This poem speaks to me, it has for a while now. I’ve been thinking about it, and now my thoughts need to be shared. It’s been a while since I’ve been inspired to add to this blog, but it’s time.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗘

𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵, 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗼𝗻𝗲, 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗺𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻, 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗯𝘆 𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲, 𝗯𝘆 𝗷𝗼𝘆, 𝗯𝘆 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘁𝗵.

𝗜 𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗜’𝗱 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗜 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝗼𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗺𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗺 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲.

𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗱.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗻𝘂𝗴𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗱𝗼𝗺 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻, 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗲.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗷𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆.

𝗡𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗵 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲, 

𝗜 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱𝗹𝘆, 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗿.

𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵, 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻.

𝗝𝗼𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗲, 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲.

𝗗𝗼𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗔𝘀𝗵𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗵

Yes. I would like to join you. And I want to reclaim the word. Crone.

It has been given to the wizened, old lady with the poisoned apple in her twisted hand, the witch, the harridan – a word to describe the least desirable of us all, a useless, bitter old woman.

But in the days before men decided our worth, when women passed their knowledge down, the older women knew the most. They were the wise women, the revered ancient ones who knew how to bring on a pregnancy or end one, who knew which plants and extracts healed and which ones harmed, the ones who oversaw births and deaths, eased pain and restored health. Knowledge was power, and men hated that. So they decided knowledge was only valuable if gained in a university, founded and run by men, usually religious ones. These doctors created medicine, the wise women created potions. The doctors said prayers to make their medicines more effective, the wise women uttered spells and incantations. And they decided wise women were witches, evil people to be hunted and killed, and that the ideal woman was a virtuous, fair maiden who became a dutiful, submissive wife. Old women were relegated to the shadows, silent and invisible.

Over time, the cult of youth took over. The anti-aging, multi-billion dollar beauty industry continues to convince us to exercise and diet to keep our youthful body, to slather our faces with expensive products to keep wrinkles and spots at bay, to colour our hair and lie about our age. To keep the old, wise woman hidden. To continue to render us invisible.

Our bodies change, we are mortal and change is inevitable. We embrace the change from girl to woman but not the change from woman to old woman. We do everything possible, including surgery, to pretend the years aren’t changing us, to remain in the woman phase. We don’t embrace the final step of our journey because long ago men decided old women were dangerous and our societal norms reinforced that in subtle ways until here we are today, in a world that reveres youth above all else.

Well, boomer women are kicking those beliefs to the curb. We are talking about menopause, embracing our silver locks and using cosmetics to keep our skin healthy not wrinkle free. We are active not to look young but to feel alive, to keep our bodies moving so we can continue to travel, chase after grandchildren and make love to our partners.

It will take a long time to erase the beliefs engrained over centuries. Cultural change is slow, the movement forward seems positively glacial at times. But change is a-coming, slow or not. And we silver-haired crones are leading the way, not only for ourselves, but for all those the “moral majority” renders effectively invisible and silent. We will not sit silently in the dark corners, we are raising our voices and marching in protest. Google Jane Fonda and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

As the poem at the beginning of this post says, join me if you like. Be brave, embrace your inner wise woman. Be the active, vital, amazing and beautiful crone our great grandmothers many times removed were never allowed to be.

Well, that was interesting. I was navigating around my WordPress site and I accidentally deleted my last post. Guess I’m not as computer savvy as I thought, and I didn’t think I was all that savvy in the first place.

In that post I thanked everyone who got vaccinated, wore a mask and generally did what was asked of them to contribute to the greater good during this pandemic. I thanked those who ignored the basically insane conspiracy theories and didn’t pass them on. I acknowledged we’ve all been inconvenienced by the pandemic but doing what was best for everyone was worth it. Of course, I said it all with skill and wit. It was articulate and sprinkled with just the perfect amount of humour and profanity. And of course, I can’t replicate it.

