tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83812816325785519042024-03-07T11:59:42.683-08:00A Wee Cuppa Tea?The Family that Blogs together, stays together.....and shares in the gossip!
Come, join us for a wee cuppa and a piece of Shortie!Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-42247316080549669652010-06-20T12:45:00.000-07:002010-06-27T20:40:12.356-07:00<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="time"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14pt;">Fathers Day Thoughts</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center">
<br /><b style=""><span style="font-size:14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was looking through the racks of Fathers Day cards on sale at the Mall and finding it hard to find a suitable card to send to my dad that expressed my feelings. I have told you some of my personal history in my article on the War Brides exhibit but on revisiting the story of my ‘becoming’, it’s hard to put my relationship with my dad into perspective.<span style=""> </span>I stood there reading all the lovely sentiments “Dad, you were always there for me”, “Dad you made me the person I am”, “Dad, thanks for letting me borrow the car, I’ll give it back someday!” and “Dad, I know I gave you a hard time growing up etc. etc.”<span style=""> </span>I find it very hard to relate to any of these sentiments as I actually only spent six years of my early life with him from ages <st1:time minute="58" hour="19">two to eight</st1:time>.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I do remember my dad as being a big strong man who carried me on his shoulders, took me to the beach and parks, he played with me and made me things, a hobby horse, a rifle that fired elastic bands, a Red Indian headdress from duck feathers.<span style=""> </span>I had a bike and birthday cakes and friends.<span style=""> </span>We ran pretty wild in the bush around our home in <st1:place>East Vancouver</st1:place>, what fun we had.<span style=""> </span>I remember winters with lots of snow and my dad pulling me on a toboggan along the roads.<span style=""> </span>I remember the three of us sitting in the small living room listening to the radio while granny knitted and I played on the floor with my farm animals or the dolls house dad had made for me.<span style=""> </span>He took me to movies and the drive in, made Halloween costumes for me and took me “Trick or Treating” and when a good tune came on the radio, I stood on his feet while he danced with me, all the things a little girl could wish for from her daddy.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I look back on those years as very happy and normal ones, my dad was there, I had friends and my granny was a substitute mother but after my mum died, granny decided she wanted to go back to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region> and wouldn’t leave without me so dad let me go and off we flew to <st1:country-region><st1:place>Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>I hadn’t been allowed to attend my mums funeral, it was only every talked about in hushed whispers around me and no one asked if I wanted to go to Scotland to live, I guess I thought I was going on holiday. What a culture shock that was. You know the scene in the “The Wizard of Oz” where it changes from black and white to Technicolor?<span style=""> </span>Well landing in post-war <st1:country-region><st1:place>Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region> in 1952 was just the reverse!</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I know it must have been hard for my dad to let me go, things were different back then and granny was a very strong willed woman, he had to pretty much to sell up everything to pay our airfares and he did send child support until I was 16 and did keep in touch with letters and presents and cards over the years.<span style=""> </span>He remarried and had a new family, two boys, my half brothers.<span style=""> </span>I remember being overjoyed at the thought of being a ‘big sister’ and couldn’t wait to hear the news and tell everyone at school as they all seemed to have loads of brothers and sisters and also had two parents.<span style=""> </span>I was looked on as an oddity, living with my grandmother with no mum or dad</p><p class="MsoNormal">.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was reunited with him when I got married, he flew over to ‘give me away’, we made the local papers, ‘Together after 14 years” etc.<span style=""> </span>But I only had a short time to get to know him before we were separated once more.<span style=""> </span>I went out with him the day before the ceremony for a quiet drink and I’ll never forget what he told me.<span style=""> </span>He said “You know, it’s not too late to change your mind, cancel the wedding, you can just walk away”.<span style=""> </span>I remember being totally taken aback, how on earth could he know that’s what I wanted to do more than anything!<span style=""> </span>But I didn’t have the courage to walk away, what about the church, what about the guests, what about the reception, all booked, what would people think?<span style=""> </span>So I burbled merrily “Oh no, why would I do that?<span style=""> </span>I love him!” and that was that.<span style=""> </span>Years later, I asked dad why he said that and he told me he just knew my husband was not for me and that it would end in tears and it did.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if growing up without a father figure affected my development, I know my life would have been totally different had I grown up in <st1:city><st1:place>Vancouver</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>For a while I did resent the fact that I grew up without what I deemed to be the attributes of a ‘North American’ life style, that of senior high, dating boys with cars, beach parties, maybe going to college etc.<span style=""> </span>I even gave up writing to a girl friend who had been a neighbour in Vancouver as I was jealous hearing about all the things she was doing, while she went out with friends in cars, I was cycling around and while she went on camping holidays and road trips with family, I was taken on bus tours with my granny and all the other old pensioners!</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I did get over it, time does that but I always hankered after the life I thought I should have had and now here I am back in Vancouver and surrounded by my own precious little family.<span style=""> </span>My relationship with my dad, though warm, is still at a distance, I didn’t find the family with him I always craved, and I don’t think it actually existed except in my imagination.<span style=""> </span>I think I have finally come to terms with that.<span style=""> </span>You make your own life; no one else is responsible for how it turns out.<span style=""> </span>I only wish I had not spent so many years searching for what was here all the time, and just like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz”, I found, indeed, that there’s no place like home.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-54599763452441953072008-08-09T23:31:00.000-07:002008-08-09T23:33:27.511-07:00In Praise of Aunties and Uncles<p class="MsoNormal">These long summer days and my ever lengthening years have put me in a somewhat melancholy and introspective mood.<span style=""> </span>I miss my aunties!<span style=""> </span>I suddenly realized I only have one aunt and uncle left and they are becoming increasingly frail and also lives thousands of miles away in <st1:country-region><st1:place>England</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>Once upon a time I not only had several aunts, uncles too of course, but also Great Aunts and Uncles, the siblings of my grandmother.<span style=""> </span>I miss the weekly visits from them at first my grandmothers house (she raised me), then later mine and turn about when we visited them.<span style=""> </span>There was always tea and scones of course and lots of gossip.<span style=""> </span>As a wee girl, I’d sit quietly on the floor, playing with my toys while they chatted with my gran, gleaning nuggets of family history and sometimes, gasp, a scandal or two!<span style=""> </span>They always brought a supply of cream cakes with them and of course, sweeties for me and when they left, they always gave me some “pocket money” to spend.<span style=""> </span>As I grew up, I was allowed to join in with the adults and later when my daughter arrived, she in turn loved their visits with the candy and cash being for her this time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">From time to time we would all go through to <st1:place>Stirling</st1:place> to visit an old friend of my grandmothers, who was an honorary aunt!<span style=""> </span>Granny, two aunts, my daughter and I would board a train for the 40 minute trip to <st1:place>Stirling</st1:place> where we would be met by a nephew of my “aunt” and whisked off for an afternoon of blethering with a lovely “tea” spread out for us.<span style=""> </span>When I was a girl, I loved to visit there because there was another girl, a relative of theirs who I could team up with and we would go off exploring the countryside.<span style=""> </span>When my daughter’s turn came, she loved the visits too because of the delicious home baked treats laid out for tea and because behind my aunt’s house there was a field of cows and she would go out feed them over the fence. