The temperature outside is -17 celcius and dropping. To those in the Far North, this may seem mild, for me in Nova Scotia, it is starting to get mighty cold.
It is not a good morning to have to put the garbage out.
Garbage Day is an Event, that comes once every two weeks. Recycling is more than a civic duty, it is a moral imperative. What is more, if done incorrectly, the garbage is left behind with a bright red notice of offence, reminiscent of "The Scarlet Letter".
The bags must go out in the early morning rather than the night before, or it will be strewn thither and yon, by raccoons, crows, seagulls and dogs. In the summer, there are many other such critters. Dogs must be kept in until after the garbage truck has passed. Dogs are not give red letters, but the letters are worn by the owners.
My "ordinary" pick up day is Monday. This day is unchanging except for Christmas, New Years and Canada Day, if they should fall on a Monday. There are quite a few long weekends that involve Mondays - Thanksgiving, Victoria Day (the day we celebrate the long gone Queen Victoria's birthday) Labour Day and perhaps others.
With a Monday Garbage Day, that means a significant bit of Sunday is spent in preparation - cardboard tied with string, recylibles that are not returnables in one clear bag, quality paper in another, organic material in a large green bin that must be wheeled to the end of the lane and then the green bag for garbage that does not contain batteries, paint etc. We won't go into the Big Garbage Event that happens each spring and fall. Suffice it to say, these days are the topic of many conversations and sometimes many days of preparation.
So you can imagine my delight, as I was emerging from my warm bed, dreading the trek down the lane with the bags, when I heard a tap on the side door. My neighbour and friend from up the hill decided to drive her contribution to the road and wondered if she could take mine. Of course the answer was yes.
I think I caught a wee gleam of a halo over her head as she lugged my garbage to her car.
Monday 31 January 2011
Thursday 27 January 2011
Snow Days
I am reluctant to say it out loud, because it goes against what it is to be Canadian. It may be possible to have too many Snow Days.
Powerful winter storms have been roaring up the East Coast from Georgia, of all places, almost weekly, since the beginning of the year. Today once again everything skidded to a halt. There wasn't a bit of anything going on. Each house was hermetically sealed. All were at ready to lose electricity, water and phone again. Wood fires burn, bath tubs are full, and important and unimportant calls have been made. In this house at least, there was the loss of nothing, but patience.
"Bored" is a word I detest. The world is filled with so many possibilities, it just doesn't seem right to declare there is nothing to do. At the cottage when my children were small, there was always the threat of enrolment in a nearby town's Baptist Vacation Bible Camp if they ever uttered the dreaded word. So I didn't let myself utter the word today.
"But"(another of my less favourite words), it was some nasty outside. The wind drilled those itty bitty ice pieces right into uncovered skin. If there had been sun, the whole world would have dazzled. As it was there were many beautiful untaken pictures all around. I chose the no pain no gain option.
I trudged up the hill to share a cup of tea with my longtime friend. Our conversations, that are usually so filled with fun and nonsense, seemed to be mired in wilted political chatter. I knew we were in trouble as we watched a fishing show on Eastlink, the local cable television show. There was nothing to do, but return to my house for an unneeded nap, with my restless dogs.
Bedtime is mercifully looming. I plan to sleep the night away with bright spirits in greenness and summer frocks, to wake up to fully appreciate the winter wonderland outside my window.
Powerful winter storms have been roaring up the East Coast from Georgia, of all places, almost weekly, since the beginning of the year. Today once again everything skidded to a halt. There wasn't a bit of anything going on. Each house was hermetically sealed. All were at ready to lose electricity, water and phone again. Wood fires burn, bath tubs are full, and important and unimportant calls have been made. In this house at least, there was the loss of nothing, but patience.
"Bored" is a word I detest. The world is filled with so many possibilities, it just doesn't seem right to declare there is nothing to do. At the cottage when my children were small, there was always the threat of enrolment in a nearby town's Baptist Vacation Bible Camp if they ever uttered the dreaded word. So I didn't let myself utter the word today.
"But"(another of my less favourite words), it was some nasty outside. The wind drilled those itty bitty ice pieces right into uncovered skin. If there had been sun, the whole world would have dazzled. As it was there were many beautiful untaken pictures all around. I chose the no pain no gain option.
I trudged up the hill to share a cup of tea with my longtime friend. Our conversations, that are usually so filled with fun and nonsense, seemed to be mired in wilted political chatter. I knew we were in trouble as we watched a fishing show on Eastlink, the local cable television show. There was nothing to do, but return to my house for an unneeded nap, with my restless dogs.