Sooo, I could use this new post to explain how the recent “peaceful” Truckers for Freedom convoys have nothing to with truckers or freedom, nor were they peaceful and once they parked in Ottawa, they were no longer a convoy. I could tell you how political climate in this country right now is making me so worried that I wake up with a headache and a sore jaw from clenching my teeth as I sleep. There are states in the US where we won’t visit because the people there are so right wing that they have stripped whole groups of their population of their rights and are actually burning books, and I’m worried there are provinces in Canada following their lead. I’m also worried that those Americans are actively involved in Canadian politics. I could tell you how afraid I am that this pandemic has brought out the worst in some of the people around us, and that the hateful elements of our society have gained traction because their voices have been amplified by social media sites and alt-right news outlets. People have been spewing hate almost without repercussion, and good people have been attacked by them simply for wearing masks or scrubs. I could use this post to tell you how horrified I am that there are people who believe everyone – the government, the media, the scientists, the health care workers – is lying to them, to us all, for some nefarious purpose that they can’t articulate or prove but that they know for certain is happening. I wonder if any of the people who believe in the world-wide conspiracies have ever tried to organize an extended family reunion? That’s damn near impossible, so there’s no way people in different countries of the world, who speak different languages and believe in different things could ever work together to pull off anything.

But I’m not going to do that.

Instead I’ll tell you some of the things I’m grateful for:

• all the scientists who developed the vaccine and the health care system officials and workers who developed, implemented and delivered policies and procedures to keep us safe and well
• everyone in our family who is eligible is fully vaccinated and most are boosted
• we live in a beautiful part of our country where we can kayak and fish and camp and hike and generally get outdoors and stay active
• we also live in an area where we can shop for more than just our basic needs
• I learned how to make bread during this time (but not sourdough because I killed my starter)
• we were able to get a shot of sun on vacation before the Omicron variant hit
• community theatre has found a way to exist in these pandemic times

I truly believe the majority of people in Canada believe in, support and follow all the best Canadian qualities of acceptance, kindness, and inclusion because we live in a great country with freedoms, rights, responsibilities and consequences.

And finally, instead I’ll tell you that even though I have concerns and worries, I also have hope. Here in Canada the percentage of vaccinated people and the mitigations put into place mean that the minor restrictions we’ve experienced might soon be loosened or removed. We might not need to show our vaccine passports to eat in a restaurant or watch a hockey game. We might not need to wear masks when we visit indoor public spaces. We might be able to travel internationally with just our vaccines, without testing before leaving and returning.

Scratch a Canadian and 90% of the time you’ll find someone who enjoys hockey (even if just during the playoffs, the Worlds and the Olympics), is proud of our healthcare system and social programs, believes everyone should have the same rights and should not be judged by their skin colour, their religion, their culture/country of origin, their sexual orientation or gender identity, follows the rules and knows we don’t need to fly a huge Canadian flag from the bed of a truck to show our patriotism. If you scratch the other 10% you might find someone who relates more to American-style beliefs and policies, but if you push them, they would have to say Canada is a pretty good place to live.

By the way, please don’t scratch anyone, it’s not nice.

And I am also hopeful that I won’t have to tell off some dipshit who tries to shame me when I decide to wear my mask a little longer (as is my right and doing so in no way endangers anyone) because beneath my optimism is a layer of anger that could be released on some unsuspecting fool. No one ever expects the grey-haired granny to lose it on them.

We went to a football game in Vancouver last night. It’s the first time we’ve ventured there in a long, long time. We cancelled some trips earlier in the year, anxious about the COVID situation. But we’re both fully vaccinated, and indoor spaces require masks and proof of vaccination, so we felt sure that we could safely go.

We left just after noon, and due to an accident on Highway 1 we arrived a little later than we expected. We checked into our hotel, where we showed our vaccination status and ID. Everyone in the lobby was masked. It was still too early for dinner, so we put our bags in our room and took a wander around. Some people on the street wore their masks all the time, like us, some had their masks dangling from their ear or chin. It was a beautiful afternoon. After making a loop going up several blocks then over several blocks, we made our way down to BC Place. We sat on the steps in front of the Terry Fox statues, enjoying the sun. The young people doing tricks on their skateboards weren’t masked, but they were outside and away from us. We people watched for a while then walked back up the street to a favourite restaurant.

As we entered, we were asked by a masked employee to use some hand sanitizer, then our vaccination passports were scanned and our IDs checked. We were led to a table that was separated from the tables around it by plexiglass dividers. All the employees were masked. Everyone who came in, or got up from their table, was masked. I was reassured, I felt like the collective we had finally got it.

But that changed as soon as we left the restaurant. As we walked down to the game, we saw an unmasked older couple arguing with a masked young man outside the door of a ramen restaurant. While it could be argued that a ramen restaurant is a fast food joint and thus exempt from some of the current rules, you still need to wear a mask to go in, even if just to get take out. And, I don’t know, if a restaurant or business wants to check your vaccination status, I would think they have that right, to keep their guests and employees safe. You don’t like that, don’t want to wear a mask? Be an adult, leave and take your business elsewhere. Don’t stand on the street arguing. I gave them a dirty look over the top of my mask and walked on. I don’t think they saw, but I still did it, so there.

