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Vega Bound

A brand new 1974 Chevrolet Vega station wagon was the first, and only car I ever owned.  A gift that I drove for the next 12 years with love.  Quarter panels were replaced, entire car repainted once, the in-line 4 engine replaced by a blue Buick V-6 (now she flew!), and that beautiful little car took me everywhere!  I cried buckets when I had to let it go.

Those days I loved to drive.  I would leave for work early just to take the scenic route, and often did not come home until way past sunset.  I loved the road.  I loved cars.

Though I never had the pleasure of owning another vehicle, I rented one nearly every weekend.  Mom and I explored every road that presented itself.  Fond memories of back roads through heavy forests, encounters with wildlife, including a moose!, discovering pristine lakes, rivers, streams, waterfalls, and roads that seemed to go on forever.

Despite the pleasures of quiet drives in the country, I was also very fond of muscle cars and drag racing.  I date myself with reference to nitro funny cars and modified stock, the glory days of Don ‘The Snake’ Prudhomme, Grumpy Jenkins and the like.  Spent weekends glued to the stands at such events as Sanair, Indianapolis and the Gatornationals, and every summer Sunday at Luskville.

Over the years I kept my love of automobiles barely alive and was saddened by this.  My Mother died and I stopped driving, boyfriends with cars that took me canoeing, camping and on weekend getaways have gone.  My income too small to support a vehicle and hope to retire too.

I lost touch with the modern vehicle until last year, I decided to rekindle my automotive affections and attended a car show.  I spent my time looking under hoods, listening to sales pitches, and exhausted myself eyeballing beautiful works of metal, glass, plastic and fiberglass art.

I fell in love with a white Jaguar XE and could have sat in that car all day.  My finger prints are still etched on the steering wheel where they pried them off.

A Chevrolet Traverse also caught my eye.  A real SUV, not a glorified hatchback, that caused me to dream of hauling camping gear, canoe and paddleboard off into the sunset once again.  Ah, to dream.

Alas, with all this fantasizing, the best I could do was subscribe to Automobile Magazine for 3 years and read it cover to cover.  A most excellent written drive!

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Maple Heart

Every year, end of May, early June, the maple trees on our property rain down thousands of helicopter seeds.  Great quantities accumulate on the roads and pathways, creating a loud grating sound when rearranged by wind, shuffled through by feet and sadly, crushed under tires.

And every year I carefully select the plumpest, most ready seeds and plant them.  Typically I plant 20, or slightly more, my ability to limit myself dwindles as the end of the seed season does.  There is very little soil in the city, and I see potential lost in each seed that fails to find soft ground and perishes to the elements.  I wish I could give every seed the opportunity to experience being a tree, if only for a summer.

Great joy to watch them split their skins and send up miniature versions of their future selves within 3 days of touching soil.  In a few days they are already several inches tall and pushing hard to shed their shells.  I assist sometimes on those whose casings refuse to yield, and instantly two plump cotyledons spread out and seem to sigh.

Those fresh young shoots are ravenous for sunshine and in a short space of time I have my own miniature maple forest on my balcony.  I love to watch them grow.  Being pot bound they seldom get higher than a foot, but they have magnificence holding their leaves proudly out, two by two at 90 degree opposites.

I try to overwinter them, but they are wild things and need the outdoors.  One survived 3 years with me and was about 4 feet tall, but the rest perish.  Currently several have leafed out, which brings me joy commonly reserved for June.  Sadly they don’t make it, no matter how much love and attention I give them.  I dream of having a place to plant them outside, where onlookers would not question my activity or ultimately have me fined and hauled away!

My love for maple trees began at an early age.  At home a lovely sugar maple blessed my bedroom window view.  We had all kinds of trees, plants and flowers on a half acre of land.  Dad rescued a little red maple from a store and planted it on our front lawn.  I was out there every day watering and talking to it until it became one of the largest trees on our lot!

During a storm my bedroom view maple broke, and Dad was out there the next morning mending it.  He was worried I’d lose my tree!  He affixed two large diverging branches together with a bolt and chain so the wind would not further damage it.

My little pot bound home grown maples will never get that large, but I care for them dearly.  Summer is still a long ways off, sunshine scarce and the air in the apartment definitely not spring quality.  All of my plants suffer the winter blahs and some give up.  But I keep a careful eye on those tender young maples and hope they see one more season at least.

