is not yet 9.30 a.m. and he has had out the stepladder, flashlights and various tools. He has pulled out the entertainment unit, asked me where the batteries are and turned off the radio I was listening to. Then he turned it on at a very high volume and established that one speaker in the porch was definitely not working.
"Has this speaker not been working all summer?", he demanded.
"I'm not sure...I just really have it on in the background," I mumbled. I should have mentioned that I prefer the sounds of lapping water, loon calls, the neighbouring islands as they come to life in the early morning but, well, I am an introvert.
My morning began peacefully. Picture me at my cottage. The sun is shining through the screens in my porch. I have my coffee at my elbow and the crossword in my lap. CBC Radio is playing peacefully, at a low decibel level. Bliss reigns.
Then my husband, who has left an idyllic island to find a group of men and coffee on the mainland, returns. Within five minutes all is shattered. I flee the porch where there will shortly be power tools in action and cuss words in the once-peaceful air. In the end, as happens on most of his days off, he will have to go into the city for parts. All well and good--the leaving for the city part--but if only we could get directly from him returning to him leaving again. If only he could find (or manufacture) whatever critical problem is going to absorb him for the day the night before. How efficient to go to coffee and then to the city.
Wait, there's an update: "It's ugly. There's a broken wire somewhere." A longer ladder has arrived with more noise and commotion and swearing. Speakers have been swapped to no avail. And the TV unit sits mid-living room. He's now surfing the net for solutions, guy sites that offer strategies for dealing with life's mechanical conundrums and guy customer reviews. I expect a summary of The Situation shortly and the conclusion that parts will be needed. Good. "I knew that", I resist blurting.
I guess it's time to throw in the towel and find some gardening or some such to do outside.
My only criticism of Ms. Cain's work is that she was, generally, not able to delineate just how an introvert can better exist in the extrovert's world and, specifically, how in the world a peace-loving body such as myself can pleasantly tolerate an extrovert husband who will shortly drive me crazy. Or at least out of the house.
As I write this my husband, who is semi-retired, is home for the day. It is not yet 9.30 a.m. and he has had out the stepladder, flashlights and various tools. He has pulled out the entertainment unit, asked me where the batteries are and turned off the radio I was listening to. Then he turned it on at a very high volume and established that one speaker in the porch was definitely not working.
"Has this speaker not been working all summer?", he demanded.
"I'm not sure...I just really have it on in the background," I mumbled. I should have mentioned that I prefer the sounds of lapping water, loon calls, the neighbouring islands as they come to life in the early morning but, well, I am an introvert.
My morning began peacefully. Picture me at my cottage. The sun is shining through the screens in my porch. I have my coffee at my elbow and the crossword in my lap. CBC Radio is playing peacefully, at a low decibel level. Bliss reigns.
Then my husband, who has left an idyllic island to find a group of men and coffee on the mainland, returns. Within five minutes all is shattered. I flee the porch where there will shortly be power tools in action and cuss words in the once-peaceful air. In the end, as happens on most of his days off, he will have to go into the city for parts. All well and good--the leaving for the city part--but if only we could get directly from him returning to him leaving again. If only he could find (or manufacture) whatever critical problem is going to absorb him for the day the night before. How efficient to go to coffee and then to the city.
Wait, there's an update: "It's ugly. There's a broken wire somewhere." A longer ladder has arrived with more noise and commotion and swearing. Speakers have been swapped to no avail. And the TV unit sits mid-living room. He's now surfing the net for solutions, guy sites that offer strategies for dealing with life's mechanical conundrums and guy customer reviews. I expect a summary of The Situation shortly and the conclusion that parts will be needed. Good. "I knew that", I resist blurting.
I guess it's time to throw in the towel and find some gardening or some such to do outside.
Friday, May 22, 2015
A Year in Review
Am I turning into a slow-moving old biddy who doesn't know what day it is and clogs up the grocery aisles on busy long weekends socializing with other customers? Sometimes, I have to admit. I'll try to do better.
My goal when I retired a year ago was to always know the date, day of the week and be mindful of the busy people who still work and are paying into my pension, thank-you very much. Oh, and to write on my blog page regularly.
Not having to be in front of a computer at specified times doing less-than-fun tasks has been freeing. Now when I sit down at mine, it is for creative and informative purposes. But the freedom is proving to be a hindrance to ever accomplishing anything worthwhile again.
And not having a structure to my days can lead to embarrassing moments like looking up and realizing one is still clad in bathrobe and slippers, sixth coffee at elbow, and it is noon.
Not that that should be an issue right? Well, I guess...but I did set out on this last stage hoping to immerse myself in some of the fun things that had been shunted aside by other obligations. And I have to a certain extent. I won't bore you with how I took up kayaking and quilting and attending operas and made the Top 20 for distance this winter at my cross-country ski club. (One would think that with all that exercise one would lose weight. That was not to be, however, probably predicated by the abundant time to read and the proximity of the snack cupboard. Sigh.) Frankly, though, I am shocked at how fast time gets away on me and how much of my Bucket List remains a wistful wish list.
The other complicating factor of retirement is that well-meaning volunteers doing good work on worthy causes seek you out and, since you don't have the excuse of having to work, it is difficult to avoid all the requests for assistance. Ho hum.
I now sit on two boards, am chairman of the Friends of Powassan Library, have joined the Friendship (aka Seniors) Centre--and run when anyone starts a conversation with "Now that you're retired..."