At BC Place everyone wore a mask in the line up, and all employees were properly masked. Nothing irks me more than someone wearing just a face shield, usually tilted up to expose their mouth, or a mask below their nose. But once we got inside, things were not so good. I can see it’s not ideal to remove your mask for every bite of a hot dog, but when you’ve eaten the whole thing, put your mask back on. It’s not hard to replace your mask after taking a sip, or gulp of your beverage. We saw people leaving their seats to go get more food or drinks without putting their masks on. They returned the same way, so I guess no one stopped them and told them to to put them on. Wearing a mask is sometimes a good thing, because I looked at those stupid idiots and cursed them under my breath with pretty foul language. No one knew. It made me feel better. It was childish, but I did it, so there.

Finally, on our way home, we stopped at a local business that we frequent several times a month, just to check out what they have. We put on our masks, as we always do, before getting out of the car.  As we were going in, six women came out. Four were masked. The other two had their masks in their hands. We waited until they had all passed by before going in. Another customer was wearing her mask below her nose as she walked around. Then one of the owners came out, to move some things around and say hi. No mask. Inside, the other owner was putting things away. No mask. I told Dale I was leaving. As I left, I noticed there was a sign up saying everyone had to wear a mask inside the store. Hmmm…

I really like this store and the owners. They are very friendly and they carry a wonderful variety of ever-changing merchandise we enjoy looking through. It was just minutes before closing time, so I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt, that they wore masks all day but took them off to do their closing routine. We’ll go back some time next week, well before closing time. If they aren’t wearing masks, we won’t shop there again. Just like we aren’t going to restaurants that aren’t following the rules, ever again, even after the rules are no longer in place. Because we don’t want to support people and businesses who don’t care about other people and businesses.

We have all been through a difficult couple of years. The sooner we all get fully vaccinated, and the more we uphold the very minor restrictions placed on us, the sooner we can get back to whatever normal is going to be after all of this. Want your kids in school? Get vaccinated, and wear a mask when you drop them off and pick them up. Want to go to the movies, concerts, sporting events, the theatre? Get vaccinated and follow the rules put in place while you’re there. Want to travel? You know what I’m going to say.

By now, you should be beyond the “but what’s in the vaccine, is it safe?” stage. Your in-depth internet research should be complete by now. Millions of people, hundreds of millions of people, around the world have been vaccinated. The very rare side effects have been identified. Your odds of having terrible things happen to you because of COVID are way, way higher than what might happen if you get vaccinated. Not being fully vaccinated at this stage of the pandemic means you’re probably a terrible person. It’s safe for pregnant women and people with auto-immune diseases. Even the most immune compromised people, people who have had multiple organ transplants, have been vaccinated. There are no religious exemptions that apply. Think the disease was created in a lab in China? Does it matter? Nope. Get the shot.

Unvaccinated people are filling our ICUs. Medical personnel are overworked, demoralized and fed up. Our schools are closing again. Get with the program, or stay home. If you own a business, follow the rules. Show you aren’t a complete asshole and that you can be slightly inconvenienced for the greater good, and that you have at least some regard for others. I have restrained myself in this post. Don’t make me write another one full of the language I really want to use.

I had another visit with my dear friend “Eunice” last week. You may recall I am changing my friend’s name to protect her identity. Well, during the visit Eunice brought me up-to-date with her neighbours and their darling doggy Paddington. If you haven’t already read my first post about Eunice, her back neighbours and Paddington, go do it now. The background information will help.

Paddington may have mastered the art of the quick pee, as Eunice’s neighbours no longer stand at their back door and shout at him to hurry up. However, it may be that they just let him out and he pees on his own timetable, because now when her neighbours venture out to bring him back in, they shout at him for another reason. Because now, after peeing quickly, Paddington likes to dig. This is what Eunice hears from her bedroom window most mornings, and sometimes from her deck or living room during the day.

Paddington! Stop digging! Stop! STOP! Don’t you dare, stop! PADDINGTON! Stop! For heaven’s sake, stop! George, Paddington’s digging again! Yes, I know I can go out and get him but he’s your dog. Yes he is! YES HE IS! YOUR DOG! Paddington, come here and get a cookie, COOKIE! GEORGE!

