I hate Name Tags

I hate name tags, probably as much as a steer, on the range, hates brands. For the most, part I live a name tag free life. They were part of another time, when for practical  reasons, it was supposedly necessary to label the people who were floating through each other's lives, like ships in the night.

On the other hand, in this small community life, there is the time to get to know a name as as we get to know the person. Some names become an integrated part of everyday living.

I see from my daughters' photos, that sometimes they wear lanyards around their necks, attached to  plastic pockets holding, no doubt, their names as well as the necessary business information of their being, as they navigate their way through business doings. Very practical, but try to imagine name-tagged guests at a wedding. Somehow it goes against the spirit of the celebration,

A family story I love is about an encounter, my favourite aunt had in her later years. She and my uncle were at a neighbour's cocktail party, an event that was not all that common in her life. At some point she became part of a conversation with an older gentleman, about her age. My aunt for me was an especially interesting woman, because she was always interested in what was going on around her.  She was engaged in a long animated conversation, not always the hallmark of cocktail party chatter. In time, they parted and my aunt went off to find her somewhat shy husband. His eyes were sparkling with amusement. "What on earth were you talking about all that time ?", he wanted to know. My aunt said she was telling the tales of her childhood growing up in the house across the street that her grandfather had built and where she had raised her family and continued to live.

My uncle asked if she knew the name of the man with whom she had been talking. She replied she had no idea. My uncle was delighted to tell her, the man was none other than Marshall MacLuhan, the guru of communication theory, the medium is the message. My aunt laughed at the amusing serendipity of the encounter. If he had been wearing a name tag, it wouldn't have happened. She likely would have been uncomfortable with the conversation. My aunt and Marshall MacLuhan would have been the lesser for it.

If others want to join the name tagged, I have no objection, but I know I am not the only one who is uncomfortable with the practice. Some do not want a sticky piece of paper shoved on a favourite sweater, some do not like the aesthetics of it all and some think that it in some way diminishes a sense of privacy.

I perceive there are those who are affronted, when some individuals decline the fine offer to be labelled, along with the other labelees and valiantly try to make contact between name tag and the nameless.

Whatever the reason, just let the nameless be. Put down your pen and sticky paper. They know who they are and just like me, may hate name tags.

Kitchen Renovations

I am about to start a kitchen renovation. Some may be surprised that I am taking on such a project. House renovations, aside from a coat of paint or two are just not my thing.

Unfortunately, this past year my dishwasher died. Before I had put this dishwasher in, I had written with a marker at the back of the space where the dishwasher was to go, DISHWASHER. CHRISTMAS GIFT 1998. So I  guess it didn't owe me anything. I am saving euphemistic pennies for a new roof and thought a dishwasher was  not as essential. My family thought otherwise.

My daughter lives in an area outside Halifax, that has a local community website. Lo and behold, she opened the site to find a working dishwasher, was going to be put out on the street nearby. She called to ask what I thought of the idea, which was not much.

Nevertheless she called the owner and learned only a small attachment piece, was missing.

In the stealth of night my daughter, her husband and small son set out to somehow force the big dishwasher into their small car. The strength of their next-door neighbour was required, as my daughter's older sister still every so often refers to her as spaghetti arms.

The strength of my neighbour was required to get the dishwasher from the small car to my kitchen. There it sat waiting. I finally gave up and on a second try I found the missing attachment at a hardware store.

The dishwasher is the moveable type that I push to the sink, plug in the cord and attach to the faucet. When all goes as planned I have clean dishes to put away. This isn't my first choice, but the dishes get washed, my kitchen is big and there is that extra surface space, whenever I am in the frenzy of creative cooking, which is not that frequent, or just plain cooking. There is also a place for my dirty dishes. I don't have a "dumb waiter ", a cupboard on pulleys going down into the cellar, as my great aunts did with their dirty dishes, when unexpected guests arrived at the door.

I have made peace with the dishwasher.

During the Christmas holidays my kitchen was sometimes filled to capacity with rambunctious little boys. They claimed the opening the dishwasher left. Much to their delight I found a box of stickers and some small stick on, coloured lights. Later I found an old kitchen cabinet door in the basement that my cousin reluctantly attached to the opening.

So I begin my kitchen renovation, on a scale perfectly suited for me. My little grandson and visiting children will soon have a tastefully decorated "snug away" place of their own, and if I am lucky I will be able to find a cart to roll in and out to hold kitchenware excess.

I am not sorry to say goodbye to 2015

I am not sorry to say goodbye to 2015.

No year comes without joys and sorrows, surprises, disappointments. This year just broke my heart. The world seemed to whirl in incomprehensible ways.

Close friends died and my lifelong compatriot in adventure left so unexpectedly.

In a very small community each loss diminishes us all, and we seemed to lose so many. The Harbourville "originals" leave one by one taking untold stories and other perspectives of place with them.

Moses, my dog, who shared so many of my stories, wore out and died.

Happiness is a vapid and overused concept. We all know what it means, sort of. But the pursuit of happiness seems like such a hollow pursuit.

I would rather create space for joy, though joy just seems to burst in through sorrow,  uninvited  to help mend a broken heart and sprinkle living with the new and the familiar possibilities that make life liveable.

The universe sent sweet infants to waiting, loving arms. I watch all of them grow with the little ones, who came before them. Dark and light times wait ahead for all of them.

I am thankful for the joy they bring all of us, from the twinkling stars with their twinkling eyes, filling all darkness with light.