Tuesday, January 31, 2012

if I could bake bread

The summer of 1967 I spent several weeks in Plaster Rock, NB.  I  worked as a mother’s helper and then cared for those children while the Mum had her fouth daughter.  I had no problem fitting into the children’s routine. Then the Mother began to outline my duties in regard to her husband.  Even though he worked in the woods, he was a manager and was to have freshly washed and pressed clothing each day. Check.  His breakfast was to be made and there were three options.  Check.  I was to make his lunch in the morning, not the night before ,and there was a list of options. Check. I must only use home baked bread and there were several loaves in the freezer. Check.

I should not have been so blasé about the bread.  It seemed as soon as the Mum was in the hospital I was on our last loaf of bread.  No problem, I had made bread with Mother a hundred times.  While the children were napping I got out a huge mixing bowl, yeast, sugar, shortening and flour.  As I mentally went over the procedure I was thinking my timing was off. Mother always made bread in the morning so it would be coming out of the oven at supper time.  No matter, I could bake it in the evening.

 And I commenced, crumbled the yeast in a bowl; theirs was a cake, we used dry. I guessed how much to use.  Was this bowl the same size as Mothers?  I filled with tepid water; added some sugar and set the yeast to work.   After fifteen minutes or so it seemed to have a little head. I convinced myself it was acceptable so added the shortening, water and flour; shaped it into a ball and set it to rise.  Rise it did not.  Just before supper I hustled the grey, gooey mess out to the garbage barrel.   After supper I called my Mother.

“Mum, I have to make bread.”
“You know how to make bread; you help me all the time.”
“Well I tried today and It would not even rise.”

So Mother took me through the recipe, step by step and measured out the ingredients.  The next morning I began anew. And the yeast worked, the dough rose.  By afternoon I had that bread in the pans.  I glanced out the window to see two squirrels clambering out of the garbage barrel. Each had a bit of the bread dough in their paws.

 “How cute”, I thought “the squirrels are going to eat the dough.”  No way, they used it to play some kind of crazy squirrel football.  I baked the bread and it was fine. Not wonderful like my Mothers, my mother Edna Vail did bake the very best white bread, but fine.  I made bread several more times during my stay; to ensure there would be some in the freezer.

 Every day I went out and picked up bits of the yucky dough and redeposited them in the garbage.  When the lady of the house returned I gave her an account of all that had transpired while she was in the hospital.   She inquired how I had managed baking bread. When I answered fine, she said “that’s not what the squirrels say!”

Monday, January 30, 2012

About the alarm clock on the stairs


Through my teen years one of my best friends was ………..my brother, Rodney.   We were just two years apart and enjoyed each other’s company immensely.  You might think that was because we were alike. Nope, for the most part we were very different. I made good grades in school, Rodney not so much.  I was eager to please and anxious to fit into the right crowd, not Rodney.  I loved to work and always had a part time job; Rodney was not very interested in working.

One thing we had in common was food.  Everyone else in our family went to bed early; we stayed up and had night time feasts.  One of our favourite snacks was sardine sandwiches.  Made on Mother’s wonderful fresh homemade bread with sardines, onions soaked in vinegar and mustard they were a treat.  If we did not have sardines, the sandwiches consisted of the onions and mustard.  The latter sandwich took more milk to wash it down.



Then Rodney snared rabbits.  He would bring in the dressed hind quarters and I would fry them up in the electric frying pan.  Yum oh, they tasted like chicken.  And it was not all kitchen lunches, by the time we were in high school we went out and about with our gang.  Several of our neighbourhood chums had cars and we gathered together, usually in the church yard, talked and solved the problems of the world. In summer we played pick up soft ball, in winter we skated. If we had money we got treats at the corner store.  If we really had money we went to Hartland to the movies.

