collecting Peggy-Sues?

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Social media is such an intricate part of our lives that it’s hard to remember what we did with all the time we now spend checking status updates and posting whatever the flavour of the day is.

I maintain a presence on the professional network with groups and connections tied to the various aspects my professional life over the years and I was invited to connect  with someone in the motivational speaking world.  His profile was sparse, but looked ok; he had a picture of himself on a sailboat.  We had no connections in common, but being anxious to expand the speaking aspect, I said ok. Immediately he responded by saying “I like your picture. Send more. Send lots.” (Insert heavy breathing here) Ah……. delete that connection immediately.

My social network presence is relatively small and private and I like it that way. Still, I get friend requests like I got from a guy I’d never heard of.  No friends in common.  I looked at his profile and the one post which was a picture of a nice looking guy.  I looked at his friend list to see if we had anyone in common; as in how did he find me?

Mystery solved.  Why, he was simply building up his list of Sues to go with his Margarets and Peggys.  I guess he was now into Peggy Sues.

I declined. It wasn’t quite as creepy as the one I got from a guy collecting Susans.  Yeah he had a long list of Susans.  So weird…………

 

 

 

 

 

 

the cedar chest

 

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I’ve always just called it the cedar chest but I think it was meant to be a hope chest. The place where a woman gathers her linens and household items in preparation for marriage. Later to become the repository of baby books, dried faded roses and a maribou feather stole worn to prom some fifty years ago. Continue reading

in the middle of moving

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“In the middle of moving” is how the email note started that was from my friend this week.  I’m not sure where the move is to but I am sure that he’ll look up when he lands and steps into lifestyle changes and he’ll find fierce inspiration in all he does. ‘Cause that’s just how he rolls.  Continue reading

looking for courage

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The ever-changing rhetoric from day-to-day, hour-to-hour has our heads spinning wondering what is going on in the mind of Mr. Trump. And before you say anything; yes it does affect us tucked deeply in the Canadian north just as we’re watching the fireworks of his actions interspersed with our northern lights.   Continue reading

the gazebo, dandelions and the 9 o’clock rabbit

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Well, now I know that 10 x 10 doesn’t necessarily mean 10 x 10.  Looking to replace the fabric canopy top of my deck gazebo after several seasons, I find the actual replacement for the model I need on line…..to be shipped from deep in the USA….which is a moot point since it’s out of stock.  Okay, finding one that looks just like mine although  a different brand name,  I order it on-line in Canada and it’s shipped to a local distributor.

It looks like it will work, but the only way to find out is to wrestle it up and on and see.  Climbing up on my mini step-ladder onto the glass table (I know…… ) and here is where I found out that 10×10 means 9.5 and won’t squeeze, stretch or in any way fit.  That’s a lot of fabric to handle made more interesting as the wind picked up.  With  visions of showing up on the neighbour’s acreage to rescue my flying canopy top from the side of their garage, I quickly snagged the thing down, folded it up stuffed it back in the bag and took it back to the store.

Step # 3.  Just say screw it and buy a new gazebo. Frame and all.  Which I did. Thinking the new 10×10 top would fit I once again hefted it up and over the frame and tried it on the existing frame.  Big no. Now I’m going to have to build the whole thing.   It’s no wonder the frame of the original gazebo never moved.  We screwed that baby down to the deck never to move again.  I ended up taking the original frame top off with much gnashing of teeth and a few broken nails (damn!) and built the new gazebo inside the old one.  Put the top on and voila, a gazebo. If only I could package the fun that was! (Insert sarcasm here.)

The gazebo work was frustrating so mowing the lawn was to be my stress relief because I like to mow the lawn.  It’s dandelion13f41319b78c6c8366ab2c8a6e1aa2d756354b0d.jpeg time in my neck of the woods and since I live in the woods on acreage, we don’t use poison on our land; we mow the “lawn” consisting of a mixture of some real lawn grass, some weeds and of course dandelions.  This time of year the fields are yellow polka dot quilts with dandelions.  Unlike my “townie” friends who have perfectly manicured lawns of green velvet, I live through the dandelion time, into the clover time and then in a good year, green grass until the fall.

The thing about dandelions though, is that they are crafty.  Spiteful.  They hear the lawnmower coming and lay down like a stunt man flattening himself only to spring right  up after the car runs over him.  Not only do the dandelions spring back up, they wave their sunshine heads around on long lanky stems a good 3 inches above the freshly mowed stripe of lawn.

It turns me into a dandelion-mowing crazy woman as I go back and forth trying to catch them, losing sight of my quarry as they close up and tuck themselves in for the evening.  Come sunup, and HELLO! here we are again.  This is the spring-time ritual we dance through until they blow away and make way for clover to feed the bees.

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Pulling into the driveway late in the afternoon, I admire my lawn with waving yellow smiles in it and my canopy freshly topping off the gazebo.

My 9 o’clock rabbit was intent on nibbling grass on the edge of the driveway and after looking at me turned away and kept on munching. He usually shows up at 9 0’clock every night for a lawn snack (thus the name) but was out early this afternoon.  He perked up as I opened the trunk of my car bursting with bedding plants; flowers and vegetables to transform my world with the magic of garden gloves, dirty knees and the smell of fresh earth.

Heading to the porch with a flat of flowers balanced in each hand, I heard a rustle behind me and turned around to see my rabbit hopping to the car.  He stood up and in his little rabbity voice said “hey Sue, sommathatforme?”  His nose twitching, giving me a two-toothed rabbit smile.

I said “nope, do your job and eat the dandelions”.

And that was my week so far.

 

 

 

my Mom’s dreams

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As we hit our teenage years, our Mom is around sometimes like an unwanted appendage weighing us down and sometimes like a crutch holding us up.  We’ve all been there; “ohhhhh Mom, really??” and the phone calls “Mom……..it’s me…”.

It’s a hard transition from being a needy child to being a teenager and then to a young parent ourselves doing it our own way.  And all along the way our Mom is there trying to fit into our ever changing outlook on what she should be for us.  This isn’t a bad thing; it’s a natural progression. Maybe it’s also a natural progression to soften the edges and embrace her with respect and a  deep connection as we age along with her, and to long for missed opportunities after it’s too late to take them.

I look at this picture of my Mom from very long ago and wonder what dreams she had. I never asked her. I never knew since we didn’t have much of a relationship beyond my childhood, and then not anywhere close to knowing what she dreamed of. I feel sad for that.

Ask your Mom what she dreams of.   Then love her for her dreams.

 

 

 

potato soup

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The smell of potato soup wafts up from the stove as I hold the seven week old baby girl tucked to my chest, rocking back and forth to try to get her to stop crying. And shivering.  She is shivering. With my free arm, I stir and stir and stir the soup with the big broken metal spoon that I found in the cutlery drawer with a few stray spoons and forks and crumbs.  The spoon grates against the pot with each pass through the thin soup. I can’t let it burn; it’s all there is to eat in the house.

I hadn’t thought of the family for years but they came rushing back to me with all the desperation and fear and hopelessness from so long ago.  With a thick, creamy soup simmering on my stove; bacon, onions, potatoes, rich and creamy, I caught a memory as I lifted the lid to check and stir. Continue reading