Crossing the line

When people asked me what was my goal for this year, I replied 'to survive'. Well, we're only a few hours off till the end of December, and so I can say, 'In this I succeeded'. And that's not to diminish all the special moments and experiences, small and big, touching and trying, joyful and anguishing, that my day-care duties brought me along the way.

Now I wonder how you will mark the closing of the year and the start of 2011. We'll be doing it quietly, not having any particular ceremony or tradition that appeals. In times long gone by, going to a formal dance was my best and most enjoyable way. Maybe we'll find a few old tunes and do a little slow dancing. Certainly we'll cook a delicious-as-we-can-make-it meal.

Anyhow, thinking about crossings, I remembered the ceremonies that used to take place on board ships between Africa and Europe when we crossed the equator. In fact, the divisive moment was also mentioned in earlier years during air journeys. As far as I know, no-one seems to notice this anymore.

But shipboard crossing the line was fun. Someone with enough weight to add importance to the occasion would be chosen to dress up as Neptune, complete with long, straw wig and a hula skirt. Someone else would be his wife, ditto long braids. Neptune carried the traditional trident to add gravitas. And there were surely some mermaids in their court, which was held on deck near the swimming pool. All those who'd never crossed the equator before were ordered to appear before the Lord of the Ocean and his Lady, and were usually ordered... well, you can guess the rest. Lets just say that most people ended up very wet. Not that that mattered at all, given the location.

Crossings of all kinds can be significant, even that everyday and everynight occurrence of falling asleep and waking up. I mark the start of my prayers and meditations by lighting a candle, and the end by blowing it out. During January I hope to mark the start of a New Year by clearing out lots of old clutter.

Have a good Old Year's Night, dear readers.

Journeys

It struck me that this time of year is all about journeys, both outer and inner. We think about Mary and Joseph going to Bethlehem, the shepherds and the Kings going to worship the Child. Then we have our own journeys through the twelve days and thirteen nights. Perhaps we travel to be with friends and family.

Journeys, even those of the inner kind, can be subjected to the dreaded Ds: delay, diversion and danger. These are not always easy to deal with, which is why I'm always grateful to arrive. My dad always marvelled at how wonderful a travelling companion my mom was. She'd be willing and ready to travel in the time it took to pack a hat. But more, she never complained or wrung her hands when things didn't go according to plan, but rather accepted the situation and then made the best of it.

I'm trying to take a leaf out of her book.

Not that my recent travels haven't gone smoothly. They have. Still, it's the general principle of acceptance and non-complaining I'm trying to work on... Okay, there's a ready-made New Year's resolution for me!

Then I was remembering all the different modes of transportation I've experienced in my life. I've had bicycle rides, camel, elephant and horseback rides. Tram and train rides : steam, electric, diesel and underground. I've been on rowboats, sailing dinghies, larger sailboats, small and large ships (but never a cruise ship). Small propeller planes and everything up to the large jets of today. And done a lot of travelling by car. Maybe, though, my best and favourite way of getting around is by bicycle. If the weather's fine, I don't think there's anything to beat that pace, the sense of being connected to the earth and sky around you, the sense of freedom.

Here's to fruitful and meaningful journeys for all of us in 2011.

Gifts and things

On this 26th day of December 2010 I wish you all blessed holy days and nights.

We had a happy time yesterday, and I'm delighted with my gifts. I now have Trax so that I can walk on ice, a folding knife and fork so I can eat the fruit I love whenever I travel (although not, of course, in an airport or plane), a book for relaxing reading and some other good stuff. Best of all, though, was being with the family and enjoying the turkey dinner my husband cooked... all organic and truly I believe this festive meal was the most delicious evah!!

No, we didn't do the traditional Christmas pud. I made meringue glace.

This morning I was topping up the water on a beautiful bowl of roses... yellow, actually, not red which would be more fitting for the season. But still, roses. I had to make several trips to and from the kitchen because the only jugs -- I mean, pitchers -- I have are small. A quick digression re speech... when I was a child my dear older cousin used to frequently admonish me, 'That's not a pitcher, it's a picture.' I had no idea what she meant!

The thing is, I did have a beautiful old cutglass pitcher that I bought for a small price at a little antique shop in Cape Town, down a narrow curvy road with old, cottagey buildings. I loved that jug, but sadly it got broken in our last move. This morning I remembered it and thought, 'I might have liked a new pitcher for Christmas'. The trouble is, I haven't found a shape I like. So I'll wait.

But this set me thinking how the few items of glass and crockery we've possessed and that I've really loved have all been broken, one way or another. It's okay, though. I use this as a reminder that they were, after all, only earthly possessions. I can give them a nod of regret and then acknowledged how abundantly blessed I am in many other ways.

Run up to Christmas

Actually, in my case it's more like a crawl! Although I have been busy, especially as school's out. That means I have two energetic grandsons to take care of between 8.15 and 5.15. They keep me on the run, and after that, yes, I feel like crawling!

Also, I suppose that's kind of mandatory if you're going to 'trim the hearth' as in the carol 'People Look East'. 'Setting the table' is fine. I enjoy going down to the basement to dig out some of my mother-in-law's beautiful old linen. Apart from being the best cook I've ever come across, she excelled at presenting a beautiful table. As for me, design and decoration are not my strong points. I can't set a particularly attractive table, or even a tray, for that matter. So what is the sense I'm missing, I wonder? Is it a sense for arrangement or something to do with spatial awareness? Who knows. Maybe I'll figure it out sometime. I met a woman once who gave courses in L'art de la Table at the Cordon Bleu cooking school in Cape Town... an unusual and lovely career to have, wouldn't you say?