Of course, if it’s George who finds the dog digging, this is what Eunice hears.

Paddington! Stop! STOP! Dear god dog, just stop. Come here, HERE! COME HERE! Martha, come help. Yes, I know he’s my dog but you live here too, I’m not the only adult in this house. Paddington, here boy. Stop digging, good boy. Now get in the house. In the house. IN THE HOUSE NOW! Go see Mommy for a cookie.

Eunice is quite enjoying the free entertainment. Of course, she can’t see through, around or over the fence, so she had no idea what kind of damage Paddington is wreaking on their yard, but there’s no way the digging doggy can affect her yard. And if he somehow manages to do so, the Strata Council will deal with it.

However, as always, Eunice has been thinking about how to get her own back, as often these loud conversations take place early in the morning, usually around 6:30 – 7:00. Now, she knows that George and Martha’s townhouse is similar to hers, having a living room with sliding glass doors leading to a deck as well as a master bedroom with large windows on the back of the house. So, just as she can hear them from any of those spaces, she knows they can hear her. And now, with the cooler nights, air conditioners are off and windows are wide open. Here’s what she wishes she had the guts to do:

Oh my! OH MY! Don’t stop, don’t stop, DON”T STOP! Yes, yes, YES! That’s good, that’s good, so good! YES! YES! YES! Oh yes! Oh my, so good! SO GOOD! DON’T STOP! Don’t… ohhhhhhhhh… yes…yes. 

Of course, she knows she won’t do it, well, most probably she won’t do it. But it amused her to think about it and it is funny as hell when she tells people about it. Paddington will most likely get over his digging phase, but, then Eunice wonders, what other doggy humour will he unleash for her to exploit?

Stay tuned. If Eunice comes up with anything else blog worthy, I’ll let you know.

I was at our local Shopper’s the other day. The lovely young woman behind the counter was friendly and efficient. After my items were scanned she asked, “Do you have a PC Optimum card Miss?” I pulled it up on my phone, and as she scanned it I told her I hadn’t been a “Miss” in over 40 years, and that I was definitely a “Ma’am”. She raised her eyebrows and opened her eyes wide. “Really?” she asked. I assured her that I was and that in many places, “Ma’am” is a title of respect. She bagged up my purchases, handed them to me and said with a grin, “Have a great day Ma’am.” I grinned back, thanked her and left.

It happened to me in a restaurant too. And the young server was equally surprised when I told him I was not a “Miss”. Really? Clearly I am not young – my lined face, comfortable body and natural grey hair shout that to anyone with eyes. And few servers, cashiers, baristas or other people in the service industry can say “Miss” to me without an uncomfortable smile or involuntary eyebrow motion. They know I’m not a “Miss” but they are terrified to say “Ma’am” in case I’m offended by it.

Well, I’m here to take back “Ma’am” as a title of respect. I’ve earned it with years of hard work and hard won experiences. And I am a woman over 60. Why pretend I’m young? As if being young is what’s important, indeed, even desired. Nope. I’m quite happy to be in my 60s. So don’t patronize me by calling me “Miss”.

We have travelled in several Southern US states. There, if a woman is your age or older, you call her Ma’am. In fact, if you don’t reply “Yes Ma’am” or “No Ma’am” when responding you are risking your life, or at least risking being called out over your bad manners. Of course, the woman calling you out would do it politely, after all, she knows what good manners are.

So, if you are a child in your twenties or younger, I will call you by your name if I know it. Thank you Susan, I appreciate that. Yes Brittany, that would be great. If I don’t know your name, I will respond without it. But, if you work with me, or are clearly not a child in your twenties or younger, I may use your name, or I may offer you my respect by adding “Ma’am” to my comments. Yes ma’am, I agree, the costume works. No ma’am, I couldn’t eat another bite. If that offends you, let me know and I’ll stop.

I think I’m going to start a movement to take back the title Ma’am. A line of pins, bracelets and t-shirts will be available soon. And while I’m at it, I’ll work on getting people to stop saying “Ninety years young” or calling elderly women “young ladies” as in “Tell me your secret to life, young lady”. Well, it helped she didn’t patronize her elders because they would have beaten her with their canes. Honouring age and experience should be a given. I would also like to reclaim the word crone, but that’s a battle for another day.