We had a curfew, eleven pm.  For some reason our Mother felt that if we were not home by eleven some calamity would befall us.  I tried to negotiate for a more adult hour, say midnight, but Mother would not be budged.  Our father, Talmage Vail, was a sport affectionate.   Most evenings saw him watching one game while listening to two different games on two different radios.  He could not be burdened with monitoring our curfew.  Mother had four more children after Rodney and I, so she was always exhausted and wanted to be in bed soon after dark.

That is how the alarm clock on the stairs came to be.  Mother set the clock for eleven, we had to be home to turn it off or she would be awakened by the alarm and we would be in trouble.  The first few nights we were on time, no problem.  Then there was an evening when I was involved in a heavy discussion with my then boyfriend.  I suggested Rodney hurry on home and turn off the clock.  It was then we decided that it did not take two people to unarm an alarm. 

 Rodney and I  worked as a tag team for a while, summer arrived. We decided it did not take either of us to beat the clock.  For a fee David ,our next brother, would willingly tend the clock.  I am not sure how long we paid David those precious quarters. At some point Dad came tearing down the stairs, probably in search of a better reception site, and the clock was broken.

And No one asked me about the alarm clock on the stairs.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

if Nelson Rogers could see with his glass eye

My grandfather, Nelson Rogers, was born in 1880.  When he was 66, Grampy lost an eye.  No, it was not a case of forgetting to bring the eye home with him.  In fact a branch from a tree snapped back and lodged in his eye. Subsequently the eye had to be removed and Grampy was fitted with a glass eye.

When I was eight my Roger’s grandparents celebrated their fiftieth anniversary.  Their ten living children and their children all gathered in Fielding for the celebration.  What fun we had, so much so that Grampy and Grammy went off for naps.  Somehow the conversation between the cousins turned to Grampy’s glass eye, and did he take it out when he slept.  I volunteered to go see.  I tiptoed into his room and there, in a glass of water, was his eye.  I picked up the glass and scurried outside.


Oh, how brave I felt!  I devised a dare, who was brave enough to touch the eye?  All the boys participated, and of course Brenda followed my lead, the other girls refused.  Then it was time to put back Grampy’s eye.  Why is it always so much more difficult to return an item than it is to remove it?  As I eased the glass back to the table Grampy rolled over and in his gruff voice said, “Hey”!  I froze.  He opened his eye, saw me and said “Oh, go on”!  
Lottie and Nelson Rogers 50th wedding anniversary 1958



 Later when he got out of bed Grampy made a bit production about did any of the kids want to see his eye?  And he showed us how he cleaned the socket and the eye.   We older cousins feigned disinterest but wondered just how much Grampy knew.


The next year my family moved in with my grandparents. Two of my older cousins, Jim and Barney, were living there as well.  Since the guys were almost twenty the theory was that they would help Grampy on the farm.  Grampy was not much for theory.  It seemed everything Jim and Barney touched fell apart and chores which were assigned to them were not completed.   They were to be paid for their services, however Grampy was dubious as to their worth,



Grampy had a desk in the living room and the top drawer was his cash drawer.  Part of the cash was his box of quarters.  In that day if I took a quarter to the corner store it would buy a ten cent bag of chips, a five cent chocolate bar and a pop.  How does this fit in with Grampy’s eye?  Well Grampy called me his eye and it was my task to keep him informed of Jim and Barney’s actions. Every report, Grampy would tap his glass eye and tell me to get a quarter.

Once or twice I may have helped myself to an extra quarter.  When that happened Grampy always knew.  And when I questioned him, Grampy would simply tap his eye.   No one asked me if Nelson Rogers could see with his glass eye.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

To work on green crops

McCain Plant much as it looked in my day
The year was 1966 and I needed a summer job.  I had already worked at McCain Foods for over a year. The summer of 1965 had been a treat, I worked straight nights in cold storage and we were on shut down for at least two hours every night.  The plant was being rewired, all employees would be called to the lunch room, electricity switched off and we would wait. 
There were perhaps twenty young people, We were prepared with pillows and blankets and it was easy to catch a nap. It was a summer of magical nights and adventures. But that was then.

myself that summer
McCain paid real wages whether you were student or adult and there was lots of competition for jobs. Add that to the fact that the potato line was down for the summer. But I had a secret weapon, my friend Nancy Black. Her Mother Effie was a floor lady and somehow managed to hear when there was an opening. Soon I received a call to come in on green crops.


