The pristine mountains of snow are compressing into dark hills of sludge interrupted only by the dull seething chill of chunky brown puddles. My boots are supposed to be waterproof. They aren’t.
Categories: Modern life
… random observations from my journeys through a well-lived life
It’s a bit late for Christmas crooning, but the gentle snowfall the past two days puts me in a celebration frame of mind. SInce we work from home, there’s no need to go outside except to shovel the accumulation off the front steps, just on case.
And of course, just in case became a reality when we discovered the &^%$# freezer of our side-by-side fridge isn’t working. Last night, while we were watching American Idol, I kept telling Hub that I heard some sort of clicking sound, like a ball of aluminum foil relaxing. I did a walkabout, checked the new windows (which crack and sigh when the temperature changes), the taps, under the cupboards – nada. But that periodic sound was driving me mad. Today before lunch, when I was standing at the kitchen counter mixing up some Onion Poppy Seed bread, the click was joined by the sound of something metallic that was stuck. I figured out it was the fridge. Checked the thermostats – the temperature in the feezer was zero and the meat had already started to thaw. The shrimp were already past re-freezing. I said some more bad words, hauled out a laundry basket and got Hub to schlep the stuff to the downstairs fridge. He looked sort of distressed when I had to take out the dozen bottles of assorted Swedish liquor he keeps frozen for when his buddies come over, but I refused to put the food in coolers and leave the alcohol inside.
The trick now will be trying to get some poor repairman out on a day when all of the media are warning of Snowmageddon.
Categories: Modern life
What you’ll see below was one of the SuperBowl commercials debuting during the 3rd quarter, after Beyonce’s glittering performance and when folks were probably bloated with chicken wings, 4-alarm chili and fatty dips, beer-bonged and tired of all the game day hype.
This one – for Ford trucks – is understated and definitely a conversation-stopper, because it is so simple and dignified. My dad, bless his soul, was a farmer. Farming is awfully hard work, not very profitable, subject to the vagaries of weather, critters and finances. As a business, it had become commodified and consolidated by Big Agra during the last three decades. The average age of a professional farmer is 58 years, and their children are leaving for urban pursuits in increasing numbers. Machines are no replacement for ingenuity and commitment.
I salute all of the men and women who devote their lives to growing and tending things that keep us fed.
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Categories: Modern life
…after 150 years. It used to be such a thrill to hunker down in a corner of the school library and slowly page through those yellow-bordered shiny-paper covered books that were more like ships to fantastic lands. Inspiration, awe and the wonder of discovery. What a way to spend the day, even now. The amazing photo below is a testament to the wonders of nature and the skill of the photographer. You can find the original here, at the National Geographic website. 
Go take a look. Dream a bit. Think of all of the places in the world you haven’t seen. Make a short list of the ones you’d go to if you won the lottery. Pick one that could be a destination even if you don’t win. You can picture it, can’t you?
Categories: Creativity, Travel
When I was young and we lived on the fruit farm in Booneyville, Ontario, the old wringer washing machine lurked in the scary basement next to the hand pump (we had no running water or inside plumbing). My mother usually did the laundry on Monday mornings. I remember asking her, why, and her answer was that it was tradition. There are probably deeper sociological reasons, but as a kid, I took some comfort in the regularity of her schedule.
Mom had to hang the clothes outside, on a wire line attached to a pulley device close to the porch and stretching to the distant telephone pole at the edge of the back yard. I loved the sharp flapping of sheets and undies, the flags of bleached cotton diapers waving in the summer breeze, the trousers and dresses filling with air, bobbing as if worn by the invisible. Winters weren’t fun, though. Even though we tried to help, Mom struggled with the sodden wicker baskets. Our steaming garments stiffened as she shivered in her heavy boots and woolen coat, prying open the brittle wooden pins with ungloved fingers and reeling the line out of sight over the snow drifts. By the end of the day, the laundry was board-hard, smelling of cold and sun, half-dry and unfoldable.
As I grew up, moved on, had kids, house, job, etc.,
Categories: Modern life, Remembrances
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