Une Petite Chaise Bleue

Soooo my French title is a bit pretentious but the story isn't. This is a tale of ...

 A LITTLE BLUE CHAIR

Once upon a time, there was a cute little blue chair that belonged to a cute little child. It got sat on, dragged around, climbed on, dinged, nicked, and played with. Eventually, the owner outgrew his little blue chair and the sad little chair got tossed unceremoniously onto mom and dad's weekly garbage pile. Poor little blue chair, all alone and sitting on the curb.

A nice lady who was out walking her dog spotted the little chair. This little chair is too cute to be dumped into the monstrous, groaning, squealing, trash truck she thought. She had her dog leash in one hand, but was able to pick up the little chair in her other hand and carry it to her nice, warm home.

The nice lady went to her friend for help. "Can you paint this little chair and make it cute and happy again?" she asked.

                                            ______________________________________________

Her friend loved to paint and agreed to try to help.  

First, she gave the chair a nice bath. Then, she sanded, filled holes and cracks, and sanded again.  Blue dust flew all around.  Finally, she got a cloth and wiped off all the dust.

The chair was ready, but ready for what?

It needed some fresh, bright coats of white paint. The chair looked sparkly and new.

Next, the friend had to think and think. What would make the small chair, and a possible new small owner happy and not afraid? Should she paint trucks, or fish, or storybook characters?

"I know," she said. "The little chair needs some bright colours and cute animals painted on it."

Since it was a very little chair, it was difficult to make tiny animals with paint. She tried using a pencil, but it left ugly marks, and she didn't like how the chair was starting to look when she added paint. It deserved a lot more thought, love, and detail.

Once again, the tiny chair got re-painted white. This time, the friend decided to make a pattern, or template for the chair seat. She used a square of construction paper and drew each animal. Then she cut and taped, moved them around, and reassembled until she was satisfied with their size and placement. This was a better idea.

After painting the background, she used erasable charcoal to draw the animals onto the seat.

When she was satisfied with her drawing, it came time to paint and add a few details. It took bright lights, a steady hand, and lots of patience to get all the animals the way she wanted them to look, but soon the chair was finished. With a quick protective gloss coat of fixative, the chair became bright and shiny and new.

                                           

                                                         ______________________________________

When the chair was finished, the nice lady came to pick it up from her friend. She took it to her little grandson's house where there was a beautiful quilt that coincidentally matched the animals on the chair. The little chair had a new home and had a cute, new little owner. Everyone was happy.

Aging Ain't For Sissies

 Found this blog along with about a hundred others that I started last year but didn't finish or publish. It's from October 2021. Thankfully, all is well with my leg now. I haven't laughed nearly enough these days, although the memory of this incident has helped.

My blogs might be on restart mode. We'll see how this goes. Gone are the days of trip info and celebrations. I don't want to write about bad news, the virus with which some people seem to be obsessed, the latest in trivia, sports teams, or movie stars. I also don't want to make this depressing. I hugely admire "older" female writers like Loretta Laroche and the now deceased Erma Bombeck. In fact, I once took a writing course and told the instructor that I enjoyed the writing style of these women. He looked down his nose at me and proceeded to tell the class about his science fiction, fantasy, vampire, and alien novel which he had completed and was trying to get published.

I knew that laughing is a good tonic (an old person term to be sure). I am going to try to paint some pictures with words describing events in my life. 

 I've always had issues with focus...this is nothing new. I've been called a squirrel more than once, although I think the word more likely comes from distracted puppies who are busy, but then get distracted when they see a squirrel.

Other than things like going down the downstairs to the freezer three times to get butter, and resurfacing from aforementioned basement on each occasion with clean laundry, garbage, and soft drinks, but no butter, I have all the usual aches and pains, a little Sunday to Saturday weekly pill suitcase, and memory farts that most "older" adults develop.

 Yesterday, my moans, groans, and creaking bones, weren't the only sounds emanating from me. I did something which caused me to laugh so hard, I forgot about all my aches and pains.

Part 1

I have some pulled tendons and a tear in the meniscus in my right leg. Add that to the moderate to severe arthritic knee and OUCH. I've gone to physio...fun. Armed with a wad of exercise sheets that I've been attempting regularly, plus icing my leg each day, there has resulted in some improvement. Yesterday morning, after icing my leg, I was feeling a tad chilly and crawled back under my covers. Since I was wide awake, I decided to use my time wisely and pulled out my empty boxes to sort my pills into the appropriate days of the week. I placed them on my nightstand.

