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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| June is the month of my birth and as such it's always held a special place in my heart. One year, okay, I must confess forty years ago, my son joined me as a June baby. I'm certain he's forever grateful that I did not hamper him with the moniker of June, but it's the least I could do for someone who is also a fellow Gemini. We both are eternally elated not to be known as 'the Junes.' I don't however believe either one of us realized the many unique holidays that transpire this special month. Thanks to Google, I can now declare that I am officially enlightened. As a cookie connoisseur, Chris appreciates a day set aside to celebrate the peanut butter variety, a personal favourite. This auspicious day also coincides with National Flip Flop Day. I myself am rather fond of this footwear and I choose to set forth in them each and every day until the inevitable snow arrives. June 12th marked both of these occasions. This is brilliant really because if perchance one were to over-indulge in those p.b. cookies, flip flops could still be forced over fattened feet. On the first of this month, some people perhaps the Evel Knievels of the world, celebrated Dare Day and Flip A Coin Day. Is this a common practice for daredevils? On the toss of this quarter, I dare you to risk life and limb. The first has always been my birthday and the most I do is dare to age and celebrate being another year older. June third is World Bicycle Day and this reminds me of a long-standing bet my son and I share. Well, technically it could be construed as a dare. He has known me as the klutzy, accident-prone parent and he has never ever witnessed me riding a bike. Well, he believes I do not know how to propel a bicycle and hence our bet. My glorious vindication has been delayed by a series of knee surgeries, but I shall amaze him one day. It's a proven fact, isn't it? Why would 'everyone' say it's like riding a bike if it wasn't unforgettable? I think I have muscle memory... I confess that I did not properly embrace June eighteenth and recognize International Panic Day and National Splurge Day. Just how does one celebrate panic? Should I have dialled 9-1-1? Should I have run screaming through the streets? I have experienced panic, but not on this particular, specific date. I comprehend a splurge. It's a treat for just because days. I can rationalize any purchase as being a splurge meant to make me feel better. I usually avoid credit card debt, but hey, too much of that could cause panic. Now, June nineteenth is my kind of intriguing celebration. It is the day to commemorate kissing, road trips AND sauntering, as if. All three are more than doable and possible and memorable. Who doesn't appreciate a great saunter especially one that entails smooching. Personally, my gait is most often a stumble, but I can rustle up a walk with an attitude of nonchalance. For this road trip, I'd forgo a vehicle and hoof it. You never know. The strangers I meet might be up for a heartfelt kiss. I can travel without an agenda or a map. This could be a second day of splurging, too. There's no need to panic though. If my kiss is refused, I shall just saunter on my merry way. The next day is meant for those who raise their voices, you know outdoor voices, and those who prefer to throw their objects around. Yep, June twentieth is National Hollerin' Day and World Juggler's Day. Yesterday might have provoked a wee bit of hollerin'. As a mother of three, I know all about juggling. There never could be time for finesse or grace. I managed several figurative balls up in the air and I defaulted to a fair bit of yelling, too. Hollerin' is a coping mechanism, a warning, a venting of frustration, and more. Now, if I caught my three juggling, oh say knives, there'd have been loud, loud hollerin'! Huh, June twenty-seventh is National Onion Day and Sunglasses Day. I subscribe to both. I do eat onions, but I never peel and chop them while wearing my sunglasses. This poor vegetable is often maligned. I deserves recognition and understanding. How should I celebrate my faithful sunglasses? Perhaps I will spoil them with a long overdue polishing. If it's not squintingly sunny that day, I could assign them a day from duty. I suppose I could also try to place them in their protective case more, too. All of these spectacular days bring me to June twenty-ninth, Camera Day, Hug Holiday, and International Mud Day. Four summers ago, my family unwittingly celebrated these days, all three of them at a Mudder's Mud Run. I acted as the 'mamarazzi' snapping a plethora of photos as my two daughters and my daughter-in-law competed in an obstacle course marathon. They rolled and stumbled through lots of mud and they hugged each other in victory. I can appreciate a special day simply set aside for hugging. There's nothing quite as satisfying or loving. My cell phone camera is always with me ready to capture any and all moments. Happy June! It's a month not to be missed. |