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Aunties and uncles are important members of a family; I only wish I had many more of them and that they were still with us.<span style=""> </span>I’m an aunt myself but alas don’t have the same close contact with my nephews that I enjoyed.<span style=""> </span>I wrote the following story as a writing exercise a while ago but it recalls a happy childhood memory of a different era.<span style=""> </span>I hope you enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;">My </span></b><st1:place><st1:placename><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;">Secret</span></b></st1:placename><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;"> </span></b><st1:placetype><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;">Garden</span></b></st1:placetype></st1:place><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was raised by my grandmother in Scotland in the early 1950’s and have fond memories of visiting her sister Bell and my great-uncle Frank Bunn at their little home in a village just outside of Edinburgh called Loanhead.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Theirs was an old terraced house with a long, narrow garden which backed onto a railway cutting.<span style=""> </span>Every time we visited in the summer, Uncle Frank would say the magic words “want to go down to the garden Maxine?”<span style=""> </span>This eight year old had no hesitation, and off we would go my young hand tucked in his old gnarled, gardeners’ one.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We would walk slowly down the long gravel path, stopping to admire the neat rows of vegetables; <span style=""> </span>carrots, beets, turnip, lettuce and peas with me listening politely while he extolled the virtues of this variety or that.<span style=""> </span>Then we would come to what we both knew was the real goal of this sedate stroll…..the strawberry patch!<span style=""> </span>Uncle Frank would say with a twinkle in his eye, “well Maxine, and let’s see if there are any ripe berries today”.<span style=""> </span>I needed no second bidding!<span style=""> </span>And of course, there were always berries, large, luscious, sweet strawberries, ripe and warm from the sun.<span style=""> </span>I would just brush off the soft, brown soil and pop them in my mouth, savouring their sweet juices.<span style=""> </span>Uncle Frank and I would just grin at each other as he helped me eat my fill.<span style=""> </span>Then with a satisfied sigh, we would move on to the raspberry canes, my next favourite stop!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When we reached the end of the garden, there was another source of satisfaction and not a little morbid curiosity on my part for I knew that under the beautiful rock garden there, lay the remains of their beloved pet dog “Tippy”, who had died many years ago.<span style=""> </span>Uncle Frank would always stop for a few minutes here and pick out a tiny weed or two that had the temerity to take root.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just over the rough stone dyke was the railway line.<span style=""> </span>Uncle Frank had a bench here and I would stand on this and peek over the wall while he puffed away on his old pipe.<span style=""> </span>There were steam engines then, great black puffing noisy monsters chugging by, what a thrill for a child!<span style=""> </span>I would wait patiently for one to come by, belching out clouds of black smoke and would wave wildly to the engineers and passengers as they passed, they always waved back.<span style=""> </span>Later, my pockets stuffed with peapods and my face stained with berry juice, we would return contentedly to the house and join my aunt and granny for tea and scones with strawberry jam of course!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The house, the people and the steam trains are long gone now but not my happy memories.<br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--></p>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-50943582841037802682008-05-05T09:34:00.000-07:002008-05-07T13:19:47.145-07:00For Mother's Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cZ_eImpS9W3zflkkEWpLvRpkBwTiRwUB2urDt4bQBCVa7OqJRNaIbF7WKO_SrdFv40Iv6GzEbzch77ZOnvDqa2DKSfqf0OkfMd0RXETopsgcE9v9ITGUZoe8JjCEFt-GeG9EloxiK3o/s1600-h/Queen+Mary+on+War+service.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cZ_eImpS9W3zflkkEWpLvRpkBwTiRwUB2urDt4bQBCVa7OqJRNaIbF7WKO_SrdFv40Iv6GzEbzch77ZOnvDqa2DKSfqf0OkfMd0RXETopsgcE9v9ITGUZoe8JjCEFt-GeG9EloxiK3o/s320/Queen+Mary+on+War+service.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196934030776242450" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I am the daughter of a WWII ‘War Bride’.<span style=""> </span>My Scottish mother met my father, a Canadian soldier, at “The Palais De Danse” in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Edinburgh</st1:city></st1:place> during one of his leaves.<span style=""> </span>The Palais had seen better days.<span style=""> </span>It used to be quite grand apparently.<span style=""> </span>It had a sprung dance floor and a balcony running around the large floor where you could watch the dancers.<span style=""> </span>Before the war people used to arrive in carriages, and fur and jewel bedecked women swanned in on the arms of handsome tuxedo clad men, or so I am told.<span style=""> </span>The wars changed all that and in the 1940’s it was a hang out for the ‘sojers’ to meet Scottish lassies.<span style=""> </span>I just remember it as a place to go “dancin’” and meet boys in the 1960’s.<span style=""> </span>It had a bad reputation by then and I was not supposed to go but did anyway.<span style=""> </span>Sadly it closed down and became, like many others, a Bingo Hall.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know even if it is still there.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XpkEoCG2ADg8zxpRXpNmCO3Ff-2SgUTGUFGQqwC_Ka704FpQhOKZEjqeRBbOBa1qK_8Z1iqSyFaavsuS0BG-YncrEX_9hJgBqU92HWbSu6Lit19wXkfSk-R8xCAPglezekeaEoNfwc4/s1600-h/Helen+Smeaton,+1942.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XpkEoCG2ADg8zxpRXpNmCO3Ff-2SgUTGUFGQqwC_Ka704FpQhOKZEjqeRBbOBa1qK_8Z1iqSyFaavsuS0BG-YncrEX_9hJgBqU92HWbSu6Lit19wXkfSk-R8xCAPglezekeaEoNfwc4/s320/Helen+Smeaton,+1942.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196934193984999714" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My dad was not a dancer, being a big <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">Saskatchewan</st1:state></st1:place> farm boy, but he wanted to meet girls so made himself go.<span style=""> </span>On this occasion he looked ‘across a crowded room’ and spotted my mum and her lovely, auburn hair and was instantly smitten.<span style=""> </span>He plucked up courage to go over and ask her to dance.<span style=""> </span>He remembers the song that they danced to was Bing Crosby singing “Where the Blue of the night meets the gold of the day, someone waits for me”.<span style=""> </span>He tells me that after they met, they were inseparable and every leave he got was spent in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Edinburgh</st1:city></st1:place> with my mum.<span style=""> </span>You have to realize that this was war time and a different generation, the blackout was on, no lights allowed anywhere, no sign posts, food and clothing rationing and people being shipped out at a moments notice.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQJZ4LjprkcAMW8rxu1epUNa8X478xByk4iP3GrFUTyNo71wykN-weE6D7KaOOGWKrU16OB93nhrWxF6aQV7lr7FOAIBR37h34LLy0rD1oepKIqJrM9tR76ShLt2EVdkFFfgmB9LvRuU/s1600-h/Dad+and+Mum+on+their+wedding+day.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQJZ4LjprkcAMW8rxu1epUNa8X478xByk4iP3GrFUTyNo71wykN-weE6D7KaOOGWKrU16OB93nhrWxF6aQV7lr7FOAIBR37h34LLy0rD1oepKIqJrM9tR76ShLt2EVdkFFfgmB9LvRuU/s320/Dad+and+Mum+on+their+wedding+day.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196933502495265010" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">They were married in 1943 in my mum’s house by the local minister.<span style=""> </span>Being war time, it was very difficult to find nice things and my mum was married in a short, pale blue rayon dress and she could only find a pair of heavy shoes to wear with it.<span style=""> </span>Of course Dad was in his uniform.<span style=""> </span>It was even difficult to find enough ingredients for a wedding cake with the severe rationing that was in place at the time.<span style=""> </span>I was born in 1944 in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Edinburgh</st1:city></st1:place> while dad was away and he actually didn’t get to see me until I was 1 year old.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The war ended in 1945 and dad was sent back to <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Canada</st1:country-region></st1:place> to be demobbed.<span style=""> </span>He bought a veterans house in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Vancouver</st1:city></st1:place> and sent for my mum and I to join him in 1946.<span style=""> </span>We sailed from <st1:place st="on">South Hampton</st1:place> on the Queen Mary which was almost brand new but still fitted out for war service.<span style=""> </span>My mum thought it was very grand and sent a post card of the ship to her mother, my granny, saying they were having ‘a swell time’ with plenty to eat and cheap cigarettes or ‘fags’ as she called them! </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Imagine a ship full of hundreds of women and children all leaving their homes for new lives with husbands they hardly knew to live in a huge, strange land.