Part 2

As I neared the end of my sorting and organizing from bed, I dropped a pill...on the floor. Annoyed, I hung my head and torso down the side of the bed, being careful not to uncover my cold legs...an odd angle but it worked. I located aforementioned errant pill just under the wooden bed frame, picked it up, and proceeded to tell my upper body to get back onto the bed. As much as I told my body to do this, it refused to budge.

Part 3

I tried lifting myself by pushing on the bed frame, and I attempted pulling myself onto the nightstand, but it was all in vain. I was left with the only option I could think of...crawl out of bed, onto the floor. I put my palms on the floor and walk myself forward, being careful not to further injure my leg. As I did this, my pajama bottoms decided they wanted for the most part, to stay in bed without me. I started to laugh and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Part 4

As I landed on the floor and turned myself over, still unsure how I was going to get back up, the words from the old commercial, "I've fallen and I can't get up" were ringing in my ears. My pants were around my ankles, I was grabbing for anything that could pull me up, and hubby walked into the room. Without batting an eye at the contorted half clad mess on the floor, he asked, "Are you doing your exercises?"

I laughed and laughed for the next five minutes. He must have thought I was insane. Nonetheless, as it often is, the day was much better after that. 

Stuff, Nonsense, and Thoughts on Puzzles.

I'm not one to tar every feather with the same brush or however the saying goes.  I must confess though, having experienced a lot of adventures, worked at many jobs, and tasted innumerable exotic foods, I'm pretty set in my ways about some, but not all things. 

I'm at an age where I might say, "Why should I go to a restaurant and order frog's legs, when in fact I know I prefer chicken?" By the way, only people who haven't eaten frog's legs say that they taste just like chicken. That's like claiming lobster is exactly like eating liver or vice versa. 

I can also tell you there are certain experiences which I didn't like the first time, and don't need to do again, but that's another blog topic.

I  enjoy word puzzles, crosswords, and the like. In the more recent technological years, Candy Crush was the rage and now, I am playing Wordle along with the rest of the planet (except for Homer Simpson) it seems.  ***(found on facebook but don't know who owns it to give credit)

As with so many things in the age of technology, I kind of miss the hands on experiences. I tried and disliked books on tablets. I'd rather have a bookshelf rife with paperbacks that I may or may not finish reading before the big dirt nap.

Recently, I retrieved a jigsaw puzzle while decluttering my office. Well, this could be ok to work on from time to time I thought to myself.  How hard can it be? It's tangible and I can putter at my own speed. Besides, my brain needs all the stimulation it can get these days.  ***(note - need to try to think to myself more often)

THE PROCESS

DAY ONE - I proceeded to dump all 500 pieces onto our coffee table and examined the box. First, I noted that there was a huge "Art Gallery" banner across the top which covered some essential picture parts. How annoying. Besides that, none of the pieces looked like the colours on the box. In fact, they all looked like brown cardboard. Oops. 

 After spending half an hour flipping them all the right way around, I was done for the day. Jigsaws are exhausting.

DAY TWO - I spent a brief time sorting by colour and potential buildings, bridges, people, water, trees, and so on. Time for another rest.

DAY THREE - Fun. I found some cute little pictures that looked like parts of people and animals and proceeded to assemble those. Then, I automatically started pulling all the flat edged pieces out of the mix, piling them around the edges of the table. 

 At this point, the memories started flooding  back. I remembered all the reasons I hated jigsaw puzzles and have avoided them over the years. It wasn't that I had to turn all the pieces over before beginning. It also wasn't that many of the shapes look the same and no amount of fist pounding gets them to fit into places where they don't belong.  The truth was more complex. 

I remember attempting, and abandoning a few of these with my parents when I was a kid. I was always excited and eager to get started. Then came the first blow. Dad would inform me I had to help make the frame with all the side flat pieces first, before filling in the middle. Ugh...I hated that and usually walked away.   

                                                

As an adult, my years prior to retirement involved working with small bodies, small fingers, undeveloped brains, and many wooden puzzles. I was often frustrated and developed a further dislike for puzzles when, at the end of a work day, I'd find a dozen or more of the dreaded manipulatives with over 100 assorted random loose pieces piled on shelves. Some, were easier to reassemble than others, but I did not enjoy this task at all. Eventually, I realized that fewer options should be made available; that it should be reinforced that the children remove one puzzle at a time and ask for assistance rather than toss them willy nilly back on the shelf; and that there's always that one kid, who is able to assemble these in minutes...that was the one to ask for help.