"The Bard's Hall Contest"  Bard's Hall #1 Cough, cough. Hack. Gasp. Sniff. Blink, blink. June is National Camping Month and that great Canadian tradition, the roaring campfire , is once again perfuming the air and illuminating the night sky. Flames dance and glow. Aromatic wood snaps and crackles. Shadows loom and lengthen. And the smoke plumes and billows to envelop all in its presence. Campfires have evolved. Everyone and their mother owns a cell phone to grasp, tote, and fiddle with. Snaps of the magnificent campfire are saved and shared. With the advent of instant data mining there are no more confused campers moping about. With a simple swipe anyone may and does consult the all-knowing, definitive GOOGLE. Those niggling mysteries that irk only when seated ‘round a fire with like-minded individuals are no longer bothersome. GOOGLE has revitalized campfire conversations. Are you perhaps struggling with the lyrics to a song locked in the murky recesses of your memory? Do you know for certain that it should be sung as “do wop do wop” and not “do wop wop?” Is there need of clarification? Are tempers flaring? Has someone dared to ask what a ‘do wop’ is? Sure, we all swear by our version, but GOOGLE will set us straight. Just simply type in the lyrics, or the song title as you know them. Voila, GOOGLE to the rescue. Are you stumped by the colour and the make/model of a particular vehicle in an action scene? Was a Jeep driven off a cliff, or was it a Journey? Does one of the nearby fire-sitters insist it had to be a Ford Bronco? Do you find yourself needing to explain a DeLorean to the clueless person next to you? What was the Bat mobile really made from? Look no further, GOOGLE has your answers. Alas, are you arguing / disagreeing re a character’s name? Is there some question of the spelling? Is Montoya, or Buttercup even a legitimate name? Is it Jane with a ‘y?’ Do not worry a moment longer than necessary. GOOGLE will know and share with you. Should this come up at the glowing campfire GOOGLE has your back. Were you born on a Monday, or a Tuesday? Did something momentous occur that day other than your birth? Learn once and for all the difference between millennial, baby boomer, zoomer, and whatever. Consult GOOGLE if only for clarification and a clearing of the discombobulating atmosphere. What is one supposed to mutter / chant when the camp smoke envelops you blocking life-affirming oxygen and blurring / tearing your vision? Is it “ white rabbit, white rabbit?” Could it possibly be “white bunny, white bunny?” What about “grey rabbit, grey rabbit?” Trust me. GOOGLE will lead you down a rabbit hole and you’ll discover ‘white rabbit’ has been an invocation of luck for years. But is it not considered unlucky to be a smoke magnet? Hold on. What is the optimal arrangement of firewood to create an efficiently burning campfire? Log cabin? Teepee? Does GOOGLE have an opinion? Why of course it does. GOOGLE offers step-by-step instructions and videos. STEP 1: Choose a safe spot. Wise words GOOGLE. STEP 2: Create a Tinder bed. Um, GOOGLE, isn’t Tinder a dating forum? Should you be recommending a bed? Okay, this site encourages sparks and sparks are a good thing, a necessary thing for a fire, but… STEP 3: Add the teepee Kindling to top of tinder. So, it’s back to the bed again… Kindling is the small sticks, right? We’re still talking about a fire, right? We’re attempting to kindle a wood fire flame, aren’t we? This is all about the heat. Gotcha. STEP 4:Build fire. That’s it? Construction? No tools? STEP 5: Celebrate. Oh… party, victory dance, cheering? Let there be flames! Wait, wait, true to its open, giving nature, GOOGLE has introduced me to an alternate fire-lighting solution. Whoa! Is this for real? Duh, it must be, it is Google after all. Making A Fire With Ice… Huh?! Mind blown! Use clear ice to fashion a lens. Ah, I get it. Divert the sun’s rays to