<span style=""> </span>How brave they all were, I don’t think we’ll see the like again.<span style=""> </span>We landed at Pier 21 in <st1:city st="on">Halifax</st1:city> and then my mum had to face a four day train journey across <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Canada</st1:country-region></st1:place> with a two year old! <span style=""> </span>The train was packed with other war brides and children who were dropped off as they crossed the continent, some in the middle of nowhere in the prairies.<span style=""> </span>My mother was lucky she was going to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Vancouver</st1:city></st1:place> and a comfortable home.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZDAJxKaQFIttKWYNYjL9LexzByWZXr270yLLxGa7ZNCdA8qsYQyafobEszV4rVkYi1rptBVeomGJ9vLP0XSuYsENJvIy0Xuv6jG_QSDCRb_ecJjRNyIG9f7KHQJZz101DXvHIMiVUDo/s1600-h/My+mum+and+me+1944.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZDAJxKaQFIttKWYNYjL9LexzByWZXr270yLLxGa7ZNCdA8qsYQyafobEszV4rVkYi1rptBVeomGJ9vLP0XSuYsENJvIy0Xuv6jG_QSDCRb_ecJjRNyIG9f7KHQJZz101DXvHIMiVUDo/s320/My+mum+and+me+1944.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196933738718466306" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We were only reunited with my father a short time when it was discovered that my mum had contracted TB.<span style=""> </span>She was hospitalized and my Scottish granny came out in 1947 to look after me and keep house while she was in hospital.<span style=""> </span>My mum was in hospital for 5 years during which time I was not allowed to visit her, only see her through a window several floors up.<span style=""> </span>She died in 1952 age 32 never having seen any more of <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Canada</st1:country-region></st1:place> other than what she had during her train trip.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I was 8 years old and had only had my mum for 3 years.<span style=""> </span>My granny wanted to return to <st1:country-region st="on">Scotland</st1:country-region> and wouldn’t leave without me so my dad let me go and we left for <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Scotland</st1:country-region></st1:place> later that year.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am now living in Vancouver having immigrated with my own daughter in 1981 and I have nothing but admiration for all those brave war brides who have helped make Canada the wonderful country that it is.<span style=""> </span>I only wish my mum could have been here with me to see it all.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-54894563699635218562007-08-01T20:41:00.000-07:002007-08-01T20:43:22.834-07:00"HOSTA LA VISTA BABY"<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style="">“Hosta la vista baby!”<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Its official, I’ve reached “the falling years”.<span style=""> </span>You ladies over 50 or so will possibly know what I mean.<span style=""> </span>Standing in front of a full length mirror in the nude (sounds so much more rude than naked don’t you think?} takes all the courage I can muster.<span style=""> </span>The 63 year old body reflected back at me always comes as a bit of a shock to put it mildly.<span style=""> </span>Is that really me?<span style=""> </span>How can this be?<span style=""> </span>Where did the slim, supple, smooth skinned lass of even 20 years ago vanish to?<span style=""> </span>I’ve gained about 25 lbs in those 20 years and before that I can hardly believe that in my twenties at 125lbs I thought I was plump!<span style=""> </span>I know, there are some really fit, taut, lithe women in their 60’s out there, not to mention those who are trying to stem the relentless tide of the advancing years with Botox injections, liposuction, face lifts and tummy tucks that only prolong the agony for perhaps another 10 years.<span style=""> </span>Have you seen some of those gargoyles that pass for mature women on television?<span style=""> </span>Mind you, if I lost 20 lbs and kept up at my fitness and weight training classes and had just a tiny bit of surgery to tighten a sagging jaw line and maybe a wee shot of collagen injected into my ever thinning lips, then maybe, just maybe I might try a foray into the dating scene again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, once again I seem to have strayed from my topic; “the falling years”.<span style=""> </span>Apart from the obvious of falling chins, breasts and buttocks, there is the problem of physically falling down.<span style=""> </span>I seem to be doing this more often than I can remember since I was five years old.<span style=""> </span>A while ago I tried running lightly up the stairs to one of our Sky Train Stations, why I don’t know, they come every five minutes, only to trip on the top step and sprawl heavily to my knees in front of the hoards of people waiting to board an arriving train on one side of the platform and a departing one on the other.<span style=""> </span>As I struggled to my feet, gathering my scattered belongings to me, not one single soul came to my aid or even to ask if I was alright.<span style=""> </span>They studiously ignored my plight as they fought their way onto the trains and I slunk off to the side to lick my wounds and wait for the next one.<span style=""> </span>Pretty much only my pride was injured on that occasion though I was quite shaken up. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another time I was on my way to a doctors appointment and after parking my car, I crossed the road and fell up the kerb on the other side.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know why, but I did.<span style=""> </span>I put out both hands to save myself, spraining (or staving as we say in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region>) my wrists in the process.<span style=""> </span>I also scraped my knees and muddied my pants.<span style=""> </span>I got up, brushed my self off and looked furtively around to see if anyone had witnessed this latest humiliation, no one in sight thank goodness so I carried on with my appointment.<span style=""> </span>My doctor, who is an old Scotsman just looked at me over his glasses when I told him my story and tisk tisking at me said “Oh lassie, whit are we gaeing to dae wi’ ye?”<span style=""> </span>I ached all over for a few days after that spill.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The most recent event occurred last week when I was pottering around my tiny garden, plucking a weed here, tweaking a recalcitrant plant there when I decided the bird bath needed my attention.<span style=""> </span>I could have gone around behind it which would have been the sensible thing to do, but no, I stretched over my pots of hostas and the little wall of edging stones around the plot and endeavored to twist the bird bath to level it off a bit.<span style=""> </span>Well of course I over balanced, tipped the bath over and fell among my hostas, knocking pots and gnomes flying in the process.<span style=""> </span>I can only imagine how this must have appeared from behind had there been any witnesses!<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once I extricated myself from the plot, almost impaling myself on the pointed hat of a cheerfully smiling gnome in the process, I surveyed the damage both to my plants and my person.<span style=""> </span>I righted the bird bath and noted the many broken and flattened leaves of my poor hostas.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I had sustained a “staved” left wrist, a scraped right hand, two bruised knees, one which has since come up in a bump the size of a hens egg and also a big purple bruise which has appeared on my right inner thigh, I don’t remember how that got there although I suspect the gnome had something to do with it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>So here I am, sitting in the sun recuperating from the trauma of it all, Gin and Tonic at hand and I am hoping, dear readers, that I’m not suffering alone with this ghastly affliction and I look forward to hearing your “falling” stories soon too!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Cheers!<o:p></o:p></p>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-175615550419457632007-06-17T18:19:00.000-07:002007-06-17T18:22:39.894-07:00A Nana Over The Edge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbYcttRpGQhQpV9n7u8uarOIgdhC31dXZ15cWXgSj5BT0IfKktCAhnjLEu8mrI1bGo-KQX6LFuILMs5LGV1OZDrUHeKxMKugJMmtlmFJd1mvSKhiRjrrl7Juztw_lva5b0G-_WXkjyEY/s1600-h/titch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbYcttRpGQhQpV9n7u8uarOIgdhC31dXZ15cWXgSj5BT0IfKktCAhnjLEu8mrI1bGo-KQX6LFuILMs5LGV1OZDrUHeKxMKugJMmtlmFJd1mvSKhiRjrrl7Juztw_lva5b0G-_WXkjyEY/s320/titch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077208283198832194" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yQD4IFIqqs5r8Y-RGpXkCSI8kG-LOtV_-DOE_ZmTroCGZ29flRJgzC8MxpW0-4aea3MAtXRIe3fPIangoCPUec-ZZMhYdHZgV0rnTSsbKpMAuLkfCnFxcWHFHe0PFSplUn_tHp6mCek/s1600-h/dozy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yQD4IFIqqs5r8Y-RGpXkCSI8kG-LOtV_-DOE_ZmTroCGZ29flRJgzC8MxpW0-4aea3MAtXRIe3fPIangoCPUec-ZZMhYdHZgV0rnTSsbKpMAuLkfCnFxcWHFHe0PFSplUn_tHp6mCek/s320/dozy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5077208519422033490" border="0" /></a>Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-32526502632307789742007-06-13T00:28:00.000-07:002007-06-17T23:44:58.845-07:00New writing assignmentThis is for my latest writing assignment from <a href="http://house-of-sternberg.blogspot.com/2007/06/i-have-seen-things-in-darkness.html">Mr. Sternberg </a>and it was a hard one! We had to incorporate a quotation and then pick at least 10 words to change that must enrich the story and make it obvious what they were. I have taken a stab at it and if nothing else, it's good exercise for the old brain cells! Please excuse the grammar, I've forgotten all the rules around quotation marks but would appreciate any tips on editing!