Saturday, October 22, 2016

Basil and Clover

In late October
The indoor Clover
Charms me.


Bought as Basil,
Which flickered and died
Much like my old flame
In another life.

In its place sprang Clover,
Nervous, tentative.
Until assured.
Then draping fetchingly

Greenily, greedily
On window ledge.
Smiling over kitchen sink
Nestling with Herb.

Clover clings tightly to life,
Thirsty, solid, faithful
Stolid companion in this
Far too empty house.

Friday, October 21, 2016

Oh Me Nerves

So the anthology is off to a friend for formatting. A virtual friend in California whom I met through an online writers' group. Da Webz: she is amazing. VF has since become a well established author in the sci-fi genre while raising four daughters under the age of 7. And helps out fellow authors with her expertise.

I like the cover which features my office and an old fashioned lamp and a photo of my parents which seemed to fit. I wanted to show modern technology in conjunction with the old fashioned timbre of some of the stories/memoirs/poems within it. The photo is meant to be blurry with clear text. Not sure whether it works or not even though I am enamoured of it.

I've never taken on such a humungous, soul destroying, exhausting task in my life. It ripped about a year out of my life between rewrites and revisions and formatting, repaginations, four levels of editing and banging my head off my own keyboard. I would never do it again. Sympathy and compassion (except from other writers) was in short supply along with the challenge of the writers' impatience to see the book in print.

I think it will sell well locally as it truly is a type of compendium I'd see in the old days. Bits of everything.

A few of my own and Daughter's pieces are in it. One writer pulled a piece that was her best: afraid of relatives' judgements. A lovely piece, sadly never to see the light of day. Her substitute piece never made the final cut as it was so inferior.

It's done now and I can move on to my languishing 3 novels and the CBC Short Story Contest.


Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Mixed Emotions

Living with others has its trials and tribulations. I get to the conclusion I don't share the sandbox well unless the visits are of short durations or with the type who have profound knowledge of or have simpatico of the other. In sync as it were and I have a few of those.

I'm not terrific around smokers, I'm talking the fierce, smoke-gulping kind who need constant hits of the drug. (And I was such a creature until nearly 30 years ago. So I have an understanding.)

A friend who stayed with me all last week to Monday past, in my age range, has yet to quit nicotine. So my time was spent waiting for her to finish, to start, or to plan the next intake from the white tube. Not to mention detours to buy the weeds. And the house freezing as she bounded in and out.

It's been years since I've been around non-social smokers so it took a fair degree of tolerance and understanding from me. I found resentments piling up as I waited yet again for her to come back into the restaurant or the car or the house.

I thought toting a book to occupy me would be rude. But I found my subtle android screen-sucking would entertain me and remove the puss off my face.

But still...often she ran into stranger-smokers outside and as she's gregarious could light up yet another in their company as they chewed the fat between drags.

I love her dearly but dear gawd, if I added up all the time waiting for her in various locations, I would be canonized.

How do others deal with this?

It's not a topic I've ever seen addressed.

She's gone back to the homeland now, so my life has been returned to me to do with as I will.

And she's never been interested in my blog, even if she had the expertise to locate it for Google is beyond her.

Monday, October 10, 2016

It Goes Like This

So yeah, I'm getting a grip. I'm lining up the acceptance modules. Pragmatism is on order. I'm drawing the zen bubble around myself.

I was away for a week. And on returning home, I was faced with this newly dug crater next door. Crater? It measured about 60' X 20'. It matched the other former crater (now a ginormous shed) up the hill beside my tigeen in size. Oh lawd, sez I, another mother of a shed, this time plonked beside my house. Many more trees had been removed. Some extraordinarily old, over 100 years. A great wind barrier against the fierceness of the weather which at times blows in off the ocean. Now gone. Irreplaceable.

Yes of course outrage set in, rapidly followed by a kind of hopeless depression as the people who bought this land many years ago are perfectly entitled to do what they want with it as there are no land use regulations or zoning laws in this town. It's a haphazard mix of commercial and residential. Even though industrial blazes in the past have nearly wiped out the residential sections. I've brought up this high risk zoning on more than one occasion to be met with raised eyebrows and zero interest in changing the status quo.