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Black and White

My shelves are overflowing with albums filled with black and white photographs of days long gone; of my Mother, Father and family.  Slowly they are being scanned to computer and archived into acid free portfolios. However this is mostly a future retirement project as it is very labor intensive.

A nostalgic love affair for the 1950’s and 60’s photo’s, film and TV has consumed me, a result of too much winter and a longing to return to my youth.  My childhood was a joyful time even in black and white.

I cherished my first camera, a bulky black plastic box with a round view finder, black strap on top and cylindrical film canister you had to load onto a reel.  Suburban flora and fauna captured in still life; squirrels, birds, the pet cat, my Mom’s elaborate flower gardens.  I’ve come a long way since then into the age of digital, but I pine for those black & white film days.  It was bulky, messy and time consuming, but darling.  I miss the hands on work of creating black & white photo’s.

When I took photography at College in the 1970’s we developed our own film.  Definitely a labor of love.  Colour developing required very expensive equipment and none of us could touch it until we mastered the black & white techniques.

I was also quite the TV and movie buff in my early years.  In this booming age of technology I have been fortunate to revisit much of this on DVD.  They do look better on a big LCD screen than the curved grey glass of our old black & white TV!  Many films and series have stood the test of time.  I was raised on long slow films so I can endure them.  Modern films bore me with jumbles of fast moving snap shots of non stop action that lack cohesion.  Nothing can beat a good story, in film, photo or black print on a white page.

On top of my bookcase is a favorite black & white photo of my Brother and Dad ready to leave on a fishing trip.  There is something about the tones and details of the greys, blacks and whites that is so pleasing to my eyes.

This is very strange to love black & white because most of my art works are very bright collages of near neon colour.   And I do love colour photography, yet . . .

There is definitely a mood to black & white that you can’t replicate in colour.  It evokes an emotion that takes me back home.

Perhaps when I retire I will pursue black & white photography once more, maybe even film!  Give my senior years a mood!

I can try to recreate some of my lost youth, but it all seems so long and black and white ago.

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350 DEGREES

350 degrees fahrenheit.

This is the oven red line* for most women cooks of my generation.  We seldom, if ever, cook anything above 350 degrees, except maybe to use the broil setting.

Men are out on the barbeque, flames towering 6 feet over their head, and they are having a glorious time.  We sit in front of the oven and wait.

A rebel cook confided to me she dared to try 425 degrees to cook some cornish hens, on the recommendation of a chef (chefs are allowed to cook at high temps).  Awesome secret revealed!  Hens crisp and brown on outside, tender and moist inside!  Now she frequents the no zone of 425 and up – even to 500!  Go girl!

Despite the fact most ovens can heat up to 500 degrees, we are seldom comfortable in that zone.  Perhaps it is the 451 fear, where paper spontaneously bursts into flames (though this ‘fact’ is not quite true).  Or we are just, so, well, timid.  You know, “It’s okay, I can wait an hour for dinner to cook”, while kids are screaming, husband is grumbling and cat meowing, loudly.  Oh sure, I can waste the only 3 hours I have left at the end of the day preparing food.  Where is that box of cookies?  Fast, delicious and instant!

A microwave does not solve the problem.  Red line is usually a minute.  Then you keep resetting.  3 times, 6 times . . .

This is a harmless, somewhat interesting and useless observation.

But this is MY blog.

*A red line appears on some types of gauges (e.g. tachometer) that indicates a limit you should not surpass too often, even though you can, as it may result in damage to the device and/or you.

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Wastelands Part Two

The biggest conspiracy in the world has to do with self control, and the worst offender is the New Age Movement.

They take the concept of being in control of your life, that is, getting your dreams, and reverse the order of achieving this, so you feel like you are moving towards your dreams, when in fact you are as still and as comatose as a rock.  New Agers say the way to get what you want is to believe first (wish, hope, pray), then you will have what you want (money, time, talent), which enables you to do (pursue your dreams).  Nope.  Doesn’t happen that way!  It is DO and believe, but always DO first.  And after you’ve done a lot of doing you may have what you need (your dream come true and all its perks).  It gets easier to believe the more you do.  And of course you get closer to having the more you do.

