'Muchty

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon when I was visiting my Scottish cousin who I hadn't spent much time with over the years.  She suggested we take a slight detour on the way to her place to see the old family stomping grounds. It's actually more her family stomping grounds - our mothers were cousins and hers grew up in this Fife village while mine grew up in Glasgow. I don't think I'd been here since I was a teenager, but as soon as we got out of the car and walked towards her grandmother's house, it came flooding back to me.

Above is one end of the village, with Aunt Belle's house at the top on the far right. They later moved across the road into one of the end-of-terrace houses on the left, just around the bend. The outdoor privy is still there though is probably used for storage now.  
Yes, we wandered into the open yard to check it out!

A view from the other end looking in the same direction, showing how the burn cuts through of the village. A burn is a stream.

This pub looked like it might be a popular spot, and indeed all the reviews I've since found online gave it top marks (it is #1 of 3 eating establishments in Auchtermuchty), then again, do we really believe those reviews?

a not very straight picture of one of the signs on the pub

everybody sing together now, 

But I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles 

to fall down at your door

Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)
Da-da-da dun-diddle un-diddle un-diddle uh da-da
Da lat da (Da lat da), da lat da (Da lat da)

and on and on.....

but, what we really needed to see was this plaque, unveiled last spring for my cousin L's great grandfather, the famous Potato Man, Archie Findlay. the old store house is now a private house

photo from the newspaper at the unveiling which some of Archie's descendants attended

 and a portrait of Archibald Findlay 
(artist unknown)












a short walk with a long family history for Restless Jo's Monday Walk

Thanksgiving Birthday

the baby just keeps growing.

lacking a bit in the hair challenge, though.

she's at least a bit less messy than last year!

past and future

I don't have many vintage postcards of Glasgow, which I intend to remedy soon.

This is one of the Great Western Road ( a street name that I've always loved - an address that sounds as if you have arrived!) There is a lovely site here that shows the views, past and present, of this stretch of road in the west end of Glasgow.

And in six weeks I will be back in this home of my maternal family. 

PostcardFriendshipFriday

stampede

My parents weren't exactly good on researching before any family vacation. And when I say 'parents' I mean my father who owned the car, did all the driving and made all the decisions.
So, when I was about ten, a Triptik was ordered from CAA and we did the first half of the cross country tour and headed out west (the following year we went down east). What I remember most of that trip was the unending heat, in a car with no air conditioning.

And arriving in Calgary on the first weekend of the Stampede.

Somehow we managed to find a campground where we could park the trailer, though it took an awful lot of driving in circles and not asking for directions from my father and pleadings from my mother.
In the end, we drove into Calgary to see the 'sights' and find a restaurant. The place was almost deserted. Probably everyone was at Stampede Park. For some reason that has always been beyond me, my father was never interested in such fun cultural events. Since he 'owned the car and drove the car', seeing anything of the Stampede was not much of an option. The next day we hightailed it out of there to Banff.

The Calgary Stampede has been a tradition of one of the world's greatest outdoor rodeos for 102 years and today was the opening day parade.

Happy 4th of July to my American friends

PostcardFriendshipFriday

many steps

My brother was recently in North Carolina on a trip. 

The last thing I said to him was "send a postcard". 

Yesterday, my card from NC finally arrived. 

I had given up expecting anything. After all, I've been saying that for years and usually get nothing. But now, suddenly my collecting is being taken seriously.

From atop Chimney Rock, an ancient monolith soaring 1,200ft above the valley floor, one can see more than 75 miles across Lake Lure, the Blue Ridge Mountains and Carolina Piedmont.

There is an elevator (35 seconds to the top), but the message on the card said "...they say the view is fabulous. we didn't go up. the elevator was broken."

Checking out TripAdvisor, it seems many others complained about the down elevator, though those that climbed the "many steps" to the top say it was worth it. For my brother, the line up to climb the stairs was too long and besides, it was clouding over.

But the real story is that while in Asheville, he was determined to find a vintage card and it had to be one of someplace local. (I would have been happy with a contemporary card, but being an antiques dealer, he was on a mission) He was only there for 3 days, but apparently searched high and low for just the right card. Then he had to find a stamp which, for some reason, proved more difficult than he imagined (but he was there over the long weekend, so it makes sense). By the time a stamp (and not a stamp to Canada) was found, they were already out of NC. The NC card could not be mailed with a WV or PA postmark. So, after they got home, he mailed the card in an envelope back to the friends in Asheville and asked that they mail it to me. Which they did.