I followed my floor lady out to the back, and there in an open-air shed was the bean line.   A young man would empty a tote of beans into the hopper, making sure he routed out all mice, snakes and other varmits.    The beans would them be washed, blanched and make their way down a conveyor belt.  Twenty employees were at weight stations on either side of the belt.  The theory was that you would remove every twentieth box, ensure it contained the correct weight of beans and replace that box on the conveyor.  Sounds simple?

I started out okay, took off a box, filled it, put it back.  Then the floor lady came along and told me I was too slow and I should be taking off every twentieth.  So I did, soon you could not see me for boxes.  I was sobbing my heart out.  Think of I love Lucy in that infamous scene in the chocolate factory.


The floor lady came back.  “I don’t think this is the job for you” she said. Understatement.  She thought a bit.  “How would you like to be the poker?”  I would have agreed to anything.  The rest of bean season saw me seated on a stool at the corner of the building where the conveyor makes a turn to go from processing over to cold storage.  I had a fine stick and when the packages jammed up, I poked them.  I think I may have had a small book secreted on my person.

 All in all it was not a bad job. Never again did I apply to work on green crops. 

Friday, January 27, 2012

about Mice on Roller skates

I am not sure when they came to live with us but, by the time we had moved to 83 Elliott Row; those little rascals had made their presence known.  It was small things at first, a favorite pair of ear rings not in their correct place.  A suddenly empty milk jug left setting in the fridge. A bottle depleted of shampoo, discovered after I had wet my hair.  I would smell cigarette smoke in our non-smoking house.   Since neither of my daughters was the culprit it could only be, the mice on roller skates.

Oh those mice were blamed for many an action those years.  One thing I had learned as a Mother was to allow my girls to save face. If, when questioned about an incident or action, they denied knowledge, I accepted their answer.  And once more we would heap insults on the Mice on Roller skates.
My daughters and I shared our home with several adults during this period, more because I was a sucker for a hard luck story than for any financial benefit.  This brought about the issue of liquor in the house.  There was a firm rule that neither of my girls was to touch any booze.  Occasionally some was depleted and of course the offenders were …the Mice on Roller skates.

When I recently asked my adult daughters about the mice, both feigned poor memories but were in agreement that whenever something happened that neither wanted to own; it was the work of the mice.  Vavielle told me that if anything was missing in the house I would say “well it must be those mice on roller skates smoking cigarettes" who took it!  By this time I had come to the realization that I could not curtail Leisa’s smoking.
The most contentious issue was the “white shoes". I purchased them for Leisa; they were leather with cut-outs and very attractive. They may have been Leisa’s but those shoes often went out the door on Vavielles’s feet.  Should the shoes not be available for Leisa, it was always the Mice who were blamed.

That was over twenty years ago, now both my daughters are older than I was then.  In recollection welcoming the Mice on Roller skates into our home, to be the culprits and to add levity and perspective, was one of my better decisions.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

if I liked liquid diets!



Mother and me
My mother, Edna Vail, is virtuous about following the doctor’s instructions. I tease her that if standing on her head and peeing out her ear would improve an illness; she would accomplish just that. I am my mother’s daughter so today finds me undertaking a course prescribed my doctor.

This New Year began, for me with the stomach flu.  And while the gastro ups and downs have somewhat subsided, I have not been able to kick the nausea.  I discussed this with my family physician who told me that sometimes the only cure was a clear liquid diet.  That was ten days ago.  I have been living on ginger gravol and continuing to eat.  The only time I do not feel nauseous is when I am eating, go figure.

yummy Jello
A restricted diet is trickier for me since I am an insulin dependent diabetic, and a carb counter at that.  This means I eat, I count the carbs in my meal and I take the corresponding units of insulin to cover my food.   I have been procrastinated long enough; today I started the clear liquid diet or fast.  One is allowed an amazing array of food; clear juice, jello, clear pop, broth and sports drinks. 