So now I listen to happy residents sawing up these beautiful old trees for winter fuel and the sounds of diggers all days long, adding to the fill across the read which may accommodate more sheds.

I propose the new name of our lovely old town could be Shedsville.

So there you have it.

Friday, October 07, 2016

House Memories

It's mainly silence. But I believe a house holds both visual and aural memories forever. So now and again I hear the tinkling of a dog-collar as the tag briefly strikes the collar-hook it's on.

Or a rustling from where the dog bed was.

Or the slurping of water from one of the two bowls on each end of the house that I kept filled.

And then at night, I still say goodnight to her. The last couple of years the stairs were too much of a challenge for her. I still look to see her heartbroken face lifting up to watch me go up the Mount Everest of stairs and turn at the top to look down and catch the remnants of that enormous sigh of hers.

I still don't walk on the area of floor in my bedroom where her bed used to be for years.

Lying in bed at night I sometimes hear a deep groan which is creepy in the extreme. But this is a house memory forcing through the anguish of a previous resident who died of cancer here, far too young, many, many years ago, leaving her teenage children with an elderly father. It could be her enormous grief lingering on. Now mingled with mine.

I now close the three inside doors to the family room when I have the fire lit. To conserve the heat. I couldn't do that before as Ansa needed access everywhere. I look up from reading or knitting and see the faint outline of her sitting, back towards me, staring at one of the doors aa if there was a magic trick to opening it and she was patiently waiting for the technique to reveal itself.

I find my right hand still going to the backseat to have her kiss it even though it was a long time since she was able to ride in my car.

I still have the remains of her dog-food in a kitchen cupboard but gave away her cookies from the jar that was always stocked. Her car gear is in the garage. I find her water flask particularly poignant as after a good long hike I would pour some into her car-bowl and after she was finished drinking she would lick my hand in gratitude. I tear up even thinking about it.

I still can't finish a sandwich without tearing off a corner for her.

And leave the remains of my morning egg for her to enjoy.

Our little routines, so automatic when we lived together, now so deeply heartbreaking.

This house remembers.

And PS - more on my previous post soon. I am still processing but I am OK and the overwhelming support I received has eased my outraged shock remarkably.

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

Life at "Home"

"Home" is subjective, isn't it?

Do you ever write about stuff you can do nothing about?

Trying to sort out feelings like anguish, disturbance, fear, uncertainty?

I've been triggered badly and I'm trying to sort it all out, for there is absolutely nothing I can do about any of it.

I think: I have to make serious changes.

But my very livelihood and future security is completely threatened. And, I repeat, there is (seriously)nothing I can do.

This all happened while I was away. Shock and horror prevailed when I came back on Sunday, and still does.

I hate this feeling. I can't change it. I'm not like Barbara Bush. Though some can do this shelving. I can never do it. I have to pick at it until it unravels or something else distracts or.....

But I feel the earth shaking underneath me (not just a metaphor) and life will never be the same again. Serious evaluation and taking stock is happening.

More later when I develop a coherence to my thought patterns.

And you know how I do that? By talking/writing about it with a trusted few.

Until my world rights itself again.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Life on the Farm Day 6

Missus has confided she doesn't want children and Mister isn't too hung up on them either. I was surprised a little, though these days it's not uncommon. I arrived home after I had my supper out. There were a million children, all between 5 and 10 in the living room, eating dinner everywhere in between screams and racing around. Below you see the living room, imagine that festooned with rugrats, their assorted keepers, toys and spare animals.

It turns out the sister of Missus had two children by the time she was 17 and mom of Missus remarried when Missus was 12 and had another family. Mister's twin bro also got married at 20 and 2 of his were part of this menage.

I totally get why Missus, though extremely interactive and fun with this enormous gaggle, would like closing the door on them when the visit was over and resolve not to add to the conglomerate.

I found this perfectly hidden graveyard on a ramble today. I deserved a ramble as I finally finished that challenging editing job which was driving me mad.

I found Smokey the cat quite a comfort to me in my deep Ansa-loss. Smokey is extraordinary as she never stops talking to any human who crosses her path (and the dog who has no time for her). Endless conversations, highly interactive and one of those cuddly types.

