2006 Flashback: Our Jeopardy

Another flashback to my 2006 blog. This is a poem that hung on a wall at Bass River Chairs in Highfield Square. Both gone now, although H S still stands: Moncton's first mall. I could walk to it and browse and hang out with my friends and spend my wee allowance. The poem is called Our Jeopardy and was written by Thomas John Carlisle. I don't know when he wrote it, but he lived from 1913 - 1992. I asked permission and the store employees took it off the wall so I could write it out. This was before internet, at least in my house.

It is good to use
best china
treasured dishes
the most genuine goblets
or the oldest lace tablecloth
there is a risk of course
every time we use anything
or anyone shares an inmost
mood or moment
or a fragile cup of revelation
but not to touch
not to handle
not to employ the available
artifacts of being
a human being
that is the quiet crash
the deadly catastrophe
where nothing
is enjoyed or broken
or spoken or spilled
or stained or mended
where nothing is ever
lived
loved
pored over
laughed over
wept over
lost
or found.

"I always want to add punctuation to this, my favorite poem. I like my life punctuated and my i's dotted and my t's crossed but not my 7s. Plain sevens for me thank you very much. Punctuation would take away from Mr. Carlisle's intentions I suppose, and put the emphasis on what I like which would not be right at all. Well, I'll leave it as is. It's a wonderful poem and awesome in its truth and I grew up in a family that used fine china, best dishes, glass goblets and lace tablecloths, but avoided risks of revealing moods, moments, revelations, those artifacts of human beingness.

Consequently, we crashed from time to time, so to speak. Oh yes, we are a fine family with just enough mischief in our past to make life interesting. My grandmother Minnie once said, "I wish I could go to sleep and when I wake up, I would be with my mother." I'd love to have another visit with my Dad and my Gramps and Grams and my uncles . . .

I'm trying to gather this family together again. That's a difficult thing to do when we are scattered all over this wide world, from Canada to California to China and everywhere in between. And some of it is not a distance problem for we live across town from each other and never see each other but for funerals. Thank God for funerals. Because of Uncle Jim's funeral, I took the pictures home and opened doors from Hawkesbury to Halifax and here in Moncton. Because of Dad's funeral, I reconnoitered with Aunt Helen and Nancy and Cindy after too many decades. Because of Cassie's and Phoebe's funerals, we will begin an annual family gathering tradition so that we don't get lost again. That is, if anyone else wants to take this journey. To risk it. To use the teacups and goblets and lace and begin to break the walls and barriers of independence. To lift up the rug that we swept all the hurts and wonders under and wash them with tears of repentance. But first we must repent. We all like to look at the other's motes from behind our beams. We must get past the wrongs of others and fix the wrongs in ourselves and then we can start to live love pour over laugh over cry over lose what needs to be lost and find what needs to be found. I begin with me. After all, I'm the only one I can really mend. It requires a total change of attitude and priorities. It requires that I be proactive. That takes a lot of time and effort and it's worth every bit of time and effort I can muster.

~~~~~~~

I was driving down the road that led to their house. The directions she gave me were excellent. To a tee. My anxiety level was at a high, not the highest but pretty far up there. I thought I might turn tail and go back home but I persevered. I risked it. And I'm so glad I did. For we are cut from the same bolt of cloth, he and I. Ten years apart, hardly saw each other for fifty years and yet we melded. And she I call my friend and my cousin for she is part and parcel of him and we are comfortable together.

'One of them must be Alan. Again, I felt that fluttering under my ribs. I had thought about finding him for so long. Oddly, now that I had, I was afraid . . . It would be easier to walk cheerfully if one were certain of recognizing that of God in every man; it was a vast relief to me to find that with Alan it was not difficult. I was able to add him to the tally of my family in my prayers, and he has retained his place there ever since. I was able in all truth to say to him, 'I am blithe to meet thee, brother.' Voyageurs, by Margaret Elphinstone.

For . . . , my cousin, who sometimes calls me sister."