DAYS - FOUR, FIVE, SIX - I walked past the puzzle several times a day, staring at it with intention. At some point I found a few pieces with words, dates, manufacturer etc. As it happened, those were in a border piece near the bottom left, so I put them together. Again, exhausting.

DAY SEVEN - Hubby had a look and located a few more pieces for edging. Grrr...he clearly subscribes to the "make the frame first" philosophy. I'm beginning to wonder whether there's a reason.

DAY EIGHT - Several people have told me that they become obsessed and need to sit until they're finished a puzzle. Apparently, I don't have that issue. I'm just glad I don't have need of the coffee table in the near future...or possibly ever. Why do people have living rooms anyhow? ***(yet another blog topic)

DAY NINE - A friend came to visit.  She sat on the floor by the coffee table for about five minutes and here's what happened. One edge piece remained missing. She insisted it was lost, not there, never included. Nonetheless, glad that most of the border is done.

So now, it's DAY 10. The plan is as follows. I will continue to stare at and add the occasional piece to this puzzle. I may or may not finish it one day, although I can almost guarantee there won't be another. Odds are good that I'll now work on it with more enthusiasm. After all, the dreaded border/frame, seems to have been miraculously almost completed.

UPDATE

DAYS 15 & 16

I found it! The missing border piece was there all along. I feel so accomplished. Progress is slow and steady. I've come to realize that morning is my best time to sit and search. I have more patience and more light. Honestly, despite the appearance of a little helper, I did it all myself!

FINAL THOUGHTS

I finished. |I completed the puzzle after a mere...oh, let's just say three weeks. I learned something new. Dagnabit ! These jigsaws have a grain. Had I realized this in the first place, I could have turned all the pieces in the obvious directions. Would I have been finished faster? Not likely, but still...an interesting fact that I didn't know about before. Will I do another? Not in the near future, but who knows?

Yummy Simple Cake

 Super Delicious Hint of Orange Cake

This is probably the simplest recipe for an amazing tasting cake.

When I was 12 or 13, I went to the CNE with my friend. We entered all manner of contests, particularly at the food building. A few weeks later, I received a package in the mail from St. Lawrence Starch Company. Exciting! It contained all kinds of goodies...corn oil, corn syrup, and a cookbook.

At the time, we lived in a subdivision in the outskirts, and my parents worked in the city, so I often made dinner and desserts for when they got home. I could hardly wait to try some of the new recipes with my free products. The most interesting to me was this cake recipe.

I lost the recipe for quite a while, then remembered I had submitted it to a church cookbook in the mid 60’s. After asking around, I finally retrieved the recipe so I’m now writing it out so that I might keep it safe.

3/4 cup shortening (I used butter)

1 1/2 cups sugar

3 egg yolks (save whites for later)

2 1/4 cup flour

3 1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1/4 cup orange juice

3/4 cup cold water

1 tbsp grated orange rind

3 egg whites stiffly beaten

Beat together shortening, sugar and egg yolks until very fluffy and light coloured. Sift flour, baking powder, an salt together and add alternately with orange juice and water.

Beat well after each addition. Stir in orange rind and fold in beaten egg whites.

Bake in spring form pan 350 for 30-35 minutes or until light golden brown. Size of pan depends on how many layers you want to make this into. Larger for two layers, smaller for three. Make buttercream frosting and use filling of your choice for layers.

Birthday Cake

I used buttercream frosting and filling with chocolate shavings (chocolate goes great with orange). You could use prepared frosting in a can if desired. I tossed some sprinkles on the outside of the cake. I was sorry I used a premade tube for the lettering on top...it ran and the letters spread, but oh well...cake tasted fantastic. 

                                                                                                                    

This is the original cookbook and the cake with fondant Garfield. 

***Today I learned that you can't paint fondant. I used white and painted it with food colouring because the store was out of orange. It didn't dry and was somewhat messy and challenging to assemble.

When "We" Were Very Young

 I wish I could remember more, but I can't. I blame it on trauma of varying degrees rather than my young age. At the time, I was nine years old. This becomes more relevant as the story goes on.

