Some things have changed since my childhood

Once upon a time, when I was a child.

We couldn't place crank calls because we had to go through an operator.

.....now the problem is call display.

- Young ladies had to wear hats to church.

.....now few young ladies go to church hats or not.

- I unsuccessfully begged my mother to buy Wonder Bread. 

.....now we search out "designer" bread.

-We thought all things American were good.

.....we cross the border with at least a small sense of dread.

-Tap water was the norm to fill water glasses.

.....water comes in fancy bottles.

-Milk was delivered in appealing bottles.

.....we drive the car to pick up boxes of milk.

-When we came home from school we changed from our school clothes to play clothes.

.....school clothes and play clothes are one and the same. Besides few kids play outside.

-When a parent called the doctor, the house was filled with a hushed sense of doom.

.....doctors don't call. We go to clinics.

-A dime was a big deal in a world of pennies.

.....the death knell has been rung for the copper. There isn't any penny candy anyway.

-Grass was grass. Weed was a weed. The fathers spent much time and effort trying to eliminate the    
weeds.

.....Now grass and weed are an evil, a recreation or a occupation for both the growers and the police.

-We brushed our teeth with tooth powder.
.....it takes some time to choose the appropriate toothpaste.

-Our mothers hadn't discovered casseroles. Spaghetti was exotic.
.....now we can't pronounce the names of many things we eat.

-Going out for dinner was a grand event.
.....sitting down to a home cooked meal is not always the norm.

-Nurses were visions of crisp whit cotton.
.....it is difficult to figure out which person is the nurse.

-There were no seat belts.
.....we lucked out when we could stand on the hump in the middle of the back floor.

-Stupid, idiot and shut up were the bad words.
.....it is doubtful our mothers would even recognize the bad words today.

-Sweaters, mitts, scarves were knit of wool.
.....now these are mostly made of recycled pop bottles.

-When we drove an aunt to the aeroport she wore a corsage, got flight insurance from a machine, walked out to the aeroplane across the tarmac.
.....now we drop our friends off and wave as they drag their suitcases through the moving doors.

-We always had to have a clean hanky in our pocket.
.....kleenex is available  almost everywhere.

-We had to stand when our parents friends entered a room.
.....now our parents' friends are our friends.

-Polishing shoes was a weekly task.
.....who polishes their shoes?

-Small English Canadian children's skill at french was limited to Frere Jacque.
..... many small children are at least bilingual.

-Boys had hammers and girls had aprons.
.....Boys and girls have neither.

tbc

Mess, Mess, Mess

My life is a mess. Well my life isn't actually a mess, but I am presently living in a world of messiness.

The Income Tax Forms are sent in on time, although the act of searching out numbers has left behind a veritable mass of wasted forest that eventually took over a room. I thought computers were meant to make paper obsolete.

It  is a fine thing to be able to shut off unneeded rooms to keep other rooms, being used throughout the winter, with more heat.

Into these unused rooms mysteriously drift the flotsam and jetsam of everyday living. Unfortunately when the warmer weather arrives, the doors must be opened to let the fresh spring breezes wisp throughout the house. The contents of the unused rooms is a blemish on any sense of order, even mine. The collection of Frenchie aprons, for some forgotten reason, cover the bed. Books weep from the bookcases. Christmas ditrius doesn't look the least bit merry at this time of year. Is that pile of clothes meant to be taken to the Red Cross Bin or reclaimed for the glorious days of summer? Why did I have all of those old picture frames out? Why are my best snow boots in there?

It is possible to keep the doors closed another week or two, but an imprint of it all is stored away in that place for disorder in my brain, refuses to be put aside indefinitely.

....... and then my poor, neglected garden. There are always good reasons why the beds weren't tucked in nicely for the long winter sleep, but once again I am left to struggle to discern which are beauties and which are weeds. The weeds will have time to thrive until the other plants make their identities known.