The postmark reads Greenville.
Which is in South Carolina.
Oh well.
I'm still thrilled. by the card and the effort.

PostcardFriendshipFriday

thanksgiving

a baby and a birthday cake. 

priceless.

timeless.

Maple

my great niece

a-waiting and a-wondering

Our family is eagerly awaiting the newest member who is officially due today. We don't know what it will be except that it will be a baby, which very nicely allows us all to circumvent the distressingly in-your-face blue-pink divide of the sexes for the nursery (for the moment, anyway). 

It would be neat if the wee one was born today, not just because it is Thanksgiving and we have already postponed the family gathering just in case and/or so mum-to-be can rest up, but it would get to go through life writing out its birthdate as 8/10/12. How cool would that be?! But, if it is born on Wednesday, it wouldn't have to worry about whether to use the British or American order with 10/10/12.

It has been an eternity since we had a young un in our family. My niece arrived as a fully fledged five year old, so we missed the baby stages with her. Which means, the last baby was... me. And you know that was a lo-o-ong time ago.

On the other hand, it would be nice if the wee one (boy-or-girl) waited a bit until its mums and auntie and grandpa were all over our colds.

Happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian readers. And a blessed Monday to everyone else.

reading

There was news this week of another independent bookstore closing. This particular one is the oldest indie bookseller (45 years) in the city. They are not necessarily closing because of poor sales or lack of customers, but mostly because of the dramatic increase in rent. This could be seen as a good thing, in that the city is thriving and neighbourhoods are becoming prosperous, but it is also a bad thing because only big name chain stores can afford these higher rents, so the local shops close up and the flavour of the neighbourhood becomes a little less interesting.

But books and bookstores are thriving.

If there were a theme to our family Christmas presents, it would have to be books. Every one of us received at least one book, some more than one. No kindles or kobos or e-readers for my family, we are all about the old fashioned, physical turning of the pages. We exchanged books not only for reading, but also for writing and for drawing. I will have to start journaling again in my pretty notebook, something that went by the wayside once I started blogging.

I was frantically trying to finish one book I had bought as a present, until I realized I was enjoying it so much that I wanted my own copy. Books are always fun to give to people. It is, in a way, my default gift, but not always because I can't think of anything else. In a strange way, it feels more personal to buy someone a book, more like sharing a bit of yourself. Sometimes, it is a book that I have read and loved and want others to experience. Sometimes, it is one that I have come across and think that a certain person might enjoy. I don't think I have ever been disappointed in getting a book as a gift. I have been introduced to authors I'd not heard of, and to ones I thought I wouldn't like. I once received a book that I waited three years to read - it took that long before I was desperate enough interested in it. Still, I kept it on my shelf, always thinking that one day I might pick it up even though a voice in the back of my mind said "but you don't like Stephen King". I discovered, maybe I did, after all.

This year I got an anthology of short stories. It is perfect for leaving in the car for emergency reading. I like to have something in hand when sitting in a restaurant on my own and a novel is too long and sometimes too engrossing; it can be hard to find the right spot for a break. But a short story is perfect for holding one's attention for just long enough. And this book is a collection of new writers, so every story is a true surprise. The other book I got was the darling of the literary world in 2011, The Sisters Brothers. Up for numerous awards and given gallons of praise by every reviewer, but somehow, something about it just didn't appeal. So I never bothered with it and had no intentions of reading it. But since I now have it in my possession, I decided to look through it before rearranging my shelves to make it fit. Haven't been able to put it down for the past two days. It is different. Definitely a unique style. And a darkly funny, offbeat western about a reluctant outlaw and his murderous brother. 

I have discovered a new side to myself.

can we talk

Living alone, I can often go for days without actually having a conversation with anyone. Telling my cat to move somewhere else, or yelling at the computer for not co-operating, does not count as a real conversation. Working alone, for the most part just adds to my daily quietude. While delivering the newspapers, it is just me and the radio; while giving a massage treatment, I rarely converse with the client while they are on the table.

When I am with people, I don't get this sudden need to talk and talk and talk.... though I am sometimes seeing this happening when I am at the checkout counter (much to my middle aged dismay!). I am one of those people who is quite comfortable with silence. For a certain amount of time. And that time can easily exceed 30 seconds.