Did I write that? Did I do what I said I would? Well, I certainly attempted to do some of it. I have invited lots of family members to our Holmes gatherings and many came, probably timidly enough in the beginning, but those of us who have reunited found it easy and fun, I think. I did not do it every year, though. In 2006, I had not thought far enough ahead that I might find families from the twelve tribes of Daniel and Charlotte; I think I was thinking only of my first and second cousins. I have not started Moore reunions, but we have gotten together a few times and I have started on the genealogy, albeit slowly, and have enjoyed the reacquaintences of both my families. 

Have I mended myself? I have tried, and yes, some rends are repaired and I suppose, if I were honest, there are new tears that need fixing, in the eight years since I wrote this. I am somewhat older and wiser, happier and sadder; and I still have a great deal to learn. I retired and I reretired and I find I have not much more time than I did when I worked full-time. 

Half Mast

I haven't posted to my blog for a few days. I can't write when tragedy strikes. I get all stuck on the words and they sound trite and formal. I guess that's why I like to stick my head into the past. I know the endings of the stories; sad or happy, I've dealt with them. I can write about people I love and miss or people I never knew. But the here and now puts me right into writer's block.

Once again our flags are at half mast. Mourning. Four months ago, Moncton mourned for our RCMP officers and the whole country mourned with us, and some of our neighbors to the south as well. Now, we mourn for two Canadian soldiers murdered in cold blood on home turf by two people who know by now that jihad doesn't necessarily lead to the promised land.

St. Jean sur Richilieu. I never heard of it before, but my next door neighbor moved to New Brunswick from St. Jean sur Richilieu last year. Lovely lady. Knocks on our door and hands us a plate. Shares her fudge and spaghetti sauce with us and its so yummy. Ottawa. I've been there. I was twelve. Beautiful parliament buildings. We have a copper maple leaf entombed in glass that I think came from a previous section of the roof of the house of Parliament. (I could be wrong about that, but it came from some part of the parliament buildings.) Bill got it in appreciation for something he did at work. Our parliament buildings: symbol of our democracy, our freedom, our diversity, our welcoming spirit. Perfect? No. But for two Canadian citizens to desecrate what the majority of us hold dear but never appreciate enough - our unknown soldiers, our forefathers and mothers who sacrificed for us, our soldiers today - our sons and our daughters and our nieces and nephews and our friends' children - most of whom would do whatever it takes to protect our lives and our freedoms - something is so wrong when our own citizens can turn their back on what they are so priviliged to posess and seek to serve the gods of terror.

May our bells continue to ring. May our soldiers continue to guard our unknown soldier. May our soldiers and police forces and RCMP continue to protect us and innocents of other nations. May we still welcome strangers to our shores. May we not be intimidated. May we support those who protect us.

OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM 

O Canada! Our home and native land!

True patriot love in all thy sons command.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,

The True North strong and free!

From far and wide

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

God keep our land glorious and free!

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

http://dhfha2.blogspot.ca/2014/10/half-mast.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuKkmXOso8g

When Clothes Stood Up By Themselves

I just filled my washing machine with dark clothes. The prep time (removing the clothes from the hamper, placing them in the machine, adding liquid detergent and fabric softener, took me, maybe, five minutes at most. It would take me another couple of minutes, after the machine has done its chore, to transfer them to the dryer, if I was going to use it. Today, the sun is shining and there's a lovely breeze, so I shall hang them on my clothes line. That does take some time. Not only do I hang the clothes with wooden pegs upon the line, I also have to take time to throw the yellow ball. After the sun and wind complete their part of the drying process, I need to bring them inside, fold them, and put them in their respective places. All together, it might take me 27 minutes to take care of one load of laundry.

But that's today. Hearken back into a child, in the basement of 9 Wellington, and a big round machine. One machine: a washing machine. There is no drying machine. It looks like a big round white tub, with two rollers on top. That's what they are: wringers, to squeeze out the  water. My mother and I stand over the steaming water, watching the clothes rotate in the soapsuds. After some time, and the amount of time is fuzzy now, but time enough to remove the dirt and grime of one businessman, one housewife, and three children who played outside in the dirt and grass of the playground and the path behind the house and the train tracks, when they weren't in school, My mother stops the machine's gyrating, empties the water and repeats the process to rinse out the soap.

