MAKING DO

When the elderly reminisce about childhood, there are always those of us that had to walk miles to school – uphill both ways. And then there are those of us, who with too few resources, learned long and early to ‘make do’. That is where I come from.

As a child, if a thing was needed and couldn’t be got, my parents made do through resourceful substitution of unrelated materials – a practice newly renamed ‘recycling’.

A quick and simple example is the bits of horse harness leather my Dad used to repair the plastic straps that so quickly broke on my new sandals.

And I laugh remembering the day, as a youngster, I mixed up precious sugar, and butter, and flour for cookies – and then, when I went to add the eggs – Oh My God, there were no eggs.

What to do. What to do. There had to be a fix. No one could for one moment consider throwing out those costly ingredients that I had already so deliberately blended.

I was sick, and yes, I was horrified.

But my Mother remained her usual calm self and simply scooped a cup of snow from a fluffy drift by the outside stoop and added it to the ingredients.

“Do we need to pray for a miracle?” I asked immediately reflecting on the Biblical tale of the water that turned into wine.

“It probably wouldn’t do any harm,” she said, with a laugh.

I didn’t consider praying about it, but maybe my Mother did. Maybe she prayed for a ‘water-wine’…I mean ‘snow-egg’ miracle. I’ll never know cause I never asked. Still irregardless, something special happened that day because those sugar cookies were some of the best that I have ever made.

And so, raised in this environment, I quite smugly consider myself a journeywoman in the industrial art of Making-Do.

And this Halloween, I needed to be.

Last week I made the dreaded trip to town to buy a pumpkin. Usually grow my own but this year, I forgot to plant pumpkins.

And so, for probably the first time in my life, I was on the hunt to find and purchase a lovely fat orange pumpkin.

But all I found was one store with a bin of about 8 pumpkins. They were not orange, they were dusky brackish brown. On many stem root was so advanced that the wizened and blackened stems has committed hari-kari by diving into the mouldy and blackened interior of their relevant pumpkin cadavers.

With Halloween a week away, there was nothing in that bin with a hope to retain the slightest semblance to a pumpkin for five days – so back home I went – empty-handed.

But we can make do. Yes we can. So here is my Halloween display for this year. It’s not all I hoped it would be, but then, Halloween is supposed to be a bit morbid, but not quite so morbid as those pumpkin cadavers they were selling in town.

D.O.G.'s Bad, Bad Day

It was not a good day for Dough-Gee Dog.

Now D.O.G (slow pronunciation Dee-Oh-Gee, fast pronunciation Dough-Gee) only knows two tricks. That is all I’ve taught him.

What he knows is “No Bites” and “Come here”. Seemed to me like the most important things for him to know being that he is a cross between a Bassett and a Rottweiler. With a monstrous Rottweiler head and jaws attached to a less impressive Bassett body with short crooked legs.

Today’s unfortunate accident occurred when D.O.G. was out for a walk with Hub. That incredible hound-scenting-ability told him an interesting critter was harboured in a large brush pile. Hub had seen the creature there a few days before so he knew what it was. A porcupine, no less.

So frantically he called D.O.G. to ‘Come away’ but for D.O.G., the beast within was too excited to respond. The command was ignored.

Then a blood curdling D.O.G. wail and next thing we knew here’s D.O.G. coming across the meadow with a brush of porcupine quills in his nose. We were a distance from the house so D.O.G. pushed and scrunched his nose in the hard dirt to try to rid himself of all those painful thorns to no avail. Then quickly he sped home.

He came immediately to Hub and I for assistance. It is spring, all farm animals are birthing, so the vet was out on call. Evidently this was a job Hub and I would have to do on our own. So Hub got a pair of pliers and we quickly wrapped D.O.G. tightly in a blanket so we could keep him laid out on the ground. Then I held D.O.G.’s body still while Hub extracted those quills from inside and outside that dog’s mouth with pliers and his bare hands.

How trusting that dog. He at no time tried to bite Hub although I can’t imagine how painful that operation must have been. Hub removed at least twenty quills. As many well back inside his mouth as there were on the outside. I thought D.O.G. would pass out or go into shock. I wanted him to, just to relieve his agony somewhat. But it didn’t happen.

We turned him loose within perhaps 15 minutes. I thought he would make a run for it. But he didn’t. I brought him a pail of ice water to drink. He rested and as we walked about him, Hub still carrying pliers, he made no evasive moves.

He relaxed for about an hour, but we still weren’t done. There was six or eight quills still remaining. Again we wrapped him in the blanket and removed the rest. By then I was so stressed my hands and body were quivering. Finally we were done. Poor puppy. So much pain, so much discomfort.

I went to the house to wash my hands. To breath a sigh of relief. To calm my anxiety. And then looked out the window.

There was Hub lying on the lawn beside his Dough-Gee Dog, rubbing his ears, scratching his stomach and telling him what a brave and good dog he was. Dough-Gee looked happy and at ease.

Now Hub is talking about getting his gun and going porcupine hunting. “No,” I say. “Please don’t. Porcupines are cute in their own way. And they only reproduce one babe every two years. Far too many are killed on highways. And they have such cute little paws. D.O.G. knows better now. He won’t be doing that again.”

“But dogs don’t know better. They get nasty scratches from cats and still won’t leave them alone and porcupine encounters are no different.”

“But D.O.G. is different,” I say. “Dogs can learn up to 35 commands according to the experts. Dog only knows two. I capped his lessons at number two so there would be no confusion. So ‘avoiding porcupines is only 3 out of 35 so we should be okay.”

“Don’t count on it,” Hub says. He forgot the business of ‘come here’ when he first discovered that porcupine in the brush pile. So he may well forget lesson number 3 to leave porcupines alone.”

Hub makes a good point but still the porcupine is not and will not be harmed for now. God, I hope I’m right. Dog doesn’t need another day like today -- and neither do I.

Today’s Eyes & ‘Oh’s

Yesterday I had eye surgery on my other eye which means less computer time for a couple of weeks. I’m happy it’s done and over with and seems to be going well. But Hub is even happier.

Tells all his Buds,
“Oh, it will be so much nicer living with Roberta now that she will be able to see whether or not I am happy with her.”

See how much sympathy I get.

A Winter of Endurance

There’s an orb in the sky that I scarce can remember
That I haven’t seen since way last November.
‘Tis for me the last icon of the Fall season norm,
Before we were hit by the imperfect storm.
And, from that moment on, in that season of change,
Nothing would ever, be ever, the same.