This is not the case with one family friend who usually spends the holidays with us. Like me, she also lives alone and spends a good portion of her workday alone in a lab. But when she gets with people, her verbal acuity never falters. At Christmas, I realized with slight exhaustion as I gave her a lift home, she never once stopped talking. She monopolized the conversation competently for the entire eight hours. She always had a insight or opinion on everything that was said by anyone else. My family, who also tend to be on the quiet side, just sort of lets it happen and goes with it. Don't get me wrong, she is also entertaining and knowledgeable (especially in obscure facts about anything to do with movies and television and computers) and she will also listen to you when you have something to contribute and converse instead of just talking over you. But, she never sits silently and listens and observes.

I was at a client's house late one afternoon and they invited me to stay for dinner. This sounded like a fine idea as we had to interrupt our vacation horror stories to actually get the massage treatment completed. During a brief lull in a conversation I was having with Cath while she attended to something in the kitchen, I realized that there were seven people at the table and if you didn't include the cockatoo who was screeching "hello" and "look at me, I'm a bird" (I know!!) but did include the dog who was hovering, there were easily four separate conversations happening at the same time. It was all genial and freeflowing and ... oh so overwhelming. My family dinners would seem formally stilted in comparison. We generally have one topic on the go at a time and while there will be the odd side talk between two people, it is brief and generally still on the same topic. The conversation ebbs and flows and has the usual diversions, but it always seems to include everybody at the table.

I often find my quietness to be a bit of an hindrance - though I know, somebody has to be the listener. I can miss out on having my say from taking too long to process exactly what I want to say before I open my mouth. And if I don't have a follow up immediately in my mind, there can be that awkward silence... And I have always wanted to be the kind of person who can walk into a room and just start a conversation. But somehow, I find it all so exhausting. And a bit annoying.

gussy up

I was at a wedding over the weekend. I don't get to many weddings. The rush of nuptials amongst my friends all ended in the 80s and now we wait for their children to make it to the altar. (and they are taking their sweet time about it!)

The last wedding I attended was 2 years ago in England. It was a rather formal affair. The groom was in his newly hard earned Marine full dress uniform, his best man in a kilt. I was one of only two female family members not wearing a hat. (And I was okay with that, since hats do not suit me at all.)

It has not gone unnoticed that people over on this side of the pond tend to dress much more casually for any event. There was a time when I had Sunday best clothes and office suits. Since I no longer work in an office and don't attend church, I have little use for those Sunday best clothes. For our family dinners, we all wear clean clothes, mostly of a semi casual type. My brother now owns a tux from a formal wear shop that is going out of business, so maybe we'll have to have at least one cocktail party a year for his tux to have an outing.

My niece loves to dress up. A particular favourite era for her is 50s attire, so she looked perfectly natural in her ivory pink wedding gown with a strand of pearls. Her partner, who does not like to dress up, looked very elegant in a black suit with pink tie and shirt.

It was a garden wedding, held late morning. Still, on looking at the gathering, a friend and I cattily critiqued the attire of some of the attendees. There were suits with running shoes - even in the wedding party, albeit fancy pink shoes to go with the theme of pink and white. There were some who were almost unrecognizable in their crisp shirts and ties and cufflinks. There were some people who looked like they made no effort to look in their closet for something just a little special for a special event. A particularly galling example was one family member who wore cargo shorts! Interestingly, he, among others, went to a much greater effort for the evening dance reception held at a restaurant.

Really, would it kill you to wear some well fitted clothes that bring out the best of your figure, that shows you have a little style and that you care enough about the people you are with to make an effort to look pleasing to the eye??

Even Gus didn't make a fuss when this get up was foisted on him!

SundayStills - happiness is

Those of you who read this regularly know that I work nights.
My quitting one of my jobs last month didn't pan out quite as expected, well, not as planned.
And trying to be helpful for a friend this past week hasn't been as good an idea as I thought.

But,

Happiness is...
one of the bonuses of working nights is seeing the sunrise as I am finishing and heading home. A sunrise over the water. A view that, sadly, is threatened with development. So, every time I get to wander through to this favourite spot, I am happy.

Happiness is...
a nap in a warm, sunny spot, with my favourite chenille throw
(and my cat Abby)

Happiness is...
hanging out with someone beloved where you can be yourself

Happiness will be a far flung family getting together for a feast and a gathering and a housewarming...
but that is next weekend for Thanksgiving (Canadian style)

see more happiness at SundayStills

summer respite

Whenever I hear the caw caw caw of a crow, I am immediately transported to 'the cottage'. There are many things that will remind me of the cottage, but none are as strong or as immediate as the sound of a crow. No idea why - there were surely many other birds there and just as surely crows around our house in the city - but it is a fond feeling, so I don't question it. I merely sigh and allow it to wash over me for a few seconds.