There can never be enough cuddles in the world.

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Life on the Farm Day 5

The editing got stuck today but a story I was working intensely changed direction on me and took me by surprise.
I went off out to ponder and mull in this glorious weather and came across this strand by the side of a lake with the mountains in the distance. I hadn't realized there was a conference going on. A Canada Geese Conference. They all becamet quite irritated at this human intrusion and scattered.

I took another picture of this fantastic place:

And then headed towards the mountains which were breathtaking, the trees just on the point of turning crimson but nowhere to stop and take a photo.

I try and find common ground with the young mister and missus. They don't believe in reading as everything you'd ever want to know is on their devices and the television. He goes off hunting daily to help his buddies bag their moose quotas and as they all have children he lets their moose kills go ahead of him. He also sells a few cords of the wood he has prepared and she crafts some lovely wooden décor for walls. For example one is a box-shelf at eyelevel made out of repurposed barn wood which holds many photos in barnwood frames. Very attractive.

I find their disinterest in my life quite humbling, because in my twenties I'm sure I felt the same way about old people. What on earth could they contribute to a conversation, they were used up, finished, done. So I'm content to ask them questions and think how very fortunate they are to be living their dreams out loud and lustily while still in their mid twenties. They seriously love the lives they're living. And their parents and their grandparents all live within the wider circle. And most of them came back from the tar sands of Fort McMurray to do so. Long before the wildfires.

I'm very much the student here.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Life on the Farm Day 4

The chickens!

Walked around the farm today and I offer you a few pics of what I observed. The young couple have only been farming for a year here and their clearing of the forest is admirable.

The turkeys!

I was editing this anthology most of the day, I hope to never edit again apart from my own work and one other commitment which I intend to tackle soonest. I don't know how anyone does it for a living. One 9 page story has had me rewriting it something like 20 times and counting - it is so mangled and grammatically a disaster but it has to go in the anthology because sales. No more can I say.

The trees (and vegetable garden)!

Then I went out in the brilliant sunshine for a while and had coffee and finished my book and took stock of the comings and goings of the populace. And thought long and hard about what I was doing with my life.

The ducks!

And I've decided to drop a lot of the extraneous from it. What I deem extraneous. No more committees, no more start-ups (goodbye community theatre). I am filling my days with bliss and only doing the stuff I do with joy and gratitude. And there is so much of this if I make it happen. Stuff that puts a smile on my face and not an old grouchy sour puss will-it-ever-be-over face.

See? I needed this time away to clarify my thinking, my dreams, my little goals, what's left of my life. That time is now.

We are never too old to change, m'dears.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Life on the Farm Day 3

Because I can.

I headed off today, got hopelessly lost in signpost-less rural Newfoundland. It can be maddening. Plus GPS fail due to lack of service. I sympathise more with my tourists who stay with me now. Visited the above abandoned farm, so grown over I didn't want to injure myself with no cell phone coverage so took the picture from afar and speculated.

I'm over-editing stuff so have to leave it. And go back to it.

I sat in a coffee shop and observed for a while and then read my current book. On leaving, walking through the parking lot, 4 people greeted me. I love this aspect of Newfoundlanders. A perfect stranger and a greeting tossed like a flower.

I found a pair of slippers for myself at a local shop. I'm awfully fussy about slippers. These are comfortable and stalwart and won't shove me out of them. It's happened.

I saw a sign outside a local church which made me laugh and laugh. I really don't know why. Maybe you can explain it:

"Life without God is like an unsharpened pencil. There's no point."

OK. Maybe I'm getting blunter as I age. Sorry.

Chatted with the Grandgirl on PM. She's lecturing at university now. To 3rd years. She's in 4th year. Her marks are through the roof. She's enjoying it and the money but her own work is piling up. I felt lucky to get her on PM.

A dog barking set me off today. I do all my major crying in the car.

And secrets. Love them. When missus here is off teaching, mister lights up a mighty spliff. I say mighty as I didn't see it, he was out in the shed but the aroma actually barged its way into my room. I took a few deep breaths and reminisced for a while about those hippy days in the sixties.