Here came a winter with snow augmentation,
Antagonized daily by more trepidation.
A winter so fearless, too long, and so cheerless;
A winter of twice, and thrice, and suffice
Of snow and blow, and cold-moulding ice.

A winter of sadness and intimidation,
A winter of shuddering and chilled palpitation,
That held tightly captive the Canadian Nation
Buried helplessly deep in a reversed excavation.
With so many ice crystals whirling and twirling –
That one had to cancel both hockey and curling.

A state of alarm. And a state of much dread.
Stuffed up our noses, stuffed up our heads.
And to deal with our suffering with no buffering stop
We reached for the ‘Vicks’ for that chuffed-up nose-block.

Still all we could do was to fret and to fume,
When the fog of the darkness continued through noon.
We were trembling and quaking, quivering and stuttering
Still clouds overhead and more snowflakes a-fluttering.
All heightened and raised up to such an excess
Surpassing all history – the shock and distress —
Intensification up and at nightfall spurred on,
Till all thought of red roses and summer was gone.
Still winter lingers. It stays. It remains.
Hopelessness is all; we can’t stand the strain
Of a Season we wear, we share, and compare,
In Sub-Arctic temps that thicken the air.

What I tell you now, and I tell you quite true
I have ne’er been so sad, and ne’er been so blue.
And I’ve ne’er seen before such a seasonal storm
With hell frozen over and we thought it the norm.
And what I say now is with sturdy assurance
‘This winter was simply a Test of Endurance!’

But oh, sing with glad tidings of joy and of mirth
We have sunshine enough to warm up the earth.
‘Tis time, oh ‘tis time for a bewildered dance ‘round,
A BIG FAT WARM SUN is in the sky…
Shining down.

P.S. If the picture has you puzzled, this is the uncanny art that I found on the window in the back bedroom. This is an old house with old windows. Storm windows have to be manually put up each winter and screens removed. I never did put the storm up on this window. I'm rather glad I didn't cause isn't this picture truly lovely? And the tops of the ferns reflected upside down in the mirror pond, is that not totally awesome?

The Art of Cessation

I was raised in the old school. In summary, it went like this:

Each day strive to learn something new. Do good work. Finish what you start. Keep at it and never give up. And no matter what the discouragement, strive to keep on with the keeping on.

Cessation? Wasn’t taught that. And when encouraged, it was encouraged in such an oblique way, who could possibly understand or apply it?

For instance, I was told I must stop stealing cookies from the cookie jar. But having no knowledge of how to do the cessation thing, the only method that worked was for Mother to put them on a higher shelf, lock them up, or physically chase me off with a paddle.

There was no heal. There was no cure. And there was no cessation of cookie-stealing as long as those cookies were within reach.

And of course, I was encouraged to cease biting my fingernails. But because I bit them owing to the guilt of stealing cookies, and I bit them even more because I had no methodology for the cessation of stealing cookies, what else could I do but continue to go on biting them?

These then were the desired cessations, but so few, so minor. Anomalies really. Because it went without saying that to cease anything when once committed too was a bloody shame.
____________

So now where am I?

Can’t cease anything. Can’t stop drinking too much coffee. Can’t deny myself cholesterol rich foods. Can’t ease up on the salt. Can’t force myself away from the computer.

So now, whose fault is that? Certainly not mine. “Cessation” just never was a part of my education. Not in primary school, or elementary school, or even high school. We were still doing the same old thing about getting started and never giving up.

And so, I wonder if that is why it is so hard for so many to cease drinking, gambling, drugs, radical sports, fast driving, and all the other foolishness that entraps people in ways that are harmful to life, limb, and health. And poor souls, without an education in ‘cessation’, there is no way for them to cease doing what they are doing. Rather there is just the push of that other thing of striving, striving, striving to keep on with the keeping on.

‘Cessation’ of anything pretty much runs contraire to that fast-held-to principle of just ‘bloody getting on with it’. And so ‘cessation’ was missed and I think it is still being missed. But despite all that, I feel that somehow there must be a positive methodology for ‘cessation’.

If I only knew what it was, I’d have my cholesterol count back within reason by next Tuesday.

A Euphoric Dog-Jog

Old Dog was 17 years old. She was weak and palsied. And one leg was wizening up at a rate that was almost visible. She was stone deaf but had learned to respond to body language. We would beacon her with one hand or hold a palm out for her to stay and she understood all that very well. Her last couple of months she mostly slept. She ate little but seemed to not be in pain as she never whimpered or appeared restless.

Often in the last few weeks, I would have to lift her into an upright position and support her for a few steps before she was able to commence movement.

I felt the time had come so I said to Hub, “There is nothing for it, but to take her to the vet and have her put to sleep.”

Hub shook his head in disagreement and I could not understand as I knew we both wanted the same thing. For her end to be painless, and as humane as it could possibly be. So I just had to ask why he was not in agreement.

And that is when he told me the most surprising thing. Of all the magic ‘devices’ that make up a physical body – sight, touch, smell, emotions, etc., there is one too often overlooked. And it is the thing the brain does at the moment of death.

Hub was talking about the bright light, the warmth, the comfort, the peace, that comes at the very end. And although Hub (I think) holds no great faith in a paradise with harps and streets of gold, he is confident that at the moment of transition, our physiological bodies go into a transitioning mode that is as delightful as a sweet afternoon in the sun.

And his fear was, if Old Dog, was put down, shall I say, for lack of a better word, artificially, he feared that that loyal dog, so absolutely deserving of all good things, would miss the grand moment of euphoria, prior to that transition into --- nothingness, I guess.

I was amazed at this confession, but in pondering it I could not help but think that perhaps it was a notion with some worth. Many scientists are absolutely convinced that synapses in our brains do in fact deliver the magical euphoric visions that people with near-death experiences testify to.

But thankfully, if it be true, Old Dog was given that vision. She was given the bright light to guide her, the warmth and comfort of that light, and the peace it gives as well, because there she was one morning, asleep on the floor by the bed, and sometime during the night, she had followed the guide master sent to take her over to the other side.

We are sad because she has been with us daily for so long, life is not the same. But, at the same time, we are relieved that her exit was seamless for her.

And I am so much less sad, in believing what Hub told me, and thinking that her final dog-jog, was more than a well-lit, peaceful, warm, and comforting stroll. That it was, in fact, euphoric.

Snow Mass

Snow and snow, and more snow.