God is not going to write that novel for you, no matter how much you believe.  Getting up at 4 a.m. and writing will get your novel.  All the blood, sweat and tears of writing, rewriting and getting it published and marketed is on YOU.  Ditto for that university degree, that new job, that vacation, losing weight, whatever you dream of.  The believing part comes in where you trust yourself to be disciplined to work and leaning on divine help when you are not.  That you will succeed.  That you can do this.  The good news is some supernatural assistance will come your way once you start to take wholehearted action.

Divine help comes in the form of giving you the strength of perseverance, day in and out.  To get you up at 4 a.m., to stop you craving sweets, to prevent you from overspending, to give you energy to clean the house.  All the things you cannot do because willpower is a fickle god.  It comes and goes and is so moody!  You need God to get you past and through your weaknesses.  He will also give you the right information you need, insights, wisdom and inspiration that you can’t get yourself, and get this – He will give you favor!

I used to be so caught up in the believe, have and do movement that I wasted decades of my life, when I could have been making stuff!  I could have been having enormous fun creating!  Because I am now an ex-New Ager I harp on taking action as much as I can, so that others don’t fall into these traps.

The only persons getting rich from the New Age are the people promoting it.  All get rich quick schemes prey on your presumed laziness (but you will find when you take action this belief in innate laziness is not true!), and your belief in lack (don’t have enough money, time, talent, whatever).  If anyone says you can get your dreams with little effort “Buy my plan today for the low price of $500”, run, don’t walk away!  The self publishing industry is rife with this sort of thing.  Forget this – just write!

There is only one way to get anything you deem worthwhile, make the effort.  Roll up your sleeves and get working.  Every single day.  And watch!  Whatever you are creating will evolve, and before you know it, you’ll have something others don’t have – your university degree, your novel, your masterpiece, your laundry done!  As a bonus, you will lose your frustrations, depression, anxiety and anger.  Just from DOING!

I started taking action for an end result and discovered I do because I love what I do!  It is the process I enjoy. The finished products are just proof of my action, a bonus for hard work. I am not a success in the worlds eyes. I’m not a best selling writer or artist, except to myself – I’m the only one who buys them!  But I have something others only dream of, and more. Things have changed within me since I now do instead of dream, things I could never have imagined.

So I encourage you to get up, put away your magic potions and chants, stow away the candles and magic wand, roll up your sleeves and DO your dreams.  Time is running out!

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Wastelands Part One

What is worse than a non-smoker?

An ex-smoker.

I am one, 17 years now!

Ex-smokers are those who have no tolerance for smokers, including e-smokers (the worst kind yet!).  I can’t stand the sight of butts strewn across the landscape (by the way – a source of extremely toxic chemicals into our environment), nor someone lighting up (especially in defiance of smoke free zones), or a person sitting next to me on the bus reeking of smoke, or the oblivious smoker walking ahead of me, I following into their second hand fumes.  UGH.  I hate everything about smoking, diametrically opposed to how much I once loved smoking.

Smoking is a wasteland in which you can be lost a very long time.  It messes with your mind, plays with your emotions.  Till death do us part.

Two thing happened to save me from myself.

One day, my smoking buddy, a fellow employee, came into my office and said she wasn’t feeling very well, and was off to the Doctor that afternoon.

She never came back.

She had throat cancer and died 6 months later.

When she told me her plight I immediately threw out my package of cigarettes.

The second thing that saved me, was I had just started dating a runner.  He seized the opportunity and set me on a training program to run a 10K.  It was not an instant cure, but I found out very quickly you cannot run and smoke without catching a glimpse of the grim reaper while you hack out your lungs.  Since this is how he quit smoking, he knew how to keep me motivated, including some trickery.  I was after all, in my 40’s and stubborn and not easy to teach new things to.

My beginnings on the treadmill were pathetic; I couldn’t even run 5 seconds at less than 4 mph and then I’d have to walk 20 minutes to catch my breath.

Day after day I kept at, until one day I was keeping pace with a man on the treadmill beside me and ran 30 minutes non stop.  Not convinced I could run a 10K however, my friend (clever man)  joined me for an outdoor run in which he had carefully mapped out a 10K length and I ran in my ignorance (hence the trickery part).

I learned so many valuable lessons from this experience, but the main one was action.  Roll up your sleeves and do it action.