I'm not missing home one bit.

Monday, September 26, 2016

Life on the Farm Day 2

The view from my bedroom window. Nothing moving unlike the ocean at my door back home.

The woods. Watching the hunting dog being trained. The cat supervising my work. 800 words today. A milestone from someone who has struggled and struggled. The applefalls being fed to the ducks and the chickens.

Something cracked open inside me and it let the light in. Yeah, I still cry for Ansa but just once today. Smokey the cat was a comfort. As was bouncy Belle the hunting dog. Out geese hunting they were at the crack of dawn (4 a.m. yikes). Ne'er a goose. The missus, who looks about 24, is a capital shot. Bagged her first moose last year. They live off the land as much as they can. She teaches French to replenish the coffers and hosts Airbnb, lucky me.

The colours are in the trees now, should be blinding me in a couple of days, the outraged red shoving the ambers and oranges and greens out of the way and glaring at us all.

I updated my book page if you want a look-see. And I'm working on three short stories in case you ask.

My world needs to become smaller. I've lost interest in this circus called politics. And it's a circus everywhere. The more "respectable" of the newsfeeds today trumpeted Prince George had snubbed our prime minister and Herr Drumpf should win the debate tonight which I won't watch or track. Can anyone define this particular "win"? How can we take it all seriously when the bigger, planet challenging issues are nowhere to be found and the gunslingers in the states are still gunning down children and aboriginal women in Canada are being slaughtered just about daily? I'm backing away and concentrating on where my hands are, thanks.

As Schumacher had it: Small is Beautiful.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Life on the Farm Day 1

Well, not really a full day. I arrived after 6.00pm. A looooong drive, well over 600km. 2 breaks but not long breaks. Gorgeous spot, I felt I was in Ireland with all the farms around, and the animals, and hand made quilts and a stunning modern type house but all wood inside, vaulted ceilings, loft, old repurposed wood, the whole house designed by the young woman and executed by her new husband. They were married this month. She fell in love with him in high-school when she was 14, they became best friends and had their first "real" date 2 years later. They have started this farm from scratch and built green houses and chicken coops and grow crops and are expanding it into outfitting, i.e. taking groups hunting and fishing and trapping. They have a cabin on crown land in the inaccessible (except to them) wilderness. They are living their dream and so very young at it too.

So I've laid out my materials, set up my computer, filled my shelf in their fridge with my food and have settled in. I had 5 bags including my food, my journals, my binders of work, (books, anthology), my reading material (oh so much, my books by mail (BBM) have chosen this last box with extreme care, every single book I decant is riveting, the knitting has suffered and so has Netflix.

Which reminds me: update my book list on this blog. Will do.

So I'm settling in quite nicely. And happily. I feel miles away from everything and everybody.

Which is wonderful.

Friday, September 23, 2016

Know Thyself

I'm buggering off for a while. I need to regroup. I found myself a small farm way off somewhere in the middle of absolutely nowhere and booked in for a week. A small farm? Well, a change from the constant seascapes which are stunning, but I felt change, even in surroundings, needed to happen.

I thought of lurking here with the car hidden away and curtains drawn but at my age that could be misconstrued quite badly and white coated "helpers" might not be far away. I'm packing my unfinished manuscripts, some reading, some knitting, my journal. I didn't even check to see if there was internet as I don't care.

On the one day off I had in a MONTH (truly) a dear friend barged in and said it was an emergency and could I divest myself of my pyjamas and dress up a bit and go across the bay with him to sign off on some really important documents for the lawyers, it would only take a few hours.

And something snapped in me. I felt I had only one remaining nerve ending in my head and he had crunched it. Nothing to do with him, I still love him dearly but when your calendar has been crawling with crap for 4 weeks straight and there's not even a day you can call your own in your favourite pyjamas the precipice yawns.

And the grief. Too much of it. And the health, still shaky. And families out here on the Edge, they are all so tight and supportive of each other, never seen the like, adds to the sense of tribal isolation at times. And becomes unreasonably magnified

I may not do well on my own, driving over 600k to the farmhouse (and back, I trust) but I'm ready for different surroundings and being alone with my writing. And reintroducing myself to me. Being alone with words. Being alone to write my inner outwards. There hasn't been time to reflect in yonks.