Wraps wisps around obliques, thick leggings around verticals, and re-shelves narrow latitudes until they become fortress walls. Superimposes every inanimate representation till the essence within becomes a ‘higher form’ through the magnification of obesity.

Mortal man stumbles about inelegantly in multi-layered muffs and earthly frame. Up to the hips in a stupefying and terrifying abundance of snow.

Warm the air by sucking it in. Let imagination run wild. Mentally paint the landscape green and yellow. And even then, you will find no flavor of August in this day. Only a random arrangement of winter matter.

More, and more—tumbling, drifting, floating, and falling, into covers of instability. Snow-weaves of batting that like memory-foam-mattresses leave only imaginative outlines of what lies beneath.

‘Higher forms’ of a spiritual nature of what once was. Icons of holiness. With the crystal whiteness of altar cloths, lace, and silver chalices in place.

Listen. Do you not hear it? The Hymn of wintry solitude sung earnestly and soundlessly?
That song of consequent stillness, that sanctifies January. Its remembrance, and longer endurance.
Repeated utterance of the refrain and second verse, same as the first.

This is a January celebration of Vigil Mass on a white altar.
Vigil, as in waiting, and expecting more, and still more.

Stupid Christmas Tree

I gave it a lot of thought. I really did. That was after I hauled Hub out of bed to investigate the lonely cry for help of – I don’t know – maybe a cow, perhaps a moose, maybe even an elk.

It was not just some bovine creature saying ‘Good Morning World’. Of course it might be a hungry or cold cow among the farmer’s herd down the road, but if it is, there is nothing I can do about it. It can bawl, it can cry, and if I go down there, it can look at me with haunted worried big brown eyes with tears in them, and still I can do nothing. If ribs aren’t showing, if emaciation isn’t extreme enough for a few of the herd to have already succumbed, it will simply have to continue being cold and hungry.

I really hate the way critter cries dig down so deep inside of me and makes me feel responsible. Where in God’s world did I get this annoying notion that if I have the ways or means to fix it, I must – even if it is none of my business and I know it.

I suffer, man do I suffer, when the farmers in the area wean their calves. Babies crying, mama’s weeping. Makes me heartsick until it finally stops. But then I think ‘oh well, now that it has finally stopped the mom must have gone off to the slaughter-house or the calves to the auction mart’ and the sickness of too much concern over what is none of my business starts all over again.

But going back to this morning’s events, you know, of course, what happened after I rousted Hub out of bed to investigate that brutal cry for help I was hearing?

Nothing. Suddenly total silence. No more calls for help. Just utter silence. And with the breeze and the way currents of sound are magnified in the cold air, I have no idea exactly where the call was coming from originally, so that was the end of that.

Except for me admonishing myself in a sad and sickly way with the thought that I should have rousted Hub out of bed sooner so something could have been done.

But how did I get here in this rant? This was not what I intended to tell you.

What I intended to tell you is I have given it much thought. And eventually decided that I am not going to haul that tree upstairs and piss around with it just so a few of the neighbors and a few of my family members can give it a casual glance before I do the worst of that chore. The horrendous and totally despicable task of putting it all back again for another year.

If the kids were coming home for a day or two en masse, I would do it, but this year that is not going to happen. So the tree can stay in the basement. I have enough other stuff to do to get ready for Christmas without that carry-on…i.e. tangled lights, bulbs that need to be replaced (if I ever can find which one needs replacement), missing hangers, crushed garlands, etc.

Besides the food is much more important. There must be turkey, fresh buns, and pies, and cranberry sauce, and truffles, and the best-ever carrot cake with toasted nuts (not just nuts tossed in out of the nut-bag). There must be hand-made cards for the few I give cards to, because that is what I get from them, and they are far more meaningful than store-bought. And all the corners in this house have to be thoroughly mucked out, the furniture polished, the windows and floors gleaming, and table-cloths laundered and starched. Is it not enough, without the Christmas tree routine?

And so, the decision is made. Only our little gift exchanges and our hearts will signify it is Christmas. There will be no Christmas prompts or add-ons like a stupid tree. My mind is made up. I’m very grateful that I am old enough and mature enough to make this decision without sanctification by others. The tree will stay in the basement. And I am much relieved that it will.

But now, oh yeah, always in the crowd there is some impertinent entity of one kind or another who would press for an alteration of that decision. And that is what has happened here.

That stupid Christmas cactus that hasn’t even thought about Christmas or blooming for six years is blooming all over the place. Screaming at me in desperation like that creature down the road this morning. “Christmas is here. Christmas is here. Better get that tree out of the basement. I can't do all this Christmas-ambiance-stuff all by myself!”















“Well, fine and dandy, then. Anything to stop the whining. So there you go. Here’s a tree if you insist. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Baby Business

My apologies for blogging so sporadically, but it is a busy time of year.

With gardening threatening to take up all my time very soon, I had to rush to complete another task. I wanted to make a welcome gift for a new little resident expected in our community in early June.

It has become a tradition in this area, that when a new wee resident moves in, Roberta makes that new babe a quilt. And so for this latest expectation in early June, I did just that. (unfortunately the picture is not as clear as I would have liked).

Now I found while shopping for fabric I couldn’t resist a flannelette of cute black and white sheep. But when the quilt was finished I felt it needed something to make it, you know, a little bit special. More special than just a repetition of black sheep bodies and white sheep bums.

So when assembling the quilt, I used white yarn and made quilting ties at the neck of the sheep. Worked okay but still that quilt lacked some special adornment. Unable to come up with anything, I asked Hub what to do.

I laughed at his suggestion and I continue to laugh at the result. He suggested I give one sheep a mouthful of green grass, and so that is what I did. Is it not both cute and funny?

For The Birds

Day before yesterday, winter returned with a vengeance. And for about 48 hours the wind reeked and roared. Snow whipped about the windows and deck like heavy surf in an ocean storm. I heard trees snapping in the woods. Hub never ties down the barbecue cover and it is gone. With the madness of the storm I have no idea which neighbor to call to see if they sighted it – the one to the north, south, east or west.

Anyway after a delightfully mild spring, we are now well snowed in.

And so this morning when Hub looked out the window, he saw a frenzied mass of tiny birds battling over the bird feeder. Hub could readily see that there were too many for one feeder, so he scattered some extra seed on the ground.

Now you’ll have to forgive me cause I’m not a bird watcher in any serious sense of the word, so I don’t know what kind of birds they were, all I can tell you is that they were all tiny birds of the same genus and species.

