Only in Nova Scotia, I Say

I was on my way home from Halifax, accompanied by my daughter and little grandson. My daughter wanted some fresh sea air. Her husband would join his family on the weekend.

It was late in the afternoon, as we pulled off the highway. I needed to pick up some groceries at The Atlantic Superstore in Windsor. We were a little weary. Nevertheless, we did well for the shopping  challenged, picking up the required items. The groceries were paid for and then we pushed the cart through to the Nova Scotia Liquor Board store to pick up some cider.

My daughter shoved the cart to the car and and unloaded the groceries into the back. The baby slept in his Bjorn strapped to her chest. I went into the garden centre to buy a few stakes for my tomatoes that were not thriving in the sea breezes.

Into the car we got and headed westward. Before long we were looking out over the beautiful bay.

Early supper. Early to bed.

The next evening, as we made supper together, we decided to have a Strongbow. The box of cider was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, not in the laundry room, not in the car.

It gradually dawned on my daughter, the box did not make it into the car from the cart in the grocery parking lot. Oh well, it had been I nice thought.

My daughter did not give up as easily. She picked up the phone and called the NSLC in Windsor.

"Oh, are you the lady who was carrying a baby? Someone found the box in the cart yesterday and brought it into the store. We'll put your name on the box. You can pick it up later."

Sure enough the box was waiting for her at the store with a note on it, when she stopped to pick it up  as they returned to the city, at the end of the weekend.

Only in Nova Scotia, I say.

What's with Billions and Millions

I was just beginning to grasp the concept of a Million, when Billion replaced Million as the number of the time.

Once when my children were small, one of them asked me if I could count to a thousand. I told them I could, but that I never had. They didn't believe I possessed such a skill. And so I began. We were trapped in the car on our way back from the cottage. And so I droned on....... 134......283.....299...... 307.......... on and on and on and on. At some point they conceded that they believed that I did indeed possess such a skill. By that time, I had invested so much time into the effort, I wanted to complete the task. The car was filled with some mighty irritated occupants.    ......842...... 875.......899. My intention was not to be irritating, though I was, I wanted to discover how big One Thousand really is. We don't really deal with a Thousand THINGS in everyday life, though the the number flies through a day so easily.

I can remember when the concept of One Hundred ruled. There were those Hundred bottles of beer forever  on the wall. What were they doing there anyway ? How were they attached to the wall ?

Before One Hundred there was Ten. The now politically incorrect Ten Little Indians, as well as  the Ten in the Bed with the Little One.

I guess Two was the jumping point of numeracy in my life. Two said there was  more than One.

One just is. But sometimes One is too many.

Zero is the giant conundrum. This concept continues to fuel Doctorates in Mathematics, Science, Philosophy and Theology.

I don't want to go into the Negative.

For now I just want to stick to a Million and a Billion.

At some primary school somewhere children collected and brought together One Million bottle tops. This made for an impressive display. Being the sceptic that I am, I regretfully question the authenticity of this reality. It is hard not to imagine of all those little hands, One hand sneaking out One favourite bottle cap or adding just One more to the to the humongous pile. How many times did they count them ? Who was the Counter in Chief ?

I have decided to try to give up worrying about a Billion.

Although, what confuses me the most is there are two  sorts of Billion. There is One Thousand Million and One Million Million, both Billions.  Apparently One is British and the other is American. Perhaps some fine Scholar of Etymology should focus in on this discrepancy, as a pathway to Doctoratedum.  Perhaps someone already has. This must be important to some people.

Oh well, I think it best for me to leave the Billion Thing behind, maybe even the Million Thing too. Biblical scholars tell us in the bible Forty means many. That is why there are so many Forties.

I prefer to look forward to lying on the grass, drinking up the beauty of the night sky, this summer without attaching those infinite numbers to the magnificence.

My self has a finite capacity to understand it all.

My Mother Myra 1907-2008

Myra, this Mother's Day is for you.

Except for those flowery cards you wanted so badly, you made Mother's Day easy. I would stand for a long time in the card shops, going through card after card trying to find the perfect card. Humorous wouldn't do. It wasn't your style. I could not bare to put my name to the sentimental fantasies you and your compatriots loved so much. I remember you and my aunts swooning over the words on cards that belonged on bygone cards in bygone times. I inevitably purchased a beautiful wordless card, in  which I wrote "Happy Mother's Day, I love you." Communication is between two people. We each had poetry in our hearts. The deep rhythms were the same but the words flowed from different times and different experiences.

However, buying a gift for you was always a joy. The only request, I remember you ever making was to go to the Mackay farm, to go for a walk in the bush to gather wild leeks. I often go for those wonderful walks, as I drift through the quiet of soft nights. I am growing wild leeks in my wild garden. There are not enough coming up yet, to pull up and eat one. There are times ahead. Each spring they rise, brings strong memories of you. What fun we had feeding them to the uninitiated.

The first present I really bought for you, was a set of coloured facecloths, I bought at Tim Clarke's store on Main Street in Markham. Those were the days when a little girl could walk down street with her little purse of coins to make a purchase, by herself, at a very young age. I was thrilled with my purchase. You were thrilled with your present. As I remember, when I was able to cross the road and venture further along the street, I bought collections of bright coloured sponges at Sinclairs, Five and Dime. All I know is that there was never a shortage of fresh sponges, under the sink.

Of course there were breakfasts in bed. Being too small to boil the kettle, your tea was made with hot tap water, your shredded wheat biscuit was softened in the same hot tap water. I am sure the tray was covered with a linen table mat and a tiny bouquet of johnny-jump-ups and blue forget-me nots from the lawn. Really presentation is everything, isn't it?

There were so many years that followed.

One year, I bought you a small burlap bag of hibernating lady bugs and a regal praying mantis - good aphid control for your organic garden. I stored them in my neighbour Karen's fridge. Of course the inevitable happened. Her children opened the bag and we spent an afternoon searching for them in an overloaded fridge.

Another year I bought you a fancy plastic system to house your Niagara Red Wigglers. The reality is it wasn't as good as the old wooden worm box. I still have the worms' descendents.

There were the pretties - rose bushes, handkerchhiefs, nighties and blouses; the edibles- Jordan Almonds, cherry filled chocolates, hoarhound and perhaps a fresh salmon steak or two from Healy's.

But the greatest gift I gave to you was a gift no one can really give. Children belong to the universe. When I became a mother, you became a grandmother. There wasn't anything in your life that gave you more pleasure than being grandma. You were an outstanding grandmother.

I am now a grandma, so I know the dimensions of such love. Two little girls and now a bouncing baby boy are your great grandchildren. Somehow I know you know all about them.

I don't miss you. One hundred years were so many years to live. You went happily. Thankfully you left so much of yourself behind for us.

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.