Bedtime is mercifully looming. I plan to sleep the night away with bright spirits in greenness and summer frocks, to wake up to fully appreciate the winter wonderland outside my window.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
Swimming in My Gene Pool
When I moved to Nova Scotia, many years ago now, I found myself swimming in my own gene pool. Almost anyone at the nearest town's grocery store could be my cousin. A cousin does indeed live nearby, but he like me, grew up in a small Ontario village, then spent the greater part of our lives in central Toronto.
A familiar greeting on first meeting of true Bluenosers, an affectionate self label of true Nova Scotians, is "Who's your father?". To have much credibility with the oldtimers, the name must be at least a slighlty familiar surname, preferably holding a drop or two of a shared bloodline. Those "from away" are always a little suspect.
My paternal grandfather did me the favour of being born the son of a sea captain at Pleasant Point in Shelbourne County. His two older brothers were lost in a storm in the time the men still fished from schooners on the Grand Banks. Family lore has it that he was shipped off to Boston for school to save him from the sea. There is another story that he got so horribly seasick, he brought shame to the family name. Whatever the reason, he ended up at an Ontario university and wed a fine farm girl with deep Upper Canadian roots. I still don't know whether this gives me the right to claim a slightly blue nose. I still think I am "from away".
The truth is our Toronto neighbourhood wasn't that different ethnically than people I live among today. My daughters' class pictures are filled with well scrubbed, school picture day white faces.
My grand daughters' live in downtown Toronto. Their school pictures glow with a rainbow of skin colours. The wonderfullness of it all is that to them, living in a microcosm of the United Nations is the norm.
Don't get me wrong, I love living with the good people of Nova Scotia. I count among my friends here some from faroff lands. If only larger waves of immigration from far off lands, came to our shores, we would have the opportunity to share the cultural riches "from far away" in this land of tides and orchards.
A familiar greeting on first meeting of true Bluenosers, an affectionate self label of true Nova Scotians, is "Who's your father?". To have much credibility with the oldtimers, the name must be at least a slighlty familiar surname, preferably holding a drop or two of a shared bloodline. Those "from away" are always a little suspect.
My paternal grandfather did me the favour of being born the son of a sea captain at Pleasant Point in Shelbourne County. His two older brothers were lost in a storm in the time the men still fished from schooners on the Grand Banks. Family lore has it that he was shipped off to Boston for school to save him from the sea. There is another story that he got so horribly seasick, he brought shame to the family name. Whatever the reason, he ended up at an Ontario university and wed a fine farm girl with deep Upper Canadian roots. I still don't know whether this gives me the right to claim a slightly blue nose. I still think I am "from away".
The truth is our Toronto neighbourhood wasn't that different ethnically than people I live among today. My daughters' class pictures are filled with well scrubbed, school picture day white faces.
My grand daughters' live in downtown Toronto. Their school pictures glow with a rainbow of skin colours. The wonderfullness of it all is that to them, living in a microcosm of the United Nations is the norm.
Don't get me wrong, I love living with the good people of Nova Scotia. I count among my friends here some from faroff lands. If only larger waves of immigration from far off lands, came to our shores, we would have the opportunity to share the cultural riches "from far away" in this land of tides and orchards.
Sunday 23 January 2011
Remembering Mothers Rememberings
I spent the weekend reading a memoir of a friend's mother. It was a well written, honest recollection of her life. She wrote from her understanding of living from her more than ninety years. I know her from the periphery of her life, through a friendship of over fifty years with her daughter.
Friendships wax, wane and wax again over the years. It seems that friendships with roots in youth have a special hold. A friend's family are part of the friendship. My friend's mother's story is not impersonal.
My mother was about ten years older. She lived to be over one hundred. Both mothers were children of the British Empire in Canada, a world that disappeared in our lifetime. One lived in English Montreal the other in Toronto, when it was a city of churches. They lived in a world of bone china and wilderness campfires. My friend and I were swept into new realities.
Much of what was central to their lives was not relevant to ours, much was. Our mothers offered us a way of living, that we who came of age in the sixties molded into new shapes, as we see our daughters and grandaughters live in new ways.
I hope Womens Study Programs recognize the importance of the strength of such women.
Friendships wax, wane and wax again over the years. It seems that friendships with roots in youth have a special hold. A friend's family are part of the friendship. My friend's mother's story is not impersonal.