A couple of months into my fifth grade year, our teacher Mrs. Garrison disappeared.  Suddenly, she just wasn't there any longer. A few students were recruited and given the task of clearing out and boxing up her plants, books, and personal paraphernalia. We were told, she was very ill and wouldn't be returning that year. She didn't.

She died.  

Most of us were a bit young to comprehend the situation and the concept of death. Some of us were apprehensive and of course, as young children usually are, we were quite self absorbed. Who would be educating us now?

Out of nowhere, or somewhere, arrived an elegantly dressed man with an accent which I identified immediately. After all, my parents and many of their friends had the same speech patterns. Mr. Boehlke was our new teacher for the remainder of the year. Although I felt some kinship with him, he seemed disinterested when I announced that I too was born in Deutschland, and could point out where on a map if he wanted to see. 

He didn't.

My 5th grade class

When it came time for open house and for parents to meet the replacement, things went a bit differently. Mom and dad quickly discovered that Mr. Boehlke taught Saturday morning German school to second generation immigrants as well as some high school students who needed extra help with a credit. For whatever reason, my parents decided that it would be a good idea for me to join his Saturday class.

I suppose I was excited at first thinking I would somehow be more special by participating in another of Mr. Boehlke's classes. It all unraveled fairly quickly.

On the initial Saturday, dad took me to a school some distance away from our flat in the city. I was then to take a streetcar home with whatever change my parents had allotted me. As I walked into the classroom, I panicked. Everyone there was tall and old, teenager old. I was intimidated and wanted to go home. 

I survived class, by attempting to lay low in the back of the room. That was easy. I was young and short. I understood very little of the "high German", and soon came to realize I really didn't want to be there. 

Athletics was an important part of this curriculum and after what seemed like an endless two hour language class, we were expected to participate in an hour of gymnastics. Husband and wife, former German olympians would teach us we were told. This did little to assuage this 9 year old's terror at seeing equipment which was much taller than most adults. 

The final challenge was to get myself back home. I was somewhere west of where we lived and it was a simple streetcar ride to the Honest Ed's landmark where I needed to exit the vehicle, or so I thought. After sitting in the streetcar for what seemed like an inordinate length of time, I realized something was wrong. Nothing looked familiar. Dad had said, and I remembered his words exactly, "Get on the streetcar. Get off at Honest Ed's. Walk home."

I suppose nobody told me where to get on the streetcar and how to go in the correct direction. Either that, or I didn't listen. I remember being calm and yet terrified. I had no extra cash, I was alone in the city, in unfamiliar territory. Fortunately, I had grabbed a transfer as I entered the vehicle. It was offered to me and it was free. I left, crossed the street, got on another car, and relieved that the driver accepted the transfer, went in the opposite direction. As I passed the school where I had originated, things began to look familiar...relief. 

Someone recently asked on facebook, "What's something scary you did as a kid that isn't done nowadays." My answer? Riding the TTC all over the city.  I used to take transit everywhere, to Maple Leaf Gardens for events, to the CBC on Jarvis St. to meet dad at work, and more. 

Having done those things as a youngster, and having survived, taught me a few things. I believe I became more independent, I learned to adapt to change, and I became a pretty good problem solver. 

Despite cell phones and all manner of technology nowadays, who would feel safe letting a nine year old venture out in a city of millions? It's sad really. It was an education in and of itself...an important part of growing up most children are not, could not, and should not be afforded any longer. 

The world is a scary place. Or, perhaps it was a scary place back then as well, and because there was no high speed communication, internet, or instantaneous t.v. news reporting, we just didn't know any better.

 

The Push - My Review and Thoughts

Wow! Just wow! I cried through chapters 44 and 81. I don't normally bawl when I read books. At least, I can't remember when it's happened before. I also can't recall the last time I read a book this quickly, cover to cover, without wanting to put it down. My first ever marathon when I was youngish was "Thorn Birds"...no crying, just non stop reading after having my wisdom teeth removed. 

I ordered the book "The Push"  by first time Canadian author Ashley Audrain many months ago. I was 12th in line on the library waiting list for what appeared to be a coveted title. I couldn't remember why I wanted to read it, probably a book review in the newspaper or a suggestion from a friend. It's not everyone's "cup of tea" as I learned while looking over some Amazon reviews. I quickly discovered, however, that it was mine.