I need that.

So desperately.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Snap Judgements

I was away last weekend, well actually the weekend before last. While there I had a heart stopping text, one where I burst into tears, my heart was so raw. The text read: "Terrible tragedy. T----- (her daughter) was found dead today. We're numb."

I felt sick. This friend and I had bonded over the difficulties with our daughters. My missing, estranged daughter and her unstable daughter. Each having mental health issues.

I follow my instincts in such matters now. I knew her extended family would gather around her and her husband for a while. So yesterday, after I left my sleepover in St. John's I went to a flower shop to get my friend B and her husband a living flower arrangement and planned to go directly to their home in the country.

So I'm in the flower shop and as luck would have it there's a woman of approximately my age ahead of me trying to put an arrangement together and taking a whole week of my precious time to do so.

"No, that's way too many carnations, take a couple out."

"You don't have enough baby's breath, no problem I'll wait while you go into the back room fridge."

"Oh, that's too much, no hang on, put more carnations in. No, only red, like I said."

"Hang on, it's out of balance. I want it to be perfect."

This went on for another five or ten minutes. At one point the clerk rolled her eyes at me as they discussed ribbons and cellophane for the arrangement.

The woman turned suddenly and looked at me and muttered an apology for holding me up.

With great will power, stifling my annoyance, I threw on a smile and said:

"You friend must be very precious and special."

Her eyes flooded with tears.

"I'm just off the plane from New York," she said, "I'm going to visit Caroline, my very best friend in the whole world, I haven't seen her in 10 years."

"Oh," I said, now fully engaged and curious, my impatience forgotten, "That's a very long time".

"Ah," she said, "She has advanced dementia now. Has had it for years. Her husband phoned me a few days ago and said she has very little time left. But I must see her. At her wedding I carried a bouquet of red carnations and baby's breath and I'm hoping that seeing this arrangement might trigger a memory of our friendship, you know?"

What was there to reply? I nodded, understanding completely. And as she left, I said:

"That's a beautiful tribute of remembrance for you both."

And then fussed in my turn for the little garden arrangement to bring to B.

Friday, September 16, 2016

Close a Door, Open a Window

Life's like that, isn't it.

I'm meeting a Toronto friend for dinner tomorrow night. She's in St. John's for a conference and staying with another of her friends in the city. We're meeting for dinner to get caught up as she's been moving around quite a bit and currently lives in Florida. Her friend is organizing a get together for later that evening and invited me to come along and meet her and some more of their friends from university. And added she had a spare bedroom and a bed for me. Up to last week I'd have had to turn down such invitations because of Ansa. But now I realize another world and other opportunities have opened up.

I had a radio broadcaster stay with me for 3 days and 2 nights as she conducted interviews in my town with local residents. It seems we've got ourselves noticed quite favourably due to our volunteer library and other initiatives. And it's quite odd this feeling I have: I was interviewed for about 2 hours (the total of about 10 hours she's recorded of everyone will be edited and whittled down to about 1 hour)and I would have been a fumbling bag of nerves three years ago. I literally bless the blasé now, I've gotten used to being interviewed and while I'm flattered at some level it's all part of my life here. I'm conscious of "ums" and "hesitations" and I suppose I'll be right teed off when the interviews stop (what? I've lost my oomph?)but for now I truly understand the fleeting life of any kind of fame and know it's quite ephemeral.

The fabulous weather continues to astonish out here on the Edge and I feel my life is becoming more controllable. Tourists take a lot out of one, it's constantly a performance and sheets and towels and breakfasts and cups of whatever and entertainment. Now it's wound down and I'm so very glad to get my life back. Today was my very first day of getting to choose exactly what I want to do, hence this post.

I'm a little rattled by a locum doctor who saw me yesterday and was very thorough both in questions and in assessment of my health. However, he validated some anxiety I had about my endurance when walking where my legs would seize up and I have to stop and take a rest. I am so thoroughly sick of hearing "It's all in your head" which is the standard opinion offered to most women when they complain of such "minor" ailments. He took about 1/2 hour to examine me and told me he was setting up a hospital appointment for further tests as it appears the circulation in my legs is not up to snuff and stopping activity when walking was due to oxygen deprivation. I must say that even though I'm worried I also feel relieved as I've had medications switched as my permanent doctor thought it was the meds I was on that caused this leg pain.