But it's really true that having children around at Christmas time brings an extra and special dimension. This year we have our tree up already, which is unusual. Dear daughter who's visiting was the one who decorated it, helped by the elder grandson. She did a beautiful job and if I can figure out how to add a photo to my blog I might even post one. (Don't hold your breath).
I was happy to have to her do this because (see above)...

On another topic, I was hoping to see the Solstice eclipse. Unfortunately, the sky was cloudy when I got out of bed and looked out the window. I wonder though if the sight would have eclipsed (!) the time years ago in South Africa when we had a total eclipse of the moon one New Year's Eve. We were at our holiday home in Knysna on the Garden Route. We all (parents and children) took deck chairs out onto the front lawn and sat watching the sky during the complete process. Yes, it was warm enough to do that, which is hard for me to imagine right now.

Going outdoors

When the weather is freeeeeezing cold and there's snow and ice underfoot, I'm reluctant to stick my nose outdoors. Hibernating inside and huddling by the fire feels so much more appealing! But I know it's important to be out. Looking after the grandsons brings encouragement and I soon feel the benefits of being under God's heaven... when I gear myself up and actually go.

Science has now corroborated the benefits to mood and health of being outside for even ten minutes a day. And yes, there is a most beneficial time. I discovered this yesterday when a dear friend called. She's what you call 'tuned in'... and I can give you proof because I thought of her in the morning. Lo and behold, about an hour later there she was, on the phone. I had to laugh, and, as she herself said, 'It's good that we're always connected'.

Anyhow, she told me at this time of year especially, noon is the best time to be out. Some years ago I was in the habit of getting up from my writing desk and taking a walk around our crescent just before lunch. Seems that would be a good thing to re-institute.

On an incidental note, the grandsons' dad was born at noon. An unusual time of day for a birth, but surely significant. I remember when I was a young teenager and attending a high Anglican school, how the bells would ring for the noon Angelus and we'd all pause for that short interlude. It felt good. It seems to me the day can easily run on without any such breaks these days, unless I actually make the conscious decision to stop... or to go outside!

How frugal can we be?

I was peeling carrots for lunch today, making a salad, and I suddenly thought, 'I could/should be popping these scraps into the pressure cooker to make veggie stock. I have celery, parsley and onions that could all go in...' Not that I actually went that far, but sometimes I do. It always feels good to be frugal!

Soon after we went back to England in the mid-Seventies, I bought a slim, brown-paper covered book called 'The Frugal Cookbook'. It was put out by the Friends of the Earth (where are they now??) and over all the years of feeding the family I've found it truly useful. As I remember, there was only one recipe I tried that didn't go down well. Mostly there are vegetarian dishes, but included too are a couple of recipes for lamb and fish... considered more sustainable in those days.

At Christmas time we're more inclined to be lavish, and why not, seeing as it is the festive season. But in between the feasts we can still be frugal. I suppose the secret is to make the most of what we already have around.

Lennon and McCartney

Today I'm thinking about John Lennon and his death thirty years ago. Was that truly his destiny or a random happening? Who can say.

Yes, I'm a Beatles fan. We were lucky enough to live in London during the early '60s and swinging it was. Those were the days when I reveled in striding down Bond Street wearing my newly-sewn Courreges-style mini-dress and my knee-high (flat-heeled) white boots. Those were the days of discos when I could twist the night away. Ah yes! Ah youth! If it came down to it though, I was more for Paul than John. Seeing as Paul's squeeze (Jane Asher I believe it was) lived around the corner from us, I hoped to catch a glimpse of him on my way to Oxford Street or the British Museum, but it never happened.

Recently I've read a bit about the Beatles' history, probably on the Guardian. The commentator mentioned what a miracle it was, given the extreme pressure on the group, that they didn't split up earlier. I started to think then about the different life directions John and Paul took and how they influenced the culture of the day and the entire world. And I'd say my preference is still for the latter. How about you?

the frugal girl's best friend?

'Whasis for, Nana?' asks my two and a half year old grandson. He's sitting on the floor of our closet, and has just found a shoe tree.
'I'll show you,' I say, and root around for its mate.
Although I have a pair or two of plastic ones, these are old-fashioned, the business-end wooden and painted silver. So I demonstrate by sliding them into my one pair of closed summer shoes, and I start thinking how much I owe to this simple device. Or rather, how much they've saved my shoes over the years.
For instance, I have a pair of high-heeled (3 inches at a guess) brown leather boots. Made in Brazil, I believe. These are now more than a dozen winters old and I still get compliments when I wear them. But they'd probably have been in worse rather than goodish shape, maybe even long cast out, if it hadn't been for my shoe trees.
I don't have any of the fashionable extremely high-heeled shoes, especially as I'm sure I'd never be able to walk in them. Still, years ago I had a pair of 6 inch heels. They were Italian -- Amalfi I think. My mother passed them on to me because they were just that bit too big for her. Also they were white. No, don't shudder, rather trust me when I say they looked good. Anyhow, those shoes were amazingly comfortable and easy to walk in, even when I was pounding London city pavements.
These days of course you'll mostly find me in 'haus shuhe' in winter and sandals in summer. My one pair of closed shoes for rainy days are waiting patiently, having a rest while improving their shape for whenever. Thank you, shoe trees!

Christmas music

I have to confess, now and then over the past week I've heard the Chipmunks singing in my mind: 'Christmas, Christmas time is here'. Fortunately, though, other music soon comes in to replace their chirpy chorus. This morning I was listening to 'Espace Musique' - a Newfoundland and Labrador children's chorus from an album 3 NOELS, CAROL-SINGING SEA - and I thought how lucky we are to have such an abundance of seasonal music within easy access in our homes. That, of course, is thanks to modern technology. So I can immerse myself in the sounds of the old and the new, of the whole range from classical to pop and everything in between... whenever and whatever I like, whatever the mood.

