The Other Side of Eighty

I joke that when I am knitting small items on consignment for some tourist type outlets I speak of the factory in session.

Well, it has been.

When I had finished all of these I thought not to offend delicate sensibilities so typed up an explanatory card for those puzzled by such acronyms as follows:

WTF: Where's The Fish?

FFS: For Fish Sake.

OMG: Oh My Goodness.

Here are a few samples of my wares:

As I was packing up both these and my cards (and so many of my cards have been sold I have very few remaining) I thought to myself - I haven't aired out my real camera since Ansa died so I immediately charged it up. It's time for some new cards and poems. I will leave it in my car and use it for some local sights and sounds in my beautiful city and possibly find some new markets.

There is no greater thrill to me than selling works of my own creation.

One of those things that's hard to believe. I've always had dead straight hair. I envied my little sister's curls, the most curly hair you could possibly imagine. One of my daughters inherited it. Neither of Sister's daughters did. They got mine, straight and true. And then, yesterday morning, I wake up with curly hair. So many curls that at our annual card party last night everyone remarked on my "gorgeous perm". I didn't explain it wasn't a perm, as I knew it would sound like a lie but magic. It's still curly today. Me like. Lots.

My mind wanders down weird alleyways. I was wondering what would be the last smell of someone's life? It must be awful if you're in hospital and inhaling cabbage/antiseptic/urine/faeces/floor polish/bleach as your very last breath. Something so sad about that. When it should be lavender. The ocean spray. A good curry. Wild roses. A baby. I warned you I was weird.

I was out and about in a cardigan today so it looks like the freakish winter of last year is giving us a pass. Very mild, a few cold nights but on the whole back to our normally mild early winter. We usually don't get snow until February. Fingers crossed for a green December.

I was practising going around without any money on me. I know. Weird again. An experiment. And people, seriously, kept giving me money. I was asked over to a house as Commissioner of Oaths (I know, me, hysterical, right?) and the couple stuck $20 in my pocket for witnessing some papers. And then last night at the party, as everyone "knows I don't drink otherwise it would have been a bottle" I was given $50 as part of the card playing "profit-sharing" plan. The organizers have now converted the normal annual donation to the church as an annual benefit split amongst the card players. The RC church threw the seniors out on the street over a year ago when they closed the parish hall (land donated and built free by residents) and put it up for sale. We now have a new town hall, town owned and operated, a truly lovely space, and everyone is delighted. And next, this morning, the post mistress comes over from across the bay and buys 6 of my cards for $20. So within a day or two I have $90 without lifting a finger.

This could have something to do with my brand new curly head, you think? Magic.

Years past, I'd drive around North America with various companions, my former husband, then we added the girls, then my dad, then various friends. I loved being a roadie. Still do.

And I'd see them on the sides of the road we drove through on these long road trips.

Signs:

For sale: Quilts.
For Sale: Birdhouses
For Sale: Socks.

And mitts. And scarves. And pottery. And watercolours.

The Da was the only one with patience enough to accompany me in my poking around these road stands or inside sellers' houses. Others were too destination fixated. Or disinterested. Or would sit in the car and sulk and waggle their watches.

At one of these places my scrabble turntable was acquired. Still used and twirling silently. A beautiful polished piece of wood. At another I picked up some lovely aboriginal prints. I still have those too.

I would envy the roadside purveyors of such artifacts, their creations. And chat to them. You see, I too wanted to put out a sign on my lawn. Offer my wee creations for sale. An impossible dream?

Well, today I did.

He was a tough, stocky fellow with a loud grating voice. I sure didn't enjoy his behaviour at our weekly village card game. He banged the table a lot. He was a school bus driver and had a rough cut to him. Apart from his beard. Which was immaculately trimmed. A big red face. If I'd been a kid on his bus I'd have been terrified of him. He basically ignored me even when we shared the same table. And then a couple of months ago I found out from someone else he had cancer. Real bad.

So next time he was at my table at cards I hesitated and then said to him I was sorry to hear of his troubles. And meant it.

"Oh," he said in his big roary voice, surprised like, "I'm just about getting used to it. I had a treatment in Halifax last week and they said I was riddled with it."

I scrambled for something to say. What in gawd's name does one say?

"I can't imagine what you're going through...if there's anything..."

"Why!" he shouts, "That's very kind of you. See, I'm trying to spend as much time with the four young grandchildren. And the wife. She's sick too....."

Yesterday he died. We had two minutes of silence at the card game.

And then, simultaneously, everyone in the room banged their tables.

Spring arrives on the Avalon Peninsula

Do you ever wonder why the clergy of the RC still go around in dresses whenever they get the chance? I suppose I don't care enough to do research on this but, seriously, how can anyone take them seriously in their outrageous getups with eyeboggling headgear (Hello Ascot! Envious yet?) as they blather on and on about poverty?
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It was one of those moments at cards the other night. A regular player had a stroke and had returned after several months' absence. In fine fettle, I should add. He looked a bit gaunt but otherwise cheerful. I asked him how he was doing - "Oh I've had full recovery from the stroke,"he said, "But this week they told me I had cancer." I sympathized, appalled, said something about dreadful luck. For what does one say?