The cottage wasn't ours, it belonged to neighbours Betty and Fred who every summer invited my mother and brother and I to spend a week or two with them. The cottage next door belonged to her sister and quite often one of her daughters and her family were also there. It was a multi-generational gathering, mostly of women, except for the weekends when the fathers would reappear. I'm not entirely sure how my mother felt about this rustic experience, but for my brother and I it has marked us indelibly.

Because of the age difference between my brother and myself, the cottage is the one thing that we share the same memories of - because it never changed.

It was built on the shores of Lake Simcoe back in the 40s. Very small, with inter joining rooms and a loft bedroom in the back and high rafters in the front. The stairs to the loft were basically a chair beside the built in cupboard which when opened provided the cantilevered shelves as steps which one clambered over to get to the beam which you then climbed over to reach the floor of the boys' bedroom. For years, I was distraught as my legs were too wee to make it up the steep, high, shelving steps. There was a Quebec Heater (wood burning stove) in the front room for heat and a wood burning cookstove in the kitchen for cooking. A large galvanized pail held the daily drinking water, for the water that came out of the taps was directly from the lake and not potable. The outhouse was out back. That bit does not have pleasant memories, yet for years I felt a true cottage did not have a flush toilet - that was a second home, not a cottage. I've gotten over that.

Cottages are for escape, for roughing it in the bush. This cottage was Betty's first home. It was decorated in 1950, and it oozed their personal non-style. By the time it was sold around 1999 it still had the same curtains and curios. The same mismatched furniture. The same Fiesta Ware dishes for the adults. The same Melmac dishes for the kids. The same magazines. It was like walking into a time warp. So very familiar every time, as you knew exactly what to expect and where to find it. I sometimes wonder if this is where my brother and I both found our love of antiques. I inherited one of the dressers and an old quilt that for years had that same cottage-y musty smell. My brother and I helped with the final clearout when all that the family wanted had been taken and for some reason we took all the hooks off the bedroom walls that were used for hanging clothes and divided them between us as a memento.

Coincidentally, he now lives in that same town and for a couple of years I lived in a town not far away. We still get dreamy remembering 'the cottage'. We would have loved to have bought it had we the money. Though with the sale, a new septic tank and indoor plumbing and toilet would have had to be installed. This one was built just before the cutoff date when all cottages in the area had to put in septics in the 80s. So the outhouse remained. Even when the property next door was sold, and the first monster home, with large windows and a spiral staircase, was built in place of the wooden bungalow. One of those large bay windows faced onto Fred's land. The outhouse sat tucked in the trees outside their dining room window. We all felt that was worth the giggle as we sometimes waved to them on our way...

Now, there are very few cottages left on this prime land. It looks like any suburban street, albeit one with a lake at the back of the house and a forest across the street.

I dearly wish I knew someone with a cottage who would invite me for a leisurely visit. I have read all the magazines - I know about house gifts for the cottage owner. I know to bring books to read and share, and that sometimes no conversation is needed as you sit on the dock and listen to the water slapping against the rocks. That the best way to get rid of mosquitoes is to build a great bonfire. And I'm not fussy, I'll eat the fish that is caught (if someone else guts it). I'll even help catch it. Or buy it, if need be.

And I have an ample collection of Food&Drink magazines from the LCBO.........

where I use up the leftovers

My family is not one of those to over gorge themselves with food.

I am still eating leftovers from Sunday's dinner. I tried to give away as much as they could carry, but it was a struggle at times as I pointed to my freezer, "do you see the immense smallness of that thing?" after protestations of keep it, you can always freeze it y'know. Yes, I could make soup, I could eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner and snacks in between. But, I don't want to. I will be sick of it long before the week is out, then it will be bad by the time I remember it sometime next month. The times I have bought fresh produce, with all the greatest of intentions, only to bung it in the non-clear crisper bins and promptly forget about it. Or use a small portion, then ... end up throwing it out days weeks later after it has sat forgotten decomposing, because, really, just how much parsley does one person need?