the tinder? A different method than rubbing two sticks together… Hmmm, I’m going to try this method, someday. I confess I have forgotten to pack matches in the past and I do not smoke so, I do not own a lighter. I’m just wondering how I prevent the ice from melting in my pocket. Yep, GOOGLE understands camp fires. It can rustle up a variety of SMORE’S recipes. Chocolate isn’t the only sweetener any more. New Age smore’s feature caramel, cocoanut, cinnamon butter, candied bacon, berries, peanut butter, chocolate-covered potato chips and more. Okay, I’m always up for choking down one of these delectable treats as I choke on the stubborn campfire smoke. If I’m going to be coated in soot I might as well digest some, too. There’s something else that clings to fire attendees besides the unmistakable aroma of wood smoke. Many devotees douse themselves with an insect repellent made from DEET ‘cause good ol’ GOOGLE recommends it. According to the sage GOOGLE, DEET disguises the scent biting insects require to hunt us down. What? Mosquitos and blackflies cannot smell that s**t? Really? Another online solution to deter bugs is this. Rub garlic on your skin. Isn’t that a baste, a flavour enhancer? Don’t feast upon my blood I am protected by the mystical properties of garlic. Is this not a vampire repellent? Correct me if I am wrong, but don’t we like food wood-smoked and garlick-y? Won’t I smell appealing / appetizing? GOOGLE has informed me that I am doomed to be a walking smorgasbord. According to ‘studies’ Type O blood is especially irresistible. Mosquitos and blackflies consider me to be self-basting. Here is another GOOGLE bug deterrent that I have personally tried. Slather Vick’s VapoRub on exposed skin. “The smell of the menthol in it will repel the insects away.” Er, how far exactly is ‘away?’ A centimetre? A wee bit? Closer? This desperate bug-repellent method does not repel anything but tearing, gasping people. I will admit it clears the sinuses plugged by the campfire smoke though. Yep, June is a perfect month to begin enjoying the great outdoors and all its wonders. Just remember to consult GOOGLE when you cannot resist the urge to sing ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.’ Chances are someone sitting ‘round your campfire will object to the lyrics you belt out. Campfire season is a short one, so why mar it with unnecessary disagreements. ( This I NOT a paid endorsement of GOOGLE. I merely wish for everyone to enjoy campfire companionship.)   |
| So, someone intended for a crazy monkey and moi to stumble hike through a national park, not just any park, but Joshua Tree National Park. It's a desert! Neither of is familiar with such an arid environment. Why would Andre forsake the non-stop flow of a pub to experience the dry heat of a desert? Did I mention it's a desert? We expected to discover sand, rock, and more sand. Before we embarked upon our slogwalkabout, Andre and I needed to satisfy a burning question. Just what is a Joshua Tree? According to the wise and all-knowing Google it's a yucca, a symbol of faith and hope. We formed a consensus . Joshua is a more agreeable name than yucca. Andre admitted that when inebriated he's named a stalwart tree or two himself. Having something tall, strong and silent support you at your most vulnerable breeds familiarity. Andre would go out on a limb and swear the trunks he knows never betray a confidence. He's never considered the name Joshua though. As we perspired freely, gasped and panted our way along the barren trail known as The Desert Queen Mine and Eagle Cliff House Trail, we were not disappointed. We found a plethora of rocks both in the gravel size range and boulders. Under our every step we displaced sand which billowed 'round us and sandpapered its way under our damp clothing. We inhaled it, too. We experienced a new level of dry. We understood parched. Up, down, and around we trudged. The scattered rocks endeavoured to trip us. The inclines robbed our lungs of oxygen. Grit blurred our vision. Cacti and prickly pear stood as sentinels. Anything that survives in that California desert has earned the right to be prickly. Oh, yes, we met a yucca, or two. During a well-earned respite in the sizzling shade of a towering hunk of rock, Andre researched via Google as to the usefulness of a yucca. Always open to anything that could alleviate the worse-for-wear affects of a hangover he read yuccas are edible and supposedly help to alleviate stomach