Halfway through our games, the facilitator came over with an envelope and handed it to him. "There's a $100 for you from the takings tonight. For the cancer." A few years ago I would have internally laughed a bit. Quaint country ways and all that. How cute these natives are, etc. But not anymore. I wanted to cry. I was so touched by the dignity with which he took it, as he bowed in gratitude to all of us, and tucked it away. Surely his burden is easier knowing we cared enough to give him a little pocket money for the bleak days ahead?
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I run up against myself sometimes. I was out and about the other day in a fairly untrammeled area, rough cliff edge, rocks, forging my way through primitive terrain. As I stood atop a low cliff with the dog barging ahead, I thought: if I jump from here elderbones might snap and no one would find me for weeks. I envisioned the funeral scene full of "silly woman, she leaped from the cliff and splatted herself on the rocks below." I turned and walked away. This is the first time this has happened. I've always jumped. Another concession.
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Don't you just love it when someone gets in your car (your gas, your insurance, your maintenance, your monthly payment) as happened to me today and then immediately complained it needed a good wash? I had a marvellous comeback though and I'll share it. "Yes," I said, "I know that. Would you like to pay for one for me?"

Boy, I cleaned up at cards tonight. I won the boobie prize - 3 rather nice dishtowels - and also the door prize - a bottle of rum.  As to the boobie, it is a prize awarded to the loser player of the evening. I was stuck at a table for 11 rounds with useless cards. I so want to be lucky in love to compensate for this. 

I've written all about my weekly 45 card game here, if you care to know more about it.

There was much talk of Ireland as one of my cast members was there as well as myself. In addition, there were others who had gone to Ireland over the summer on different expeditions, one had gone with her son, a priest, and they had visited everywhere that St. Patrick had been to convert the heathens and pagans back in the day. Even to the spot where he had banished the snakes.

"Oh, you must miss Ireland so much!" said one of my partners. You'd be amazed at the amount of envy I get for being so fortunate as to be born in the sacred homeland.

"Well, I miss my family of course, " said  I, "But I don't miss Ireland. Though I do like to visit."

He was appalled.

"But it's so perfect! Everyone loves Ireland!"

"Well," said I, never one to hold anything back and it's too late to learn now isn't it, "Back in the day Ireland wasn't very good to me."

Gobsmacked doesn't begin to describe the expression on his face.

"As a matter of fact," said I, continuing to never let well enough alone,  "Canada has been so extraordinarily good to me I can't even begin to count the ways. "

Hire me if you ever need to silence a room.

And if you're up for it, we'll have more on all that another time.

Thanks for the topic suggestion MarciaMay!

 

I've never written about one of the highlights of my week before and I don't know why. The thought kept getting shoved aside by others of more global urgency like the gift of my new visa credit card, etc.

Anyway, every Tuesday night in our community hall we have cards. Not just any cards. A card game called 45. Note to Wikipedia: You do not mention Newfoundland in your sweeping analysis of where this game is played. That frosts me. Thoroughly.

A little bit of history of the game:

Forty-Fives is a descendant of the Irish game Spoil Five, which in turn is a descendant of a game that King James VI of Scotland popularized in the 17th century called Maw. Maw was first seen being played in 1511 and the earliest written rules come from 1576 Scotland. [1]

I first learned this as a child in Ireland. So the game must have come across to Newfoundland way back in the mists of time when the Irish emigrated here for the fishing. So when I first heard about these weekly games in my village I headed over with Leo (who is a great hand at it). Ever since then I never miss it. All age groups play and my daughter and granddaughter when they are here join in.

We have great fun with it, the craic is ninety as we say back home, and we move around the tables as we(there are two people in a team)win. It is a great way of getting to meet people and the prizes are amazing:

The complete fixings for a Jigg's Dinner - a Newfoundland specialty.
A pair of chickens.
A case of evaporated milk.
24 rolls of toilet paper
6 rolls of paper towels.
Chocolates.
Beer
Wine.
Butter.
Detergent.

I pick up on a lot of the local lingo and folklore and the conversations really reinforce how connected with the land and sea and their bounty the people are. I find out all about the berry seasons, the different fish seasons, moose, rabbit and ptarmigan, etc.

This way of life has GOT to be maintained. It is the best kind for living sustainably in our future.

No, it's not that toxic sludge of bottled sugared tap water I'm talking.

I just thought to share this photo I took yesterday out in a community called Gaskiers about 30KM from where I live.

Sometimes there is the confluence of three amazing blues in one day - barely a cloud in the sparking blue sky and this rare incredible blue fog rolls in, admiring itself in
the denim blue of the ocean.

The clothesline was such a bonus in this shot. I'm thinking of adding it (with appropriate ditty) to my greeting card line.

I have a little shelf that holds little love notes, cards and postcards that are dated only in the current year. I've done this for years. I started out many, many years ago throwing them into a crystal bowl on a coffee table until I found this silvery note holder in a junk shop and I've been using it ever since. I keep the cards and notes on it for the calendar year and then recycle them at the beginning of the following year.

I haul it over to the table when I am having a down day and re-read everything again to myself. I am prone to depression periodically and unpredictably so these really help me to get my balance on a more even keel so I can shoo The Black Dog out of the room..

Who are they from, you might ask.

They're from my daughter. They're from friends and relatives who miss me and send me little cards and notes and maybe a CD or a book or a clipping from a newspaper or magazine I might enjoy.

But guess what? They're mainly from clients. Clients I've had for many, many years. Who toss a little love note into the envelope along with their cheque.

Imagine that.

Who sends love notes to their accountant?