It seems to me we have much more Christmas music and song than when I was a child, teenager and young woman. Maybe, as so often today, we almost have too many choices. Still, I can choose. And when I've had enough, I can switch off. (unless it's those pesky Chipmunks sneaking into my head of course!)

Sparkle and shine!

Ah, here we are, in the first week of Advent.

Last night I was walking around the block enjoying the way the streetlights glittered on the icy road and thinking how much sparkle we have at this time of year: lights, icicles, sequins, glitter... last week's freezing rain coating the bare branches of trees making them shine silver in the sunlight. So beautiful. And all this contrasts with the way the evenings draw in and the vast darkness of the night sky. Yes, ours is dark even though we live on the outskirts of the city.

A few Christmas lights are up, and surely many preparations are being made. I was thinking how we clean and fix up our homes in anticipation of entertaining and welcoming guests. It has to be good to do this, and hopefully our outer work will be reflected inside us too. So the anticipation builds (hopefully the stress stays manageable!), to culminate in the holydays. Perhaps they will help us to shine a little brighter during this time and the year ahead.

so not a princess!

(and there's absolutely no sub text to this post)

I was making the bed this morning and our bed equals layers. First of all, the frame is a wooden one, built by my husband. Then we have a 5 inch latex mattress, bought on sale at Ikea buy me and wrestled into the trunk of our old Jetta. My husband still remarks he doesn't know how I did that!

Because I found this a little to hard to sleep well on, we added a foam comfort layer. And lastly, when my arthritic hip started to play up, we added a feather bed... bliss, in this colder weather.

The latter needs a good shake every morning, which reminds me of Mother Holle (particularly apt for our present snow). Today, however, I happened to lift up the foam layer as well and found there..., a hedgehog!!! Actually, this is a wooden apparatus for massage. One side has four rolling balls and it's good for easing tense shoulders and backs. I can only suppose the littlest grandson slid it under there when I wasn't looking.

I had no idea!

p.s. on digital

A friend told me something interesting the other day. Apparently, when digital watches came out, it was presumed that analog was dead. However, time (!) proved otherwise. After puzzling about this, the powers that be (or maybe the watchmakers and sellers) realized the reason.

Apparently, people like to have a sense of where they are in the day. Digital watches and clocks simply don't deliver in this way.

It's ages since I wore a watch. Not that I have anything against them. In fact, I have been known to gaze covetously at the adornments on friends' wrists. Yet somehow -- mostly because the couple I possess are in need of repair -- watches have gradually faded out of my life. What I find is that I usually have a pretty good idea what time it is, give or take about fifteen minutes.

In London days when I lived in Bayswater (yes, the FRObisher district), I used to travel to school by bus. Waiting for the right number of red double decker to swing into the stop could be frustrating, especially when two or three would appear in a clump. But once on board, I'd sit back and relax... and measure my progress by various clocks I'd see on the way. I wonder how many of those still exist today?

Habit changing and a poem

Let me tell you about the little habit I'm trying to change.

The thing is, I have 'wear and tear' arthritis in my left hip. I put this down to years of ballet plus too much driving a stick shift and having to press on the clutch to change gear. Be warned!

Anyhow, it's hard for me to put weight on my left leg. So I'm trying to step out of the bath while standing on my right. Hmm. I'm not quite there yet. It's lucky this is not reality TV so you can see me teetering! However, I know it's worth persevering because, as I wrote last time, changing will be strengthening and help delay the ageing process.

Years ago, when I last attempted a similar exercise, I did another simple switch. Instead of holding my hair dryer in my right hand, I took it in my left. These days, I can do it with both, which turns out to be an advantage!

What fluttered through my mind while I was driving yesterday ( stick shift, unfortunately!) turned into a simple poem by evening. So, for what it's worth, here it is:

I passed a road called Frobisher today
and I recalled those old phone numbers
in place before, in London,
when first I stayed away from home.
For instance, FRO you had to dial
and follow this with three (or was it four?) digits
but the letters meant a district
and brought a combination
of place and number.

That's all now lost in the past
when so much today
creeps closer and closer
to complete
digitisation,
making me wonder
if we'll all disappear and become
nothing but ciphers.

But no, that cannot, must not be
as long as we can cling to,
take hold of,
develop and keep
our one, unique, humanity.

'Tis the Season...

... for Advent/Christmas fairs, and merry they have been so far. On Saturday my husband and I drove past dry, golden fields until we reached the German Club house, home of an annual bazaar. We were fairly early, but already the place was buzzing. Now that we've been there three years in a row, I know pretty much what's available and what I want to buy. So I'm happily stocked with stollen, and chocolate covered ginger cookies and chocolate covered marzipan. Those will be kept for next month when Advent is here.

I was thinking how we actually have more than one start to the year. Advent is the traditional Christian beginning, then we have the 1st January, soon after comes the Chinese new year and sometime later the Jewish new year. We have Michaelmas, the start of the academic year, and for anthroposophists who work with Rudolf Steiner's Calendar of the Soul, we begin at Easter. So, lots of opportunities for New Years resolutions and renewed efforts to change old habits and put new, better ones in place... always a good and strengthening thing to do.

This morning our son and grandsons came to fetch me to go to the Waldorf School fair. The boys went straight into a puppet show while I greeted friends and acquaintances, bought a beautiful Advent calendar and went for coffee. Again, we had a fun time and came home with suitable loot.

I rather coveted one thing I saw which wasn't for sale. A guy was wearing a black tee shirt. The white writing on the front said, 'If all the world's a stage, I need better lighting!!'