disorders. He has stored this tidbit for the day aspirin fails to cut it. Of course, Andre will need to be quite ill before he avails himself of a yucca fix. He assured me he hates asparagus. ( Puzzled as was I? The Joshua tree is a member of the asparagales order. I mentioned the grit, didn't I?) Our joint jaunt delivered many an undeniable treasure. We share a dislike, okay more a fear, of snakes. We require more than a rattle and/or a hiss to warn us of their presence. Hiking is not our first choice for an activity, an exercise, an adventure, no. We do not like wheezing. Our feet were not created to bear blisters; bleeding, cracked, excruciating. If we were so inclined and utterly dololly, we'd make perfect sand smugglers. We discovered crevices we were formerly unaware of, tender, chafe-prone spots.( 492 words ) June Camping Trip Prompt *Banana* Today you and Andre are at Joshua Tree National Park Campground, California!!! *Banana* Select one of these trails: 10 Best Cave Trails in Joshua Tree Then tell us how the hike went with Andre. Did you find anything interesting? Perhaps you ran into someone famous on the hike. Maybe you guys found a treasure chest! |
| Camping Trip - June 3rd Prompt Write about a campground in your area and how a visit there with Andre went haywire. Andre invited himself to camp with me at Lake Bernard Park. I had somewhat of an inkling as to his thought process when he tittered each time he heard 'LBP.' All he could think about was 'pee.' Then as if that didn't amuse him enough he kept repeating 'bee pee.' He wondered out loud if bees kept and used toilets. Where were they in a hive? Now that image is buzzing 'round my brain. Anyway, no bees bothered us, so who could we ask? That monkey had other more private concerns. Apparently, he'd never before encountered, or made use of an outhouse. The concept of no flushing water boggled his mind. Performing without an after swoosh seemed wrong to him. Shouting, "Bombs away," after his visits earned him a few glares from those waiting their turns. I believe he became the first camper ever to be chided about slamming the wooden door a bit too enthusiastically. Most people let the door swing closed with a distinctive screech, but not Andre. He felt the door needed more encouragement. He liked to trot along the floating, wooden dock and jump as if on a trampoline. I'm not certain his rocking of the boards was to blame , but a few people slipped into the water. Wet people are so dramatic with their flailing, splashing and scrambling to gain a toehold. Andre did what any rescuer would do. He tossed ropes to them, ropes conveniently left nearby and easily accessed. How was he to know those were the mooring lines for the boats lined up along the dock? We all learned loose, bobbing boats tend to bounce off stranded boaters and the dock alike. Andre became the first LBPer banned for life from the beach. Mothers were quick to cover their children's wide eyes and several also attempted to protect little, impressionable ears, too. No one had ever witnessed a naked, dripping monkey screaming obscenities as he streaked along the lake's edge. Amidst his high-pitched curses he wailed about a blood-thirsty monster that had snagged his swim trunks before biting him in the rump. Rumours flit here and there re leeches, but wayward sticks also lurk in the lake. Andre later admitted swimming might not be his 'thing.' By evening and campfire time, Andre felt mellow enough to sit and enjoy the roaring, dancing flames. He studied the marshmallow-browning techniques of others and decided to give it a go. I handed him a sharpened tree branch upon which he skewered a couple of soft, squishy treats. Like he'd observed, Andre held his stick above glowing coals. He fidgeted. He whistled. With a shuddering sigh, he plunged his offering into the middle of the fire. Instantly his marshmallows burst into flame and he reacted by flinging his charred, gooey, red-hot mess into the darkness. We all startled when a scream marked their passing target. Andre and I are still not sure if maiming by marshmallow is an actual crime.( 494 words ) |
