You've Got Mail

I love getting mail. I'm not talking about electronic mail. I'm talking about real mail...the paper kind that has actually been sent by someone. Sure, there are often a lot of bills, flyers and assorted junk, but every now and again there are pleasant surprises.

Today I picked up the mail at our community mailbox. It's that super mailbox on the corner that is being proposed for all Canadian citizens because, how does the quote from the CEO of Canada Post go?  "Ending home delivery and shifting millions of Canadians to community mailboxes offers at least one unintended upside - more exercise for seniors."

Found this on Facebook "Meanwhile in Canada".

The truth is, it's cheaper. It's a cost cutting option. There'll eventually be less service costing more money. I believe that Canada Post is downsizing itself into extinction. With the increased use of couriers, email, texting, Zoom and the like, paperless everything and other technology, physical mail will one day be a thing of the past. Sad really. By the way, has anyone noticed that our stamps have now gone up to over a dollar?  You'll know you're really special if you get a Christmas card from me next year. But alas, I digress.

We have actually had the good fortune that has been afforded only a quarter of the population to this point. We're in a newer neighbourhood and therefore have had a community mailbox all along. As my 84 year old neighbour can attest, she was particularly appreciative of the opportunity to walk several blocks and get her exercise during the recent ice storm, power outages and fallen/falling trees.

Just as it's sad to see the disappearance of cursive writing, I think it will be even sadder not to see any personalized handwritten mail.

I have a small collection of postcards which I have saved. My grandpa sent some to grandma during the war. Mom sent some to dad after he first came to Canada and vice versa. I sent a few to my parents at some point. I suppose postcards were a quicker way to reach the other person than a full length letter. They were also a way of sharing an experience and they usually arrived in less than a week. How wonderful is it to have these memories?

A friend asked me to send her a postcard while I was away last year...an unusual request. I had fun being silly and writing them and I sent not one, but six. I dated them and mailed them on different occasions and from different places, hoping that one would arrive on her doorstep every few days. I was gone over a month. The postcards arrived two weeks after I returned and all at once. I'm not certain when and where the postal service broke down, but the fact remains that even with faster travel and frequent air service, sending mail is not efficient any more.

So for now, as we check our community mailboxes, we might still see some surprises. In the future, there might be nothing more than ads and the occasional bill or magazine. There'll be no urgency to go to the superbox. Then where will the seniors get their exercise?

Fatigue, Flab, Farha and Fun

The problem with being old and bloggng is that it's hard to remember what you've written in previous years, months and sometimes even what you've written in previous days. I've probably mentioned one of my favourite Dr. Seuss quotes before.

                         “When you're in a slump,you're not in for much fun.
                                    Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.”

Every once in awhile I am guilty of a "playing the world's smallest violin" moment. Sometimes, it lasts longer than a moment, more like a week or two. It's usually when something doesn't go quite as I had imagined, when I'm extra tired, when I worry about my children or someone's health, when I don't hear from friends, when the weather is particularly depressing, when the weigh scales are being unfair OR when I have to clean toilets. 

Lately, I had been obsessing over several of the above things, and I had been feeling particularly fatigued. I was in a slump and had difficulty pulling myself out.

For example, despite going to a gym for a month and walking daily, I gained seven pounds (insert violin playing here). Oh yes, I've heard the ridiculous, "muscle weighs more than fat" argument. The truth is, muscle is more compact than fat. Muscle burns more calories. But whether it's a pound of fat, a pound of muscle, a pound of feathers or a pound of kumquats, it's still a pound.

Then, at the exact same gym, I learned about a dynamic woman that would be coming to talk on the eve of October 30th. She was Wendy Farha, a singer, comedienne, motivational speaker, cancer survivor, who suffers from depression. Wow! And I thought I had problems. I purchased a ticket. It was the final week of breast cancer awareness month. Proceeds for this event were being donated to the local hospital. Perfect!

Wendy arrived, began to speak and we all started laughing. Her antics, songs, stories and jokes were so much fun that everyone had a wonderful time. Not only did she give us a lot to think about, she made us all feel thankful for what we have. She was truly inspirational.

When I took this photo, Wendy said, "Wait, you didn't get my best side". She was right. The photo doesn't begin to do her justice. She is truly a remarkable person.

I feel better now. Things are looking up. I have caught up on rest. My kids are fine. I have visited with some friends. I have lost some weight. Everyone is currently healthy. The weather isn't bad. So, can toilet cleaning be far behind?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmVouyb-I38

What Do You Do?

"What do you do?"  Strangely, those words changed the direction of my life. Let me explain.

In my late twenties, my late twenties, not "the" late twenties, I happened to meet an acquaintance in a grocery store. I hadn't seen this person for awhile. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and made small talk.
      
Then she asked me, "What do you do?" I was puzzled because I was fairly certain that she already knew the answer.

I automatically responded with, "I'm a teacher," as if this would justify my entire existence.

"No, I mean what do you do?" (emphasis on the word "do") She elaborated, "as in things that are personally fulfilling....hobbies, physical activities, volunteer work."

 I was taken aback and was briefly stumped. Didn't she realize that the statement "I'm a teacher" explained all that?  On the other hand, I felt compelled to come up with an alternate response.

I didn't want to confess to this person that, "I work late hours. I sleep until noon and hang around in pj's on weekends. I didn't think she'd be impressed with, "I go to the odd movie, eat out, and drink with friends." So, I blurted out my first thought. "I ski."

"Oh", she said and nodded. "Downhill, cross country or water?"