<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;">The Radio<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br />I stood hesitantly <b style="">uncertainly</b> at the door of the old shop.<span style=""> </span>I’d passed it by many times, glancing in the window as I hurried along on some errand, urgent or otherwise but today I had a reason to stop as firmly clutched in my arms was a parcel containing the pieces of my grandfather’s old Bakelite radio.<span style=""> </span>The old boy had left it to me in his will, he had also left me a modest sum of money, his gold railroad watch and other sundry items but a letter to me, which accompanied the will, specifically told me to look after his old radio and mentioned that if I ever got it working, I would be in for quite a surprise.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br />So curiosity piqued, I found myself entering the old, dusty, musty electronics repair shop that I had walked by so many times before.<span style=""> </span>Peering through the dust motes floating in the still warm air of the room, I could just make out the outline of piles of parts, wires, tubes and bits and pieces of miscellaneous <b style="">assorted</b> plastic littering the tables and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">counter tops</span>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br />“Hello” I called out tentatively <b style="">uncertainly</b> “is there anyone here?”<span style=""> </span>I heard a noise from somewhere in the back of the gloom and a bent figure slowly shuffled into the faint light falling from a naked light bulb hanging in the middle of the room.<span style=""> </span>“Yes, can I help you?” a thin voice like paper rustling reached towards me and drew me into the circle of light.<span style=""> </span>The shop keeper, if you could call him that appeared very old, ancient really, well past his sell by date and retirement age as well.<span style=""> </span>His few strands of wispy white hair were carefully combed over a bald, mottled pate and a pair of gold wire rimmed spectacles (one would not call them glasses!) magnified his blue, rheumy eyes which nonetheless sparkled with intelligence.<span style=""> </span>He reminded me of an elderly cricket and he did move with a rather odd hopping gait which he proceeded to do quite suddenly, circling around me and making a small humming sound under his breath while he did so.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I remained transfixed for a few moments and then managed to stammer <b style="">stutter</b> out my request asking him to take a look at the radio and see if there was any hope of getting it in working order.<span style=""> </span>He stopped his hopping and indicating to a relatively clear spot on his work bench with a gnarled, grubby finger, I set the parcel down there.<span style=""> </span>He dragged a small stool over to the bench and perching on it, untied the string and opened the brown paper wrapping.<span style=""> </span>He continued to make little sounds, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tisking</span> and tutting and humming while poking and picking up the various parts.<span style=""> </span>“An old RCA Victor I see, model 66X3, 1940’s.<span style=""> </span>They don’t make em’ like that anymore”.<span style=""> </span>“Leave it with me, come back in two weeks and we’ll see what’s what”.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I was about to leave after jotting down my name and phone number for him, when I noticed he was looking at me rather oddly.<span style=""> </span>“What’s wrong?” I asked.<span style=""> </span>“Oh nothing”, he replied, busying himself with his tools, “I was just wondering why you want this old thing fixed; some things are better left <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">unmended</span>”.<span style=""> </span>“Did your grandfather not warn you about meddling <b style="">interfering</b> with things best left alone?<span style=""> </span>Do you not wonder why this radio’s in so many pieces, almost as if it was deliberately smashed?”<span style=""> </span>I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hadn</span>’t really given it much thought about how it came to be in so many bits but now I felt a chill running down my spine, in fact the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a few degrees since I had first come in.<span style=""> </span>“No, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">hadn</span>’t” I replied, “my grandfather left it to me and suggested I try and get it fixed, that’s all”.<span style=""> </span>“Okay” he said “it’s your funeral, see you in two weeks”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It was only after I rather gratefully left the store and hurried back to my warm apartment that I realized I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">hadn</span>’t actually told him how I had come by the radio, not until I was leaving that is.<span style=""> </span>How did he know about my grandfather?<span style=""> </span>I laughed at my foolishness <b style="">silliness</b>, he probably just guessed, judging by the age of the radio.<span style=""> </span>I forgot all about it until nearly a month had passed and I was sitting studying for yet another exam when the phone rang.<span style=""> </span>“Hello” I said, “Mark here”.<span style=""> </span>A thin reedy voice wheezed into my ear, “the radio’s ready, come pick it up…..soon”.<span style=""> </span>Before I could reply I heard the click of the receiver clattering down at the other end.<span style=""> </span>I knew who it was of course and it was with a sense of uneasiness I realized I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">didn</span>’t really want to collect the thing now anyway.<span style=""> </span>Sighing I returned to my books, I’d call in at the shop tomorrow after class.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I stood once again outside the shop door, noting this time that there was actually no identifying name or number over the lintel or anywhere.<span style=""> </span>Telling myself to ‘get a grip’, I opened the door firmly and went in.<span style=""> </span>This time a bell tinkled, announcing my arrival, I glanced up at it, trembling <b style="">shaking</b> away as I passed through.<span style=""> </span>I could see the old man waiting by the counter in the gloom, no difference there then, I thought.<span style=""> </span>He waited patiently for me, his hands moving gently, almost lovingly over a small square brown radio gleaming softly in the dim light.<span style=""> </span>It looked as good as new, it was actually a mottled brown and beige colour, with large clear dial numbers, a cloth grill and 3 large tuning buttons on the front, quite handsome really.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>“Wow” I exclaimed, “it looks brand new”.<span style=""> </span>He just smiled and turning to the wall, plugged the set in.<span style=""> </span>The dial front lit up and as he tuned the station button, the soothing sounds of Glenn Miller’s “String of Pearls” flowed from the speaker.<span style=""> </span>“That’s great” I said, thinking it must be one of those oldies stations.<span style=""> </span>“Thank you very much, and what do I owe you?”<span style=""> </span>He smiled again, turned off the radio, unplugged it and wrapped it carefully up in the same paper I had brought it in, knotting the string thoughtfully <b style="">considerately</b> into a carrying handle for me.<span style=""> </span>“That will be twenty pounds” he said.<span style=""> </span>“Are you sure?” I asked, it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">didn</span>’t seem much for such a restoration job.<span style=""> </span>“Yes” he replied, “quite enough, young man.<span style=""> </span>Maybe even too high a price.<span style=""> </span>Use it carefully” he added enigmatically<b style=""> mysteriously</b>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I took it home and after some revision and a take-out meal, I settled down to read a magazine and drink a beer, I felt I had earned that small pleasure.<span style=""> </span>As I settled by the electric fire, my eye fell upon the radio, now sitting burnished and gleaming on my sideboard, a relic from my grandmother actually.<span style=""> </span>I switched it on and the first words I heard were, “Who knows, the Shadow knows” and a commentator welcomed us to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Lux</span> playhouse.<span style=""> </span>I twiddled the tuner but kept coming up with nothing but really old plays, comedies, music and commercials selling cigarettes and cars and detergents from by gone days.<span style=""> </span>What the heck is going on, I thought.<span style=""> </span>Next the announcer was exhorting us to buy war bonds.