| Write an entry about a camping adventure in the forest with Andre. Use at least six of these words in your entry: tent, campfire, shadow, noise, tree, sleeping bag, cereal, backpack, trash, bear, owl, flashlight, camera, wooden spoon. After a great deal of thrashing about and copious perspiration, Andre and I spotted a lovely glen in the forest. With a noise somewhere between a loud sigh of relief and a high-pitched groan, we dropped all of our heavy gear onto the needle-covered ground. Toting a backpack is not for the faint of heart. As I scanned our chosen camping spot I dismissed a fleeting worry that we'd packed far too much gear for an over-nighter. After a much-needed breather leaning against a stout tree Andre and I unrolled our shelter, a wee nylon tent. I was grateful he was far too busy wrestling with the billowing material to film our shenanigans. The included printed instructions warned us not to step on the delicate tent, but how else were we to raise it and shape the uncooperative mess into a resemblance of a tent? Between us we only had two hands. If only we could turn off the steady, persistent breeze. I did my best to assist Andre. I sat on one end of the tent while he attempted to drive a few stakes into the earth. I must've day-dreamed for a short spell because I finally noticed something strange. I believe most experienced campers wield a mallet, or perhaps a hammer. Not Andre, intrepid monkey that he is. He whacked the tent stakes with a wooden spoon. I couldn't help it, I shuddered and looked away. Flashbacks from my childhood played on a reel in my mind. Not that my mother ever actually struck me with her weapon of choice, a wooden spoon, but she threatened to on a regular basis. Andre certainly hit those stakes as if they'd misbehaved. It may have taken several choice curse words and a few false starts, but we forced that slip of nylon to stand as a tent. To celebrate we built a roaring campfire. Our efforts had burned a great deal of daylight. Andre would only put aside the flashlight and thus preserve the sole batteries we'd packed when the flames jumped and danced illuminating the tree shadows encircling us. Before long our yawns outnumbered our words. Setting up camp in the invigorating fresh air of a forest is incredibly taxing. We kicked some dirt onto the embers to smother them and we crawled into our shelter. Just as my eyes could no longer stay open and I'd finally squirmed into a sleep-comfortable position on the hard earth, a sudden screech tensed my muscles. Andre, half-asleep, stumbled out of the tent wrapped in his sleeping bag. I laughed at this panicked monkey hopping about like he was raring to win a sack race. "Wh-wh-oo-oo is it?'' he quavered. I shone a beam up into a nearby pine to reveal a blinking owl. I swear Andre flinched when I quipped, "At least it's not a bear."( 513 words minus the 38 of the prompt ) |
| Saturday Night Drive-In Saturday Night Drive-In Movie Prompt - Take a drive down memory lane and arrive at the Drive-In Theater. (circa ????) The movie is over and you are on your way back home. What movie did you see? Do you have any favorite movies or actors that you just HAVE to see on the BIG SCREEN? (indoors or out) I learned a little bit more about life hosting this, Saturday Night Drive-In Movie. I assumed drive-in theater was a global thing. I learned that I'm a little older than I thought I was. I learned that I miss those days of drive-in theaters, cars made of metal and chrome, leaded gasoline, and lax security. This was fun, thanks for playing along. Brother Nature Sig #3 Made in Canada There are so many back roads and highways to meander in my memory bank. For the most part, traversing the routes with company made the different jaunts entertaining. A foray to the drive-in always guaranteed fun. Without hesitation, hubby and I introduced our three kids to the wonders of an outdoor, big screen display of movies. Who wouldn't welcome an adventure that extends past bedtime? All anyone must do is stay awake and the booming sound tracks made that possible. One of the featured films we chose to watch was Ghost Busters. I'm certain all of us recall those lines whenever we hear the music, or someone happens to mention those two words, 'ghost' and 'busters.' Even now, I'm singing, to myself and out loud because thank goodness I'm alone, " If there's something strange in your neighbourhood, who you gonna call? Ghost busters!" I still hear my kids chanting this and then hooting, "I aint 'fraid of no ghost!" They loved the whacky, space suit outfits the actors wore and the 'cool' ectoplasm-exploding guns. That vehicle with the ECTO1 plates resembled an ambulance, but it hauled a**.' Just the very idea of a 'paranormal removal company' is humorous. Imagine science nerds offering their services to vanquish spirits. On our return home that night many years ago ( 1984 to be precise, WOW!) my three hyped-up hoodlums relived every scene. "Whoa, did you see that giant Marshmallow Man? He just exploded and gooey guts, lots of them, rained down. There were freakin' marshmallow puddles!" "I liked that green blob thing. His green slime stuck everywhere. He sure could eat." "The ghost busters shot up a hotel!" Yes, wow, 1984... Do I confess to stalking drooling fawning over a particular actor? Short answer, no. I'm easily mesmerized entertained. I watch a wide range of movies. |