I have almost finished this day, my doctor prescribed 48 hours.  I hate broth; I did make cup a soup and strained out the noodles.  I can only drink so much juice,   Jello is my main stay.   My apologies for the brief blog but I hear a jell calling my name.

No one asked me  if I liked liquid diets!

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

About my chainsaw

I am bigger, my saw smaller
After tonight I will write only six more daily blogs.  I think I told you this was my task to determine if I still had writing ability and to bond with my computer.  I am writing, we are bonding and on February first I am resurrecting my novel, “Death in Dallas”.   After that readers can expect a new No one asked me every few days.  But for now, let me tell you about the time when no one asked me if I had a chain saw.


Steve and I were visiting our friends Marilyn and John Howe at their cottage on the Belleisle; when John mentioned he needed a tree removed.   It was a softwood, approximately thirty feet tall and a foot and a half in diameter at the butt ;( sorry I don’t do trees in metric).  We talked about the cost of getting someone in to that remote location. When suddenly I remembered, I had a chain saw. 
see height of trees
“John, I just remembered I have a chain saw, I will come up and take the tree down for you.”   “No!”  Was the unanimous reply from both John and my husband.  I went on to explain that my saw had been Steve’s fathers. It was electric and not really large but I was sure it would do the job.   

It was decided that John would purchase the saw from me. And that Steve, John and yours truly would fell the tree. And on a scheduled day we arrived to do just that. There were a number of practice cuts and John proclaimed the chain to be dull. I informed him that it could be filed; the men gave each other “the look” and thought that a new chain could be purchased at Canadian Tire. In the end the guys used the chainsaw, with the dull but operable chain as I could not handle the vibrations.

Marilyn on the deck, we removed tree just touching the rail
The men were quite surprised that we had to tie off the tree, cut out a wedge chunk and plan where it would fall.   I have seen too many hung trees and smashed buildings not to plan first. Several generations of lumbering fore fathers did not fail me.  We brought it down straight and true.  Now John no longer needs to worry about this tree crashing through a window.

And no one asked me about my chainsaw.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

about Burl Brookers Peas!

Burl (right) and brother Wallace
Some men live for fishing, and some for hunting. For others their passion is sports, politics, automobiles, animals or gardening. Burl Brooker had a passion, his granddaughters.



I do not think that Burl expected grandchildren.  His first, Vavielle, spent her baby years in British Columbia.  When we did return to New Brunswick, Burl took every opportunity to spend time with her. They played together like two pups, often with Burl on the floor to bring himself down to Vavielles’s height.   But he was just in training.  Soon Leisa was born and we moved to Fiellding, next door to the Brookers. As next door as you can be in the country, when separated by two fields and a church.

This proximity gave Burl ample opportunity for his tricks.  One day the girls went outside to find their bicycles tied in meters of rope and tethered to the clothesline pole.  Another day they heard the dog barking and discovered him dressed in their clothing, from jeans to hat.  Burl’s tricks went on and on; enjoyed by both grandparent and children.

Every outing warranted a treat.  I tried in vain to limit them, but ….  At any time our panty cupboard was home to at least twenty of Leisa’s half-finished treats.  Vavielle being the older always finished hers.  Better than chips, chocolate or ice cream was fresh new peas. Yes, those green beans just bursting out of their shells.   When Burl realized how much the girls enjoyed peas, he had his next challenge.

Did he plant a row or two in his garden?  No, he planted a field of peas. To be more specific, the he planted the field between our homes.  Burl did rotation planting and there were new peas for weeks.  Vavielle and Leisa certainly enjoyed those peas, and appreciated their grandfather even more.


No one asked me about Burl Brookers Peas!

Monday, January 23, 2012

Why potties are not allowed on the table!