I immediately appreciated the author's style of writing. It contained numerous short, staccato like sentences, as well as brief manageable chapters (in case you need to "finish" a chapter as I do rather than stopping mid plot before falling asleep). I checked the back flap, read about the author, saw that there were about 300 pages and 85 chapters. Can't tell you why I do this, another habit of mine.

Without going into great detail and ruining the plot, I just have to say, this is definitely a book more of female interest. It's a psychological drama that makes you think about genetics, environment, changing roles of women, and ambivalent feelings that many mothers face. Basically, the theme throughout is motherhood with its stresses and strains. The title "The Push" refers to a number of occurrences throughout the story. 

If someone were to ask me what the book's about, I'm not sure how I would answer except to say, "It's about a woman giving birth...a couple having children."

Sounds boring. It's not. 

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NOTE - I read someplace this  book is being made into a movie. I won't be seeing it. I made that mistake several times before in recent times. The Girl on the Train...good book, awful movie. Also, The Woman in the Window...loved it. The movie was chaotic and confusing. Characters were left totally undeveloped. I read "News of the World"...good book, but would never have imagined Tom Hanks as the title role. I usually find the casting disappointing and nothing like how I imagined the characters.

Canada Post & You've Got Mail Part 2

On January 11, 2014, I wrote a blog about super mail boxes, or community mail boxes that were sprouting up in newer neighbourhoods like ours. I included the absurd idea spewed by the conservative government about the health benefits to seniors of these eyesores.

Seven years later,  I've become used to the idea of occasionally trekking a couple of blocks and I've adapted to varying climatic hindrances that were part of acquiring my mail.

Recently, the super mailboxes have been upgraded. We received a notice and a set of keys one day. Several weeks later, I was afforded further senior exercise opportunities by having to visit the mailbox three times. The boxes had suddenly been changed and I had neglected to switch the key on my lanyard. After going back home and retrieving the correct new key, I headed back only to discover that the boxes and numbers were also different. Back home I went to reacquaint myself with the new information. Then I tried to get my mail ! 

 At first glance, I noted the attractive artwork and sleek, stylistic design of the replacement boxes. 

Apparently, these boxes are not  only pretty, but also "more secure" we're told by Canada Post. That's a relief. After all, I wouldn't want anyone stealing my coupons, solicitations for money, or my Senior Health and Snowbird magazines.  If you look carefully at the front, there's an added bonus...giant numerals that can easily be seen without having to put on the dreaded reading glasses. OK...so far, so good.

Lovely concrete slabs to be hidden by snow in winter. I'd hate to have boxes 14 to 16...read on.

                                                                   

So what could possibly be the problem you ask? Upon careful examination you can see that the boxes are no longer square, but resemble a safety deposit box. Yes, they are slightly wider and yes, the advantage that's described in the user guide is that your magazines will lay flat as will your large business envelopes. Yayyy....bonus no more added wrinkles to William Shatner or Betty White on the cover of my Zoomer magazine.

https://www.canadapost-postescanada.ca/cpo/mc/assets/pdf/cmb/CMB_Guide_en.pdf  

There's a telephone number to call if you have mobility issues...wonderful. Good thinking. This does not help the bulk of the older population in our neighbourhood. I don't think the idea of "test subjects" ever came into the designer's mind. I'm also certain that there's been no input from the public and by public, I'm referring specifically to the senior population. 

I saw an older man who seemed to have brought a small child to help get his mail. How nice I initially thought...grandpa has taken grandson with him. I also saw a woman who was curiously contorted into a pretzel in front of the installation. Then I located and opened my own mailbox. 

I was instantly thankful that my mail slot was toward the centre and not lower down. First, I had to hunch down and twist my neck in an attempt to determine whether anything was inside (hence, pretzel lady). Secondly, the slit was so narrow, my slightly chubby, adult arm could barely fit inside (thus, small child accompaniment). Thirdly, I think the slot went all the way into the next township.

I must say though, these mailboxes give me a new mission. Henceforth, I will spend some of my free time lurking and doing an independent study of mail retrieval methods from these boxes. I'm particularly looking forward to seeing how well people are able to accomplish handstands in order to get mail from slots 14 to 16.

Oh....and please, please don't ever send me a parcel!

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UPDATE - Went to the mailbox with my adult son yesterday. He offered to reach into the box for our mail. His arm is thinner and longer, still....

This morning, hubby suggested a new solution. Brilliant.