| May 25th HOME SWEET HOME Blog Prompt: What would happen if Andre opened a bar in your town? Hmmm, yes, what could possibly happen if a monkey created a bar here in Sundridge? Nothing could go awry, right? It's not as if the locals do not have practice gawking at wildlife. Legend has it that a beer-guzzling black bear is not an unusual sight. More than one raccoon has helped itself to a swiped whisky bottle. This masked animal knows all about tipsy. As they imbibe they sway on their feet and stumble into garbage cans. I would imagine that serious drinkers don't much care who serves them their 'potion' of choice. As long as the drinks keep coming they are content. Who doesn't appreciate free-flowing suds and/or spirits. Drunks Happy aficionados are simple folk. If a monkey, specifically one named Andre, were to operate as a pub master no one would blink an eye. Some imbibers seem to perpetuate reputations as animals, so why would they object to one keeping their buzzes fresh? As long as Andre possesses the necessary skills to crack open bottles and pour he'll impress.The overall aura becomes animal et animal. Andre is lucky. He will be able to stock his bar with wares from two nearby breweries. At one he will revel in the unique beers and ales. At the other he will slake his thirst and that of his customers with whisky, moonshine and vodkas. I envision this monkey as the silent sort. He probably is not prone to babble on and on in mindless conversation. Many of the locals pride themselves upon being outdoorsmen. While hunkered down in their duck blinds, or perched up in their moose/deer tree-top blinds, or swaying within a moored boat, these persons maintain a noise blackout. They are pro sitters and waiters. No nattering is necessary, or expected. When in a bar they revert to those ingrained habits. They perceive drinking as serious business. No need to expel undue energy with hasty movements. No need for the intrusion of idle conversation. Of course, with groups of drinkers anything could occur. Misunderstandings are possible. Inebriation seems to affect if not disable the sense of hearing. Words are blurred. Their context is scrambled. Speech is also impaired. Enunciation is mangled, mumbled, slurred. All of this results in miscommunication, or as some prefer to say reactions. Okay, over-reactions might be more accurate. Insults are implied and slung.Perceived slights sting.Animals depend upon their basic instincts. Is that not the fight, or flight response? What would animals, imbibing animals, do in such a situation? Would the monkey and his patrons engage in a bar brawl, a free-for-all? Would they screech and swing from the rafters? Would fur fly? Would the participants puff out and beat their chests in acts of attempted intimidation? Would they shove? Would they gouge and scratch? I really have no idea what might happen if Andre opened a bar here in Sundridge. I've never owned, or toiled in a drinking establishment. I have no experience and therefore I really mustn't speculate. No insults to Andre, or other like-minded individuals, but is this a form of monkey business and as such isn't that old adage true? Could even a monkey do it?( word count 543 minus the 18 words of the prompt ) |