Vavielle as a baby
My oldest daughter, Vavielle was a wonderful baby and toddler.  She slept through the night at just a few weeks, went to bed easy with no fuss (of course I gave her a bottle, we did not know any better in those days) and possessed a bright, cherubic manner.
When Vavielle was a year old we started potty training.   In a few weeks we had it mastered and often she would run off to the bathroom and spend time on her potty.   Then we flew to New Brunswick.  We had moved to British Columbia when Vavielle was an infant. However all of our families were back in New Brunswick so we visited whenever we could.   This trip we were flying and our route included a layover in Montreal.  Now in the sixties one dressed up to travel and I had my daughter decked out in a frilly little dress.  Mother and daughter were making their jaunt to the rest rooms and we discovered to our delight that there were tiny little flushes, just a potty height.  After I had Vavielle situated on the wee flush, no mean feat, think all those poufy skirts, I turned for a second.   Famous last words.
We should have had this set up\
 There was a loud roar, a whoosh and terrified cries.  I turned to find my little girl upended in the flush, only her tiny shoes remained above the rim and she was sobbing uncontrollably.   After I extricated her from the toilet, changed her clothing and calmed her down I discovered the flush mechanism was on the floor and childlike Vavielle had pushed it to see what would happen. 

 That episode set us back a long way.  Toilets were out, potties were in.  No worries of being drowned in a potty.  Fast forward to age three.  Our little family was driving, yes driving to New Brunswick from British Columbia.  I planned for every eventuality.  Knowing that bathroom facilities could be uncertain at best, I put the ever faithful potty in the back seat along with numerous rolls of toilet paper.  A few days into our trip we were stopped at a picnic site.   The place was bustling, every table was filled. In fact we were sharing our table with an elderly couple.  I was busy making the meal and Vavielle was chatting away to me.   Suddenly her father called her name in that “oh no” tone of voice, “Vav…ie..lle”!   I turned, and there on the picnic table, between my tablecloth and the other travellers food was an item you do not want to see.   Yes, it was the potty.  Better yet; perched on the potty was one bare bummed little three year old.

 Since I am the oldest of six, four of them brothers, I was not nearly as embarrassed as my husband.  We did pack up quickly; we did get back on the road.  Bathroom breaks were always closely supervised.  And no one asked me  Why potties are not allowed on the table!

Sunday, January 22, 2012

why we call Steve Bumpie

No one asked me …….why we call Steve “Bumpie”
Some seventeen years ago, when we received the wonderful news that we were going to be grandparents, my husband Steve said “I have just one request”.  Now we are all familiar with his one request scenarios. However this one was uncomplicated.  “I want the baby to call me Bumpie”.   I assured my husband that the baby could call him Bumpie, in fact that the child would use whatever name or term we introduced.  Then Steve started to second guess himself. “Maybe it would be too confusing, Dad is Bumpie to Jane and Peters children and ….” 

Bumpy Dick, Nanny and their grandchildren
Time for explanations.  Steve’s father Richard, aka Dick, Bauer was grandfather to Leah and Mikey. They called him Grampy.  Enter the third grandchild, Emily.  Grampy was not a word that was working for her and she pronounced him Bumpie and so the original Bumpie was born. 

 I had heard of Bampie but Bumpie was a first for me.   Bumpie Dick had worn his title well. Now Steve was moving in.
Bumpie and new born Marcia Brooke Denton
One blustery evening in March of 1995 our granddaughter Marcia was born.  Her arrival was made even more special as she had a number of obstacles as she navigated the highway of birth.   Steve held Marcie in his arms and said “Hello, I am your Bumpie”.  And so he has become.  Marcie was never confused between her Bumpie and Bumpie Dick.  We waited ten long years for another grandchild.  Finally a little boy was to be born.  Sadly, Bumpie Dick was finishing his life.  Marcie asked me one day, “Gram, does God pick the person to die when he knows there is going to be a new baby?  Or when God knows someone is going to die, does he send a new baby so the family will not be so sad?’  We decided on the second scenario.  