What We're Taught and What We Teach

 I finally figured out my password so I'm back. The format of this blog space has changed. I hate the new appearance. I'm at an age where I hate almost anything new, and generally, I feel justified. The composing page is very white and I find it difficult to see. I might as well use paper so I can tell what I've written. The font keeps changing. Anyhow, as is obvious, I haven't been here for a long time. The pandemic has taken over my being, both physical, and mental, and I did not feel compelled to write anything on that particular subject. It's been  covered by many.

The media has bombarded us constantly with everything...facts,  fear, predictions, and horrible events happening to humanity. Our perceptions of the world have changed and not for the better. We have all had enough.

The following story was inspired by one of my recent outdoor hikes. I enjoy my quiet alone walking time when I can meditate, reflect, and remember. 

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''Pick that up right now and don't ever do that again!"

My mom was livid. She made me feel very tiny in my four foot tall, eight year old body. I had committed the ultimate faux pas, and I was shaking. How dare I?

What did I do that incurred her wrath you ask? I dropped a gum wrapper on the ground. Yes, it was a teeny tiny piece of Wrigley's foil, made even more compact because I first crumpled it in my youthful hand. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I recall the exact location, time of day, and what I was wearing. It's as though even now, I can see myself committing that heinous act.

I was scolded. "Put that in your pocket until you get home, or at least to a place where you can properly throw it out."

I was upset and embarrassed. I don't believe I have ever purposely littered since. By purposely, I'm not counting the occasional store receipt that brazenly escapes from a grocery bag on a gusty day.

Although I didn't always enjoy it when I was young, as an adult, I appreciate a lot of what my parents instilled in me. The subject of trash based on my experiences, has become a particular sore point. 

When I'm out going for a walk, I often think back on my upbringing and it makes me sad. There, littering the ground are pizza boxes, food wrappers, drink cans, toys, clothing, and more.***     

A rather large culprit these days seems to be pandemic masks. In the spirit of true confessions, I admit I have lost one. Since then, I have made certain it won't happen again by attaching them to a lanyard around my neck.

I was upset and yet somehow heartened to read this article about a wonderful woman in New Brunswick who is doing her best to help during these troubling times.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/new-brunswick/disposable-masks-litter-fredericton-1.5980976

I often think about my teaching days. Although I remained within the confines of the curriculum, I managed to deviate from time to time. If I had it to do again, I believe I would base my whole year around nature and environmental issues with an emphasis on litter. I'd add a few "adulting" skills like money management, and some fun but educational life skills...perhaps knitting, sewing, and the like.  

I could totally do this. Either that, or start my own Waldorf school.

 https://torontowaldorfschool.com/curriculum/environmental-initiatives/

My faith was restored recently, when I saw a man, late thirties I'm guessing, and his large furry Newfoundland dog, walking along a woodlot area. The man had a bag, gloves, a grabber, and was collecting trash. Impressed, I stopped and spoke to him and gave his dog a cookie. 

"I figured I might as well do this since I have to walk my dog anyhow, " he said. 

I thanked him for being a good citizen, moved on, and wondered about his upbringing. It also motivated me to think about doing the same thing in future.  After all, I have a grabber, some gloves, and lots of bags...just no non essential dog.

I think awareness starts with each individual. Perhaps someone will see me picking up trash and become inspired as well. Either that, or they'll wonder about the sad, weird old lady gathering the neighbourhood garbage. 

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***RANDOM DISCOVERIES

of course, the masks

food packaging and energy drink cans

                                                                                                                                                          

miscellaneous clothing, shoes, even underwear

blender anyone? 

toys of all sorts

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UPDATE - April 21, 2021

It's the day before Earth Day. I have been heartened to see pictures and articles of late about people cleaning up, picking up, and making future plans to do the same. Wouldn't it be nice though if this weren't necessary? If only people would think before they toss!

Happy Independence Day Nigeria

 I wrote the following blog a number of years ago. Since it's now the 60th anniversary of the independence of Nigeria, I decided it bears repeating. I am not of Nigerian heritage nor do I know much about the country. What I do know, is that it gained its independence from Great Britain on October 1, 1960.

Here's the blog - 

As this new month has started, so has my reminiscing. Fifty years ago today, October 1st, 1960, Nigeria gained its independence from Great Britain. That's one of those pieces of trivia, and I have many, that is firmly etched in my brain. Why do I remember this? I was 10 years old, sitting in Mr. Footit's 7th grade music class at Essex Sr. Public School, not too far from the famed Christie Pits in Toronto. To commemorate the event our music teacher decided we should learn the Nigerian national anthem. "Nigeria we hail thee, our own dear native land, though tribe and tongue may differ...in brotherhood we stand.." Sorry Mr. Footit, that's all I remember.