I wish I could say end of story, from that point on I took action on everything.  No, sadly that came much later.  Later when there was no one to help me.  I never went back to smoking, but I failed myself in other ways.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to change things, I just forgot how.  I got lost in New Age crap that serves to make you comatose, stops you from taking any action other that wishing, hoping and lighting candles instead of cigarettes.

So now you will come to my next blog; what is worse than an non New Ager?  An ex-New Ager – and how I am being continually reformed from that wasteland.

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Sorry, I Can’t Read This Stuff Anymore. . .

I was given yet another book on the perils of pesticides and decided I can’t read this stuff anymore.

I have become saturated with news of all the harmful things we are doing to our environment and ourselves and it is overwhelming.  I get it already.  We need less reports and more action.

If you spend all your time researching bad things through the media; watching documentaries, listening to commentaries, reading books, you are slowly going to lose your mind.

I once knew a man who could no longer sleep because he got in the habit of watching the late news and took all that stuff to bed with him.  Such negativity can kill you – it almost killed him.

I go in the grocery store and my heart gets extremely heavy when I observe the rows and rows of chemically laden foodstuff and products we put on and in our bodies and into our environment.  I near collapse at the realization this is repeated hundreds of thousands of times over in all the stores in all the cities of the world.

Whoa.

I can’t handle all this.

Here is what I do know.  Pick one or two things you can DO something about and do it.  Be aware of other things, okay, but take ACTION on something.  Choose your battles.

Action does not have to be grand.  My elderly Mother was overwhelmed by all the charities vying for her support, until she took this advice.  She selected 2 charities and donated to them exclusively each month, and let go of all the others.  You cannot solve all the worlds problems.  Choose what matters most to you and take action.

If we each do a little, a lot gets done.

There are countless ways of taking action other than monetary to alleviate suffering.  Even just being nice once in a while.  A smile.  A compliment.  Holding a door.  Listening.

Or you can be more proactive; stop buying chemically laden products and supporting these industries that destroy your body and environment.  Read the labels.  I remember when flour was flour and cocoa, cocoa – not any more!

Action (oh how I hate to use this next word) trumps everything.

Doing a little will lighten your heart and the woes of the world. There are millions of us on this planet.  Imagine what could be accomplished if each one of us did something about one thing of our choosing, in any small way, all the time.  All the way from a favour to changing government policy.  Stop absorbing bad news and do something.

By the way – there is an equal, if not more amount of good news in this world, and a hefty dose of that each day will help you to take action to get rid of the bad.

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Bail

I recently read an article about not giving your 2 week notice when you leave a company.  It was even suggested it is okay to bail, that is, just leave.  That being fired didn’t require a notice so why should leaving?  I beg to differ.  There is a huge difference between being terminated and a planned departure.

Obviously this person has never experienced a ‘bail’.

I was working part time and caring for an elderly Mother when the full time employee cheerily announced at noon “Don’t be surprised if I don’t come back after lunch.”

All of a sudden at 1 p.m. I became a full time employee, doing 2 persons jobs.  She intended to hurt our employer, but our boss was GLAD she left.  She hurt me plenty however.

Not only did I now have extra work and hours at the same part time rate, but I had to do all the required paperwork for a termination, plus I had the task of finding a replacement for her; preparing and placing an ad, screening resumes, interviewing prospects, and training them, all the while doing 2 jobs.  I found a person, trained them, it didn’t work out and I had to go through the whole process again!

I will NEVER forget this persons name and face.

Is this how you want to be remembered?

It is just common courtesy to give notice.  Even if you are mad at the boss and want to run out!  Looking for another job while employed and leaving the current one without notice is murder in the first degree.  Your fellow employees will narrow their eyes at the mention of your name.  They will think you sneaky, untrustworthy, mean, irresponsible and at the least, lacking good manners. Which means, you are a shit. You saddle them with extra work that they may not even know how to do.  And for months, you were planning to do this to them all along.  Thanks a lot!

If you’re mad at the boss, take the afternoon off and cool down.  If you still want to leave, give notice!  That way you’ll still have friends.  Friends that might one day end up in a position to hire you for a job you covet.  And guess what will happen when they see your name.

This is the old, don’t burn your bridges lecture that Mom and Dad gave you.

Take heed.  It is true.  Don’t bail.  Ever.

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The Gift

I dusted off the case and opened it; the 3 sections of silver flute glistened from the backdrop of black velvet.  Ah.  At last.  I assemble the instrument and anticipate the moment beautiful sounds fill my ears.