<span style=""> </span>This is nuts, am I going crazy or what.<span style=""> </span>I switched on the TV, it was showing Star Trek reruns, which I found somewhat comforting.<span style=""> </span>I turned it off and tried the radio again.<span style=""> </span>This time it was a play with a young Orson Welles starring in it, a thriller, quite creepy actually.<span style=""> </span>I left it on and returned to my chair, leaning back and letting his mellifluous <b style="">honeyed </b>tones draw me into the story.<span style=""> </span>He was intoning <i style="">“I see things in darkness that no one should see by light of day.”</i> when I must have dozed off.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>When I awoke, the first thing I noticed was that it was very quiet; I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">couldn</span>’t hear the usual hubbub <b style="">din</b> of traffic outside.<span style=""> </span>In fact everything was very dark, my room felt different somehow, all the lights were off except for the glow from the radio which was silent now.<span style=""> </span>I stumbled to my feet, a newspaper spilling off my lap.<span style=""> </span>I made my way to the light switch, even it felt different. The light came on revealing a very different room to the one I fell asleep in.<span style=""> </span>I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">didn</span>’t recognize anything in it except for the radio and the old sideboard it stood on, though even that looked bright and new.<span style=""> </span>Dazedly <b style="">numbly</b> I went to my window, I pulled back the heavy dark curtains and tried to see out, the glass was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">criss</span>-crossed with tape and the street below was in blackness, not a light to be seen, what few passersby there were, walked quickly by holding shielded flashlights pointing to the ground.<span style=""> </span>I suddenly heard a loud whistle and a uniformed man yelled up at me “Turn your light off, don’t you know there’s a war on?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I staggered back, letting the curtains fall back in place, somehow or another I had been transported back to the 1940’s, how could this be?<span style=""> </span>I grabbed the paper and frantically looked for the date, there it was staring at me; <st1:date year="1944" day="21" month="1">January 21, 1944</st1:date>.<span style=""> </span>Is this what my grandfather meant by my surprise?<span style=""> </span>This is insane, I can’t stay here, I haven’t even been born yet.<span style=""> </span>I ran across the room and grabbed the radio, raising it above my head I threw it to the floor, smashing <b style="">shattering</b> it to pieces once again.<span style=""> </span>I must have fainted, when I came to, I was lying on the floor amid the wreckage of the radio but to my immense relief, I was staring at the same beer stained rug I had always had and I could hear the roar of the morning traffic outside my window.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>I gathered the pieces of the radio together in a bin bag and dropped the lot in a garbage can by the main door on my way out.<span style=""> </span>As I ran for the bus, I glanced across the street to look for the repair shop; there was no sign of it, only the launderette next door and a new doughnut franchise.<span style=""> </span>Somehow, I was not at all surprised.</p>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-89131626159984878702007-04-19T21:08:00.000-07:002007-04-19T21:23:55.764-07:00Incident at the Gym<p style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Thank you all for your kind words about my April Fool misadventure. Unfortunately there seems to be no end of my embarrassing moments to share with you. Here is another one from my School Days. I hope you enjoy it!<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Another embarrassing moment in the life of Nana Crunch.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>To set the scene we have to go back to the so-called good old days of the 1950’s when I attended High School in <st1:place><st1:city>Edinburgh</st1:City>, <st1:country-region>Scotland</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Back then you generally left school at age15 unless you passed your “Highers” and could go on until you were 18.<span style=""> </span>We sat exams in elementary school grade 8 and these determined what ‘stream’ you would enter in High School.<span style=""> </span>I fell into the category of <span style="font-style: italic;">“Commercial One” </span>which meant I was going to be a short-hand typist whether I wanted to or not.<span style=""> </span>Lower scores were sent to <span style="font-style: italic;">“Domestic”</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">“Commercial Two”,</span> higher scores got <span style="font-style: italic;">“Languages”</span> and thought they were way better than the rest of us plebs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p style="font-style: italic;"> </o:p><span style="font-style: italic;">“Domestic” </span>meant you were destined for the factory floor, or the service industry and <span style="font-style: italic;">“Commercial 2”</span> meant you were taught some typing skills as well as cooking.<span style=""> </span>The elevated <span style="font-style: italic;">“Languages”</span> classes were taught Latin and German and didn’t have to work with their hands at all.<span style=""> </span>As well as typing, short-hand and book-keeping, we also had English, History, Geography, French, Science, Math, Art, Music and Sewing.<span style=""> </span>They didn’t seem to think we needed to know how to boil an egg but we had to be able to sew buttons on our husbands’ shirts!<span style=""> </span>I also have the painful memory of being given the ‘belt’ by granny Ross, our vicious little sewing teacher, all because I didn’t put my lap-bag on fast enough, too busy talking.<span style=""> </span>This was delivered in front of the class and the fact that I was a hulking 5’ 6” and she stood about four feet nothing did not deter her.<span style=""> </span>I can still feel it!<span style=""> </span>There were several boys in our class but instead of sewing, they were given the manly task of banging nails into bits of wood while we treadled our lives away.<span style=""> </span>I’m sure there must be a place somewhere in another plane of existence where all those mismatched “what-knots” and lop-sided display shelves languish along with aprons, dirndl skirts and unwearable blouses. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>That reminds me, we were also taught something called “R.I.”, Religious Instruction, from which the two Catholics in our class were always mysteriously excused, the rest of us being good Scottish Protestants of course.<span style=""> </span>I rather enjoyed this class, it was more like an ancient history lesson and we got to draw interesting maps of the <st1:place>Holy Land</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>I remember I actually won a prize for an essay we had to write.<span style=""> </span>It was to be a modern day parable and I chose “The Prodigal Son”.<span style=""> </span>Something about him returning home on the Number One bus apparently struck a chord with the jury!<span style=""> </span>The prize I picked was a book, “Animal Tales” by Blackwood, I still have it (my one and only school honour!)<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>The other class I was not very keen on was Gym.<span style=""> </span>You have to picture the era, we didn’t wear shorts back then we just took off our skirts and ran around in our school blouses and navy knickers.<span style=""> </span>These were made of thick durable navy cotton with elastic around the legs; some even had a pocket in them for a hanky.<span style=""> </span>The classes were not co-ed though, thank goodness.<span style=""><br /></span>We would be made to do all the usual humiliating routines of trying to climb the ropes, balance on beams, hang upside down on the wall bars and on occasion, vault over a “horse” or “buck”.<span style=""> <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Sadly, I was never very athletic but the Gym teacher, Miss N. always tried to inspire us to greater things.<span style=""> </span>She was convinced this day that I could make it over the vaulting horse.<span style=""> </span>She said we had to take a really good run at it, rebound off the launching ramp, slap our hands in the middle of the ‘horse’ and over we would fly.<span style=""> </span>She assured us she would be there to catch us.<span style=""> </span>So there we were, all lined up around the gym waiting our turn.<span style=""> </span>My heart was pounding but I was determined to give it my best shot.<span style=""> </span>I watched in some trepidation as the girl in front of me hurtled towards the ‘horse’ only to shy away at the last moment, almost taking Miss N. with her.<span style=""> </span>I swallowed hard and gathering my courage prepared for take off.<span style=""> </span>Miss N. was smiling encouragingly at me from beside the beast.<span style=""> </span>“Come on M, I know you can do it!” she called.<span style=""> </span>Taking a deep breath and running as hard as I could, I landed my feet squarely on the ramp with a satisfying thump, launched myself into the air, hands landing precisely as instructed in the centre of the ‘horse’ and then horror of horrors, the elastic in one leg of my “breeks” caught on a protrusion sticking up from the top of the ‘horse’.