Now I am only permitted to watch. She places each individual piece of clothing or towels or bedding between the wringers - one at a time. I am allowed to remove them as they come out the other side. They look like . . . I'm sorry, I have to say it . . . the snake I saw on the road the other day. Flat. Absolutely flat, Now I am permitted to carry on the process. No, I'm not permitted. I'm encouraged. What am I saying? I have no choice. It is my girlhood duty to carry the clothes outside in a basket and hang them neatly on the line. Socks together, next to Mom's bra. Panties together next to the white underwear. Dress shirts together. Dresses together. T-shirts together. Dishcloths and towels together. Hang them on the line where they dance in the breeze while they dry. I also remove the clothes, bring them inside, and together, my mother and I fold them neatly in piles. Dads. Moms. Pegs. Pauls. Pats. Kitchen drawers. Ironing.

That was in the summer. In winter, I froze my fingers as I struggled to remove the pegs from the clothing. Then came the fun part. Bring them in the house and stand the pants up on the kitchen floor, all by themselves, frozen in place like tin soldiers. It only lasts a minute as the warmth of the house enters those pants and they fall on the floor like limp rag dolls. There is a three part clothes rack in the dining room where we hang the still-damp laundry to finish the drying process by the register. 

Up country, at the farm, is an even older electric wringer washer that works on the same principle, but on Mondays only. Monday wash. Tuesday iron. What did they do when it rained? It must have thrown off the entire weekly schedule. There were three clothes lines that looked like the the line in the photograph above. No fancy wheels and pulleys. If those lines were full of clothes or better yet, bedsheets, they were fun to play in. Fun for grandchildren. Probably not so fun for overworked grandmother.

Wander back another generation. I've only seen the equipment. Several irons: irons made of iron. Heavy, though smaller than our modern irons that we pull out occasionally. Set on the wood stove to heat. Three or four of them, of course; once they lose their warmth, replace them and pick up the next one. Out in the shed next to the kitchen, a big shiny tin tub. Doubled as a Saturday evening bathtub. And there, hanging on the wall, a nubby piece of glass in a wooden frame: a washboard. 

My grandmother had to make the soap that made the suds. From lye. 

Blessed be her wrinkled, weathered hands.

I took the photo at Kings Landing.

Miss Fowler

I was afraid of her. She was the principal, and taught grade six. It worried me for five years, that and the strange toilets downstairs. I went to Prince Edward School, just down the street, in an era when the playground had a boys side and a girls side, and we entered two by two through the big doors.

Finally, the September day arrived. Not once was I ever sent to the principal's office, although on one occasion a teacher rapped my knuckles gently with a ruler and broke my little heart. I had worried in vain.  I loved Miss Fowler, from the first day of grade six. She loved to sing, and in her classroom we sang. We learned, too, but what I recall is the singing.

Outside, on the girl's side of the playground, we sang Beatles songs. In Miss Fowler's classroom, we sang old songs. Really old songs. Red River Valley, Old Black Joe, Autumn Leaves, All Through the Night, My Bonnie . . . If you are really old, like me, you probably remember them. 

What made me think of Miss Fowler? Once again, the Supreme Court of Canada is debating the legality of Physician Assisted Suicide. I, a citizen, will have nothing to say on this matter. If you ask my opinion, I do not support this. However, I am not without sympathy, having tucked someone I love in at night as she waited to die and wished for death to come quickly and with dignity. It did, naturally, for her. It doesn't always. 

Miss Fowler, someone told me, took her own life, near the end of a terminal illness. I was so sad when I heard that, many years ago. Sad, that she suffered so; sad, because she was a beloved teacher. At the time, shocked, as well. I was young.

Long, Long Ago

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear, long, long ago,

Sing me the songs I delighted to hear, Long, long ago.