I have a dear friend who lives in a townhouse complex in Langley. I’m going to call her Eunice to protect her identity. Her bedroom window looks over her small backyard. Beyond the tall privacy fence is the second row of townhouses in the complex. This row of townhouses has their backyards on the other side of the fence. Got it? Townhouse, small backyard, tall privacy fence, small backyard, townhouse. Eunice sleeps with her bedroom window open; wide open in summer, less open in spring and fall, and still open in winter. It’s safe. A person with nefarious intent would have to jump across the fences between the townhouses as well as scale the large privacy fence between the rows of townhouses.

All was good with my dear friend Eunice until the older couple in the townhouse behind hers got a dog. The puppy howled most of the night for about a week but Eunice knew that was behaviour that would change when the puppy got a little older and more secure in its new environment. So she closed the window. And she was right. It stopped. Eunice reopened the window. She always sleeps with an open window, all year long. Except when the temperatures soared over 35°. Then she closed all the windows and turned on the A/C. But as soon as it cooled off at night, the A/C was turned off and the windows were opened wide. The A/C was nice, but it cost money and Eunice was on a fixed budget. And the cool evening air was much fresher and nicer to breathe than the air from the A/C.

So, window wide open, Eunice settled back into cooler, quieter sleeps. That is, until the older couple started letting the puppy out for an early morning pee. Eunice didn’t hear the sliding glass door open. That wasn’t the problem. She didn’t hear the little dog running around the backyard on the other side of the fence, pushing its nose into the flowers in the small bed along the fence and poking under the big leaves. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that either the older man or the older woman in the townhouse on the other side of the privacy fence would stand at the sliding glass door and encourage the puppy to do its business. Loudly and insistently. And for quite a long time as the puppy was far more interested in exploring the backyard than doing its business. Between 6:00 and 6:15 every morning:

“Okay Paddington, go pee. That’s a good boy. No, stay out of there. No Paddington! No! Go pee. Hurry up. Come on Paddington, go pee. Go pee! If you go pee, you’ll get a cookie. No, after you go pee, no cookie now. No cookie until you go pee. Go on, go pee. Good boy! You went pee! Good boy Paddington. Now come over back inside and get a cookie. Come on Paddington, inside. Come to Mommy (or Daddy depending on whose job it was to take Paddington out) and get your cookie. Come on. No. Leave that alone. Come in! Now! Good boy! Good boy! Okay, let’s go get your cookie, you’re a good boy!”

The script was similar every morning. Again, Eunice decided to bide her time. The little dog would soon learn to pop outside, go pee and then pop back in to get a cookie. The backyard was fully fenced. Surely the older couple would learn the doggie could be let out and then let back in. Training wouldn’t take long. And Eunice always went back to sleep after the early morning pee call, so no harm, no foul.

During the day, the little dog wanted out a lot. And again, the one of the older couple would stand at the door, carrying on a conversation with the puppy. Eunice could deal with this as she sat reading in her comfy outdoor chair on the small patio just outside her sliding glass door. She sometimes chuckled as she imagined what the little guy was getting up to on his side of the fence. Again, she wasn’t worried about loud conversations. The little dog would learn to ask to go out and to not dig up the grass or uproot the flowers. And the older couple would get more comfortable leaving him out on his own… or so Eunice thought.

Fast forward four months to now, full on summer. Full on Paddington, who hasn’t learned to go pee in the morning or to be in the backyard without constant, vocal supervision. Full on doggie parents who do take the dog for walks, but who can’t trust it in the backyard alone. Ever. And who never go out into the yard to discipline the dog. Who seem to think telling the dog to stop and promising a cookie is the only technique needed.

Eunice is now frustrated. Her back neighbours don’t seem to be concerned about their constant, noisy intrusion into other peoples’ lives. Eunice is thinking about getting an imaginary cat. And as soon as the older couple has success with Paddington and are quietly back inside, the cat will need to go out, or come in. Eunice imagines the conversations she might have with the cat:

”Here kitty, kitty. Kitty, kitty, kitty. Come on in. That’s a good kitty. Ohh, I love you. What a good kitty. Yes, you love it when I rub between your ears. Ouch! No kitty! No scratching! I didn’t mean to touch your tail. You turned too quickly. I’m sorry. And you’re sorry too, aren’t you, my lovely kitty. Yes you are. Mommy’s sorry, she won’t touch your tail again. Come on inside.what a good kitty.”