<span style=""> </span>There was a loud ripping sound and I sailed on leaving most of my knickers hanging on the ‘horse’.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>There was a moment of complete silence then the whole room erupted.<span style=""> </span>I can still see all the girls collapsing in hysterics against the wall bars, my best friend M absolutely doubled up with laughter.<span style=""> </span>Miss N after she regained her composure grabbed me to herself and enfolding me in her thankfully wide skirts, marched me lock step to her office.<span style=""> </span>The offending item of clothing was retrieved and I sat and sewed them together in quiet misery as best I could, the laughter of my class mates still ringing in my ears.<span style=""> </span>Miss N, bless her, told me she hadn’t had such a good laugh in years and hoped I didn’t mind but she had just had to tell the next class about my misadventure.<span style=""> </span>Of course it was all over the school by lunch time but I saw the funny side of it and whenever I get together with my Scottish friends we still talk and laugh about it.<span style=""> </span>I’m glad this was well before the days of camera cell phones and You Tube, Britany Spears had nothing on me!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-22033362834542107422007-04-01T10:39:00.000-07:002007-04-01T10:42:34.992-07:00April Fool!<p class="MsoNormal">Well I promised I’d share my April Fools Day story with you and here it is:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Many years ago, I was enamored of a certain young man, quite a few years my junior.<span style=""> </span>DD (darling daughter) and HDF (her dear friend) were not impressed with either him or me and were delighted when he moved to Calgary, hoping that would put an end to this disgusting, licentious relationship, in their view that is.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I was moping around the house like a love-sick fourteen year-old, much to their increasing disdain, so to amuse themselves; they concocted an evil prank to play on me that April 1 so long ago. Sigh.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>HDF was staying over with us that weekend and they were both familiar with my Sunday morning routine which generally involved my making coffee and toast and taking it back to bed <span style=""> </span>to read the papers while they giggled and carried on downstairs doing whatever it is teenage girls do.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Of course, I was not looking my best, bed-head, ratty nighty, scruffy slippers and scruffier robe at hand but I was happily ensconced in my boudoir slurping my java and enjoying reading about the latest <st1:place>Hollywood</st1:place> scandals when there was a loud knocking at the front door.<span style=""> </span>I listened to see who it was, probably Jehovah Witnesses I thought.<span style=""> </span>Then Kerry came running up the stairs; “Mum” she cried, “guess who’s here?<span style=""> </span>It’s D!<span style=""> </span>He’s just arrived from <st1:city><st1:place>Calgary</st1:place></st1:City>!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Well, you can imagine my horror, I leapt out of bed and stage whispered to DD to keep him entertained downstairs while I freshened up.<span style=""> </span>She departed and I ran to the bathroom in panic and tried to open the door, I couldn’t at first, the handle seemed all slippery.<span style=""> </span>I managed to gain entrance, grabbed the taps, but couldn’t turn them on either, they were tightened right up and all slippery too!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Eventually after some panicked effort, <span style=""> </span>I managed to wash my face, brush my teeth and hair, slip into jeans and a top, all the time trilling out loudly “I’m coming, I’ll be right down” and after composing myself went downstairs to greet my paramour.<span style=""> </span>Well, you can guess that all that was awaiting me were two little faces staring at me innocently from the couch as I looked around in vain for D.<span style=""> </span>It was about that moment that I realized I had been well and truly had and DD and HDF could contain themselves no longer and exploded in hysterical laughter, chorusing “April Fool!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I’ll draw a veil over what happened next, suffice to say, like Queen Victoria, I was not amused and drawing what shreds of dignity about me that I could, stomped back up the stairs, the echoes of their laughter sounding in my ears.<span style=""> </span>Of course, I did see the humour of it eventually though it did take them quite a while to remove all the cooking oil they had so liberally applied to all the fittings!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>P.S.<span style=""> </span>Names have been changed to protect the guilty!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:user" datetime="2007-04-01T10:24">Heh, heh.<span style=""> </span>It was beautiful.<span style=""> </span>She didn’t mention the simpery voice she used to call down that “She would be riiiiight there’ as she frantically yanked on those handles and taps!<span style=""> </span>We nailed her good!<span style=""> </span>I just know my mom soooo well.<o:p></o:p></ins></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:user" datetime="2007-04-01T10:24"><o:p> </o:p>Another time, HDF and I left our clothes </ins></span>laid<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:user" datetime="2007-04-01T10:24"> out on the living room floor like something out of Star Trek…only the powdered orange juice left.<span style=""> </span>Did I mention we were big nerds?</ins></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-9646083545434045892007-03-14T19:37:00.000-07:002007-03-14T19:41:17.883-07:00Thank you for your kind wordsI would like to thank all who have commented so positively on my "Renewal" writing assignment. Your words give me the encouragement I need to keep putting pen to paper!HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-35161948867523471782007-03-11T15:52:00.000-07:002007-03-11T15:55:33.294-07:00Renewal (A Writing Assignment)<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b style=""><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Sternberg of <a href="http://house-of-sternberg.blogspot.com/">House of Sternberg</a> has an interesting writing assignment that I thought I would take a stab at.</span><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style=""><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Renewal<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">There always seems to be something in my home about to expire, including me.<span style=""> </span>My driver’s license is due for renewal as is my passport, car insurance, library card, credit cards, and warranties on various household items which, as you know, always break down the day after expiry of said warranty.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I got to thinking, what if we had an expiry date, say once we reach our allotted <st1:time hour="15" minute="20">three score</st1:time> years and ten and found ourselves in front of the court of last resort to plead our case for possible renewal. <span style=""> </span>What would we say, how would we plead?<span style=""> </span>What possibly reason could we give to justify another ten years of life or so on this wonderful, if somewhat damaged Earth?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I hope I get a good ‘brief’ as it will take some justifying on my part to allow me stick around a bit longer.<span style=""> </span>On reviewing seventy years of living an average life, what could I say on my behalf?<span style=""> </span>That I didn’t kill or maim any living creature?<span style=""> </span>Well, not quite true, what about the countless spiders and miscellaneous creeping creatures that I have dispatched without too much thought over the intervening years?<span style=""> </span>Not to mention all the lambs, calves, cows, chickens, fish and crustaceans that were sacrificed for my Sunday dinners.<span style=""> </span>What contribution have I made to benefit the planet or even my own tiny living space?<span style=""> </span>I married and had one child, thus adding to over-crowding by one soul.<span style=""> </span>I have owned and driven four cars over my time thus polluting the atmosphere, I helped fill the landfills to overflowing before recycling finally kicked in.<span style=""> </span>A point for me on that score.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I have tried to leave as small a footprint as possible.<span style=""> </span>I have assisted my fellow-persons on my journey where I can, but then again, I have also walked heedlessly by the Salvation Army kettles on occasion and stepped over some unfortunate lying on the sidewalk, unless they had a dog with them. <span style=""> </span>I can see the scales tipping the other way again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Okay my life so far, no major crimes, not even a speeding ticket, parking tickets yes, but I always paid them on time.<span style=""> </span>Contributions to society, did I build a better mouse-trap?<span style=""> </span>No, I haven’t even come up with an original thought, if someone says something extremely witty; I’ll file it away so I can trot it out later, impressing those around me as to how funny and clever I am.