| BANANA BAR MAY 21st PROMPT DRIVE-IN SERIES: Any additional visits to the drive-in after your first experience? Short answer, yes. After my first experience with a drive-in I continued to visit. Why not? Two movies for the cost of one in a theatre? Sit in my own vehicle with the freedom to stretch my legs? Attend with company/other people if in the mood? Bring my own snacks if I so choose? Natter and comment without disturbing other movie patrons? At one time in the recent past drive-ins existed in many towns/cities. On a whim, I could travel to whichever one appealed to me with its showings. My hometown boasted one drive-in, The Sunset. Two more awaited my perusal within a short road trip excursion distance. Oh, did I mention my brother and I learned to drive at The Sunset? Our family called a large land yacht,an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, our official transporter. Mark and I spent one summer season picking up the garbage that predictably accumulated at the site. Hey, it was a paying job. Together we developed a feel for that car and tested its manoeuverability/ turning radius weaving in and out between the numerous speaker poles. No one interrupted us as we 'worked' at our own pace. Did we kick up dust? Maybe. Did we squeal the tires? Maybe. Did we dent the car? Why no, never. Hubby and I were once newlyweds and as such we decided one Saturday evening to explore. Jumping in our vehicle we headed out of town in search of a new-to-us drive-in. Our foray took us about an hour from home. As the sun began its blazing descent we pulled into a parking spot next to a speaker perched atop a metal pole. The driver-side window was lowered and hubby pulled in the speaker. He clipped it to the door. He fiddled with a knob. No sound. He jiggled the wires. No sound. He picked up the mute speaker and shook it. No sound. With a shrug, Paul balanced that faulty speaker back atop its pole. He restarted the car, reversed and angled for a different spot. After all the re-settling moves, he once again reached for a speaker. In a deja-vu moment, he wrestled with a second uncooperative piece of junk. Despite his best efforts no sound emanated from this speaker either. Bright lights flashed across the screen. Figures jumped. Vehicles sped along a highway. The actors gesticulated and their mouths moved as if miming speech. We heard nothing; no dialogue, no background, mood-setting music,no blare of car horns or rumbling exhausts. We glanced around and noticed other patrons tapping and shaking their speakers. One by one, irate, I assume, customers threw speakers out their windows and screeched away in clouds of dust. Ah, so, no on was wired for sound. Just for giggles, hubby and I stayed put. We amused ourselves by inventing our own dialogue. We attempted lip-reading. Anyway, the silent movie we viewed up on the big screen featured two well known actors/comedians, Cheech and Chong. Up In Smoke proved to be just that. |
| MAY 23rd HOME SWEET HOME BLOG PROMPT: What is the most annoying thing about your area? Are you, or anyone suggesting Sundridge is not perfect? Is it possible that not everything is idyllic? Gasp, as if! Yes, okay, it's true. I've often moaned that where I choose to live would be perfect if not for the existence of a hellish insect known as a blackfly. Why, oh why must that bloodsucker live here? I'm certain that none of the locals sent out a welcoming invitation. No one who has cursed this annoyance would ever wish to co-exist with them. Blackflies do not make the best of neighbours. They are inconsiderate. They travel in swarms. They attack without any warning whatsoever. They leave their considerable victims bloodied and itchy. They care only for their insatiable appetites/bloodlust. Did I mention blackflies are sneaky, ninja-like. They are not similar to the mosquito which whines and swoops announcing its presence. There is no early-warning system. The drawing of blood is quick and silent. Flit in undetected, bite, and skedaddle. In their wake, they leave a noticeable, itchy welt more often than not oozing blood. Clothing is neither a deterrent nor a barrier. I'm not sure any armour could protect their prey.Thanks to their diminutive stature, blackflies manage to squirm under/into material. Perhaps burrow is more descriptive of their dedication/determination. For some unfathomable reason, this irritating insect especially prefers dusk. Do you fancy an evening stroll? Do you hanker a peek at the sunset? Do you long for al fresco dining? The blackfly also likes these activities. They will join you. Perspiring, huffing and puffing people seem to be delectable,too. Joggers, gardeners, paddlers, swimmers, swingers and more become vulnerable. I especially dislike blackflies clinging and hiding in my long hair. They have their own means of travel, wings and flight. They bite me and stowaway for free, effortless transportation? They drain me of precious blood, weaken me, yet rely upon me to expel energy to lug them about? Sure, hop on board. While you're putting your feet up and resting your wings, why don't you partake of a nibble, or two. My exposed ears are