So today we have the 4th July to celebrate. And last Wednesday it was the 1st, with Canadians gathering on Parliament Hill for Canada Day, many of them wearing red. Except my dear husband who made the mistake of wearing blue. He should have heeded the advice on the vanity plate of a car I saw recently viz: 'turn lft'.
On the 14th I'll be thinking of the Tricolor and, being something of a francophile, humming the Marseillaise. I'll remember the first time I saw Paris when my father took me there for the Easter weekend in 1955, and we visited Versailles and the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and Napoleon's tomb. That was also the first time I flew in a plane. Then there was another Paris, the snatched weekend away from the children when the dear husband and I met at Gatwick and raced down the wide corridors to catch our cheap flight (the last two seats) just before the gate closed. Waiting at the luggage carousel at Charles de Gaulle, I stood next to and chatted to a charming Diane Keaton.
Ah memories. These days they flutter by almost as often as thoughts.
p.s. And in case you're wondering, I made a start on tidying my study, a task I'll take up again today. Yes, I baked a cake and arranged some flowers for the house. The revision of my manuscript? Only got that done yesterday. Seeing as my goal was to finish by the end of May, you can see these things always take longer than I anticipate. But I'm happy.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Saturdays
I love Saturdays. They feel so brimful of possibilities. Today I'm going to sort out my office, finish the revision of my manuscript, bake a cake, clean and beautiful my house.
Yep, I know what you're thinking. For that, I'd need a month of Saturdays -- as opposed to time feeling long and drawn out in a month of Sundays. I can hear my late mom using that expression, and I suppose it came from my grandmother's Calvinistic upbringing when Sundays had to be kept as a day of church-going and rest.
Nevertheless, I'm going to do quite a lot on that list, even if I don't accomplish more than start tidying my study, and only get around to laundry and bathroom cleaning.
When I was a child I often used to spend weekends staying with a friend who lived in a mansion, with a garden to match. The lovely thing was, Saturday mornings were always devoted to baking and to picking and arranging flowers. That feeling is surely what still works in me today, all these many years later. Yes, childhood experiences can go very deep.
Yep, I know what you're thinking. For that, I'd need a month of Saturdays -- as opposed to time feeling long and drawn out in a month of Sundays. I can hear my late mom using that expression, and I suppose it came from my grandmother's Calvinistic upbringing when Sundays had to be kept as a day of church-going and rest.
Nevertheless, I'm going to do quite a lot on that list, even if I don't accomplish more than start tidying my study, and only get around to laundry and bathroom cleaning.
When I was a child I often used to spend weekends staying with a friend who lived in a mansion, with a garden to match. The lovely thing was, Saturday mornings were always devoted to baking and to picking and arranging flowers. That feeling is surely what still works in me today, all these many years later. Yes, childhood experiences can go very deep.
Friday, June 26, 2009
The good old ways. Better... or not?
Earlier this week I visited my favourite shoe store and bought new sandals. When I walked in, I saw right away that the middle-aged guy who'd served me a few times before wasn't there. In his place was a very pleasant young blonde, who was obliging and helpful. So, what was the difference?
I can say that the man was perhaps not so 'available' as the woman, but he did something I valued. That is, he'd open up the shoes for me to try. He'd unfasten the buckles, undo laces and so on. Both of them took the shoes out of the boxes. Or one shoe, anyhow.
Now that my fingers don't work so well any more, I kinda miss that kind of attention.
The old days came back to me, the days when there'd be a specially shaped stool the shop person would sit on. Your foot would be guided into the shoe, which lay on a kind of ramp. Then the buckles would be done up and you'd be ready to go. Stand up and admire your feet in the mirror. Or not. Decide if the size was right and if they felt okay. Or not.
Still, the blonde was sweet.
I can say that the man was perhaps not so 'available' as the woman, but he did something I valued. That is, he'd open up the shoes for me to try. He'd unfasten the buckles, undo laces and so on. Both of them took the shoes out of the boxes. Or one shoe, anyhow.
Now that my fingers don't work so well any more, I kinda miss that kind of attention.
The old days came back to me, the days when there'd be a specially shaped stool the shop person would sit on. Your foot would be guided into the shoe, which lay on a kind of ramp. Then the buckles would be done up and you'd be ready to go. Stand up and admire your feet in the mirror. Or not. Decide if the size was right and if they felt okay. Or not.
Still, the blonde was sweet.
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