. . . Blest as I was when I sat by your side, long, long ago.

~ T H Bayly

I took the photo of Prince Edward School in autumn of 2012. The song book is "The One Hundred and One Best Songs," published by The Cable Company, Chicago, 29th edition, 1917. 

Sunday Afternoon Drive (and Drivers)

Yesterday afternoon, Bill and I took a fall foliage drive through Albert County. We drove the highway to Anagance, and from there on it was on the back roads, often in valleys, and at one point on a dirt road. Even though the reds and much of the oranges have fallen, it was still beautiful to look up, way up, to a hill covered with colorful hardwoods and softwoods. It was also very pretty near the rivers and brooks.

As I drove along, I thought of the many drives my father took us on when we were children, mostly on Sunday afternoons. What do I remember most about those drives?

Getting lost. "Are we lost, Dad?" "I think we are." "Which road should I take?" My adult self thinks he knew those roads like the back of his hand.

Gettin out of the car and wandering. Once, I remember, there was still snow in the woods, but it was a nice warm day. I thought it highly unusual to play in the snow without so much as a sweater on.

Ending up at the airport. At least once a month. Back in the day, we could wander outside and watch the planes come in. Or, he'd take us to the small airport and put us up on the wing so we could look inside. We never once got into trouble doing that.

Buying us a bottle of pop. I have a fuzzy memory of my first bottle of mountain dew . . . pop was not common in our house when I was a child, and it was a treat when he'd stop at a corner store and ask us what kind we wanted.

Getting behind a Sunday driver. You know what a Sunday driver is, don't you? One who has no where to go, scenery to look at, and takes his good old time, especially when there are no passing lanes in sight. One day, we drove along at a snail's pace behind a dozen or so other cars also going at a snail's pace. Dad said, "I bet Miles is the Sunday driver." (Dad called his parents by their first names, as per their wishes.) We came to a passing lane and all the cars passed and sure enough, there at the head of the line was Miles, meandering along without a care in the world. How did he know? Or did he?

Those days are gone, or rare. We can't afford the luxury of a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive anymore. The price of gas must have been relativly cheap back in the day when we drove the back roads of New Brunswick on Sunday afternoons.

Walter and Doris (Speer) Kyle

Doris is my dad's first cousin. I found this article in one of my grandfather's scrapbooks. Hockey lovers and my Moore family might find it interesting. I'm not sure of the date. Doris and Walter separated and got back together several years later.

Sport Wife:  Mrs. Gus Kyle

Mountie Got His Girl and Made Her His Wife

By Bill Beck

                Doris Speer felt a little twinge of guilt as the broadchested Mountie waved her auto to the side of the road.

                Of course, it was only constable Walter Lawrence Kyle pulling a surprise customs check on his friends and neighbors in little Woodstock, New Brunswick. Doris, a bit irritated, watched him walk toward her in his Smokey-the-Bear hat and wondered where she should stash the carton of American cigarettes she had just purchased in Holton, Me., 10 miles away.

                If you ask her now, she will say she had no difficulty in outwitting the big, clumsy fellow, and preserving the contraband.

                Or, if you ask the constable, he will tell you Doris flew into a girlish panic and pitched the cigarettes into a ditch; that he pretended not to notice, figuring loss of the smokes was punishment enough for the inept little smuggler.

                What neither of them knew that day in 1943 was, they were on their way to Madison Square Garden, New York, together.

                Walter Lawrence Kyle – called Gus because, as a baseball catcher, he reminded Canadian fans of former Cardinal backstop Gus Mancuso - is now coach of the St. Louis Hockey Braves. Doris is his wife, and this story is about Doris, although Gus will intrude from time to time. At 231 pounds, he’s hard to keep out.

                One of two daughters of the village clerk, Doris had never seen a professional sports contest or experienced the slightest desire to when she began to date Gus in Woodstock. Nor did she know that Gus was an athlete.

                All she knew was that Kyle was assigned to customs and narcotics investigations there at the border and that he would never talk about any of his cases.