But while watching them rally about the feeder and the scattered seed on the ground, I suddenly realized I wasn’t just seeing birds. Hub noticed it too. We were seeing little personalities. We were seeing in the mix birds of various constitutions –nasty birds, frantic birds, timid birds, and placid birds.

There were greedy birds that had eaten their fill. But despite that, they stood firm at the feeding station, flapping their wings, and threatening with their beaks, in a bid to make all the rest think they were elected as CEO’s of all feeding activity.

There were birds that darted around the food with such reluctance and fear. And there were other non-aggressive birds, but nevertheless sturdy enough in constitution to not be put off by some bully approaching them threateningly.

I noticed there were even birds dashing about in fright, and fluttering away in quite a panic. Yet to the rest of the flock they were invisible.

None cared they were even there cause with such skittishness, it was quite evident, even to me, that if they were to scavenge anything, it would only be the less tasty debris (or empty hulls) because they obviously felt undeserving of the large buttery sun flower seeds in the mix.

Those choice morsels they left for the authoritarian birds of the hierarchy. But still, despite their humility and mannerly patience, this same bunch ate with such a constancy of terror that they could barely manage to get any food down. The drama of it all put me in mind of another occasion many years ago.

It’s not often, but I occasionally tell people about the ‘happy chickens’ Hub’s mom had years ago. Chickens that ran to her, with long proud necks, bright eyes, making soft clucking conversation to her as they perched happily on the edge of the grain pail she carried out to the chicken yard. People blink at my story with the same blankness that you might see in the face of a ‘stupid’ chicken. But those chickens convinced me that chickens have more intelligence than they are ever given credit for.

But because my story usually is treated as a ‘gaffe’, a story lacking any true sensibility, I no longer tell it. And furthermore, I remind myself every time I think of hens housed in small tight cages, without soft nests, and with lights on night and day so they will lay without ceasing, that it is all of no matter. I am the stupid one to feel so foolishly sad.

And so then, because of others reactions, I begin to think I am such a fool. Chickens are nothing more than chickens. So what if they are mistreated. Their brains are too scant for them to know the difference. And if I worry about such stupidity, I am about as stupid as a ‘stupid chicken’.

But no, I am not stupid and they are not only chickens. Admittedly in recent years I almost had myself convinced they were only chickens and that the day I saw ‘happy chickens’ my imagination was simply working overtime. But no, I had to reconsider after watching that bird-feeding episode in the front yard today.

Those wee creatures, with their wee small brains, are not just warm-blooded guts-and-gizzards with feathers. They have feelings, hopes, manners, or lack thereof, and they are able to demonstrate appreciation and happiness.

I hope some day Animal Rights Groups will understand that if you can’t treat seals and whales like that for the sake of dinner that you also can’t treat chickens the way they are treated for the sake of breakfast.

The Root Cellar - Part II

2. THE EDGAR ALLAN POE NIGHTMARE

[In Part I of this story I told you how my brat brother played an evil joke on my Mother, and for this he was thrown into the root cellar and the cellar door shut tight…]

And so, now as I write this, I wonder. ‘What would today’s psychologists say about a child that would play that kind of nasty trick with a rope tied to a rock in the well? And would root-cellar-discipline head the discussions for weeks, even months on prime television?’

If there were to be any media discussion, it should be no more than three minutes. After all, Brat Brother got no physical beating. He simply got modern-day sanctioned time-out. And boy, did he get time out. I’m certain sure he would have preferred a good thrashing. I know I would have.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I did not have to press my ear to the cellar door to hear the muffled cries and sobs from that cold chilly ethereal pit of hell. My brother was trapped in an Edgar-Allan-Poe-nightmare with only darkness and the beat of his heart. And I was glad, so very glad, it wasn’t me.

But still, I couldn’t in my wildest imagination think how scared my brother must be. And although I so often told him that I hoped some day he would be so far removed from me that it would cost a thousand dollars to mail a letter, I did feel truly sorry for him and begged for his release.

But Mother was adamant that he would remain there for a time (long enough I guess for remorse to set in because remorse is important). But, of course how could he even for one New-York-second consider the weight of his actions in a place that so seriously threatened survival. Was there sufficient air? And I know he was thinking, ‘If I mold and die in here, they’ll be sorry.’

And so after hopeless raking and clawing at the root-cellar lid, and screaming until he could scream no more, and crying until his face was thorough soaked, he moved to the more dire thought of what would he eat. The eating part, to Brat Brother, was the most fundamental of survival. To survive one must eat, one must eat much, and one must eat often.

And if the experts are right, that eating is a remedy for other distresses, Brat Brother’s distresses at the moment were overwhelming, and so his next clear conviction was no matter what else, he must eat.

And so he felt around in the blackness of the cellar and had one flash of relief when he found a tin can with a lid. He managed to pull the lid off. He felt the stuff. It felt like jam. He tasted it. It seemed to have a weak sweetness. It was hard to know for sure what it was by taste, but because it was stored in the cellar, it could only be one of two things – pork lard or jam. And though questionable which it was, that weak bit of sweetness convinced him it must be jam.

And so, he commenced dipping and licking his fingers. Taste was of little matter. One MUST eat.

Now I expect my brother was probably in that cellar no longer than ten minutes but I’m sure, and quite understand, how to him it must have felt like many long hours. He was in survival mode and so he was eating jam. Unfortunately when the cellar door was eventually cast back and he was released, he found to his dismay, the meal he had partaken of was in fact, finger servings of, what was called in those days, axle grease.
_____

So this is where we’ll leave this story, but now as I watch Court TV, and see so many suspects of child murder and abduction refusing to talk, I am so dismayed. Seems to me that within the Geneva Convention and the Fifth, the authorities have no way to force confessions, and no way to get to the truth – though that truth might redeem an innocent child.

But wait, maybe there are acceptable ways of making people talk. And it is not by locking them in cellar-holding cells in Remand Centers with painted walls, air-conditioning and concrete floors. These conditions are totally false misappropriations of what a cellar is.

The Geneva Convention and the Fifth (which admittedly I know little about) must be upheld, even when childrens lives are in danger. But, at the same time, society accepts without protest or qualm the new discipline of Time-Out.

So for those who refuse to talk, why not time-out in a damp, fusty, funereal, black-mold-lined, dirt-excavated cubbyhole five feet square and four feet high, piled with rotting carrots, potatoes, and turnips, inhabited by fungi of all slimy convictions, and misty demon-like poltergeists...crowded into a darkness as thick as black-strap molasses?