"Yes, I've done them all, but mostly downhill." I said. We chatted a bit more and she left. I was relieved. She didn't pursue the issue nor did she ask me to elaborate.

"Why had I said those things?" I wondered. I had never cross country skiied and had in fact water skiied only once. My downhill skiing career was far from illustrious and had been over for a number of years. There was the time on a hill at Chicopee when I was rescued after a painful fall only to be escorted down the hill, red faced and shivering. I was laced papoose-like onto a toboggan and escorted by half a dozen ski patrollers in flourescent vests. People stared and pointed at the unfortunate disaster victim. Then there was the occasion in Quebec when I decided to trudge down Mt. Ste Anne, carrying my skis and poles. In fairness, conditions were, in my opinion, very icy and hazardous. On another trip, I fell from quite a height off a chair lift directly onto my posterior. That experience had a colourful "end"ing. Then there were the times I held up troupes of skiers by skidding off the tracks off poma lifts and t-bars. I suppose I finally gave up skiing after my embarassing ride up a mountain in a gondola...and back down.

The question, "What do you do?" remained with me all day. It sat, Jiminy Cricket-like on my shoulder. It moved into my head for weeks. It wound itself through my thoughts for months. Then it took up residence.

I knew that I used to do a lot more in my teen years...community work, walking, skating, stitching, drama, music. I did plenty during my university career...choirs, clubs and aforementioned skiing.

But now? I was in my late 20's. Now what? Did my job really consume so much of my life that it became my only identity? I realized that in fact, I no longer did much of anything but work, sleep, socialize.

I wasted a lot of valuable time and I did not plan to do that for another minute. I wasn't going to be caught off guard if I was ever asked again, "What do you do?" I had to fit more into my daily schedule. I had to do more for myself and my community.

If I didn't sleep as late on weekends, if I worked a little less and loafed around a lot less, if I made time to "do" things, would I suffer? Would anyone be worse off? Absolutely not.

So, first, I became an auxiliary police officer...community service.

I walked to and from work with a friend. Sometimes, we played squash...exercise.

I painted and did a some crafts...hobbies. All the bases were covered. It's strange, but somehow, I even found time to take some upgrading university courses. The more I did, the more time I seemed to have and the more envigorated and successful I felt.

I have lived with the question, "What do you do?" ever since. It has helped guide me for the last thirty years. I have done more, learned more, and participated in more than I could have ever dreamed. I have taken risks...some successful and some not.

I suppose it concerns me when I see members of the younger generation doing nothing that in my opinion seems of great value. They party all night, they spend beautiful daylight hours sleeping, they sit around using computers, cell phones and other technology. Has nobody ever asked them, "How are you contributing to your well being and that of others? What do you do?"

I will always be grateful to a person who said those words to me. That little phrase caused me to re-evaluate my circumstance and change my course. It taught me to live differently. It helped me be an active participant in my life. It kept me from having regrets. It gave me adventure, sponteneity and satisfaction. It helped give my life meaning.

So now I'll ask you, "What do you do?"

Streetwalking, the oldest....

I haven't always liked walking. In fact, I hated it. I'm not certain at what point I developed an appreciation of this seemingly pointless activity. I know it wasn't during the winter of my formative years when I lived in the north and crossed a frozen lake to attend school. I'm also pretty certain that it wasn't in the spring as I ran home through the woods while encountering assorted mid sized wildlife.

Perhaps it was during the car-less years in the suburbs before my children were born. It was an experiment...one year, no car, let's see how we survive. The ex and I were fed up with the all too frequent and expensive repairs and maintenance, not to mention insurance. We disposed of the vehicle at a dealership in a neighbouring town, trekked home approximately 5 miles and the rest is history. We became physically and fiscally fit.

The experiment lasted not one, but three years. During that time, walking became the main form of transportation. When it was absolutely necessary, we rented. After buying a house some distance from work, I hiked there and back. Sometimes, laundry would accompany me. I transported it in my car trunk, aka a suitcase, washed dried and repacked it before marching it back home.

It was great when I found a colleague interested in joining me. Each day, I met her part way and we hoofed it to work. Hard to imagine that our feet plowed through some of the most inclement winter weather and, just as when driving, we compensated by leaving home early. Snowshoes might have helped, but I'm not sure where we might have parked them. Eventually, as the weather improved, walking turned to jogging.

Fast forward many, many years. I was a busy single parent. As an inexpensive exercise regimen, I took daily walks with two of my neighbours. We had all joined a weight loss group and enjoyed our evening strolls and gossip fests. The further the hikes, the more successful we were at keeping out of the kitchen and away from snacks.

When I moved from that neighbourhood, I was forced to create a new route for myself. At first, it was somewhat boring and the frequency of my walks decreased dramatically. It was around this time that I discovered the joys of talking books. These became my new walking partners. Besides that, when I became overheated I was forced to stop at the local pub to cool down before continuing on my jaunt. It was liberating, it was literating and it was libationating. Invented words, but it worked for Dr. Seuss.

Last weekend, I saw the movie "Julie and Julia" where Julie tried to cook every recipe in Julia Child's cookbook. It gave me an idea. I picked up a map of Cobourg from the library. There are exactly 250 streets in this town. My plan is to walk the length of every street...just walk. I do not have a set time goal. So, here comes the challenge. Do I also have to walk "to" every street thus repeating some roads over and over, or do I allow myself the luxury of driving to some of them, then walking? At this point, I'm leaning toward option A, walking from my house to and along each street. But then, at this point the weather is terrific for walking.

So the oldest form of transportation, my old hobby, has become a new goal. I'm looking forward to finding out what I learn.