                She certainly would never have urged Gus to change occupations if it had not been for one particular regulation. No Mountie could wed until he had been with the force seven years and could show bank deposits totaling $2500. How do you save $2500 on a salary of $92.10 per month?

                That is when her sweetheart’s athletic background became important. You couldn’t just quit the Mounties. You either had to serve out your enlistment or buy your way out at the rate of $30 for each expired month.

                 When Doris told Gus, “yes,” he still had 42 months to go and coming up with $1300 was almost as tough as saving $2500.

                The upshot was, the New York Rangers of the National Hockey League bought Kyle from the Canadian Mounted Police in 1947 for $1300, one of the strangest player transactions on record. At least it was a switch on the way baseball got Alabama Pitts from Sing Song.

                That began for Doris the strange, nomadic life of a sports wife and, except for the time Gus quit to sell investments, it has continued for 17 years.

                Kyle played baseball in the summer and Doris cheered home runs. He had her cheering hockey in the winter and would have her cheering football in the fall, but his hockey contract forbade him to play the game.

                “I spent my honeymoon with a girl friend because Gus was busy cleaning up old police cases. We moved five times in the first seven months we were married,” Doris remembers. “That should have been the tip-off.”

                All the moves were not for change of seasons. Once, there were bedbugs and another time, the newlyweds had to share one bathroom with six working girls and Gus was getting trampled in the morning rush.

                “The most exciting time was in New York (1950) when the Rangers almost won the Stanley Cup and Gus almost was rookie of the year,” said Doris. “Some rookie! He was 29 years old.”

                It took Kyle two years to make the Rangers. Doris, who had seldom been outside her home town of Woodstock, had to make the trip to the big town by herself. Gus, in all his wisdom, had arranged quarters in a sleazy hotel across the street from Madison Square Gardens.

                Doris, suspecting that most of her fellow lodgers were racketeers or worse, kept the door chained until her husband could find a pleasant apartment in Long Island.

                “Living in a different apartment every year, you seldom come to know your neighbors. But in Long Island, several players and their wives lived near us and we met a musician across the street. They knew Kay Starr and she began to go to the games with us. It was fun,” said Doris.

                It was also fun at the Garden where a supposedly hapless Ranger team fought its way into the Stanley Cup playoff, eliminated Montreal and carried Detroit to seven games before losing out in the final.

                Gus had himself a year. Playing left defence, he took over the roll (sic) of “policeman” which meant that if anybody on the other team abused a Ranger, Gus skated into the fray, ham-like fists swinging.

                “I got used to seeing Gus in fights,” said Doris. “I’d just stand there and watch and hate the other guy. It never seemed to me to be Gus’s fault and he never seemed to lose, or if he did, I’d call it a draw.”

                Kyle missed the rookie award by a vote or two. For a defenseman to win would be like a defensive tackle grabbing football’s Heisman trophy. It has never happened.

                “Gus’s coach went to Boston and after a year, bought Gus’s contract. I didn’t like Boston much. But in 1953, Gus quit and we went to Calgary. That was the best time of all for me.”

                Kyle meant to quit hockey. He opened up a sporting goods store. But the Chicago Black Hawk organization bought his contract and lured him back into the game in Calgary on the promise he would one day be a coach.

                “Hockey was fun when Gus was a player. I even used to laugh when they booed him in Edmonton. It all changed when he became a coach. The fun went out of it.”

                In all, the Kyles remained nine years in Calgary. They bought a home, kept the store and one of Gus’s teams set a pro hockey record by going undefeated 16 straight games. Then the Black Hawks pressured Gus to take a bigger job and he quit in favor of the investment business.

                “He seemed to like it and did well. I loved it. It meant no more moving. But I knew he couldn’t stay away from hockey and he didn’t,” Doris related. Gus went back in 1962, picking up a staggering club in Syracuse. That club became the St. Louis Braves, moving here New Year’s Day of 1963.”