”Here kitty, kitty. What’s that you’ve got? Let’s we see. Let Mommy see. Oh my God! You’ve got an effing snake. For God’s sake, no snakes in the house! Get rid of it! Oh God! It’s still alive! Take it away! No, away! Away! FFS, where’s the broom? Where’s the broom?! Shoo, go away snake. Leave the snake alone! No, kitty! Bad kitty! Inside, and no more snakes.”

Of course, there would be similar conversations for birds, mice and any other little presents the imaginary cat might bring. Eunice amuses herself with these talks she could have with her pretend pet, but she knows she’ll never do it. The last thing she needs is for her neighbours to think she’s a crazy cat lady. But it helps with the frustration she’s feeling with the dopey doggie and the overprotective, loud talking couple on the other side of the tall privacy fence. And it is fodder for the hilarious stories she regales me with when we video chat. I can’t wait until I can hear the Paddington experience for myself.

I’m not sure why, but from the start of my home stay, aka social or physical distancing, I’ve been washing the dishes in the kitchen sink rather than using the dishwasher. It might be that washing, drying and then putting them away takes more time than loading, unloading and putting them away. Whatever the reason was that got me started, I’ve continued it.

There is something therapeutic about immersing your hands in warm, soapy water. In my case, it takes a while to get to the warm water. We have a tankless hot water system in this house and the kitchen sink must be the furthest from the boiler. I have timed it, it takes at least 45 seconds for the water to start to warm. Surprisingly, 45 seconds is a long time to wait. So I stand there, my hand under the tap, in the stream of water, waiting. When it gets warm enough, I put the stopper in the sink, squirt some dishwashing liquid and wait again. This time for the sink to fill. I don’t mind the waiting. It’s time to just be. Nothing to do, but wait. Then once the sink is full of warm soapy water, I start.

There is a large window over the sink, as there should be. Every sink should look out over a backyard, a front yard, a park – there should be some interesting view. My view is the backyard. Currently there is a lilac bush just starting to bloom. Over the course of my dishwashing experience, it has gone from bare branches to fully leafed with opening flowers. There are often little grey and black birds hopping in the grass, eating seeds or little bugs, I’m not sure which. Sometimes crows hop along the top of the brick wall. We recently planted grass and with the alternating periods of rain and then sun, I can almost see it growing.

I empty my mind as I empty the sink. My eyes drink in the sunlight playing on the leaves as they flutter gently in the wind. My left hand runs the dishcloth over the plate I hold in my right hand. Then I drop the dishcloth and turn on the tap to rinse it. With both hands I turn the plate, rinsing away all the suds, checking to make sure it’s fully clean. With my left hand I turn the tap off, and reach back into the sink for the dishcloth. My right hand finds the next dish. My hands move almost without intention from me. A domestic ballet, performed for generations. Last to be done are the utensils at the bottom of the sink, gathered up and wiped in bunches, placed between the dishes and side of the sink.

When one sink is empty and the other filled, I do a check around the kitchen for strays. I drain the water. Again, I stand and wait. Then I use the dishcloth to wipe the sink clean, often pulling the bottom of the faucet down to spray it around the sink. I rinse the dishcloth, wring it out and place it on the divider between the sinks. Often I walk away at this point. It’s easier to dry the dishes when they’ve had a chance to do so on their own. Later, sometimes only minutes but often hours later, I wipe them and put them away.

I do this two, sometimes three, times a day. It centres me. And even though it is an activity I do without much thought, I am paradoxically in the moment. I am aware of the warm soapy water followed by the cooler rinsing flow. My eyes move from lilac bush to the grass, trying to count how many little birds are pecking there. Nothing else matters, just these dishes in the sink and the view out the window. The common, reliable, mundane in a time that is anything but.

We took an early spring vacation this year, between my theatre commitments. We went to our go-to location – Palm Springs. It was a lovely vacation, except for the 24 hours when I thought I had lost my driver’s licence, my debit card and a credit card. Long story short, we found the little wallet on the hotel grounds, after we had cancelled the debit card and suspended the credit card. My driver’s licence couldn’t be reported lost until Monday morning. We had also filed an online police report. We recontacted everyone, and I had no cards to use for the rest of the trip. But I digress…

The COVID crisis was in the news before we left but when we returned we were not required to self isolate. However, several days after we got home, the self isolation request came into being. So we started staying in. Dale went to work, but stayed in his office. I went to two rehearsals but stayed home for the third as I had a dicky tummy. It was at that rehearsal that the plug was pulled on the production. We got home on March 9. Today is April 22. We have been pretty close to home for that whole time. We have been out for bike rides around the neighbourhood, and I have adapted to going grocery shopping only once a week. We now wear gloves when we go out, I also wear a mask.