My mother was about ten years older. She lived to be over one hundred. Both mothers were children of the British Empire in Canada, a world that disappeared in our lifetime. One lived in English Montreal the other in Toronto, when it was a city of churches. They lived in a world of bone china and wilderness campfires. My friend and I were swept into new realities.
Much of what was central to their lives was not relevant to ours, much was. Our mothers offered us a way of living, that we who came of age in the sixties molded into new shapes, as we see our daughters and grandaughters live in new ways.
I hope Womens Study Programs recognize the importance of the strength of such women.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Sunny Day
Sun is streaming through the slightly salt glazed, windows. The snow unlike the rain lets the salt be, on the panes. An active haze from winter storms lifts a fine spray far up from the shore. The glass develops a subtle crystal texture.
Today it is really cold outside, so the snow sparkles. Despite my dogs best efforts there are expanses of untouched snow. Perhaps if I put my glasses on and look closer, I could see the tiny footprints of the chickadees and mice. Not today, but some days, a bald eagle floats high overhead. She needs no glasses to catch sight of the tiny creatures. My sunglass wearing friends will have their sunglasses on today if they are out and about.
I knew it was a very cold day the moment I woke up. Aside from the obvious reality that my room was freezing, with the fire almost out, the light shining from behind the blind had a unique brilliance. I had no wish to get up and lay in bed enjoying the glory of it all. It is funny how the narrow streams of light are not swimming with unknowns as they are in city sunbeams.
In response to the dogs appetites for food and action, I eventually get up, feed the fire and feed the dogs, put breakfast on, make a cup of tea, let the beasts out and go back to snuggle in bed until the house warms. The blind is up. Sunshine fills the room. On such mornings tea tastes mighty fine. I am ready to heft myself up to start that which such sunny days require.
Sunday 16 January 2011
Winter Positive Possibilities
Positive Possibilities of Winter in My Life
1. When you heat with wood, you have accomplished at least one thing at the end of the day, keeping the home fire burning.
2. Darkness comes early so bed time becomes a more flexible line in the day.
3. It is wonderful to have a full appreciation of warm, wool socks and comfy slippers.
4.Winter root vegetables inspire delicious homemade soups.
5. The dogs love to cozy up.
6. Deep snow gives a new dimension to silence.
7. The cheeks of everyone outside are rosy.
8. Friends appear in ridiculous head gear.
9. I experience the joy of childhood on Snow Days.
10. In a part of the world where "the weather" is central to conversation, the descriptions of inches, feet, centimetres, metres, degrees both celsius and farenhiet, wind chill, air pressure and on and on is endless.
11. It is easier to pick up frozen dog poo.
12. It is impossible to touch up paint on the outside of the house.
13. On very cold days the sea seems to boil.
14. The lights from far off harbours seem closer.
15. The birds at the window feeders are especially alive.
16. Neighbours get together to form a choir.
17. Neighbours check on each other to see if anything is needed from town.
18. The gently aging discover that skating unlike biking is is not a skill maintained from youth, and there is a greater distance to fall.
19. Making snow angels is just as easy as it used to be, but more fun.
20. Hot chocolate sure beats lemonade.
21. The ferocious winter storms are magnificent. Their power puts humanity in our place.
22. You have an opportunity to look up hoar frost in the dictionary.
23. Skill is gained taking off and putting on snowsuits.
24. There is an appreciation that zippers are now made of plastic not metal.
25. Everyone looks like clothes came from the local Thrift Shop.
26. Friends meet at Frenchies, the local used clothing store.
27. Layers, need I say more.
28. A wee bit of smugness among those who don't flee to the southern climes.
to be continued.............
1. When you heat with wood, you have accomplished at least one thing at the end of the day, keeping the home fire burning.
2. Darkness comes early so bed time becomes a more flexible line in the day.
3. It is wonderful to have a full appreciation of warm, wool socks and comfy slippers.
4.Winter root vegetables inspire delicious homemade soups.
5. The dogs love to cozy up.
6. Deep snow gives a new dimension to silence.
7. The cheeks of everyone outside are rosy.
8. Friends appear in ridiculous head gear.
9. I experience the joy of childhood on Snow Days.
10. In a part of the world where "the weather" is central to conversation, the descriptions of inches, feet, centimetres, metres, degrees both celsius and farenhiet, wind chill, air pressure and on and on is endless.