                Doris has learned she is apt to be alone on holidays and anniversaries because the team seems to be always on the road. She has learned she must have salads and steaks on the menu, because big Gus has a weight problem; that she should keep off the subject of hockey unless he brings it up, and that she should never, never turn around when the fan behind her begins to revile the coach.

                But she has never learned to stop missing her comfortable home in Calgary. It is now rented to Eagle Day, former Ole Miss All-America quarterback. He quarterbacks the Stampeders, Calgary’s professional football team.

                And there is one other problem: Doris doubts that there is a cure for telephone fever of which her husband is a hopeless victim.

                “About the time most people go to bed, Gus gets on the telephone and calls long distance all over the United States and Canada. He wants to make a deal or he wants to check on some junior player. All I can do is go to sleep or talk to Duke."

                Duke is a 9 – year old Weimaraner that is almost as big as Gus but who is a sophisticated apartment dweller as you’ll come across.

                As Doris sees it, there have been no unhappy times in her 17 years with Gus, although the one the Kyles are experiencing now is extremely trying.

                The Braves are in last place in the Central Hockey League. Gus can’t stand to be last. Doris can’t cook him a meal or give him a pill that will make things any better.

                He frets and makes telephone calls. He moans and sighs.

                “If it were only summer,” she said. For one thing, the hockey season would be over. For another, she knows a sure-fire summer method of making Gus smile.

                One look at Doris’ somewhat unorthodox golf swing throws her husband into fits of helpless laughter.

                Next: Mrs. Mike Shannon.

               

Recipe for Making Police Reputation

                Doris Kyle knew her husband by reputation long before she actually met him.

                As all Woodstock, N.B., knew, Constable Walter Kyle was the man who made the daring capture of the poor, demented lady who kept scandalizing the city by dashing about like Lady Godiva –c clad in nothing.

                “Not so,” protests Kyle now. “The sheriff made the capture. All I did was help take her to the mental hospital.”

2006 Flashback: Why Holmespun?

I'm housecleaning. That involves going through binders, keeping or shredding reams of paper. Onceuponatime I started a blog which I called "Holmespun." In a binder, I found paper copies of blog posts. Whether that is all I did, or all I copied, I can't remember. But some of them are worth repeating before I send them to the shredder. I will edit them slightly, I think. The first post, dated Sunday, February 12, 2006, is titled:

Why "Holmespun"?

"and why 'Holmespun'?" I asked, with an e e comings start to my sentence. Was that deliberate? I don't remember. 

Homespun: adj, spun or woven in the home; simple and homey, unpretentious. Examples, having a rough surface, as in fabric . . . www.dictionary.com.

In my case, a play on words. (No verb: typical me.) I am a Holmes; actually, 1/4 Holmes, Moore, Hovey, Colpitts. Margaret Jane Moore Vasseur. Father Donald Malcolm Moore. Mother, Margaret Holmes Moore. Better known to most people as Peg. I married Bill and gave him two daughters and several cats and dogs. (Now I would say . . . we have two daughters . . . ) The pets came from the pet store or the SPCA, except for Tiger and Elsa who came to us. I love new things: new paper, new fabric, new books (add thread). I love old things: old stories, old boxes, old books. I had two sets of grandparents ~ the city grandparents and the country grandparents. (Wasn't I a lucky girl?) the Moores lived near us in several houses, as they liked to buy and sell; my favorite was the entirely pink within and without house. The Holmeses lived on the farm and that is where my roots run the deepest: the Farm ~ a humble, grey, dilapidated farmhouse in Hillgrove, set in beautiful hills. If you are not of the "race that knows Joseph," (L M Montgomery), you won't know the magic charm of the farm. Those who know Joseph (whatever that means - I think it means they have a great imagination) just settle in by the wood stove with their cups of tea and fall in love with the homestead.