<span style=""> </span>The scales are dipping further. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Employment, nothing to help there I’m afraid.<span style=""> </span>A lifetime of secretarial and administrative work has only resulted in the destruction of acres of rain forest.<span style=""> </span>After 33 years of toil, my work was just consigned to the recycle bin; my desk cleared and refilled almost immediately by yet another office drone with not a sign that I had ever occupied that cubicle space. <span style=""> </span>Well, there was a sign with my name on it and I took it with me. <span style=""> </span>I’ll just pick out my wings now shall I?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Would I be missed?<span style=""> </span>There is that to help balance the scales.<span style=""> </span>I love my daughter dearly and she has given me two wonderful grand children, a boy and a girl, who are the light of my life.<span style=""> </span>I am thankful that I have my health and can help out with baby sitting and that I am fit enough to join in their games.<span style=""> </span>Watching them blossom and grow fills me with delight and I try to pass on to them the lessons I have learned from my mistakes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""> </span>I am also blessed with a circle of friends who put up with me quite happily.<span style=""> </span>We all support one another in times of sadness and have shared many moments of laughter as well.<span style=""> </span>In my remaining time, I will try harder to make myself useful and with spring around the corner, cherry blossoms peeking out, daffodils blooming there is a lot to live for.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I see the scales have tipped slightly again in my favour, life is good.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-2449879043143731192007-02-25T14:05:00.000-08:002007-02-25T14:50:39.322-08:00<span style="font-family:arial;">Well lads and lassies, sorry for my long absence, I have now fully recovered from that dreaded lurgie and feel much more like my old self. Thanks to crunchy junior for letting you all know that I'm still around!<br /><br />I would have liked you to have been able to picture me laying draped artistically on my chaise, looking pale but interesting ala "Lady of the Camilias" but alas I would not have wished my appearance on anyone. It was more me sitting on said couch, feet resting on the coffee table while covered from head to toe with my electric "blankie" (which darling daughter thankfully gave me a few years ago) and wads of Kleenex tissue shoved up my red and streaming nostrils. Not a pretty sight. I also watched waaay too much TV during my recovery period. When I was with the cable company, I just paid for basic programming which went up to channel 28 here on the lower mainland. Recently, however, I switched to digital TV and had 3 months of what seemed to be hundreds of channels for free. Whoopee!<br /><br />The only programs I got hooked on, however, were of the "How not to decorate" and "Sell this house" variety. I became fascinated with just what awful taste in decor the Brits appear to have! Wall to wall carpeting in the bathroom, three different wall paper patterns in the same room, clutter and junk everywhere! What fun the decorators had ripping these poor people's home's apart. Of course bad taste isn't restricted to the Brits, lots of room for improvement out here too!<br /><br />Come to think of it, we had carpeting in our bathroom in Scotland at one time too, there was no heater of course. To warm the room so DD (darling daughter) could have a bath, I ran the water as hot as I could to fill the place with steam and rush her in when it resembled a sauna. Meantime, I'd warm a towel by the wee gas fire (not like the models are now) then run in, wheech her out of the tub and back to the fire before she froze solid. Sigh, those were the days. No shower, no central heating, no dishwasher and a fridge the size of bread bin. In the depths of winter the frost made lovely patterns......on the inside of the windows! The three of us would huddle around the gas fire, vying for the warmest spot, That would be DD, the cat and me. The cat usually won. For years I had blotchy red marks on my legs from sitting too close to the fire while my back froze. I'm sure there are lots of you out there with similar memories, and that was only in the 70's in Edinburgh! When we arrived in Vancouver in 1981, we thought we had died and gone to heaven, constant hot water and a shower every day, what bliss!<br /><br />Well, I've digressed a bit from where I started but will return with more stories and chit chat soon, time for a long, hot shower!<br /></span>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-13014335614958085012007-02-11T09:48:00.001-08:002007-02-11T09:38:25.062-08:00Where is Nana Crunch<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'>I think my mom has a bit of writers block about this whole blogging thing.<br></br><br></br>I think she feels she must have something very pithy to say...when we all know that you can spout about anything going on in your brain....that is what it is all about.<br></br><br></br>She also hasn't been feeling to great lately.....cough that won't go away.<br></br><br></br>So I hope she blogs soon....<br></br><br></br>But be patient.<br></br><br></br>She has been working hard at feeling better AND rushing over to my house to help me out with my crazy children.<br></br><br></br>She also works part time and has a boatload of friends to keep up with.<br></br><br></br>She is an amazing and caring woman.<br></br><br></br>Anyway......I will come up with some more stories too.<br></br><br></br>There is a load of em.<br></br><br></br><br></br><p class='poweredbyperformancing'>powered by <a href='http://performancing.com/firefox'>performancing firefox</a></p></div>Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-78417404243575074332007-01-21T21:16:00.000-08:002007-01-21T21:23:55.889-08:00Happy Birthday Nana Crunch!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2Ymt6TvGQhAJU2aWkLBexo9PohQIICf3K1QCC2mYgtM_DdM7vY15nWQLx0nysUTYCy0B38lMiIOoFQpqOLysqQbA9fpS06SVNY37GC192g3BV3rgDgOG5B6XcTAhkfqIDhmDeQRlXrQ/s1600-h/Max+steps+out+0806.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2Ymt6TvGQhAJU2aWkLBexo9PohQIICf3K1QCC2mYgtM_DdM7vY15nWQLx0nysUTYCy0B38lMiIOoFQpqOLysqQbA9fpS06SVNY37GC192g3BV3rgDgOG5B6XcTAhkfqIDhmDeQRlXrQ/s320/Max+steps+out+0806.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5022721016995708370" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Today was my mom's birthday. I won't say which one!<br /><br />Being that she has a yucky cold and we are all just starting to feel human again, it was a low key event.<br /><br />But the kids painted her pictures and had gifts for her so we had a lovely little tea to celebrate.<br /><br />She is a great Nana and a great mom and my great friend too. I don't know what I would do without her support AND laughter.<br /><br />We are lucky to have her close by.<br /><br />Here's to you Mum!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCdsUsR1D3fKKWnlYr0TybJwDMc5osrBljBsecZZ4upuzrpRuURZcwr3plFEaOmkXmpZhqYzyKVDiyGEqih99VWB5VsQ9BJrq5RNxUiJ_zJ7M0JOEDuX6cWT-Ny-Y7YbVE69eN8Jlancc/s1600-h/DSC05432.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCdsUsR1D3fKKWnlYr0TybJwDMc5osrBljBsecZZ4upuzrpRuURZcwr3plFEaOmkXmpZhqYzyKVDiyGEqih99VWB5VsQ9BJrq5RNxUiJ_zJ7M0JOEDuX6cWT-Ny-Y7YbVE69eN8Jlancc/s320/DSC05432.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5022721016995708386" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvuLwB3FrkVUdI30j2JQiPom7-ZseJd87-gCUTSGbt84az1LNPCMkXtNC064Bm0ftoPfdH8FmJuh2qjLGhTFCkobTd-E4Vde6SmNQvRYG0FHi2WLlhKyAqwwNCkHcmstmu9xBxg6PLBs/s1600-h/PIC_0008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxvuLwB3FrkVUdI30j2JQiPom7-ZseJd87-gCUTSGbt84az1LNPCMkXtNC064Bm0ftoPfdH8FmJuh2qjLGhTFCkobTd-E4Vde6SmNQvRYG0FHi2WLlhKyAqwwNCkHcmstmu9xBxg6PLBs/s320/PIC_0008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5022721012700741058" border="0" /></a>Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-11896836629660181222007-01-16T21:00:00.000-08:002007-01-16T21:21:38.413-08:00Now let ME tell you a story!!!!My mom and I are pretty tight. <br />It has been the two of us against the world for a long time. Therefore we tend to share the same sense of humour and the same sense of absurdity. This can be a good thing, but it can also cause much tragedy.<br /><br />Quite a few years ago now, <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">tenish</span> I am thinking, <a href="http://www.kingssingers.com/aboutus/about.htm">The King's Singers</a> came to town. Being that we knew them from our life in Scotland, we thought it would be nice to go and see them. They were playing at the <a href="http://www.city.vancouver.bc.ca/theatres/orpheum/orpheum.html"><span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Orpheum</span> Theatre</a>, a beautiful concert hall in downtown Vancouver. Also home of the Vancouver Symphony and therefore filled with a heady breeze of class and pretentiousness.<br /><br />Now we both actually DO enjoy choral music and they are an amazing group with stunning voices. We did enjoy their eclectic selection of new and old, medieval and baroque that they presented with such beauty. You really should hear them.