Of course, part of this week's particular problem involves the vast amount of food I bought because feeding six is a lot more food than for one. With the help of my friend (yes, the one who likes to help - though at least this time it did not involve travel plans). He has access to the "market" that is actually the Ontario Food Terminal. That massive swath of land under the highway in west end Toronto where growers and wholesalers of all things vegetable, fruit and plant sell their wares to retailers of all manner of grocery stores. The general public is not invited. I love going there. The shear size of the market, and the quantities of food, blows me away every time. Watching the guys zip along on their motorized forklifts and scooter type things is fun, too. (click on photos to embiggen)
The thing is, you can't just buy one or three cauliflower. You must buy the whole flat or box. As in 15. I split it with my friend, then gave away some to the family and to a neighbour. I still have four. But, the price of this stuff makes it worthwhile, and now I know how much of a mark-up some of these grocers take to their advantage. Pusateris and Longos and the Asian shop on the corner all shop at the same food terminal. My cauliflower was much less than a dollar each.
Oh right, and I thought I had problems using up a bag of parsley...
I have some spinach and caulifower soup to make. A modified recipe involving:

• a head of cauliflower cut into florets and 2 shallots chopped up and sauteed in a pan with lots of butter, then add some vegetable broth and simmer covered for about 10 minutes
• top it off with couple hundred grams several handsful of baby spinach and let it wilt in the heat, add lots of nutmeg, and a bit of salt and pepper, stir it all up, then let it cool before blending
• when ready to eat, stir in the creme fraiche you bought but forgot to use, and garnish with some fontina or gruyere or other melty creamy cheese, and maybe the rest of the walnuts just for some crunch

where I think about spring cleaning

I was sitting in what my cousin calls her lounge and what I would call her living room one day last summer. I was quietly reading my book, drinking my coffee, absentmindedly flipping through the endless channels of nothing worth watching on the telly, when I suddenly realized there was a person standing outside the windows, looking up and down and at all corners, waving frantically.

My first impulse was to shriek, E, there's a man outside with a squeegee! Oh yes, says she, and then launches into a long tale about the window cleaners who have been coming to her for yonks and how this, the son, has taken over from the father who is getting on, and what a good job they do and they didn't even charge her extra when they put the extension on and therefore added four extra windows.....

My cousin gesticulates wildly when she talks, so she kept waving her arm towards the window where this guy was squeegeeing the supposed dirt and grime of what turned out to be 6 weeks accumulation. So he must have known he was being talked about. I kept watching his smooth sweeps of the squeegee (I like that word, sounds so silly and fun to say) as she prattled on, feeling rather, erm, exposed, sitting there in full view, in my pyjamas.

So, what does one do when the window cleaner comes by? I don't get to experience that much. Actually, not at all. Because in my world, it is me who is the designated window cleaner and I don't dedicate myself to that task very often. But really, isn't it a little weird having someone come by at irregular intervals who can see into your daily activities as you watch tv, eat dinner, dust, play the piano...

Then again, isn't it nice to be able to see into the outside world as the birds fly about, the clouds move, the sun shines, the mail carrier comes with another postcard from Finland.

Gotta go, more sprung cleaning to do!

Spring is sprung
the grass is ris
my how noisy
the birdies is

but first some entertainment by George Formby

below

Photo Hunt - Hands

This week's photo hunt theme is "hands".
I didn't check the theme in time, and since my hands weren't doing anything interesting...
here are the hands of the newlyweds from the weddings I attended last summer (with more flower shots, because we all need more fresh blooms!)

freshly married hand


newly married hands

for more interesting takes on hands from around the world check out PhotoHuntSaturday
PhotoHunt

is pink a colour to love

If you were to ask me what is my least favourite colour, I would answer unhesitatingly: PINK.

And yet, this photo above shows some of my most favourite things.

(click on image to biggify)

Have a look at that tea cosy. It is more than a cosy, it is a tea duvet. Wouldn't any teapot be happy to be swaddled in such a lovely thing? As I was leaving an antique store, I spotted this and simply had to have it. I had been craving tea lately and this seemed to be the perfect thing to cheer up any dull dark winter's day. And cheering it is.

The mug is one I bought in Glasgow many years ago. It has a Mackintosh Rose on it and I am a sucker for anything with this rose. This small mug gives me a connection to my far away family in the UK as I have discovered, while poking around each of my cousin's kitchens over the years, that every one of them also has this same mug. For some reason this makes me smile (not least for the razzing I have taken because of my obsessive collecting of anything Charles Rennie Mackintosh).