We bought a house before we left on vacation. We bought new appliances for it online. We organized the moving of our hydro and natural gas accounts online. We tried doing our mail redirection online but it didn’t work so I had to go to Shopper’s to do that. On the afternoon that our rental agent scheduled showings of our current home I took my Kindle and sat in my car in the empty parking lot of a nearby mall, for three and a half hours. Alone, with nothing to eat or drink because nothing was open if I had to use the bathroom. The people coming in to check out the house wore masks and gloves. We could see that because we have one of those video doorbell thingies.

I didn’t think the isolation would bother me. But it has. Because it’s not just about sitting at home alone. There is fear and anxiety tied up with it. If someone I love gets sick, I can’t help, in fact, I won’t even be allowed to see them. The same if I get sick. And some of the people I love aren’t spring chickens any more. If something else happens to them, again, I can’t help and I can’t see them. And no matter how hard some of us work at doing everything asked of us to flatten the curve so that our health care system and health care workers aren’t overwhelmed, you just know that there are people out there who could mess it up because they are too stupid to follow simple directions. Or who are so stupid that they actually believe this crisis is a conspiracy to strip them of their rights. So, the thought that they might extend and exacerbate the situation keeps me up at night. Which isn’t really all that bad, because I literally have nowhere to go and nothing to do, so I can nap during the day if I’m tired.

I have been trying to stay active and positive. Some days are easier than others. Mostly I try to remember that this is a just an inconvenience. I am safe. I have a roof over my head and food in my pantry and freezers. I have 24/7 tv and internet. I have walking and biking routes nearby. I can call, message or video chat friends and family. And I am not alone. What I have are first world problems. My hair is too long. I can’t go to a restaurant. I can’t go to the mall. I have to stop eating my weight in carbs every day.

*This too shall pass.

*Everything will be okay in the end. If it is not okay, it is not the end.

That’s enough for today.

Here are some things about Newfoundland that didn’t make into any of my other posts.

• As we traveled northwest we saw piles of wood alongside the road. When we asked about this we were told that neighbours would buy a tandem load of wood for $1000 and have it delivered to an accessible spot on the side of the road. There they would cut it, stack it and leave it to dry until they take it home. Some of the stacks were huge, and just left alongside the road. I guess people in the area can be counted on not to steal wood.
• On the same route we also saw fenced gardens alongside the road. They were not beside houses or anything. Just gardens full of potatoes, cabbages and onions in random places along the road. We asked about this and were told that where the houses were, near the water, wasn’t good for growing, both in terms of weather and soil. So people would find a sheltered, sunny spot with good soil more inland, clear it and plant.
• Large grocery stores in large towns had the selection of food stuff we are used to but the small towns had very limited items. We went looking for groceries as we had cooking facilities in one of our accommodations. We found eggs and bacon for breakfast but no fresh meat to cook or barbecue. We found white bread, and Italian-style white bread. We found cabbage, carrots, apples, oranges and bananas. No lettuce, tomatoes or cucumbers. We ended up buying a Kraft pizza kit and some pizza meat. We couldn’t find mozzarella so it wasn’t very cheesy. If you like fish, potatoes and white bread and don’t like a lot of fruits and veggies, then you’d love Newfoundland. By the end of our trip I was craving rye bread, peaches, corn on the cob, really anything fresh and not made with white flour.
• While the Newfoundland accent was present, we didn’t have any trouble understanding anyone. The accent varied from person to person and from area to area. The host at one of the B&Bs we stayed at did something that we heard no one else do – she added an h in front of words starting with vowels – heggs for eggs, himagination for imagination and so on. I have to say, I tried to get her to say words just to see how she would say it.
• Every restaurant we went into offered panfried cod. It became a favourite because it was delicious! And since coming home I’ve cooked it and it is still delicious. And much better than deep fried cod, no heavy batter so the deliciousness of the cod comes through.
• The history of Newfoundland is fascinating. I wasn’t aware of much of it before. The Rooms Museum in St. John’s was very informative. As Canadians we should know more.