And if that be not enough to make them talk…
Dry bread and axle-grease for dinner!

January Desperation

Do you remember how fast time was flying from December 1st to January 1st?

It was speedier than Hub’s most frenzied driving. The G-force drove my hair back and pressed my lips and nose into flat tight lines. And then, before I knew it, before I was even ready, New Year’s Day arrived and it was all over.

And then the world stopped spinning. Time stopped. Even the sun no longer rose and fell in the sky. It didn’t seem worthwhile for Old Sol to climb so high, so slowly, with no height of day to rest before a return to hiding on the western horizon. Days dragged in 2-second increments with the sun in hiding and the sentry of night and day nothing but a cloudy moon. A cloudy moon that permitted no differentiation of night from day.

And still January progresses at a pace too slow to know, see, or observe. It seems a drag of too many minutes and too many hours; too many monotonous days, and too many monotonous nights. Nights that are far too long for restful slumber.

In the space of the Christmas rush, this is what I longed for, but now it is far too extreme, in reverse, to be appreciated.

And so what must be resurrected is a sense of humor. Oh yes, easy said, but not so easy done. Hub and I have just gone through whirling days of phenomenal feasts, grandchildren chatter, arrivals and departures from the front door, and lovely surprise offerings under the tree.

We have gone from Christmas carol-bells-ringing, tinsel glowing, lights glittering, endless and very busy activity to this dull, slow-crawling, and meaningless creep of time.

And so there is a new kind of desperation for humor. I didn’t realize how desperate until the situation of Hub’s lined-jeans-exchange. Hub was so happy when he got a pair of lined jeans for Christmas. He loves lined jeans because they eliminate the need for donning underwear. But the new pair was snug so yesterday he went to town and exchanged them for a larger pair.

Now the wee bit of disappointment for him in that exchange was that the original jeans had blue flannel lining, and the larger pair he brought home yesterday have red flannel lining.

So this morning he puts on the larger pair and says to me, “I wonder why these jeans have red flannel lining instead of blue? I’m not sure I like that.”

Of course, my response, (while thinking to myself – ‘silly old fool’), is…

“Why…?”

“Because,” says Hub, “when I am out in the snow I might get them wet and they will turn my legs red. And then people will laugh and poke fun at me. They will taunt me. I can hear them already.”

‘There goes red legs. Ha-Ha! There’s that old boy with red legs again!’
_____

If you didn’t laugh, you better. You were supposed to.

This is Motif 1 in Hub’s desperation (and mine), to find the sense of humor we had before the laggard tempo of January 2010 virtually stopped the clocks.

The Ejection, or should I say Rejection? (III-IV)

Part III – The Search for Redemption

For three days I punched every link I could find. I tried search engines from every possible angle and direction. I even went through these rituals on all three computers, but no luck. Yes, it was all too true. I was solidly shut out. No way to crash this party with that kind of 24-7 security.

Now I had one wee bit of fragile hope in all this. Hub and I are here alone most of the time so when my computer stalls, or cycles some kind of stupidity, or takes to flashing nothing but pop-ups, or refuses to be cooperative in a thousand other ways, I say to Hub, “I am having a problem with this computer. Will you have a look at it?”

And so Hub looks at it and always says the same, “What the hell did you do to it? You must have changed something. This wouldn’t be happening otherwise.”

And of course I say, “I didn’t touch a thing. Honestly I didn’t. I changed nothing.” And it is the truth. I didn’t change anything.

Then Hub, who fully understands computer hardware, virus control, and all the other behind the scene aspects of computers, goes to my computer and does his bit of magic, and we are back up and running in good form. Sometimes it is simply manipulation from the keyboard, sometimes it is installation of a new bit of hardware, but when he attacks a troublesome computer, the trouble is normally short-lived.

Now one of the truly most enviable things in the mind of a computer is that, if it royally screws up, or gets a really nasty virus, Hub can subtract the computer’s moments of irresponsibility or disease and reduce its life to only the good times. He can erase the errors, the mistakes, the blight, and actually subtract from that computer the memory, and all of the segments of its irresponsible past that interfere with its performance.

I so often think now nice it would be if human beings could do that as well. This day it would be particularly nice to be able to so easily recant something I may have said.

But Hub tells me that being shut out from anothers blog cannot be cured in that way. That is their right, that is their choice, and without an e-mail address, there is nothing that can be done to re-establish contact.

Part IV – The Come Back

I am so utterly heartbroken. I cannot believe how heartbroken I am. It is stupid, utterly stupid, how sick at heart I am. At the same time I am so techy-dumb, dumb, (and forgetful as well), that I wonder if I could have changed something on my own page that caused this?

Anxiety over all of it plagues me like a nasty head-cold stuffling my mind. And then, a few days later, quite by chance, I notice in my archaic tracking system that although I can no longer visit my friend’s site, my friend had visited mine. Now I know, though I seldom do it, that if I highlight the site that visited me, occasionally that will take me back to their place. And so I try, and oh glory, it works. But now what?

The site name was not altered in any way, but nevertheless, I cut and re-pasted it on my links and suddenly we were back in business. No door slams in my face. No barred threshold or virtual voice screaming, “Get away, get out of here, and don’t ever, ever come back!”

But that is computers for you. They screw up and Hub thinks I did something to make them screw up. And as for me, I suspect he inadvertently did something to make it screw up. But he is as persistent that he didn’t change anything as I am.

So I have to accept that computers, like myself, are not always lucid. And within their incredible brains, they sometimes reflect in ways that cross signals and alter synapses. And in doing so wrack horror and rawness on people that is beyond belief.

And so now, as a final thought, if my friend really did want me out of there (which I am quite certain was not the case) – then all I can say is that, like the Salahis' at the White House Dinner, I too, have crashed the party.

But my mind is at rest that all is well. Since that horrible time, we have spoken often, and our conversations are as delightful and openly friendly as they ever were in the past. This was obviously nothing more than a friendship thwarted by some kind of inexplicable computer interference.

Too 20th Century

Now you just can’t take someone as reclusive as I prefer to be, and have been for the last three years, and yank them away from familiar things and redeposit them in the fast lane without some thought, consideration, and re-orientation.

Now Christmas usually gives me a jolt. That’s when small discoveries and new discoveries are revealed to me that can be most puzzling.

The grandchildren come wrapped in tiny wires with little boxes with buttons and sometimes ear phones, maybe heart monitors, for all I know, and yatter at high speed in excited voices about the new gift. But despite all their garbled speech of excitement as they wave it in the air, I have no idea what it is, what it does, or what is so entrancing about it.