In and out the doors

Yesterday I spent a pleasant hour or so in the park with my grandsons. The weather was glorious -- not at all cold, for which I was grateful because it meant the boys could run around outside. Before we left, I unlocked our front door, but we actually went out through the garage to collect tricycle and bicycle. On our way home I thought 'maybe we'll go in through the front', but then I thought 'no'.

This reminded me of my mother, and her superstition that visitors should always go out through the same door they came in. I can still hear her saying, "You'd better go out the back way, because that's how you came in." (for example). Now, for the life of me, I can't think how this superstition might have arisen. There has to be some kind of historical or convenient context for it, surely?

Another thing which I think I've mentioned before, is that she always wanted me to cut my nails on a Monday. If I did them before noon, I'd get a present... which, of course, came true when I was little. I can get my head around this, kind of. Monday is Moonday, after all, and we know that our hair and nails grow slower on the waning moon. As a grower of vegetables, I also know that mostly they're better off picked in the morning before the day gets too hot.

But in and out the doors? I'm still puzzling over that one!

Remembrance Day

When I first went to live in England at the age of thirteen, we arrived in Southampton by ship from South Africa on the 3rd September. That year I was able to experience the solemnity of standing in Whitehall, London and close to the Cenotaph, on Remembrance Day. Watching the wreath-laying made a deep impression on me.

And now, on this day, I carry an extra remembrance... that of my younger brother, whose birthday was on the 11th November and who died at the age of 45. As I think of him, I remember the sweetness of his smile, and his nature, and all he meant to me. But I also realize how unaware I was of what I, the big sister, meant to him.

I have read that it's important for us to understand, or at least get some idea of, the effect we have on other people. I guess I'm mostly busy with the effect people have on me, so this is something I'll have to learn. Perhaps there's always something we can learn from our loved ones who have passed over as we consider the role they played in our lives, and the role we played in theirs.

Time away

Yes, I had a long weekend away from home, back in the big(ger) city. We were invited to a wedding, and this gave me the opportunity to connect for a brief while with the life I left behind three years ago.

Of course, at times like this, there's always nostalgia for how things were, but meeting old friends again, travelling familiar streets also brought a refreshed recognition and gratitude for all I was privileged enough to experience during those years. It's true that you can't go back. Perhaps 'going back' is not important. What may be more significant is the chance to look back in a more objective way than I was able to do when I was caught in the thick of it.

The wedding itself was beautiful, and I mean that on many levels. The bride was Japanese and truly exquisite. She and the groom looked so happy and that glow spread over all the guests. The flowers too were simply a joy to behold and clearly they were carefully chosen and everything consciously and artistically coordinated.

So I returned home on Sunday feeling very full. And now? Well, catching up is hard to do!

Missed the moment!

I missed my weekend moment to blog and now it's Thursday! For which, I'm actually grateful because these days I have some free hours on Thursday and Friday mornings. That means I can get caught up with things and hopefully do some writing.

I hate to think how often in life I've 'missed the moment'. Fortunately I find second chances usually appear. Again, though, they need to be seized. Hopefully, by the time they come around, some kind of wisdom has been gained and a recognition, 'yes, this is something I need to do'.

One thing I've been marveling over recently is that moment when you wake in the morning. Why and how does that happen? To me it's as if my angel taps me on the shoulder and says 'okay, you've been gone long enough.' And suddenly there I am, blinking in my bed.

And another thing... I was thinking how amazing it is that the plants grow. I mean, you plant seeds and bulbs and the next thing you know, there are the green shoots appearing above the earth. It's a miracle!

Looking at the sky

As writers, we're supposed to be observant, right? My problem is I've always been focused more on the internal than on the external. Maybe that's the definition of being born a romanticist rather than a classicist?

Anyhow, I've had the good fortune to have a friend staying with me while my husband was away. She was continually directing my attention to the clouds, the sunsets, the five partial rainbows (!) we saw while out driving one Saturday. I think, during the summer, I do look at the sky more often than at any other time of the year. Now, in fall, it strikes me how different these clouds are, and how interesting. One evening we saw layer upon layer of striations, underlined by bright carmine as the sun set. Spectacular!

Years ago when we lived in Cape Town I used to take a short stroll along our lane just before twilight. I'd look up at the mountain, see the sky, and drink in all that beauty at that special, healing time of day. Although the weather's growing colder, I think I'm going to take up that practice again. True, I can't look at a mountain, but the sky is there for us all to behold and admire.

Pumpkins

Harvest time. Fall is well under way and that feels really good. And somehow, that's kind of a miracle, considering I was really, really reluctant to leave the summer behind. I'm not sure at what point the transition occurred, but it certainly began with the sight of pumpkins lying copper-orange in the fields and appearing like colourful gateposts at the entrance to farm stalls.

Now many of the houses around us have pumpkins sitting on their front steps. I love to see that, especially as this is new to me since coming to North America. In South Africa we don't have this same variety. Pumpkins to us are mostly flat and white and are eaten as an extremely tasty vegetable, or in the form of fritters for dessert. Yum.

But now a funny thing has appeared. Large, round white pumpkins. Somehow they look so completely wrong to me that they cause a kind of internal wince. Now I don't know if that's simply prejudice, but I have to confess to being put off by all these new vegetable colours. I prefer my tomatoes red, my beans green and so forth. I suppose the real question is... does a different colour affect the taste? Last summer, being late with my seed purchases (as usual) I settled for purple beans because they were the only organic seed packets left. Actually, we didn't enjoy those beans and I won't plant them again.