within your reach. Believe it or not, Sundridge condones something that also annoys me. Yes, I admit two things mar the perfection of Sundridge. This is a tourist destination village. Terrorists Tourists descend upon our serene streets all year round. They arrive to breathe the fresh air, ogle wildlife, and attempt a myriad of outdoorsy activities. Now I'm not insinuating that all visitors are callous. I've enjoyed plenty of interactions/conversations with lovely newcomers. It's the careless ones that annoy/irk. They litter. They elbow their way through the one and only local grocery store. They ignore the speed limits. They park their vehicles wherever they feel like it. They motor their boats up onto the beaches teeming with swimmers/children.They complain about lack of television signals and internet-free zones. Some, bemoan the lack of fast-food restaurants. Enough of them expect 24/7 gas stations. I do not understand these tourists. Why on earth are they opting to travel out of their comfort zones? What makes them think that a tiny village will be like home? Why do they leave home? Why do they have these unrealistic expectations? At least I revel in one consolation. The blackflies are not discriminatory. They are equal opportunity scavengers. All blood is delicious.( 565 words minus the 16 of the prompt ) |
| May 18th HOME SWEET HOME Prompt: What is the biggest plus for living in your area? Sundridge is not a bustling, noisy city. It's a rural village. I'm not claiming it's perfect, or a paradise. I will claim that it's as close to perfect as a municipality can be. Public transportation does not exist. The waiting crowds do not exist. No one is jostled, or accosted by grumpy throngs intent on one thing only, getting from point A to point B. No one is packed aboard subway cars, buses, street cars, tight like sardines. We are devoid of box stores, malls and fastfood diners. Again, we are not forced to swim with the tide/sea of humanity. Sure, if we wish to browse/stroll/shop in a mall we have the option of driving forty-five minutes in either of three directions to find a bigger town. With smaller populations even there we are free to get in and get out. The lines in stores are manageable. We do not spend hours wading through over-crowding. We do not spend valuable time waiting and idling in intense traffic. Light pollution doesn't exist here. Star-gazing is possible and mesmerizing. Locals indulge in campfires. We walk our limited streets at night worry-free. Gangs and their violence do not call this area home. Vehicle traffic exists, but snarls/delays are rare. I enjoy the minimal noise pollution. The blaring horns, screeching brakes, rumbling trucks and buses, and non-stop racket of a city are not missed in Sundridge. As my Mom used to marvel, you can hear yourself think. The locals are for the most part open and friendly. Sponataneous conversations occur outside the one and only post office, or on the street in passing. Greetings are pretty well guaranteed.Neighbours know neighbours. Of course living next to a freshwater lake is a definite plus. It is mere steps from my home. Swimming at any time feels fantastic. For small children, the sand bars create a shallow shoreline and thus a safer area to explore. They are free to splash, paddle or run. Sandy beaches enthrall them, too. Nature is unspoiled here. Building projects consist of the occasional new, single-family dwelling, or lakeside cottage. There are no high rises, or factories. Trees are abundant. They thrive in multiple forests. Wildlife co-exists with the small population. Deer, moose, raccoons, squirrels, fox, groundhogs, porcupine,skunks, many species of birds and more are frequent visitors. Sometimes, bears wander into sight. I haven't always referred to Sundridge as home. I've lived elsewhere in towns and cities alike. They all had their appeal, but they do not compare to the quality of life here. I chose to live in Sundridge because it's quieter. The pace of everyday living is more sedate. There's no hurry. In comparison, I refer to Toronto as Toronto the Teeming. Like New York it never sleeps. It's go-go-go 24/7. Lights and their inherent glare obscure the night sky. The noise is constant and often jarring. I'm content at this stage of my life enjoying the lifestyle in Sundridge. I don't feel I am missing anything. I'm not cut out to be a city girl. ( 521 words minus the 16 prompt words) |
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