Dale wasn’t able to find any accommodation right in Bonavista but the Seaport Inn Hotel in nearby Port Union had one room left, the Honeymoon Suite, oh la la! It was the room at the very end of the corridor, with a door out to a private hot tub. The room itself was tired and the decorating was dated, but it was clean and we were happy. It was a step up from some of the other places we had stayed. I considered our stay in L’Anse aux Meadows camping, sure we were in a B&B with a solid roof over our heads, but the bathroom was across the hallway and the bed was just a step up from a camp cot. So if the Valhalla B&B was a 1+ star, and chalet in Rocky Harbour was 5 stars, then the Seaport Inn was a 3. And in my mind, anything below a three is camping. So, the Seaport Inn just squeaked by, the bed was comfy and the linens were crisp white, so yes, not camping.

We checked in and then drove into Bonavista. We were able to go into the home of the lighthouse keeper and his family. The admission also got us into the Mockbeggar Plantation in the town of Bonavista. It was late in the day so we toured the lighthouse and walked the grounds. The house was quite beautiful and there were guides throughout the house and in the light tower to give information and answer questions. The keeper got paid in cash and his family lived rent free. They had to maintain the house, but they had quite a standing in the community due to their favourable economic circumstances. Dale was fascinated by the light mechanism. It was a series of gears and pulleys that had to be wound several times a day, and also during the night. As long was the mechanism was wound, the light turned. There was a way to wind it from inside the house. Of course, there were other jobs to be done, like cleaning the glass chimneys on the lights, the reflective surfaces and the windows. The windows had to be cleaned from the outside, by accessing a very narrow walkway. It was a job that would test the mettle of anyone, especially if there was a wind blowing.

The grounds were beautiful and from a wooden walkway we were able to use a telescope to see puffins! We were so excited but were later told that there was a better location where we could see them without a telescope. The wind was blowing but it was still early, so we walked out to the headland. It was an impressive sight. This was the place John Cabot, or as he was known in Italy Giovanni Caboto, landed. We didn’t see a good landing spot but from the top looking down is never a good vantage point.

After leaving the lighthouse we went back to the inn to discover a tour bus had arrived. The hallways were full of luggage being delivered to the appropriate rooms. We maneuvered our way through the maze and went to our room to clean up before dinner. The restaurant at the inn had a good rating, so we decided to forgo a drive and we went there. The room had many reserved tables, of course, the tour bus. The tables along the windows weren’t labelled so we motioned to the server and she told us to sit. Dale ordered a beer and I had a tea. The server was very friendly and chatty. The couple at the table behind us must have known her well. She kept going back to chat with them and when they left she gave them big hugs. Our meal was great, Dale’s panfried cod was especially delicious. The room slowly started to fill up with the tour bus people as we had our dinner. Clearly the inn had done this a time or two before. The plates came out of the kitchen with rapid efficiency. It was interesting to watch the groups at the tables. There were some couples, who seemed to only sit with other couples. There were some groups of women who came in together and sat together, and a few women who came in alone and looked for a free spot to sit. There were no men who walked in alone. Most of the people at the tables were actively engaged and the noise level grew. Everyone seemed to enjoying themselves,

Our server told us where to go to see puffins. She said mid-morning would be best. So the next morning we got up, checked out and drove to where the puffins were. It was foggy when we left and still foggy when we got to the site. We parked and hiked across a field and then to some cliffs. We were up pretty high and we went quite a ways out over the sea. We went right to the end. We could see an island about 30 feet away and it was covered with birds. We could see puffins but not clearly because of the fog. So we hiked back and decide to look at other things, hoping the fog would lift.

The small community we were in, Elliston, is known for its root cellars. They were everywhere, not just attached to houses. It was neat to spy the small wooden doors built into the many small banks. We drove around seeing how many we could find. Then we went back into Bonavista proper to go to the Mockbeggar plantation. It was a beautiful old house and again, well represented by the guides stationed throughout the house. By the time we were done the fog had lifted and we drove back to see if we could improve our puffin experience.

We did. We sat on a rock at the end of the headland and watched the puffins on the island ahead of us. They are crazy fliers. They have little burrows they pop in and out of. They often flew out in groups to get fish and then came back to give the fish to their babies in the burrows. They had to dodge the seagulls who decided stealing fish from puffins was easier than getting it themselves. From what we saw, the puffins were able to get past them, but the seagulls must sometimes win otherwise they wouldn’t keep trying. We were too far away to get a good photo with our phones but we still sat there for quite a while, enjoying their antics and making memories.