Sometimes, like the transition between summer and fall, I grow accustomed and even learn to like things that at first appear strange and unappealing to me. So maybe that'll happen with white pumpkins. And I suppose, for Halloween, they're closer to the original turnip lights than the orange ones.

Bi- and multi-lingualism (long post)

Language, as we all surely know, can both unite and divide. Growing up in South-Africa, we lived with a similar situation as we have in Canada today. That is, we were obliged to learn a second-language at school, and all labels and cereal packages etc. etc. carried both English and Afrikaans.
Worse, at that time Afrikaans was considered 'the language of the oppressor' and this meant we bore a kind of in-built resistance to it. In my young adult novel (under consideration right now by a publisher, so hold thumbs and stay tuned) set in the year leading up to Nelson Mandela's release, I dealt with this in what I hope is a sympathetic way, seeing as my heroine is herself a young Afrikaans girl.

In addition, I learned French both at school and during three years at university. At school in England, I'd boarded with French girls so had an easy understanding when I heard it spoken. This stood me in good stead when I got a job at the French Institute in London. I was the only one with English as my mother tongue, and believe me, I felt tongue-tied when it came to speaking French. After two months, however, this loosened and I was soon on my way to becoming completely fluent.

Then I decided I needed to learn some German. And I began to wonder... do these crash, total immersion courses work? Could I come into this language in, say, a week? My conclusions was... no. Although I did make a beginning. So I held the question, wondering, how long does it actually take to come into a relationship with a new language. I also asked around a bit. Eventually I came to the totally unscientific conclusion that it takes about five years to feel at ease.

Now for the bad news. Over the years I've lost my fluency in speaking French, although I still understand without much effort. The German too is fading. My conclusion here is that, like any other relationship, a connection with a language has to be on-going and tended. So I've taken to listening to French on the radio. I tell my husband "Three weeks in France would do it for me."

Ah well, we can dream, can't we?

Autumn transition

Last week felt like a month went by to me. We had the autumn equinox, an eye-popping full moon, and the official start of fall. And the weather! Some heavy rain showers, a couple of cold days, and then a Friday afternoon when it almost felt like summer again.

I suppose this lurching from one thing to another often characterizes transitions. And just in case you're wondering how I'm doing with changing my habit, I'd say I'm successful about 65% of the time so far. That feels like winning!

At this time of the year I take particular pleasure in watching the sun rise. I suppose that's because it pops over the horizon at a convenient time in the morning for me. Plus, we're fortunate enough to have an east-facing window in our bedroom. For a few moments I can pause the getting-ready-for-the-day rush and open myself to the upliftment of the sunrise.

Then of course there's the amazement that comes with the glory of the autumn colours. I don't think I'll ever get used to the surprise, and the feeling of the warmth that begins to glow in me like a non-physical fire. I have to acknowledge once again what a wonderful gift it is for us, that we can experience and live with the changing seasons.

Thieves of time

Procrastination, they say, is the thief of time. Sometimes I procrastinate, sometimes I don't. Mostly I have to find what feels like a good moment to do something that needs attention. A couple of my friends jump in straight away. For instance, you tell them someone wants them to phone and they pick up the handset straight away. Another friend might send an immediate email from her phone.

I might be envious at this quick reaction, but I'm also horrified by the thought. Mea culpa, maybe.

However, that's not really the main thrust of this post. What I've been thinking about lately is all those lost seconds that occur when we're waiting on our computers... to boot up, to load a website, to open a word document, whatever. I wonder how many wasted minutes that might add up to in my day. So I'm trying to find small chores I can do meanwhile. Waiting for my desk top, I can tidy a couple of items, or dust the screen. What I've been doing with my laptop, however, is attend to my fingernails. This works pretty well because otherwise it's too easy to neglect them and then they grow into funny shapes, split and break, and those precious tools of mine (my hands) don't feel as good as they should.

I'm waiting for inspiration to find more minuscule tasks, ones that can be done while sitting.

Changing a habit

I was going to start this post by asking a question: Do you think it gets harder to change a habit as you get older? Then I decided this was a no-brainer (well, you did it anyway, sez she).

The thing is, my habit has been to bath in the morning. Lying in the water for a few minutes, I found, allowed my mind to float. Often good ideas, new thoughts or inspirations, would drift to the surface. Now, however, I don't to get up and going quickly and don't really have the time to do this. So I decided to change my bath time to the evening. (And yes, in case you're wondering, I do take showers from time to time. I just don't find them so relaxing, more like refreshing and stimulating.)

Years ago, when our children were little -- we only had the three then -- I did the same switch. No problem at all. At the time, the bedroom of the smallish house we'd built only had a shower, so I'd trek down the passage to the children's bathroom for my soak. I especially remember Sunday nights, taking my radio in there to listen to 'Lloyd let loose'. David Lloyd, bless him, was one of those announcers with a soothing, intimate voice who chose music I always enjoyed. Ah, how relaxing was that! Although, I can still see the psychedelic wallpaper in front of my eyes: pink and purple swirls, girls!! It was the Seventies after all.

But I'm not finding the change easy and revert every now and then. This means I have to woosh through the bathwater, which kind of takes the pleasure out of the experience. Nevertheless, I'll persevere and hope to change this habit... except maybe on the weekends.

This time of the year

This is what I call the Theresa time of year because I tend to find myself singing 'The summer is over, Theresa.'

Yes, my head is crammed full of old pop songs, going right back to the old ones my Dad used to sing. Some of these were silly, like 'Yes! We have no bananas!' I think I inherited the ability to remember the words from him. What a pity I didn't rather inherit his ability to memorize poems!