They rush past me at the stoop, head straight to my living room, seat themselves in a chair, plant the thing in their laps, and then go into a trancelike state. I can’t help but wonder if what comes up on the screen is nothing more than a hypnotizing silver ball on a string swinging back and forth and a low beep whispering in digitized voice, “You are getting sleepy, very sleepy….”

And there they stay in their trance-like state till dinner call. And when I ask, no one got a doll, no one got a truck, no one got a book, no one got a watercolor set, in fact no one got a thing that looks like anything from the 20th century.
___

I tell you this just so you realize how out-of-the-loop I really am. But I guess that is to be expected for someone who has avoided public places, shopping malls, and the whir of the city for several years now. It is enough for me to make the dreaded trip to town every two weeks. It is enough for me to stop on that dreaded trip at the one-person post office, the 2-clerk drugstore, and the 3-clerk grocery store.

But on New Year’s Eve, all that changed. Hub and I went to the city to stay with Youngest Daughter (YD) for a few days. Her house was quiet, warm, peaceful, like my own so I was grateful that for the first couple of days YD and Hub left me at home while they went on cruise about, gad about, shopping trips. But they are schemers and behind the façade of quiet submission to my desire to maintain the reclusiveness I am used to, they were scheming to get me out and about.
___

The sessions of re-orientation to get me back into the swing of modern life and the real world started New Year’s Eve with an introduction to the World of Wii. YD and I played Wii golf, tennis, bowling, and even jazzed for a while with Wii rock band with guitar strapped to my chest.

It was fun at the time, but when our performance wound up, it was a bit discomfiting for me. YD was loudly applauded for her singing, while I was rudely booed off stage. They said it had to do with my guitar playing – it most definitely did NOT!!

They’re a bunch of dummies. The notes I played are important and add depth and a sweet resonance to the music and I played them for that very reason. Though other band members skipped over them. I played Minor chords at mostly appropriate times. And Minor chords are not so 20th Century as the younger crowd may think!

In the Wii World, the Sporting Wii World, I paid little attention to the avatar gawkers watching our games. I was too involved in technique and accuracy to worry about those little people scurrying about me. They probably poked fun at me then as well (because I’m old and less than graceful of movement), but I was oblivious to their disdain.

Then we went to a Wii Village and hung out. I thought that would be nice. In my youth I always liked sitting in a food court in a busy mall and people-watching and that is more or less what we did.

Watching the avatar inhabitants, I noticed that they wore brightly colored clothes (rather out of vogue with fashion in the real world) but none wore lovely plaid or paisley. I noticed they did not cluster with close friends as real-life mall-crawlers do. I also noticed they walked about with determination, like persons of independent will, strong mind, and strong purpose. Clusters only happened by chance when walkways were overcrowded.

I smiled cause I could tell they were happy little villagers. Friendlier, in some oblique way, than people in real life. Though not clustered in gangs, or hand-holding couplets, they happily looked about them for reasons to approach and interact with others.

It was, for me, quite comfortable mingling there. More so than in real life in a crowded mall or airport. I had no underlying dark suspicions of them, or they of me. I fit in so easily. I had no fear of being followed, harassed, or having my open purse rummaged behind my back. It was a nice place to hang out. Really it was. And I had a comfortable feeling that here friendships could be easily formed.
___

The next day Hub and YD started a marathon of cruise about, gad about, shopping trips and sight-seeing tours. They took the puppies to the park, and came home from their frequent circuits full of gay laughter and adventure.

But then, oh yes, on the third day, having run out of excuses why I should, and could not go, I was compelled to leave the house. So that is when YD and Hub dragged me away for a dreaded shopping trip. I bumbled after them through parking lots and crowded aisles, (where did all these people come from?), with panicky fear that I might get lost. Of course neither would hold my hand – that would be too 20th Century!

Eventually we went to an incredible shop with every nature of kitchen appliance and furniture ever invented. Then as I followed close behind, YD paused by a large black recliner and told me to sit down and relax for a moment or two.

I leaned back in the comfy chair and as I began to unwind, something, or someone gripped both my legs firmly with a warm embrace. And then knuckles crawled up both sides of my spine in a rolling, circular movement.

When they reached the back of my neck, the knuckles unfolded and paddle-hands gave my shoulder blades and neck a patty-pat like those given in family hugs. They caressed the back of my neck at the sides slowly first, then rapidly, but still gently. They patted and circularly stroked my back some more.

Meanwhile my legs were compressed in spurts that put me in mind of a forward making a pass at me under the table skirts in a crowded bar. My feet were elevated gently and then lowered. I felt the warmth of the other body caressing me. No pinch of the thigh, but a gentle rub and firm nudge rather than pinch – and yes, it was located on the fleshy part of my upper, outer thigh.

After a few minutes, the chair released its grip on my legs and pulled away and I knew my lover had left. I wanted him to come back. I wanted to oil my body and sit naked in that chair. (Did I say that out loud?)

Now maybe another day when tempers are worn thin, I might not have reacted as I did. But today was a particularly good day. I was so enjoying the company of both YD and Hub once I realized they were not going to allow me to get lost. They were both so affable. In extreme good humor and so mindful of my comfort that when we exited the shop, I looked sideways at Hub and grinned.

I had no wish to purchase that chair. None at all. And I knew that back home no dogged and unsurpassable niggling yen would rear whispering without abatement, “I want and need that chair.” That isn’t going to happen because I have all the delights of that chair in easy reach – though so 20th Century it may be.

I have the comfort of such caresses without spending in excess of two grand to get a warm hug, a patty-pat and a wee nudge in the fleshy part of my thigh. The chair is good, but somehow it still lacks something in the ambiance, though I have to admit, what it lacks is not easily understood or described. And seems to me, without a strong sense of inner soul, and spiritual intuition, one could too easily supplant the delights of one with the other – and perhaps find warmth and human comfort as much in a chair as in a physical embrace.

But I think you now see what is happening here. Through all these experiences I am getting up to speed. Getting back in the loop of life outside of my own reclusive world of reading, blogging, and weaving in knit stitch, crochet stitch, and tatting stitch, threads of 20th Century nostalgia.