This journal is not really pink - it is fuchsia. It says so on the label inside. It is so soft and pliable and lays flat when opened. A joy to touch and to write in. I went back and bought another for when this one is filled. I want to get back into handwriting my thoughts and plans. I take these thoughts with me when I go out wandering and end up at cafes or parks and need something portable and a little flashy (so I don't forget it as I have done before) and one cannot journal in just any notebook. A list can be written on anything. My life needs suppleness.

The pen is probably the most recognizable of the pinks. The Breast Cancer Awareness Pink. I normally feel a shudder at the bubblegum colour of it. But this little item is enough to remind me. Remind me of the one who gave it to me. Who is now 3 years free. I think of her every time I pick up the pen.

how much fun is that

I was despairing of ever emerging from this deep, dark, dungeon I had dug myself into over the winter. My social life was suffering. All of my own doing, I must admit, as I couldn't find the energy or enthusiasm to do anything that involved getting dressed and heading outdoors. (unless I was getting paid)

Then, a couple of weeks ago, round about the time I was getting quite bored with my own company, my brother phones to tell me they are coming down for my birthday. This is a rare treat. In fact, I had given up inviting my family to visit, as it never happened. Not even when I moved to live nearer my brother in the hopes of more get-togethers before they moved out of town did they ever stop by. Never have they come just to see me. This meant a massive spring cleaning. Which was good in many ways. I feel so much better now in my less cluttered space, having frantically gotten rid of anything I couldn't find room for. Anyway, the visit came and went, they discovered for themselves that the 1 1/2 hour drive (in ideal conditions) is quite doable in a weekend (as it certainly was for me going the other way...) and are now making plans to come back for Easter and again in the summer. It took almost 12 years of living here. And the fact that now there are only us left and no parents to bind our visits.

Last week, I went to visit one of my mother's friends and had an interesting visit with her and next week it will be to see another of her friends who I know misses their nightly chats. This weekend I have the garden show, the Live at the Met opera at the cinema, then a dinner date to round it out. Then, on Thursday morning when I went into work, I saw a notice that I had won tickets to see Disney on Ice! Wonderful - well, you know how excited I get when I win a coffee, so this was a true over-the-moon-excitement. I have a friend who loves this sort of thing, so I told her she and her husband were invited and I would try to find a fourth for our night out. Things were really looking up for a socially exhausting weekend.

The notice said to contact my district manager to arrange to pick up the tickets. But there is a changeover in managers this month and the one I was directed to was on holidays, so I left a voicemail message. This morning (Friday morning) I went into work and the new manager was there meeting everyone. He had been on holidays (were both away?) and knew nothing about it, but there was an envelope in my mailslot. An envelope with four tickets to Disney on Ice. For Thursday night. Last night. How stupid is that?

It's a damn good thing at least the sun is shining today.
It's SPRING and I'm off to the Canada Blooms, to dream away my cares and woes.
Photos to follow. I promise.

A bit of spring cleaning this week.

Have been busy working so that I can enjoy the weekend.

Have yourselves a chocolate. On me.

tulip photo from Southern Living

remember

A day like today, usually finds me in a state of confusion. I have to check several clocks to find the real time - which ones have been moved back that hour, which ones need to be done manually. Far be it for me to be sensible and change them all the night before as is routinely suggested. Apparently my cell phone and computer and VCR are good. The microwave, stove and car are too lazy to do it themselves and need my help. Damn, twice a year I have to relearn how to reconfigure this.

Today is also a day of thinking about the departed. My culture is one that does not celebrate death, or the rituals of death. This is also partly my family custom. We have no grave sites for visiting. The one grandparent who was alive when I was born died when I was 10. My father did not have much to do with his family, my mother's family were all in Scotland and I was a teenager before I ever met any of them. Death was not a part of my family until recently. We have been rather fortunate for that, but also extremely unprepared. I was looking up some references for writing this, specifically an excellent production shown on PBS (POV: a Family Undertaking) about different death customs in various cultures and got sidetracked into reading many articles surrounding rites and rituals and ceremonies and how they have changed over the years and centuries. How much we have distanced ourselves from death and from the dying. In some way I wish we had a Day of the Dead. I wish we had a communal gathering to remember; a communal place to remember.

Today was a service for remembering at the seniors home where my mother moved into 2 years ago. There have been many deaths in that home during this year, including my mother and three of her close friends. A part of me did not want to go. Another part of me was glad to go. Glad to be a part of the service just by being present. Glad that there was a service. Glad that it was a beautiful November day for it. Glad that, when one wished to look away, there were still golden and yellow leaves hanging on some of the trees just beyond the large windows.