11. It is easier to pick up frozen dog poo.
12. It is impossible to touch up paint on the outside of the house.
13. On very cold days the sea seems to boil.
14. The lights from far off harbours seem closer.
15. The birds at the window feeders are especially alive.
16. Neighbours get together to form a choir.
17. Neighbours check on each other to see if anything is needed from town.
18. The gently aging discover that skating unlike biking is is not a skill maintained from youth, and there is a greater distance to fall.
19. Making snow angels is just as easy as it used to be, but more fun.
20. Hot chocolate sure beats lemonade.
21. The ferocious winter storms are magnificent. Their power puts humanity in our place.
22. You have an opportunity to look up hoar frost in the dictionary.
23. Skill is gained taking off and putting on snowsuits.
24. There is an appreciation that zippers are now made of plastic not metal.
25. Everyone looks like clothes came from the local Thrift Shop.
26. Friends meet at Frenchies, the local used clothing store.
27. Layers, need I say more.
28. A wee bit of smugness among those who don't flee to the southern climes.
to be continued.............
Grade Six
The other day, one of my grown daughters regaled me with stories of the residents' social interactions at the Seniors Home, where she worked in her University years, long ago. Their behaviour sometimes brought back memories of Grade Six.
Glory, I'm just beginning to process the social interactions of aging baby boomers, as we enter the excitement of our Golden Years.
I am one of those "one of a kind" individuals who has been known to dabble at the pool, of what some might call eccentric. This is nothing new. This has been my life, is my life and in all probability, will be my life until I shed this earthly coil. As of yet, I have never swum too far from shore.
Believe me, I never strove for this life course, nor to be honest would I want to change it, now. It just happened and continues to happen.
As I remember it, I have always been surrounded by a diverse group of bright, individual, good souled merry makers.
My attention was held by the the grand scheme of things and the intricacies of the details of my small universe. The immense "in between" was vague and close to irrelevant.
I didn't really fit into "the who said what to whom world" of public school. I went to a "one of a kind" girls school where our class was so small that it was impossible to define a norm. I floated through the tumultuous sixties at university, where I changed and remained unchanged mostly unnoticed.
Bang. I found myself back in the neighbourhood of my growing years, as a young wife and mother, a matron in training. My neighbourhood was an old staid, stalwart bastion of society in a city that had not yet embraced the excitement and adventures of the new global realities. I could still catch a whiff of the disintegrated British Empire that had shaped so much through the recent centuries. I was in for the ride of my life.
Those social niceties, I was not unaware of, had power in these new unfolding days. For some reason it really mattered if blue jeans had a crease, hit the boot in exactly the right spot and most importantly had the right little squiggles on a rear-end pocket. Hell, this was too much for me. I bought striped denim workmen's overalls and sewed the little alligator, the man on his galloping horse and the Colours of Benneton to a front high pocket where they could be seen by everyone. I was somewhere I didn't belong.
Neighbours became friends, who remain an important part of my life. In their maturity, they can join endless discussions of window treatments without running for cover.
Before long, my babies were off to school. For their sakes, I tried to behave. I cut off my braids, I bought a fine quality wool suit, and chose footwear I thought would pass. I volunteered in the classroom, became a tester at Brownies and even became a Sunday School teacher for three-year -olds, an age whose theological questions I thought I could address. These were good times.
Ahead loomed Grade Six. I observed these huge kids as my little ones still played in the sandbox. They were mean; mean boys and mean girls. Individually, I am sure each was a fine individual, together they brought back memories of Lord of the Flies. It sure wasn't like that in my day.
The scary thing became apparent. Some of the parents had the same tendencies. With sharpened elbows, they set out for days looking for elusive Cabbage Patch dolls and red, soft wheeled, roller skates. Scariest of all was that I found myself among them. It was not too long before it sank in that groups that demanded group think for inclusion, weren't really up to much.
My daughters thrived and strived, and sometimes they didn't. Grade six became their reality. They survived and I survived. When they fledged, I flew off to a small fishing village in Nova Scotia, a community of characters.
I am home by the sea, where all fish don't have to swim in schools Please let there be such a place for me in my more fragile years.
Glory, I'm just beginning to process the social interactions of aging baby boomers, as we enter the excitement of our Golden Years.
I am one of those "one of a kind" individuals who has been known to dabble at the pool, of what some might call eccentric. This is nothing new. This has been my life, is my life and in all probability, will be my life until I shed this earthly coil. As of yet, I have never swum too far from shore.
Believe me, I never strove for this life course, nor to be honest would I want to change it, now. It just happened and continues to happen.