What I have always longed to do was have the time to write--editorial comments, funny emails, this blog, a novel ... And I kind of have the time, just not the discipline to ignore all the phone calls and emails popping up and nudges to make my move in online Scrabble and, well, you get it. I think we all have the time; it's the prioritizing that is the issue. As I sit here in my bathrobe with coffee at hand, it will soon be noon and I will bemoan the fact that I didn't get a walk in or the sewing project started or the catch-up email to friends and family.
Wait A Minute
This week I did get out a couple of comments to CBC programs that I listen to. So, if you're still reading, I'll pass on the latest issue that tweaked my That's Not Right nerve. (I am a firm believer in the necessity of "ordinary" Canadians to voice their good sense when things seem to be heading off the rails. I call these Wait-A-Minutes.)
CBC's The Current did a piece on Wednesday about the muzzling of Canadian government-funded scientists who do research on--get this--fish(!) and are not allowed to speak to the media about their findings. I believe this is merely the tip of the iceberg when it comes to managing freedom of speech by Steven Harper and his gang of gagsters.
I always thought freedom of speech meant just that--freedom to say what one thinks. That this mentality has been allowed to seep into a government mindset and be implemented so thoroughly by one person is disturbing. (To listen to The Current interview with scientist Steve Campana who left the employ of Canada to take up a position in Iceland where he is willing to speak out, go to iTunes, The Current on CBC podcasts and listen to the May 20 episode.)
The other assignment I would recommend if you have the time, download or buy the book Plain Speaking, An Oral Biography of Harry S. Truman by Merle Miller. It is an old book and it is about an American but it is truly refreshing to read about a man who believed a government's sole purpose should be to enact legislation that benefits the greatest number of people in the most affordable, compassionate manner. Period.
Mr. Trudeau are you listening? Are you looking for an election issue that regular people could get behind? I might even volunteer to knock on doors for you now that I have all this time on my hands....
My goal when I retired a year ago was to always know the date, day of the week and be mindful of the busy people who still work and are paying into my pension, thank-you very much. Oh, and to write on my blog page regularly.
Not having to be in front of a computer at specified times doing less-than-fun tasks has been freeing. Now when I sit down at mine, it is for creative and informative purposes. But the freedom is proving to be a hindrance to ever accomplishing anything worthwhile again.
And not having a structure to my days can lead to embarrassing moments like looking up and realizing one is still clad in bathrobe and slippers, sixth coffee at elbow, and it is noon.
Not that that should be an issue right? Well, I guess...but I did set out on this last stage hoping to immerse myself in some of the fun things that had been shunted aside by other obligations. And I have to a certain extent. I won't bore you with how I took up kayaking and quilting and attending operas and made the Top 20 for distance this winter at my cross-country ski club. (One would think that with all that exercise one would lose weight. That was not to be, however, probably predicated by the abundant time to read and the proximity of the snack cupboard. Sigh.) Frankly, though, I am shocked at how fast time gets away on me and how much of my Bucket List remains a wistful wish list.
The other complicating factor of retirement is that well-meaning volunteers doing good work on worthy causes seek you out and, since you don't have the excuse of having to work, it is difficult to avoid all the requests for assistance. Ho hum.
I now sit on two boards, am chairman of the Friends of Powassan Library, have joined the Friendship (aka Seniors) Centre--and run when anyone starts a conversation with "Now that you're retired..."
What I have always longed to do was have the time to write--editorial comments, funny emails, this blog, a novel ... And I kind of have the time, just not the discipline to ignore all the phone calls and emails popping up and nudges to make my move in online Scrabble and, well, you get it. I think we all have the time; it's the prioritizing that is the issue. As I sit here in my bathrobe with coffee at hand, it will soon be noon and I will bemoan the fact that I didn't get a walk in or the sewing project started or the catch-up email to friends and family.
Wait A Minute
This week I did get out a couple of comments to CBC programs that I listen to. So, if you're still reading, I'll pass on the latest issue that tweaked my That's Not Right nerve. (I am a firm believer in the necessity of "ordinary" Canadians to voice their good sense when things seem to be heading off the rails. I call these Wait-A-Minutes.)
CBC's The Current did a piece on Wednesday about the muzzling of Canadian government-funded scientists who do research on--get this--fish(!) and are not allowed to speak to the media about their findings. I believe this is merely the tip of the iceberg when it comes to managing freedom of speech by Steven Harper and his gang of gagsters.
I always thought freedom of speech meant just that--freedom to say what one thinks. That this mentality has been allowed to seep into a government mindset and be implemented so thoroughly by one person is disturbing. (To listen to The Current interview with scientist Steve Campana who left the employ of Canada to take up a position in Iceland where he is willing to speak out, go to iTunes, The Current on CBC podcasts and listen to the May 20 episode.)
The other assignment I would recommend if you have the time, download or buy the book Plain Speaking, An Oral Biography of Harry S. Truman by Merle Miller. It is an old book and it is about an American but it is truly refreshing to read about a man who believed a government's sole purpose should be to enact legislation that benefits the greatest number of people in the most affordable, compassionate manner. Period.
Mr. Trudeau are you listening? Are you looking for an election issue that regular people could get behind? I might even volunteer to knock on doors for you now that I have all this time on my hands....
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