Richard Bauer passed away November tenth, 2004.  Matthew Mourad was born Dec third, 2004.  Though not related by blood, they are tied by family.  And they share some character traits such as a love of sweets and a body built for athletics.    




Noah, Matty and Marcie 2010
In March of 2007 Marcie and Matty were joined by a brother Noah. Now Bumpie had two boys on his team. All three children love their adventures with Bumpie; biking, hiking, going to the beach, the list goes on and on. The boys are privy to a special game they call Monster Grampy and only a Bumpie can play.

our Jonah
In August 2011 we were once more blessed. Jonah Schlacter arrived to capture Bumpie’s heart and fill out the grandson roster.  Although Jonah lives in Burlington Steve will be a hands on Bumpie.



Even today Bumpie was at work, dropping off Marcie to visit her Mom in the hospital and taking the boys to McDonalds play land.   My husband likes his job, and title, so much that it forms his email accounts.  And least you doubt the validity of his title; Steve reports that it was very difficult to use Bumpie as his name; because so many are already in use.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Did I like walking a Rope Bridge?


Inspiration, the word itself conjures up visions of blue skies and bluer waters, lush foliage and wonderful music.  Perhaps for most however my daughter and I dance to a different drummer.   We find inspiration in children’s cartoons. 

My daughter Leisa is a jewellery artist. She works primarily in aluminum and sells under the name Leisa B.    While she was producing jewellery for the Christmas sales, she took a break to snuggle and watch cartoons with her four year old, Noah. A shadow on the wall caught her eye and Leisa translated that into a new ear ring design.

I too took inspiration from a cartoon. Mine is not as creative as my daughter’s’ but none the less, an idea was born.   The boys and I were watching cartoons and the animals were traversing a rope bridge, and I remembered my incident with the rope bridge.

Some fifty years ago, yes fifty! our family was visiting friends on the Miramichi.  This was a very interesting and beautiful area where one village flowed into the next. My Mother had always spoken of her friends in McNamee yet the youngsters referred to the locale as Priceville.  No matter, the road ran through and the river ran by.  There were few activities for children, and then someone suggested a walk.

Off we went, after we had trudged a fair distance we turned to the right onto a trail that which lead into bushes. I could hear water in the distance.  Then the path cleared and we were climbing wooden stairs.
How the bridge felt to me !

Up, up we went and suddenly we were on a platform. Stretching out from the platform was ….a wooden suspension bridge. The bridge stretched its toothpick like slats far, far across the river.  I soon made it clear that I was not going to cross THAT.  Heights have always bothered me; there is a family story about how I froze at the top of the Casa Loma staircase when I was seven.  Nor was I particularly athletic or well-coordinated.   Somehow the girls convinced me to come, I inched along with my hands in a death grip on the railing.  Part way out a boy came whizzing by us on a bicycle.  The bridge bucked and swayed, I was not sure if my heart would burst from its pounding or if it would simply stop. Finally I got the rythm and started walking, one foot after the other, looking at my friends and not down to the rushing river.

Then it happened,   boys at the far end of the bridge started to swing ithe bridge.  Yes, swing – as in pushing a swing and ever so slowly that swing was coming to us.  I am sure I cried, I imagined myself dashed over the side, or crumbled in fear and sliding through the meshwork.  My friends were responsible; one came behind me, one in front. We were all in body contact.

Bridge as it looks today
“Plant your feet, hang on to the top rope lightly,” as if!! 
“Now close your eyes and just pretend you are on a swing.” 
 I do not know how long it lasted.  Eventually we were still.  One of the girls gently turned me around.  I did not run, but I walked quickly back to our starting place.





I visited those friends all through my teen years.  We walked the rope bridge many times.  I never ran, never did anyone made the swing.  I never enjoyed the walk.

My Mother told me that the mothers of those girls had taken her to that same rope bridge. She had much the same experience.  Mother never went back.  My Father taught me to conquer my fears.

 No one asked me   Did I like walking a Rope Bridge?