And so then we went to another shop. Here we looked at virtual gardening lamps and plant trays. One growing kit was half-price although there was only one left. We bought it. Hub and I brought it home. Seeded some tomatoes in the magic, dirtless, compounds of nutrition, stabilizer, water, heat, and light. I picked up the empty box to discard it and saw written on the box, "Dirt is so 20th Century”

So despite all that I have done, despite all that I have seen, despite the avatars that sought to draw me in, despite the chair that wanted to love and comfort me, sadly I choose to remain in the 20th Century. I happen to like plaids and paisley, minor chords, flesh to flesh patty-pats, and dirt. But I wouldn’t mind having a few avatar friends if they are as dear to me as my blogging friends are!

Ships in Bottles

I have always been completely fascinated by Ships in Bottles. I’m certain the very first clipper ship I ever saw was a miniature in a bottle.

I saw it at a house my parents visited when I was but a child. But to me, it was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. I never forgot how beautiful it was with its wee sails and rigging and every detail so exact. And yes it was on a blue ocean and there in front of a window, with bright sunshine lighting the interior of the bottle, it seemed all too real. And then, of course, the most fascinating enigma of all, was “How did they get that ship in that bottle?”

And so now, for Christmas, I found a very simple kit for building a ship in a bottle and bought it for my 7-year-old grandson. Now just because I have a great love, and fascination, with ships in a bottle will not mean that he has. There is no context in his experience to give him the same fascination.

So I wrote a wee book for him with ship poems, ship-in-a-bottle history notes, and my own story of my first encounter with the ship in a bottle when I was a child. I will spare you the reading of the entire book. I only want to share with you a silly poem I wrote for his little book.

SHIP IN A BOTTLE, SAIL SAFELY AWAY

They were sailing, fast a-sailing
In a sunbeam on the shelf
Sea a-foaming, sails a-billowing
Captained by a tiny elf.

They were rum-mied up and jolly
Singing songs of sailing fame
And I could not help but want so much
To join them in their game.


To face the sea from the upper deck
And see flat waters with a curve
They call’d to me, “It is your watch.”
I thought that quite absurd.

The tiny ropes were coiled up tight
Lifesavers in their places
The main sail billowed like a flying kite
With the ocean spraying traces.
___

I could not stay my little hand
The sea called out to me
So I took the ship down from the shelf
To sea what I could see.

I turned it over in my hands
To have a better look
And yes, I saw the captain there,
And I think I saw the cook.

I pulled the cork out of the bottle
Looked in that porthole small
Then suddenly the bottle slipped
I saw it bump the wall.

I scooped both hands so quickly
Down near the hard slate floor
And in a nick of time I caught
And saved the Misty Moor.

Tiny voices rummied up
All danced and cried with glee
And in that careless wreckless dance
They fell into the sea.

Before I could cast my tweezers
Down the tiny bottle-neck
I saw the cook throw out life savers
And say, “Get these round your neck!”


They grabbed the tiny lemon candies
The LifeSavers that were chucked
And so managed to keep a-floating
Till with tweezers they were plucked.

I pinched their trousers in the backside
And pulled them up on the deck
And again I heard that same small voice
Muttering, “What the heck?”

So now they’re back there in the cabin
Of the tall ship, Misty Moor
And I am very grateful that
With my help, they did endure.

When ships are built in bottles
The crafting lends a charm
That will safely keep the real ship
Forever free from harm.
____

Later on the radio,
I heard something very odd
The real Moor was so embattled
Only help could come from God.

They said she clashed with giant waves,
Round the coast of Cull Eldees,
There was little hope she could be saved
In those rough, tempestuous seas.

But a miniature in a bottle
Made with patience and with care
Gave salvation to the Big Ship
To escape the wild sea’s snare.

Because that mini-ship was bottled
The Big Ship was safe that day,
And the Misty Moor, at nightfall
Docked safely in the bay.

2009 Roberta Smith

Hope you enjoyed the poem.

Have a Very Happy Holiday Season!!

Back to Blogging with a Vengeance

Looks like I’ve completely run out of excuses. The garden is done, the yard work is done, veggie and fruit preserves done… I even have a brand new laptop that talks to both printers from the kitchen through some kind of invisible aura, but, despite all this, the blogging is not getting done.

In the knitting basket, there are socks getting done, and slippers getting done, but still the blogging is not getting done. There is Christmas shopping getting done, but no blogging getting done.

Hub is a bit dejected. Thinks I don’t appreciate the new laptop cause he can easily see the blogging is not getting done. And he knows that since 2003, blogging has been so important to me, and now of a sudden, the blogging is not getting done.

I think the real root of the problem is I am quite distressed by what is happening in this old world. The news I heard the other day has investigators, once again, looking for a missing child. This time a 7-month-old babe weighing, according to HNN’s newscasts, 10 pounds. According to the parents, the child went missing from their bedroom while they were sleeping.

Now as sad and distressing as these situations are, I find it comforting to know that the people discussing the situation on newscasts have more intelligence than I. I am comforted when they think of things that I would never think of to solve a case. But now I am quite distraught when, with this particular case, I realize they know so little.

In all their panels of expert detectives, lawyers, medics, newscasters, none zeroed in on the most significant up-front fact in this story. To me, the most outstanding detail in this mystery of the missing baby, described by her family as a little girl with a very big head, is that if a child seven month’s old weighs only 10 pounds, of course she will have a very big head.

And if she weighs only 10 pounds, it is obvious what happened to her. She physically faded away, before her body was hidden, taken, whatever the case may be. I would think any common-sense individual would know that unless a child has a serious hormonal imbalance that affects their growth, what child, at seven months, would weigh only ten pounds?

And so, then what distresses me even more is the realization that we seem to have become a culture that lives with a greater cloud of dread and fear of obesity, than our will and effort to promote good health. We have come to fear obesity to such an extent, that our children are bloody hungry. I see, in shops and on the streets so many babies that are so thin, so tiny, so delicate like porcelain dolls. I ask how old they are and am so shocked at how much older they are than what they look.

Doctors are not helping. Both of my daughters were told by their doctors not to feed their children any solid food until they were 5 or 6 months old. I am so grateful they ignored this advice. Their children got food at two months old and despite Nancy Grace reiterating again and again in the last few days that “babies do not sleep in”, this is not true. Babies can and do sleep in.

When they have had sufficient Pablum to hush hunger demands for eight hours, they will sleep ‘like babies‘ through the night at three months old.

I am just so offended that we do all those seatbelt safety checks, all that monitoring of childhood safety with toys, and bouncers, cribs and highchairs and rockers, and while all this is going on, children are not being adequately fed.