So a lot of open windows here. I've started a nightly gratitude list again to keep me in the right frame of mind about life. I do have much to be grateful for.

Up on top of this post I have a postcard, which I framed, of Venice, where Grandgirl was recently. At 21 I was there too. She's now 21 and fell in love with the palette of Venice, the subdued and enchanting colours, as I did. Life is full circle.

Monday, September 12, 2016


"It's better," said an animal lover to me, "To be a week early than a day late."

I knew what she meant, but dear gawd, how terribly tough it is to take a life, a breathing, beautiful life, having made The Decision.

And the day of it? It was good. It was peaceful, she didn't suffer, I held her to the other side. And after too. And by gum, didn't she eat two cookies before the sedative, the pre-fatal shot that's given, and I laughed through my tears, because, you know, our family is known as "good grubbers" and darling Ansa was one of us right to the end. Faced with the vet's (gawd she always hated the vet) and the peculiar, weepy behaviour of her human companions, she eats cookies of a kind she would normally turn her nose up at.

What's overwhelming me completely is the incredible love and support I've been given through Facebook and messages and telephone calls and hugs and emails and even casseroles dropped off.

Ansa was adored by many. She had a magical way with her, a sense of humour, a dog who loved to be cuddled even though she was a large dog, a border collie mix. In a gathering she would place her bum firmly on my foot and then engage with the crowd, grinning at each individual in turn. When I left the car to run an errand she would immediately transfer herself to the driver's seat and sit there looking straight ahead until I returned. On the job, I called it. I don't know how many times I returned to the car to find strangers photographing her for she would never turn her head and appeared, to all intents and purposes, as if she were the driver.

When we drove long distances, and we shared many long haul trips, she would jump into the passenger seat for a time and hold out her left paw and we would hold hands for an hour or two along a lonely, endless stretch of highway.

For fun, she would herd me up to the Tigeen, nudging me in the behind, dancing around me, I swore I could hear her laugh on these occasions, her joy was so palpable as I played along, dodging off the path only to be herded back on to it again.

I can't begin to tell you about this dreadful sense of loss that overwhelms me when I am alone in this quiet house. I've been kept occupied by friends and family but tonight I'm home alone and I'm lost without the sound of her feet, the breath of her, the head beside my thigh, the time for a cookie or a rub, or conversation. I stop when I realize I'm talking to myself now. I remember. And I cry.

There's not a trace of her here, not a blanket nor leash, not a dish, not her beds or her cookies or special water fountain.

Now it's the complete absence of her glorious spirit that does my head in.

I didn't expect that.

I thought there would at least be her ghost.

Wednesday, September 07, 2016


More often than usual she comes and stands beside me. Even as I type this. She presses her head against my knee, my thigh. Solidarity. She's always done this. Even in a dog park. She'd frolic for a while with the others and then come back to me and press her head against me, often briefly, and then gallop off again. Telling me secrets, sharing the adventure.

She had a way of jumping lightly on the sofa if I lay down with a book, she'd stretch herself along the length of it between me and its back and lay her head just so on my shoulder, staring at me. "What is this thing called book?" I'd explain to her as best I could about this static thing that stared back at me, that held mysteries and inspiration and deep thoughts and humour and thrills. "Not as interesting as a dead fish on a beach," she'd sigh and wait patiently for me to get a move on to the great outdoors.

Her jumping days are gone. She was always the most graceful of dogs. Her movements almost balletic. Her days of going upstairs are gone. Her bed long moved to the front hall where she can keep an eye on everything.

She doesn't smile anymore. I know, silly, fanciful perception of a dog. But yes, she did have this incredible happy grin as if the world was full of endless delight and her human companion a joy to behold every minute of the day.

She followed me up to the meadow a few days ago and watched me hanging out the sheets to dry.