I do recall a rather different teacher though. I'm not certain how old he was because he always seemed ancient. But then, all teachers did. I can't even tell you if he was any good as an educator. I do know that he was severely handicapped by arthritis. His back was slightly hunched and his feet shuffled when he walked. His gray suit hung loosely on his ever shrinking body. On good days we could see the pained expression on his face as his gnarled fingers attempted to play a few chords on the piano. Other times, he could barely function and found it challenging to start the record player.

Without fail, we ended every music class by listening to and singing along with a scratched up recording of *"Heart of My Heart". I wouldn't be surprised if it had been a 78 rpm. He told us he'd worn out many such vinyls during his teaching career. We all wondered why.

I recall how one day, a brave student finally asked. " Sir, why do you always play that record?"

 With moist eyes, I recall Mr. Footit's simple answer. "I want you to always remember me". 

It worked.

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 *Excerpt from "Heart of My Heart" ....."too bad we had to part. I know a tear would glisten, if once more I could listen, to that gang that sang heart of my heart."

I Just Want A Hippopotamus

Our lives are all about making connections. I'm not talking about connections with family, friends, or other people. I'm referring to the connections which teachers are always hoping children can make. The ones when they learn something new...connections between facts, or songs, or news, or family traditions for example. I'm talking about the connections that  make ideas come together and sometimes make us say, "aha", or "oh yeah, I remember that", or "now it all makes sense".

So I started to wonder. If we hear something frequently, does it sit in the back of our brain somehow as if it were important or special? Is it lingering there, waiting to break out some day?  Is there some kind of subconscious or subliminal connection?

When I was very young, I remember hearing a song called, "I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas". It didn't mean much to me, or so I thought. I just remember hearing it...a lot.  In the 80's, Anne Murray sang about a hippo in her bathtub. I know this because my toddler children wanted to hear the cassette tape ad infinitum.
                                                                     
In the late 90's, there was a Canadian tv commercial about house hippos. The commercial was aimed at children, attempting to get them to use critical thinking skills to ask questions about what they were watching on tv.  Apparently, children started to believe that house hippos were an actual real thing.

Similar commercials reappeared in 2019, created by the Canadian non profit literary organization MediaSmarts. It was part of a public service "break the fake" campaign produced by an Ottawa firm HyperActive (I got this from Wikipedia). The video was more explicit in reminding children that they shouldn't believe everything they see on tv. There were accompanying lesson plans for teachers who opted to use this as a teaching tool.

“Many Canadians remember the little hippos fondly, so we thought they were the perfect reminder that just because we want something to be true, doesn’t mean we should believe it,” said Kathryn Ann Hill, Executive Director at MediaSmarts.

I couldn't help but wonder, "Why a hippo?"

Why was the hippo the symbol that the media company decided to use for the commercials? In my mind, I had a vision of advertisers who were somehow influenced by either hippos in their bathtub, or wanting a hippopotamus for Christmas.

More recently, I've seen frequent mentions of house hippos on Facebook. People have been excitedly posting, "I found one," and sharing its obscure location. Whether they're planters or ornaments,  hippos in Canadian homes are starting to replace the age old Norwegian kitchen witch it seems. And why not? They're purely Canadian and they are real after all aren't they?

I think, "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas". Perhaps I'll find one during my eventual post pandemic excursions. There seems to be a certain joy in locating them hiding away in gift shops and thrift stores. Maybe I'll discover one that speaks to me.

Meanwhile, I have to wonder what creativity will eventually come out of the current "Baby Shark" generation.

UPDATE

Found one. Like me, he is slightly flawed, rough around the edges,  has been chipped away at, but is not totally worn out. His colouring has become bland, but there are still occasional artsy signs of creativity, and perhaps of a once quite different and busy life. He has short little legs, is a little hefty in the mid section, and enjoys decorating himself for the occasional nightly outing. He becomes more easily tired, continues to be frequently distracted, but still manages to do a lot more than many other hippos his age. In fact, he has even travelled a distance from a scratch and dent rack, just to live at this house. He enjoys fun, and smiling, and is hoping to be around for awhile to add to his lifetime of adventures.