However, one of my best remembered images of him has to do with the last time he went out before he died at the age of 97. He got himself ready and shuffled down the long passage from his bedroom singing 'On the Sunny Side of the Street.' In a way, this summed up his life-philosophy and showed his courage and indomitable spirit. Although his name was Fergus, his close family members always called him 'Sonny'. I think the sound of that was appropriate.

Anyhow, now that the summer stupor is fading and I'm beginning to feel the new energy that crisp mornings and cooler nights bring, I'm ready to pick up the blog again. Right now, my intention is to get to it more regularly. Time will tell, folks!

Colour faves

I think I wrote before that I don't really have a favourite colour as such. However, when it comes to clothing I've noticed I go through phases and that means my wardrobe undergoes a gradual metamorphosis. There is one colour that I very seldom wear, and that's black. Instead, I do brown and taupe for the neutrals, with a bit of beige and white of course.

But when it comes to real colour... well, a few months ago, I was drawn to purple and mauve. Yes, you read that correctly! I bought purple jeans, and a magenta mac and have enjoyed wearing them a lot. Maybe this was a carry-over from last summer I was quite into mauve. Recently, though, my choices have lightened to blue.

I'm not reading anything deep into this, simply observing! But I have to wonder how this works for others. How about you?

This will be my last post for a while, seeing as we're heading into the wild blue yonder of summer. I hope and plan to catch you in the fall.

A special day

Memorial day in the U.S., I know. And today, our daughter-in-law's brother is getting married.

I hope it will be auspicious for the couple because today, the 31st May, was my parents' wedding anniversary. They were married for sixty years, the first of those, when my dad was away up north in the Second World War, had to be 'the worse' part of 'for better or worse'. Although they had many struggles to face, after that they were always together in the best and largest sense of the word... Despite my previous post. It was when I was away at boarding school and for the first time realized how many of my fellow students came from difficult home environments or even broken homes, that I began to appreciate how deeply fortunate I and my younger brother were to have parents who loved each other and got on well together.

Just so you know... yesterday I wore blue.

What's on my mind...

This is the present Facebook question, and my answer has to be 'the hideous disaster that's the oil spill'. However, I'm not going to write about that.

Then Rogers Yahoo asks, 'What are you doing right now?' I have to resist the temptation to answer, 'Staring at the computer screen. Duh'. But I'm not going to write about that either.

Instead, I'm going to continue the theme of my mom and her brother-in-law, the lawyer. One of the things they had in common was that they both used to play the piano. In fact, my uncle kept this as his hobby almost up to the day he died, although he wouldn't always oblige when asked to play. His style was that of Charlie Kunz, a name you never hear these days, but so popular and influential to my parents' generation. It was light and kind of jazzy, always keeping a strict and usually quite fast rhythm.

On the other hand, I can't remember my mother playing much after my primary school years, although occasionally she'd take a turn at my aunt's piano. We had a small instrument in our living room and I learned classics for years... but that's another story. What I wanted to tell you is that when she grew old I asked my mother why she'd stopped playing. Her answer surprised me, and still makes me blink (figuratively speaking). She told me, 'Your father didn't like me to play.'

Why not, I wonder?

Lilac Time and Dandelion city

This was the title of an old (1928) movie, but the song that's been running in my head is 'We'll gather lilacs in the spring again' from 'Perchance to Dream'... a good title, I'd say!

The first time I ever stayed with my mother and father-in-law to be, they had a recently-widowed friend visiting too. I remember this song came on the radio, and how my mother-in-law quickly switched it off when she saw how her friend was affected.

It's a beautiful song, very poignant and nostalgic.

Right now I'm seeing lilacs splendidly and profusely in bloom. What a sight they are, not to mention the way they perfume the air. I don't think I've ever seen them look so glorious. Not since coming to North America anyhow. Then we have this profusion of dandelions, also more than I've ever seen. I believe it's the same in the U.K. too. These yellow flowers are special, though, because you can use every bit of the plant, mostly for remedial purposes. I don't do much, except pluck three or four leaves to add to our mixed green salad.

Belated mothers' day

My mother died two years ago on the 14th April at the age of 98, a month before her 99th birthday. What with that, and mothers' day, she's been much on my mind. In fact, I'd say she sent me a little wave on mothers' day itself.

You see, one of the songs she loved -- and she loved many -- was Willie Nelson singing 'Crazy'. It's not a song you hear that often these days, but lo and behold, while driving in the car on mothers' day morning, the poignant melody and words came winding out of the radio, into my ears, my mind, my heart.

I've written a bit before about my parents' relationship before they married. But I don't think I've told you about what my dad's younger brother did for them before the wedding. In South Africa in those days you were married in community of property. This caused great hardship for many women, but that's another story... Those in the know and who could afford it would have an ante-nuptial contract drawn up so that the wife retained a measure of economic independence.

My Uncle Bert, being a lawyer, drew up this contract for my mom and dad. And it contained a few surprises. Knowing my mom, my uncle had specified certain things that worked decidedly in her favour. For instance, my mother was entitled to redecorate every few years (never having seen the document, I can't be more precise).

I truly wish I'd had the opportunity to read their marriage contract. More, I love it that my uncle was so supportive of my mom when the elder sister was not. Amazingly enough, my mother never bore a grudge and was unceasingly generous and kind towards my aunt.

Watch what I say?

My grandson came to be with me for a while this morning. When he arrived I said, 'Lovely weather for ducks!' So a couple of hours later the phone rang and it was his mom. She said, 'Look out the front door. You have ducks on your lawn! I don't want to get out of the car and disturb them.' We looked out the front door, which luckily has glass, and sure enough, there were a duck and a drake, waddling over the newly-mown grass!!

Only a couple of weeks ago, my husband and I went for an evening walk. I commented, 'I think I'd be quite okay if I never again saw snow'.