As I remember it, I have always been surrounded by a diverse group of bright, individual, good souled merry makers.
My attention was held by the the grand scheme of things and the intricacies of the details of my small universe. The immense "in between" was vague and close to irrelevant.
I didn't really fit into "the who said what to whom world" of public school. I went to a "one of a kind" girls school where our class was so small that it was impossible to define a norm. I floated through the tumultuous sixties at university, where I changed and remained unchanged mostly unnoticed.
Bang. I found myself back in the neighbourhood of my growing years, as a young wife and mother, a matron in training. My neighbourhood was an old staid, stalwart bastion of society in a city that had not yet embraced the excitement and adventures of the new global realities. I could still catch a whiff of the disintegrated British Empire that had shaped so much through the recent centuries. I was in for the ride of my life.
Those social niceties, I was not unaware of, had power in these new unfolding days. For some reason it really mattered if blue jeans had a crease, hit the boot in exactly the right spot and most importantly had the right little squiggles on a rear-end pocket. Hell, this was too much for me. I bought striped denim workmen's overalls and sewed the little alligator, the man on his galloping horse and the Colours of Benneton to a front high pocket where they could be seen by everyone. I was somewhere I didn't belong.
Neighbours became friends, who remain an important part of my life. In their maturity, they can join endless discussions of window treatments without running for cover.
Before long, my babies were off to school. For their sakes, I tried to behave. I cut off my braids, I bought a fine quality wool suit, and chose footwear I thought would pass. I volunteered in the classroom, became a tester at Brownies and even became a Sunday School teacher for three-year -olds, an age whose theological questions I thought I could address. These were good times.
Ahead loomed Grade Six. I observed these huge kids as my little ones still played in the sandbox. They were mean; mean boys and mean girls. Individually, I am sure each was a fine individual, together they brought back memories of Lord of the Flies. It sure wasn't like that in my day.
The scary thing became apparent. Some of the parents had the same tendencies. With sharpened elbows, they set out for days looking for elusive Cabbage Patch dolls and red, soft wheeled, roller skates. Scariest of all was that I found myself among them. It was not too long before it sank in that groups that demanded group think for inclusion, weren't really up to much.
My daughters thrived and strived, and sometimes they didn't. Grade six became their reality. They survived and I survived. When they fledged, I flew off to a small fishing village in Nova Scotia, a community of characters.
I am home by the sea, where all fish don't have to swim in schools Please let there be such a place for me in my more fragile years.
Monday 10 January 2011
Messiness
My mother lived to be one hundred years old. Her constant refrain was "when I get organized, I'm going to".... whatever. Time ran out. I am my mother's daughter. I am constantly struggling to accept the reality that I am somewhat disorganized and I am messy.
The retired dentist, in the village where I lived as a youngster, is said to have always got up each weekday morning in time to watch my little self go off to school. He saw shiny oxfords, pulled up knee socks, white starched blouse tucked neatly into my strapped plaid skirt and buttoned hand knit wool sweater. An attempt had been made to tame my fly away reddish blond curls.
Dr. Stewart's delight was in the grand transformation that had taken place in the morning. He observed a a sight to behold as I walked home for my lunch at noon. Untied shoelaces, socks at my ankles, shirt tales flying, a skirt strap dangling down my back, often a new bandage on my knee, sweater mis-buttoned and my hair taking on the look of a bird's nest.
It wasn't that I didn't try to be neat, it just happened. I was happy to be the one that crawled under the portable to retrieve the red, white and blue rubber ball or to willingly offer the use of my sweater to carry the wounded squirrel to the principals office. The stars destined that I be messy.
As the mother of two young children,` I almost felt efficient. The beds were made, the dishes washed and the dining room table was almost always clear of the ditrius of family living.
A time came when my husband and I parted ways. My daughters were almost grown. I was distressed how the household order dramatically deteriorated, when their father was gone. I was disappointed my daughters did not step up in the hour of need.
It was not long, before they were off to university. The household order further deteriorated. To my surprise I decided, I was the source of the grand chaos.
I knew my former husband was neat, but his role as master organizer was vastly under rated. My daughters had inherited his sense of order. Apologies were offered and graciously accepted.
I now live in an old house by the sea. When I hear a car drive up the lane or a tap on my side door, I still scramble to create a sham and delusion of tidiness. I become aware of my dishevillment. I know the illusion is not successful, so I struggle to embrace myself messiness and all.