For 8 long weeks I could not play the flute.  To do so resulted in coughing up my lungs for an hour.  I suffered a bad virus which incapacitated me in many ways beyond flute playing.  But it was the flute playing I missed the most.

Playing an instrument is therapeutic.  Even to play it badly, which is frequently my norm, is still relaxing.  I relied on it to dissipate frustrating days and to mellow my working mind to an evening of peaceful reflection.

The gift this Christmas was opening that box.  My neighbours probably were not so pleased.  I found it difficult to play at first and I’d forgotten some notes and fingerings. Slowly it all started to come back and by today I am at least where I was 8 weeks ago.  It is hard to advance much with just 25 minutes practice a day – but I am respectful of fellow tenants and limit my joy.  Otherwise, I’d probably be hours at it.

During the hiatus I satisfied myself watching You Tube flute instructional videos.  There are hundreds but I have my favorite and I was delighted to watch a lot of those.  I also watched videos comparing all manner of flutes from student to 3 times my annual salary and had my ears heightened to the differences in tone quality (and hence my budget considerations for a flute purchase just increased).

I look at my student rental and determine to make it sound like it is 20K.  Admittedly, I have difficultly making it sound as it should.  No matter, in my mind I hear hypnotic melodies, sometimes even symphonies.

I am enamored with music in much the same way as I once was with mathematics.  They are elegant languages, representations of things we cannot adequately put into words.  The symbols allow us to replicate complicated ideas, to interpret them in our own style, embellish them, expand on them.  I delight in the design and patterns formed by symbols and digits across a page.  There are ground rules, but from there you can soar.  From there is birthed art!

I sometimes regret not having studied music in my youth, but perhaps it would have gone the same route as mathematics.  Two things conspired to make me abandon that subject; women didn’t do math in the 1960’s and they made math so boring.   Thus I was highly discouraged to continue but this was not such a hardship, as the way they taught math made it exceedingly mind deadening.  I was curious and creative and that does not fit rote and memorization.  I found this to be a bit true when I took music lessons, and I got a little discouraged by that.  I am not well suited to sit and shut up and just memorize.  I want to make it mine!  I want to take it places!

I put my flute away and face another week of work, very grateful that I have had these few days to rest and do the things I love.  My cat takes one last swat at the metronome and all is quiet.

 

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Something to Say

Once my Mother suggested I write a newsletter and I replied “But what would I write about? to which she shot back “Since when did you lack for something to say?”.

She was right of course.

But I come to today’s writing and find I don’t have anything I want to say.

I have the reassurance however that no one reads my blog, so why worry?  Except, I love to write, no wait, it is beyond that, I have to write.

It is a compelling force that never lets me alone.  I write about anything and everything all the time, or the same thing over and over.

It took me months to shred all the angst filled journals I used to fill with ink, and I have filing cabinets overflowing with stories I’ve written in long hand.  Yes, I write everything in longhand, just like my Dad.  And just like him I have my favourite utensils; his was a mechanical pencil on foolscap, mine a black pen on ruled paper pad, affixed to a clipboard uncomfortably balanced on my lap.

I do not enjoy the ease of typing on a computer, which I totally do not understand since I love typing on my typewriter.

As a youngster I typed out my imaginations on a gigantic Underwood, it was magic with its long stemmed jamming keys.  It would be fabulous to have that back!  I evolved to portables and then electric, until they stopped making typewriters.  I found my stories sounded different when done on a typewriter.  Pen in hand became my preferred choice when computers arrived.  I write them out, then put them on my laptop.  However, I must confess, last year I purchased an electric Smith Corona for $15 at a Thrift Shop and have been happily pounding out a story ever since!

So why write a blog?  Indeed, especially one like this with no point?  Well, it is something I’ve wanted to do since my Underwood days.  Have my own column in a magazine.  I had a lot of topics to discuss then.  But today I’m not so opinionated.  Now I have my own spot in the internet universe.  I have little idea why such a thing is so compelling, and I’d prefer not to understand actually.

I started off with something in mind, and that was my retirement but I see this blog is evolving, and leading me somewhere.  I don’t much care where.  I suppose once I am at my where someone will read it.

It is not important.  What seems to matter is I delight in doing something that is totally my own once a week.

Maybe next week I’ll have something to say.