Bad idea, Brenda.

Next morning he opens the curtains and groans, 'Oh no!'. Fat flakes were falling and soon our green lawns were covered in white!!

Shoe trees

Shoe trees... surely a strange name for a very useful item. Yes, I've just been putting away my winter clothes, boots and shoes. Of the former, I have a pair that still garner compliments although they are now about twelve years old. The lace-up shoes are only a year or two younger. These are showing signs of wear, but are still useful to me.

As you may guess, both pairs are of the old-fashioned leather sole variety that could be taken to the shoemaker to be mended, to have new heels or soles put on. These days of course even expensive footwear often has composite soles glued on which means there's nothing much to be done but throw the shoes away when they get down at heel or whatever.

So I'm grateful for my shoe trees, one pair of which must surely be heading towards antique status, because I inherited them from my mom. She taught me to take care of my clothes, and that has stood me in good stead. Mind you, when I was a teenager and pounding the pavements in London, my shoes didn't last that long. It's a strange thing, but some people are harder on shoes than others. I've often wondered why this should be, and what the reason is. I don't think I tread particularly heavily!

Whoops

Life has been getting in the way of blogging, folks, so... apologies.

However, I couldn't miss earth day. An ecological bent has led me to some of the most valuable experiences in my life. It all started when I was at university and a friend's father and mother introduced me to Rachel Carson's 'Silent Spring'. So my awareness gradually grew, and right now, I'm sending that couple a quick prayer of thanks.

Of course, pollution wasn't so much of a problem in those days. Plastic wasn't ubiquitous, and the amount of food additives was far less. Still, when I travelled to London, England in the early '60's I could hardly wait to swing by the organic store in Baker Street and see what was on offer. Ahem. I found small, wizened apples and not much to delight. How very much more fortunate we are today when even our local supermarket carries organic produce... fresh as well as dry goods.

Better yet, the bio-dynamic method of farming is spreading and becoming more and more well-known. This summer we have a new farmer nearby and will be able to join his Community Supported Agriculture program. Yay!

Plus, the days are warm enough for me to start hanging laundry out on the line. And to ride my bicycle.

Nothing earth-shattering, but every little bit helps.

Wearing the green

Yes, I do, in honour of my maternal great-grandfather. He came from Ireland and his surname was Proudfoot-Cooke. And that's pretty much all I know about his background.
My mother, aunts and uncle always referred to him as Granpa Cooke, as did my grandmother, his daughter. She was one of seven children and her mother died young. Soon after Grandpa Cooke married a young Afrikaans girl, so there was this mixture of Catholicism and Calvinism in my gran's growing up. She was very strict about Sundays. Sewing was the way she earned money for herself, but she'd never do any on a Sunday, saying that was like 'sticking a needle in the Lord's eye'! On the other hand, when she was thankful or relieved about something, she'd exclaim, 'Thank the Pope!!!'

She used to attend the Methodist church fairly regularly and would work all year towards the annual fete, confectioning the most delicate and beautiful dresses for babies and little girls. My brother was particularly attached to her when he was small (I already told you she lived with us during my primary school years?). He used to go to her in the mornings when she'd be reading her bible, which she did over and over again, starting at Genesis and going right through to the Apocalpse. He's snuggle in with her and say,"Read, Nanny. 'And the Lord said'!"

She travelled overseas once. Visited Ireland and the Isle of Iona, as well as the Scottish relatives. As for me, I had one weekend in county Cork. Walking on that green, green grass I half expected a leprechaun or two to peep around a low stone wall at me.

Sorry, I succumbed

I suppose it was inevitable. The rest of the family had had flu for weeks, so down I went. My apologies. Sometimes the urge to put myself on screen is lacking. Instead, I've spent time resting and reading, and thinking back to childhood days when I'd have to stay in bed.

What came to mind is what I remember of being kept in bed. That was how it went, before the invention of anti-biotics, although sulfur drugs had brought me through illness soon after my younger brother was born. I must have been too young to read to myself, so, to keep me amused, my mother would bring out her costume jewelry. And she had a lot. I'd sit up with a pillow on my lap and spread out all the sparkly coloured beads... necklaces and earrings mostly. Rings? Mom only ever wore her wedding and engagement ring. Not that she and my dad were ever engaged. After a ten year courtship during which only my dad's brother approved of their relationship, they decided to elope. One day during the Second World War my father arrived at the family home and said to my maternal grandmother, "Come on, Mrs. Wright. Go and put your hat on. Dot and I are going off to be married!" And married they were, for over sixty years.

I must have been six or seven years old when my dad took me into Johannesburg with him one day. His purpose? To buy my mom a diamond ring. Mission accomplished, I remember asking him how much it cost. His prompt reply was: "Two and sixpence!" -- the equivalent of something like 25 cents today.

A photo does it

This morning a dear friend in South Africa sent me a photo of her moonlight convolvulus creeper that she planted from seed. The white flowers (a little like morning glories) unfurl in the evening and perfume the air. Looking at the image, I was transported back many years to when I first saw one of these magical plants.

It was at my husband's aunt's house in Johannesburg. She'd trained as a florist at Moyses Stevens in London and had a most beautiful garden. Also, she did the flowers for our wedding, something I only truly appreciated after I'd done them for our daughter's marriage celebration. Sara was a diminutive, bird-like woman with a sweet nature and somewhat forbidding aspect. I grew to love her very much. But first, I had to get to know her. This happened in the early days of our courtship, when my husband-to-be was ill and spent weeks recuperating at the home. She always made me welcome.