Friday, January 20, 2012

for a Cabbage Patch Doll


The year was 1982, it was early in the fall and I was Christmas shopping for my two daughters who were then nine and fourteen.  We lived in a small rural community and the nearest place to shop was Woodstock, a town almost an hour’s drive away.   My last stop of the day was the newly opened Canadian Tire.   I was perusing the Christmas decoration when I heard a commotion. I followed the noise and discovered a staff member setting up a display of dolls.
 But a different kind of doll, Cabbage Patch dolls.  A crowd had gathered laughing and negating these new creations.  With round faces and pug noses, they proclaimed to have been harvested from the cabbage patch.  Their maker Xavier Roberts had signed every doll and provided them with adoption papers.  Intuitively I chose one doll with blonde hair and one with dark brown (just like my daughters).  They were $24.99, expensive in that day.  But I knew they were going to be popular.


I took them home and hid them in one of my many “secret” hiding places.  And waited.  I waited for the girls to talk about them, waited for commercials during the Saturday cartoons, waited to see them in the Christmas sales flyers.  Nothing.   October came and the girls made their Christmas lists, first draft.    November, second draft.  Still no word of Cabbage Patch dolls.  I was beginning to think my shoppers savvy had done me wrong.  End of November, the media blitz began. In days all stores were sold out.  Suddenly a Cabbage Patch doll was tops on Leisa’s list and Vavielle was saying they were “cute”.  I was very pleased with myself.

Then the ads began “Wanted to buy – Cabbage Patch doll, willing to pay any price.”  And so it went, the going price rose to $200.   That was half of our mortgage payment!   At that price I brought Vavielle into the decision.  Should Santa leave one for her or should it be sold.  Then she could have the money for other purchases, probably a skating dress.  Vavielle opted to sell.

 On Christmas morning when Leisa found her doll under the tree she was over joyed.  The adoption papers pronounced her to be “Lauren” and the official ceremony was oft repeated.  Truly my impromptu purchase gave my daughters Christmas the glow of happiness.


 Leisa loved that doll long and hard.   In an odd twist of fate she later won another Cabbage Patch doll at a community fund raiser.  But the second doll did not have the magic of her beloved Lauren.



As I write this Leisa is in the hospital, admitted for tests and observation for some troubling symptoms.  Nearing forty and a Mother herself, Leisa always is my little girl.  My wish for both my daughters is good health, loving families, happiness and financial stability. 

 Just as No one asked me   for a Cabbage Patch Kid, they do not ask me to  enchant their worlds.  However, I would if I could. Love you girls.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Am I afraid of intimidation?

The need for an Anti-Bullying rally seems to have filtered down to even the lowest common denominator.  This afternoon I received a call and the person on the other end starts to blast me. “Why did you say/do whatever about me/whoever?”  The anger and venom in their voice could cut like a knife.  A number of years ago I would have been reduced to tears, sputtering and trying to apologize; assuming that I was at fault.

But no more!   When the caller paused for breath; I responded.

“Are you trying to give me attitude?  If you are bring it on! And what do you mean calling me up and giving me a hard time about (whatever the issue)?”
I may be a legend in my own words but I am done taking flak.  In one of my former career incantations I was a Tenant Relations Officer for Public Housing.  I had hundreds of angry phone calls, and a number of angry face to face confrontations.  By then I had learned to stand my ground.  Those altercations are behind me, yet from time to time some uniformed individual thinks they can bully me with a loud voice and intimidation.   It will not work.

Some of my grief comes from being the president of my Housing Cooperation.  A Housing Coop is, by definition, a not for profit group in which each member has an equal say.  Yet all too many members are looking for a land lord when they perceive something is amiss.

In reality, we all face incidents when another person wants to rumble.  For a parking space, a grocery cart, a place in line – you know how it goes.  But like the child I was at six years old, I will not be bullied!  Anyone who wants to discuss a matter with me is welcome to do so, in a calm and reasonable manner.   Should they crank up the attitude and volume, they will get it right back!  



No one asked me   Am I afraid of intimidation”?