And somehow, I knew in the heart of me that this would be the last time she'd ever do this. Her smile was missing. I don't know what enormous effort it took her to go up the meadow. Herculean, I imagine. Her pace slow and agonizing.

She gets stuck in weird places now, behind the woodstove, the back deck, wedged in corners she never so much as looked at before. Standing for over a minute she has to sit down, take a rest.

But still, she comes to stand beside me, often tucking her head up tight against me.

"It's time, old girl," I said to her this morning, "You're confirming my thoughts".

She pressed harder.

"I'll be with you, I'll hold you and sing you your song, and kiss you and rub your gorgeous belly and listen to your secrets one last time."

Monday, August 29, 2016


One of my great good fortunes this summer was to host not one, but two community theatre directors, one from BC and the other from Ontario.

Brain picking ensued.

One of my life long dreams is to have another community theatre.

Another you say?

Well yes. I started my own community theatre in my neighbourhood when I was 8 years old. And I have a picture to prove it. Of the entire cast. I was director, writer, lead actor, props manager and stage manager. What's that you say? Ego? I didn't know better. It was all about me and I absolutely loved it. And thought at the time: I could spend my life doing this. I do have to find the photo and post it here.

So now, I'm trying to do the exact same thing in my neighbourhood here. I got brilliant suggestions from my guests and I'd absolutely love to make this a go. I tried several years back with no success as the team evaporated to other projects.

But this time? I have hope. I am invigorated. Re-vitalized with all the challenges of the past couple of years firmly behind me. A rebirth and renewal of spirit it seems.

So few years left. So much delightful stuff to do.

Life comes full circle.

This time I'll share.

Friday, August 26, 2016

Another Quarter Heard From

Present: Me (M) and two Australian PGs* (APG) both academics on a three month leave - mandatory after 10 years' employment with one employer in Australia.

APG: What do you think of the current political climate in the USA?

M: Pretty scary.

APG: Yeah, especially with that billionaire Clinton woman.

M: What about Trump?

APG: Well, after Sanders dropped out he's the far better choice.

M (aghast): Why do you say that?

APG: He's a businessman. The USA needs to be run like a business.

M: He's a failed businessman. Every business he has been involved with has bankrupted. He's been sued.....

APG: Oh come on, most businessmen have failures, that's how they become successes. They learn from their mistakes!

M: But what about the people who have invested in his companies, their shares are worthless!

APG: That's real life. Some you win, some you lose.

M: So if he fails the USian people, and I can't count the number of ways this could happen, it would be an experiment?

APG: Of course. You don't want another corrupt Clinton running the country for her own personal gain.

I backed away with my hands up and didn't touch on Drumpf's comments on racism, immigration, privilege, creepiness (i.e desiring his daughters, et al)and mockery of those less fortunate.


*Paying guests

Thursday, August 18, 2016

New Tricks

It's not the years in your life.

It's the life in your years.

So the old clichés go, and there are many more, each yawn worthy.

I'm not one who plays all coy about my age, that would be to dishonour all those who weren't so lucky as to be still on this side of the daisies. And seriously what is all this age denial about? Pretending to be young? To be flattered when someone says you don't look sixty, or seventy or eighty? And "94 years young"? As if being an elder is a crime against humanity.

I'm an old woman, well seasoned, well historied, well lived. No apologies. And lucky enough that none of my cells (yet) have gone postal on me.

What a gift that is. To be an old woman.

Crotchety at times (I have to watch that, it's not very attractive - to me)but I'm basically a well intentioned person. I've rooted out the negatives in my life, removed myself from old dramas, old dynamics and hostilities. And feel all the better for it.


Daughter had a lovely birthday luncheon for me. She's one of those who sets a very nice table. She comes from a long maternal line of great table setters. We're weak on the housework and hope that our lovely tables deflect any interest in the lack of dusting.

I had a long conversation with Grandgirl, we compared notes on Italy as she's back from another visit. Entranced with the muted colours as I was when I was her age and exploring it for the first time.

And new tricks. I'm working on these. Every birthday I try and plan something new for the coming year. A new skill, a new place to visit, a new interest, a new friend, a new club.

It's not happiness I've ever been after.

It's contentment.

And I do believe I'm almost there.