One evening a few years later, we were invited to dinner. Sar said to me, "Come outside, I want to show you something special." We went out through the French windows, and skirted the house. I stood entranced as we watched the tight bud begin to move, twist, open, and finally reveal it's pure glory.

Johannesburg, I believe, is one of the most treed cities in the world. I'd say it also has some of the most beautiful gardens. During my growing up years I was truly blessed in being able to spend many hours outside, dreaming or reading in a garden.

Balancing the books

My husband is busy doing some books for a friend.. the business kind, that is. At lunch he said, "I'm forty-five cents out on my balance" and just like that I could hear my mother lamenting 'I'm two pennies out. Can you believe it?'

Both my mother and her younger sister, who was actually like a second mother to me, were bookkeepers. As businesswomen, this stood them in good stead all their working lives, as well as being a large factor in the success of my father's salt business. He started this at the age of 42. At first my mom did his books and when she got tired of it, my aunt took over. How many evenings did I hear tales of one or both or them being 'out' a penny, a sixpence, three shillings or two and having to go through columns and columns of figures until they discovered the recalcitrant mistake.

From time to time I'd take the bus into Johannesburg and meet my mother at her office. She worked in an old building that housed an art gallery on the ground floor (much later in life I was to become friendly with the owner!). The lift was one of those iron cages that clanked up to the third floor. I'd step out and find Mom sitting on a high stool, the huge books on a sloping desk, open in front of her. I'd watch in amazement as she ran her pen down the neat columns of figures, adding up fast and, mostly, accurately.

This was also her place of employment during the second world war. I think she worked there for twenty years or so, and made lifelong friends of her fellow employees. The women kept the business going while the owner was 'up north', and my mother's skills grew as good as any accountant's. In spite of all, she remembered these as happy days, mostly because of the cheerful women of Italian extraction who worked alongside her. Good souls, good spirits, and I was blessed to know them.

Buttons

No, not the kind you push. Kind of the ones you sew on garments, but even more, the kind you play with.

See, when I was a little girl, my grandmother lived with us and she sewed all my dresses. Yes, even my school uniforms because you could buy the material, a pure cotton brand called Tobralco, in a pretty small design of blue flowers on white. I'm using this precious memory in the novel I'm working on. Provisionally titled 'A Wedding in Vermont' it explores the question: why get married?

Anyhow, when our elder daughter was between nine months and three years old, our little family of three had the great privilege to live in a multi-generational household. The house itself was a split-level, on three acres, and my husband, daughter and I lived in the two-bedroomed basement flat, while my parents, brother, and maternal grandmother lived upstairs. Every morning our daughter would climb to up to see... not her grandma, although she used to apologize by calling 'I'm not coming, Grandma', but her great-grandmother.

Nannie had a wonderful imagination and children responded to her with delight. Those mornings she'd still be in bed. She'd bring out her collection of buttons and make characters out of them. For instance, four grey suit buttons on a tied thread became four naughty boys. A largeish transparent button was the ice-cream man, and so forth. No wonder our daughter was enchanted.

Actually, I don't think Nannie went to school further than Standard Six, but she had the most beautiful handwriting. I still treasure the letter she wrote to me when our youngest was born. Her writing is perfectly legible and well formed, although she was ninety at the time! I think it's a great loss, that we're not taught that particular cursive style any more.

I was reminded of all this last week when I took out my own collection of buttons to keep my 20 month old grandson amused. However, I have to confess, my imagination proved nowhere near as fertile as my grandmother's. And my handwriting? Not always legible, even to me.

That cinches it.

'What are you going to do about your blog?' a writing friend asks.
'I thought of turning it into a kind of memoir,' I replied.
The thinking behind this is that what flutters by these days is often a memory, triggered by some event or conversation. Maybe this would be a way to harvest more of the richness of my life so far (to mix metaphors. Well, ever since I was a little girl, I've always enjoyed baking.)

On Thursday my daughter-in-law arrived to drop off my grandson, already almost 20 months old. She told me how much easier mornings were, now that she prepares outfits for the week ahead and pegs them together. I told her the anecdote I'm about to convey to you, dear blog readers, and she said, 'Brenda, you really ought to write all this down.'
So here goes.

During my early years, I lived in my maternal grandparents' house in a small town on the Gold Reef of the Transvaal, as it was then. My memories of the rooms are vague, but they seemed dark, rather Victorian in feel. There was a big black coal stove in the kitchen and my grandmother used to make the most delicious apple pies.

My mother lived there with her older brother and two younger sisters. From the age of sixteen until she married at thirty, she took the train into Johannesburg every day to go to work. And so did the sister who was two years younger, although she married earlier. (Have you got that straight?) Of the three, Mom had the best fashion sense and 'always looked immaculate', as my friend who phoned with condolences not so long ago remarked.

Every night before she went to bed, she'd lay out her clothes for the morning. But often, her younger sister took advantage and wore whatever was waiting. And so, in that household, the motto was: 'First dressed is best dressed!'

The first Sunday of the year.

"We should start a new verse," I reminded my husband as he picked up the 'Calendar of the Soul' to read before we began our breakfast.
"Is it Sunday?" he asked.
Truly, that's how it feels now that we're so far into the Holy Days and Nights of Christmas... I've lost track. Experiencing the subtle and not-so-subtle differences from Sunday through Saturday is something I've tried to enhance in myself for quite a while, so it was a surprise to me too when I realized we were on the first day of the week.
Tomorrow I'll dive into my modified day job and will be taking care of the younger of my two grandsons instead of both of them. This, I'm hoping, will give me more time to write and leave me with more energy for other matters.
The question I'm carrying at the moment is whether or not to continue with this blog. In all the meanderings of my mind, I wonder if anything is actually achieved by my occasional postings. So I'm mulling it over.