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Why I write a blog

I have been a writer since forever and in the 1960’s received my first remuneration for my work.   Originally I wrote a free book review which became a paid “Readers” column in the weekend section of my local newspaper.  Fast and sure were my trademarks then as they are now.
 As I moved from coast to coast and my life, family and career changed; so did my writing.  Articles and short stories evolved into poetry.  Then I had a period of technical and business writing.  Most mornings as I drove to work, with the local CBC information morning show as my companion, I would write a mental “Talk Back” or commentary.
Then two events collided; I suffered a stroke and after thirty years as a public servant, I retired.  Now I would really write! I did some political commentary, which was fun but not quite what I wanted.
I started a novel, or rather what was to be the first in a series of mystery novels.  I wrote almost daily, and then life got in my way.   My computer crashed and I spent the next several years with a laptop from my cousin Brenda. It served well for email and Facebook but was not the work horse I wanted to WRITE.

Blogs have been on line since the late 1990’s.  The first that I read was created by Rebecca Moman, my niece.   This year I started reading fashion blogs especially one by Emma Barlow,  Full of Fabulous.    I would have loved to have left comments but I was confounded by the technology.   

Just eighteen days ago, January first, I determined to write a blog. And here we are. There will be a new No one Asked me every day.  Some will be hard hitting such as How to stop bullying (which has had almost two hundred page views and been read in ten countries in two days)!  Other will be amusing, reminiscing, self-portraits and family pieces.
My goal is to monetize, make money with my blog.  I am learning about this while “pinging” my blog so it will reach a larger audience.  Where have I acquired my knowledge?  From the internet. And no, I do not understand most of what I read. But I understand some of it and break the info down into chunks I can absorb.  It helps that during my library years I acquired good research skills.
I plan to continue my daily blog with something extra on February first. What is that you ask?  I am getting out the CD that holds my novel.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Why I never invited the minister to dinner

Having the minister or preacher as we called them in those days, to dinner was always a mixed blessing.   Positive because we appreciated his company and negative because one always wondered what to serve and how it would compare to dinners at the other parishioners.  We had recently built a house and felt the time was right to invite our minister to dinner.

My family was no help what so ever with three different suggestions for each course and then a chorus of “whatevers”.  As I contemplated my options I thought of our family dish Preachers Special which had been developed in the 1950’s by my Grandmother Lottie Rogers.  Since Grampy had the habit of inviting the visiting preacher home for a meal after the Sunday morning service; Grammy’s dilemma was what to serve.  This was before the days of convenience food or microwaves. In fact Grammy only had a big wood range and Grampy was notorious for having green wood in the wood box.  Grammy’s Preachers Special was a layered meal cooked in a double boiler to ensure it did not burn.  Cooked ground beef layered with rice, vegetables and a ubiquitous can of soup seemed to please all pallets. 

I decided on a more up tempo Beef Bourguignon, nice chunks of well-seasoned beef with mushrooms and wine. I would serve with little potatoes, a salad, rolls and dessert.  I was good to go.  By the time the beef was in the oven I was ready.  After the meat had cooked for the better part of an hour, I removed it from the oven and ……..dropped it on the floor.


I had not used oven mitts and the hot casserole had burned my hands!  Best part?  The Corningware casserole had shattered into a hundred pieces.  Not broken into two or three but shattered, glass shards were everywhere. I was in shock; I had nothing else to serve. It was the weekend, no stores open.   

I called my Mother to come pick up my children.  Primarily to remove them from the scene and secondly so they could not talk.   I put all the meat in a strainer. I washed, washed and rewashed. I browned more mushrooms and onions, I added wine, I added the washed meat.  I chose another Corning ware Casserole and put it in the oven.  I cleaned the kitchen; the burning dish had lifted pieces from my brand new flooring to say nothing of my poor burned hands.

The minister came, we ate, and I played with my food.  No one was hospitalized with a puncture in their digestive system.  And No one asked me   why I have never, ever invited a minister to dinner.