The shrubs haven't been trimmed. Winter's leftovers, shovels, windshield scraper, lost mittens litter the yard. The lawn is scruffy.  I'm not even going to talk about my dog Moses' winter contributions.

In time, most things will find more or less appropriate spots. I will sit on the porch in a wicker chair with a cup of tea watching the flags flutter.

These past few months, I feel like I have had a little too much in common with Florence Nightingale. I can understand how when she returned to England, she took to her bed. But if I want to leave my Crimea behind, I must forge on ahead towards summer, when all must be welcoming for my friends and family.

However I plan to take to my bed sometimes, until the birds convince me with their songs, it is time to be up and out to embrace the day. I'm still a little weary.

Asparagus, you just have to eat one piece.

"You just have to eat one piece. You have to give yourself a chance to like it.", my mother said as she plunked down a plump piece of asparagus drizzled with butter on my plate. I knew she was wrong, but there was no sense in arguing, as my mother's pride in the vegetables she grew in the backyard garden was so strong. A kind little girl didn't want to hurt her mummy's feelings.

Surprise, momma was right.

I would give almost anything about now, to wander out to a garden to pick a nice fresh bunch, to gently steam, crown with a dollop of butter and a sprinkle of salt and a grind of pepper. With a slice of flaxseed toast and a hard boiled egg, this supper is fit for the queen.

These days wilting bunches of asparagus still rest languidly, with astronomical prices tags among the other edible winter exotica, in the larger grocery stores. These delights are shipped from far off warmer climes, at great expense. They are merely a sham and delusion of the real thing.

The real thing beats most other local plants to the table in early spring, with perhaps the exception of the hardy Swiss chard, a vegetable that also requires an acquired taste.

When I was pregnant with each of my children I would slink down to the corner store, in the city for a can of slippery, lank asparagus. Once home, the can was opened and eaten immediately, without so much as a quick visit to the microwave. I had to make do.

In time I discovered the tall, slim bottles of white asparagus in the carriage trade stores, but it was hard to justify buying "far from the real thing" for the price of a nice bottle of wine.

I live in a place where tea sandwiches remain an art form. They inevitably appear at receptions after funerals or other events of import. It is so hard for me not to appear to be the glutton, I can be, when the large heavy laden sandwich plates are brought to the tables. It is so hard to move slowly with a small luncheon plate to pick only one or two of the asparagus swirls or of asparagus rolls, the crustless wonders,
made so delicately and small, by the real ladies of the community.

Thank goodness, in the near future, I'll be able to go out to buy fresh local asparagus to have supper after supper to my heart's content, until the freshness of the following emerging vegetables catch my fancy.

Then it is time for a local specialty, hodgepodge, but that is another story.

A Shiny Little Red Ford Truck

Down the road, across the bridge, around the bend, a shiny little red Ford truck sits in a driveway and a community smiles. The quarter tonner  is a new again vehicle. The rough, muddy, spring roads have added a distinctive mountain look, but the cherry ripeness continues to shine forth.

The MacIsasles have a truck. The truck couldn't have a better home. It has found itself in the driveway of one of the most welcoming homes in the county. Kitchen delights are always at ready. Sounds of woodworking rise from the basement with the fresh smell of sawdust. The wood stove continuously burns.

The shiny little red Ford truck couldn't have a better home and the MacIsasles couldn't have a better truck.

Pride of ownership is a fine, fine thing in people who don't really care much about acquiring things. The truck has brought a well deserved "Seal of Approval" to  a couple who already have a "Seal of Appeal" from friends and neighbours.

This little truck is no mere eye candy. The previous owner was an elderly man who treated it with love, but the poor thing seldom hit the road. Perhaps it was a fulfilment of a long ago sixteen year old's dreams.

Now the beauty has a chance to play with the big boys.

The box has not been empty since its arrival- wood for splitting, a lawn mower for fixing, groceries for feeding, even a load of children, held tightly in parents arms took a slow ride up the driveway re-enacting childhood memories and making new ones.

In a small village a new vehicle is an event, especially if it is a shiny little red Ford truck.