I hear my mother's words. "A home should be clean enough to be healthy and messy enough to be happy."
I am in the pursuit of acceptance of happiness amidst the seemingly inevitable messiness.
The retired dentist, in the village where I lived as a youngster, is said to have always got up each weekday morning in time to watch my little self go off to school. He saw shiny oxfords, pulled up knee socks, white starched blouse tucked neatly into my strapped plaid skirt and buttoned hand knit wool sweater. An attempt had been made to tame my fly away reddish blond curls.
Dr. Stewart's delight was in the grand transformation that had taken place in the morning. He observed a a sight to behold as I walked home for my lunch at noon. Untied shoelaces, socks at my ankles, shirt tales flying, a skirt strap dangling down my back, often a new bandage on my knee, sweater mis-buttoned and my hair taking on the look of a bird's nest.
It wasn't that I didn't try to be neat, it just happened. I was happy to be the one that crawled under the portable to retrieve the red, white and blue rubber ball or to willingly offer the use of my sweater to carry the wounded squirrel to the principals office. The stars destined that I be messy.
As the mother of two young children,` I almost felt efficient. The beds were made, the dishes washed and the dining room table was almost always clear of the ditrius of family living.
A time came when my husband and I parted ways. My daughters were almost grown. I was distressed how the household order dramatically deteriorated, when their father was gone. I was disappointed my daughters did not step up in the hour of need.
It was not long, before they were off to university. The household order further deteriorated. To my surprise I decided, I was the source of the grand chaos.
I knew my former husband was neat, but his role as master organizer was vastly under rated. My daughters had inherited his sense of order. Apologies were offered and graciously accepted.
I now live in an old house by the sea. When I hear a car drive up the lane or a tap on my side door, I still scramble to create a sham and delusion of tidiness. I become aware of my dishevillment. I know the illusion is not successful, so I struggle to embrace myself messiness and all.
I hear my mother's words. "A home should be clean enough to be healthy and messy enough to be happy."
I am in the pursuit of acceptance of happiness amidst the seemingly inevitable messiness.
Sunday 9 January 2011
YELLOW
This is a dull time of year, for my old farmhouse on the cliff. It overlooks a small working fishing village, on the Bay of Fundy. The lobster boats are resting until spring, pulled up on shore, lolling on the pebble beach. Some of their beauty and majesty doesn't come ashore with them. The days are short and the windows of the summer occupants are dark. In defiance of the darkness, a string of small coloured lights dangles over the opening of the front porch. I love the daffodils, who will continue their winter dreaming, for many weeks ahead. At this time I am vulnerable to yellow.
My older daughter was born in late November, many years ago. That Christmas our house in the city was laden down with edible delights of all sorts. As the new year began, I felt fat, probably because I was a little fat. There just seemed to be so much more of me. The easiest solution I could come up with, was to discover a new piece of clothing, whose wearing would make me feel a little more comfortable.
Off I went on the the streetcar, to Eaton's Department Store. I left the grey, slushy street and entered through the polished brass doors. I touched the shiny toe of the oversized bronze statue of Timothy Eaton, as he sat in his oversized bronze chair, hoping for a little Methodist luck, as my mother, her mother and my great grandmother had done before me. Then it was up two elevator rides to the Ladies Fashion Floor.
My grown daughters call me shopping impaired. I have a tendency to take a short stroll through the displayed items, make a fairly quick choice and then head awkwardly to the changing rooms.
In the early seventies, in still staid Toronto, this was a rather formal event. A matronly woman was always interested in fashion choices. She frequently popped her head into the room to make sure everything was going tickedy-boo. It wasn't, but I certainly didn't want her to know. I didn't want to have a heart to heart about how I felt in a rather expensive, one hundred percent polyester, shiny, spring pant suit. I just wanted to be out of there.
I paid for my parcel and left it with them to be delivered the next day. On the way out, I bought a pair of colourful sandals that would complete the outfit. The pantsuit was vibrant yellow.
The next day my package arrived. I was startled by the contents but decided I needed a spot of yellow to perk up my otherwise drab wardrobe. I was far too young to begin the path to matronhood. I still had my long braids, a vestige of the disappearing sixties.
Spring came, flower gardens flourished, and the sun shone. I went out into the creating world in my gasp of yellow, feeling very much a wilted yellow tulip. Back in I went, to change into my comforting blue denim and brown cordoroy, that graciously covered my bigger self. I carried out a bundle of smiling sunshine in her bright orange tie dyed crossover undershirt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)