We Holmeses are a creative lot. I remember the spinning wheels and jennies in the granary. It burned years ago, a giant bonfire that brought neighbors from miles around, and Gramp and Gram didn't know why everyone was in their yard. (Gramp had thrown the ashes in there before they were dead.) In that granary, there must have been at least a dozen of these spinning wheels, and they were every color imaginable. That was great-grandfather Charles's doings; he painted everything he could get his hands on, I am told. I love color and texture and variety and spinning and creating. I love to take thread or yarn and make beautiful doilies and mittens and sweaters (I don't think I want to make sweaters anymore), or turn fabric into beautiful quilt tops, or weave words into stories. Some stories are beautiful. Some are sad or tragic. Some just are: no punch lines, no genesis or revelation or climax, just a tidbit handed down, and I can't remember all the details, just an impressionistic fuzzy memory.

To me, the farmhouse is a castle. When I return to it in the summer, I am the princess. (Now, the princess has grown up, not into a queen of the castle, but the realistic viewer of a castle imploding into the present. With the lack of electricity, water, and tlc, and old furnishings - which I recognize is all very necessary, it's difficult to imagine back into a castle.) I travel back in time to my very beginnings, for (many of them) they are wound up in that farmhouse. It is the thought-child for my memories and most  many of my stories; even some with no connection seem to find their way back to my homespun Holmespun roots.

"A young girl may dream of becoming a princess, but in the eyes of her parents, she already is. How will our children know who they are if they don't know where they come from?" John Steinbeck, "The Grapes of Wrath."

2014: The first photo is my cousin Karl and me. The second is my cousin Mike in front, me on left and Karl on right, with my Uncle Jim in the background. Farm fun.

I don't know if I really answered my question. I chose the word "holmespun" because of the play on the word "homes" and because I weave words and threads and photo collages and whatnot into something, generally at home, and include them under my multi-sectioned, colorful umbrella. Did I imply that in my essay? It certainly is no three pointer with an introduction that includes my purpose statement, and a conclusion that  refers back to the introduction. But, that's okay with me: its a good rough draft.

Oh, Be Careful What You Think, or, The Pink Teacup

(I have written about this lady before, but I deleted that blog. Yesterday, I saw someone who was dressed a little different than the rest of us. She was at a distance from me, and I am not criticising her, just stating that because she triggered a memory.)

I was in Saint John with daughter #2. It was early, and the city, although awake, was still yawning and stretching. We decided to go to a food court and enjoy some breakfast before we went to our destination, the museum.

On our way, we passed a little old lady. We were in no hurry, but she was in less of a hurry than we were. Was it because her boots were way too big for her feet, and she shuffled along carefully, either trying not to fall or trying not to lose her boots? Her coat was so big it almost swallowed her whole. Her life might have been in the bags she was carrying. When we passed, she politely asked us the time. We told her and moved on to the food court. She caught up with us as we ate.

What was I thinking about her? Nothing terribly bad, as I recall, probably just, "poor old soul." I don't really think I gave her much thought whatsoever. Until she reached her table, that is.

She set her bags on the floor and slowly began removing her layers. Under her large coat were several other garments. She sat down at the table and opened one of her bags.

She removed, from her bag, a cloth napkin. Some silverware. A pink teacup: a very dainty, bone china teacup. A teacup made in England, I am sure, several decades ago. She set her table; silverware in its place and teacup at the top of the knife and spoon. It was all very clean. The whole process took several minutes. #2 and I nursed our tea and coffee. The museum could wait. We were mesmerized.

She shuffled, oh so slowly, up to the counter and purchased her breakfast. She shuffled back to her table and set her breakfast between her fork and knife. She took the top off her paper cup and poured her tea into her bone china teacup made in England. Ever so slowly and daintily she ate her breakfast.

 By this time, I was totally intrigued. I wanted to take her photograph. I wanted to ask her name, where did she come from, what was her story. I didn't, but I wish I had. She changed a small part of me forever; that nasty little part that judges others whether I want it to or not. I saw, at first, a poor, homeless person. I saw, at last, a person, maybe homeless, maybe not, but a lady. A lady with a past, a polite lady who was perhaps lonely, or perhaps happy with her own company. I'll never know. But it changed the way I look at people now, especially when they look a little different from the status quo.