I know what hunger feels like. It is the most anxious, unsettling, empty feeling that one can have. A anxiety that is hard to label and understand. Especially when the child becomes a young toddler and parents are barking, “What’s the matter with you? Stop the whining. You had your supper!”

Meanwhile the clock says half-past midnight, and that very small stomach was last filled at 5:30 p.m. and of course by now is quite empty.
___________

Yes, I am disheartened, sad, and crabby. Anxious and unsettled with a great empty feeling inside. But it is not hunger that makes me feel this way. It is sadness for children who are so helpless, so wholly dependent on our care and good will. I don’t think that legally one adult can force another to diet without ‘permission’, but kids and babies, that’s a whole different story. You must keep them safe, and keeping them safe, is to make sure you never, never, never, feed them as much as they would like.

Fly Poopies on My Toast

It’s quite okay that with aging my flesh has thinned and paled, my hair grayed, and that I have persistent and hardy curly black hairs descending from my chin, and the flesh on my neck is folding. I am not a vain person and I prepared myself to accept these changes with good grace…and I have.

But hey, there are other things going awry that I cannot so easily accept. And one of them, most annoying, most disconcerting is how something with a brain less big than an atom can drive me to such distraction. And how something can so rule my life. And so seriously challenge my sanity by squatting forever near me and casting its glossy eyes on me while rubbing its hands together with evil glee and sticking out its tongue at me with such obvious disdain.

And should I, for one moment, ignore his presence, he alights on my hair or flesh and walks about as if wearing hob-nail boots. He might be tiny, but you immediately know he is there – clomp, clomp, clomp.

So now this is what haunts every minute of my day and in the haunting has thoroughly crushed my confidence, courage, and control. For two long days he and I have been sparring. In my youth, I use to quickly take control of such a situation. But I am now an ‘elderly’ and I can only think it is because of that that I constantly and clumsily and fruitlessly misfire the fly swatter at that one annoying housefly.

No one ever told me that the ultimate curse of being an ‘elderly’ would be the sad day when I would have to give up in frustration on the killing of a housefly. And that someday I would become, in this combat, the weakest link, leaving me with only one ultimatum.

To cover my toast with a napkin and cup my hand over my mug while meekly and submissively horking down my food and drink as quickly as possible.

Proof There Still Exists Obliging (and Efficient) Clerks

Now not all blogs are as provocative as I would hope. But still each is...in some miniscule way.

This story is about an obliging store clerk trained well in public relations. It started when an item caught my eye in this week’s grocery flyer – “Breakfast sausages thawed for your convenience” –at a giveaway price.

Now Hub and I might eat 2-4 sausages at a sitting, so I thought to myself, “I need to buy some of these. Not ‘thawed for my convenience’, but frozen.”

So I went to grocery meat counter and asked for the sausages on sale – “frozen, if you don’t mind.” The attendant rummaged the cooler.

“Truly sorry, madam,” he said, “but we have no frozen sausages.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Still thanks for looking.”

I turned to leave. The attendant caught at my sleeve. “Wait,” he said. “Are you able to come back tomorrow?”

“Certainly,” I said. “Will more be coming in tomorrow?”

“No,” he said. “But I will freeze some for you tonight and you can pick them up tomorrow.”

Not too many employees in retail outlets that obliging, are there? Also not too many butchers so poorly trained in fitting ways of handling fresh meat.

Commiserations No. 2

Still here. Up to my neck in beets, beans, and chard. Picked high bush cranberries – made jelly. Picked saskatoons – made jelly. Made borsch, beet pickles, and mustard bean pickles. Tucked in the tomatoes last night after frost forecast (in the middle of August, in the middle of global warming ???, no less.).

Thankfully my garden escaped the frost as it is well sheltered by trees, but a chilly 2 degrees Celcius around 4 o’clock this morning tells me there was frost in some of the surrounding areas. And that will mean a lot of my neighbours will not be so lucky. Only exceptions—the ones whose gardens have already been picked clean by the locusts.

Gardening has got to be something to love to hate and hate to love. It brings personal-satisfaction, personal rejection, joy, frustration, inspiration and exhaustion all in one sometimes dragged out, sometimes condensed, little disassembled unit. I’ll be glad/sad when it is all over for another year.

Meanwhile my new garden potatoes, wrapped in heavy cream, and fresh dill are calling me for lunch.

The Book of Common Commiserations – No. 1

My newest writing effort is a book of commiserations. I will only know how many I have as we proceed. I call them ‘Commiserations’ because they are laments of common, rather than uncommon situations, that I share in order for others to feel their own common laments are shared and understood.
___

I can’t believe how numb men are. Numb, I said, not dumb. Hub cannot feel a mosquito on his neck or a stroking touch on his back or arm. Not too surprising because when he comes in from the shop he often looks as if he has been physically assaulted. Deep cuts on his hands, sizable abrasions on his arms and extensive bruises on his legs. I examine the damage and worry about infections. “These wounds need to be treated and bandaged,” I say.

“What wounds?” is his response. He usually doesn’t even know he has any.

But this morning he is in a real flurry.

He yelled for the wife, the needle, the light, the tweezers, the gauze, and the alcohol, than twisted his hand 340 degrees around so the small shaft of sunlight coming through the window shone directly on the inside of his pinky finger. No it was not that he imbedded a 3” screw into his hand – he had a sliver. With those rough, I won’t say work-worn, but generic work-worn hands, I could not believe he could even feel it. With my new bi-focals, I still couldn’t see it. I could have zeroed in on a small red pimple of infection but there was none.

Still the pain, oh God, the pain – must have been akin to child labour. One hand on the table in the shaft of sunlight and the other gripping the chair with white knuckles and feet braced so firmly on the floor, he occasionally levitated. He tried to remain still, while his torso writhed in agony and his breath came in fast sharp pants. He tried to be brave as I rotated the needle over, as in above, the ‘injury’ and waited for him to calm a bit.

A couple delicate picks of the needle, and there it was. The relief on his face surpassed even that of seedy individuals I sometimes see standing amidst an ever-fading, while enlarging, yellow bloom of water in the public swimming pool. (And I was so certain nothing could surpass that look of relief).

We of course had to disinfect Hub’s bloodless, microscopic wound seven times and sympathetically suggest that he might want to take it easy for a day or two.

Oh, and the sliver. You must see the sliver. Here it is…right here (at the tip of the arrow, but for God's sake, stand back! I don't want it to poke ye in the ey!!) --->

Of course now we understand, don’t we – how brave and courageous Hub is!