<br /><br />And their concert was lovely. Before each piece they would give us a little background on the music and the arrangement, we also found this very interesting, that is until they came to one song. One song that seemed to have the unfortunate name 'Lydia' or it was about a 'Lydia' anyway.<br /><br />Well that was it. There was a crackle of energy between our twisted brains as we both thought the same thing and hummed the same thing in our heads at the exact same time.......<br /><br /><br />"Lydia, Oh Lydia,<br />Have you seen Lydia?<br />Lydia the tAhtooed lady!"<br /><br />(if you don't know this little ditty, check out 'The Fisher King,' they sing it there, I believe)<br /><br />Now we both knew that they were NOT going to be singing THAT Lydia, but the thought that they might struck us stupidly funny.<br /><br />We could not look at each other.<br />We dared not. Because we both knew we were thinking it. And we both knew that we would take one look at each other and burst into hysterical laughter.<br /><br />You do not burst into laughter at the King's Singers. You may politely chuckle at a clever English witisicm, but you do not guffaw or snigger like some demented prepubescent.<br /><br />We really wanted to snigger like some demented prepubesents. We reeeeeeelly wanted to.<br /><br />I could feel my mother's shoulders shaking with barely constrained hysterics. I was breaking out in a sweat. I think I wimpered.<br /><br />We were starting to get 'looks' from the crowd around us. The season ticket matrons were NOT impressed.<br /><br />Finally, my mom broke first. She let out this strangled 'Muhaharrrgghackcoughcough' and leaped out of her chair and fled out of the theatre, leaving me bent double and snorting into my coat.<br /><br />Real mature.<br /><br />We really should not be allowed out in public venues.Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-64531015334155050962007-01-15T13:47:00.000-08:002007-01-16T12:01:36.657-08:00Musings on a winter dayThe other snow day, the Crunch family were out frolicking in the snow (not frockiling as wee crunch said when she was 6 as in "Grandad, what does 'No frockiling in the pool mean?"). But I digress. Anway Adam, 41/2 going on 14 suddenly stops dead in his tracks and pointing at the pristine snow in front of him exclaimed; "Look Nana, snow nip nips!" And sure enough when I looked, there were two perfectly molded soft mounds of snow together, looking strangely enough like some unfortunate woman was laying under it. Adam then added "they look just like mummy's in her sweater! I'm going to look for more!". Spoken like a true male!HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-64753125612322933692007-01-14T13:20:00.000-08:002007-01-14T13:30:50.673-08:00The icequeen cometh<span style="font-family:arial;">Well, here I am back on line after a slight hiccup due to a variety of things I'll not test your patience with at this time. We are currently "enjoying" a period equal to a mini ice-age in our small corner of this benighted planet. I wish it would go away. But the icy state of our lanes and streets brings to mind an occasion that brought me into rather hard contact with the elements. It went something like this:</span><br /><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A number of years ago and before we had a car, I had</span> stopped at the local shops for groceries on the way home from work. My darling daughter was in the house with her best friend Rebecca.<span style=""> </span>The trails home were just sheet ice so picture me, coated and booted, toque firmly in place, scarf wound around my face with just my glasses and nose showing. I'm teetering along carefully balancing the heavy grocery bags in each hand when "wham", my feet shoot out from under me.<span style=""> </span>Next thing, I'm flat on my back, head hitting the ice, arms flung wide out still clutching the damn groceries. I'm stunned for a few moments, no one in sight of course, and I can't get up, can't get any purchase on the ice. I sort of crawl to the side of the path and haul myself up by the trees and mustering what dignity I can, stagger to my house. I fling open the door, and stand there, hat askew, glasses steaming up and glare at my daughter and Rebecca who are tucked up in front of the telly, sipping hot chocolate or something equally warming. They look at me like I've arrived from outer space and chorus "what's wrong, are you alright"! I drag myself in, throw down the groceries (or 'messages' as we called them in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size:10;">Scotland</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size:10;"> for some strange reason lost in the mists of time) and practically in tears, tell them my sad story. They try very hard to be sympathetic, making soothing sounds as one went to put the kettle on and the other unwound my scarf and helped me off with my coat. They clucked and tutted and sat me down, gave me my tea and then they burst into hysterical laughter. I was still wittering on about my misadventure and they couldn’t hold it in any longer, little beasts! Years later, Rebecca even sent me a wee drawing she had done of me lying in the snow, a good likeness too! Oh well, I can laugh now, but it WASN'T FUNNY AT THE TIME!</span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10;">My daughter will relish this story as I am never allowed to forget it. Hope it brightened your day, and yes I know, compared to other parts of the country we get off very lightly!<br /></span></p><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:arial;" > </span>HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-38681182608973329172007-01-12T10:43:00.000-08:002007-01-12T10:49:52.248-08:00Life in Kielder CourtLife has been quite interesting here. Between wicked windstorms, snowstorms and my weird health issues, we have been dealing with new things almost every day.<br /><br />Last night Adam was feeling awful. He always seems to get the sickest. This lovely picture was taken when he really needed his daddy to just be with him. Daddy stuck by his boy through his sickness, even helped him when he threw up. This is a quiet moment for them.<br /><br />Thank goodness I am finished the majority of my medical tests and can be here in mind and body for my family again.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRF6msL-k6EpS090nmX-ZZOpLZtyCAmDQn9aEifxFCLsiarzsefbEhwN0Ymfot2nXRVcsuXexlkU1tGUBg7XHO2Uhon8Jjq-AE9ecbfZt58xQnFU-yc840vHX6w-xMYvKalHrkLnaj1jE/s1600-h/PIC_0059.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRF6msL-k6EpS090nmX-ZZOpLZtyCAmDQn9aEifxFCLsiarzsefbEhwN0Ymfot2nXRVcsuXexlkU1tGUBg7XHO2Uhon8Jjq-AE9ecbfZt58xQnFU-yc840vHX6w-xMYvKalHrkLnaj1jE/s320/PIC_0059.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5019216847668182434" border="0" /></a><br />We are in another cold snap here and all the snow has turned to ice. Makes for beautiful if not chilly days. The 'find the black ice' game is a riot too!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zRr_b8tTQWcRlYR17Ft0fVE7Yru5PYBi7dguTF9fCoX2aBLvXGAmhqM3SfrKAMhldXg97ao4b8CnqHTcu8P0uTj8ogZUnxRK_UIWOoPdmI0PRtqXJZsJdWT92ebdpth4ySCXZv9ohAM/s1600-h/PIC_0058.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zRr_b8tTQWcRlYR17Ft0fVE7Yru5PYBi7dguTF9fCoX2aBLvXGAmhqM3SfrKAMhldXg97ao4b8CnqHTcu8P0uTj8ogZUnxRK_UIWOoPdmI0PRtqXJZsJdWT92ebdpth4ySCXZv9ohAM/s320/PIC_0058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5019216847668182450" border="0" /></a>Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-39689372402416051822007-01-03T14:43:00.000-08:002007-01-03T21:56:00.485-08:00'A guid New Year to ain and all!'Well here we are in 2007 or 007 as I like to see it. Good movie by the way, just like the early ones with big Tam Connery playing Bond.<br /><br />Well the tree's oot the back, the decorations all restored to their summer resting place and no doubt after I vacuum for the umpteenth time, I will finally sook up the last of the pine needles hiding in the carpet, waiting to stab an unwary bare toe. I have made no resolutions, no point, I never keep them but I have a cunning plan. Starting today, I will walk more, eat less, suffer withdrawal symptons from cutting back on TV, oh which reminds me, CBC have cancelled 'Emmerdale' and there are apparently at least 310 irrate fans across Canada now protesting it's loss. Petitions have been signed! E-mails sent! Of course no attention will be paid to us. They want more 'Canadian content' whatever that means. However, their latest new show starting next week is "Little Mosque on the Prairie". 'Nuff said.<br /><br />Now where was I, oh no resolutions just a plan to lose 10lbs by April. Watch this space for my progress report! Meantime, I'm off to mind the grandbairns for a wee while.HopScotchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02716826484794451200noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8381281632578551904.post-32693891444688012082006-12-31T16:40:00.000-08:002006-12-31T16:43:06.544-08:00We are family.....We have found out that our family is bigger than we ever realized.<br /><br />There are cousins and half cousins and second cousins and so on coming out the of the woodwork all over the world!<br /><br />I am hoping that eventually all with an access to the web will join in and contribute to the blog...share stories and photos.<br /><br />In the meantime...I am away to make my mom post.<br /><br />She is an excellent writer and we need to see the world from her POV for a change.Crunchy Carpetshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09543476826068578576noreply@blogger.com0