Savoring

I began this post at dictionary.com. Savor. To Savor. Savoring. Savorous. Summer Savory.

You can read all the definitions there yourself at http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/savor?s=t  The definions that interest me are "power to excite or interest" and "to give oneself to the enjoyment of."

Gaylen can now savor her new job opportunity. They made her the offer. It's hers. And let me tell you, that is one company that will soon be happy with their choice.

Daphne's hubby can savor life with his three day old new hip. Hip, hip, horray!

Paula is savoring a trip to Morocco very soon. And really hoping those snakes are make of rubber.

In an instant potatoes kind of world, I don't take much time for savoring. Do you? T'was my friend Susan who taught me the art of savoring. I like it. I don't do it enough. It was, oh, maybe two Christmases ago. Or was it three? She wasn't there, so I gave her little Christmas gift to her husband to take home to her. And then, I didn't hear from her. Christmas came, and went. Boxing day came, and went. Didn't she like my gift? She's on Facebook every day. She never mentioned it. I was Curious George, so finally I asked, "Did G---- give you your gift?" "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm savoring it." Christmas was five days past. Her gift from me still sat under the tree, completely dressed in its paper and bow. "Give me two more days," she said. I don't remember what it was, or whether it was worth the wait or not. But, untouched, she looked at it and wondered and anticipated.

Isn't that half the fun? It is for me. I'm a great day dreamer. It's a good thing, probably, that only about one per cent of those day dreams come true. But once in a while, my dreams revolve around a plan, and I savor it. I wonder what is in the "package." I visualize the outcome. The dream is the package, of course. I never know quite what will be in the package when I begin to unravel it, but it is so much fun to anticipate. And then, hopefully, once it is open, I can put it to use, put it on a shelf, put it in a recipe, put it under a decoration, give it away, sell it, repurpose it . . . just depends what it is.

What am I savoring right now? In no particular order:

1. The next Holmes family gathering in autumn, 2016, somewhere in New England
2. My "to make" Christmas gift list
3. The printing/publishing of "Riverbank Visitors"
4. Supper: will it be spaghetti casserole or chicken fricot? I'm thinking the fricot, with a goodly amount of summer savory in it (that's the power of suggestion)
5. A trip to Long Island in November
6. The trigger for this post: the two books on the bottom of the collage, above (click on photo to enlarge)

I didn't mean to buy something for myself at Chapters yesterday. I really didn't. But, then, I did go with a title in mind, just to look at, you know. On the way to the fiction/literature section, I passed a table with new books for 2014 on it. The middle book jumped out at me. It said, in a loud whisper, "you want to read me." I looked it over. I felt it. I read the back. I opened it up and read a page. I carried it as I headed for the f/l section. "I would think about it," I decided. I found the book I was looking for. I looked it over. I felt it. I read the back. I did not open it and read a page, for I had already read some good reviews. It sounded delicious, probably in a sad way, given the era. I went over to another section, picked up what I had come for, and added another for a Christmas gift. "While I was there," I thought, "I might as well."

Four books. Two gifts for others, and two gifts for me. As I have the top one in the photo on the go already, I will finish it as I savor the new books. I was not going to crack a cover, but I did, this morning, a very slight crack. It has a map on the inside cover that smacks of a very old-world setting. Now, which book will I read first: that is my dilema.

Hubs is reading a text book and taking an on-line course. He wondered how people got through the book in the short time alloted. He is not an avid reader.  I asked, "do you read every word?" He replied, "yes, that is how I was taught to read," and there was something in his tone of voice that made me feel "that was a silly question. Shut up, Peggy."

When I write, every word is important to me. Does it fit? Is it appropriate? Does it enhance the sentence, or would the story be better without it? But when I read, I skim. I read quickly. "What do I miss?" I wondered, as I pondered his reply. My goal is to read every word of those two books that I am savoring. A text book read. An editing kind of read, but not overdone to the point of all criticism and no enjoyment. Hopefully, a pleasant, interesting read, or perhaps, a thought provoking read awaits between the covers.