My muse is Halloween. It is my favourite holiday. I can’t resist taking yet even one more Halloween picture. This was taken on November 10, 2015. It is a lone ghost hanging around after the party is over. She was gone by the next snowfall and will (hopefully) return next year.
It is too hot right now and I am anticipating the coolness of Fall and eargerly awaiting next Halloween’s picture opportunities.
Even more of my Halloween posts and pictures here.
Not quite the full rainbow – I’m missing orange and indigo. I love indigo, to me it’s the colour of the light at dusk especially in the winter. Plus, if these chairs had been in my yard I would have put the white chair in the middle! I took this when I was walking home from work last year so it’s just some random yard in some random city. I’m not compulsive enough that I would rearrange chairs in a stranger’s yard.
And here, I am missing red and blue and indigo. I need to take more indigo pictures. I love that word – the sound of it, the shape of it, the spirit of it.
This photo was taken just after 11am as we entered the Alaskan ice fields, last year, on June 27, 2014.
The day felt like winter as we were served hot pea soup on the deck as we watched the glacier calf. I think the picture would have been more effective if it had also showed the glacier as it is hard to tell that it is ice floating in the water without it. However, I do like this picture with its cloudy blue sky and icy blue water framed by the mountains.
My sister spent most of the day outside watching the glacier. She got to see it calf. I did not. She said it made an amazing noise.
No regrets. That’s the motto I try to live by.
I have had long hair for about 90% of my life. It defines who I am.
I have long hair, therefore I am!
It’s been the one thing most everyone has commented complimentary on since I was a teen.
The only other compliment I remember from then was made by a friend’s boyfriend who said I had amazing eyes.
I can remember the where and when of this compliment (a September day on the beach) because it was so unusual for anyone to compliment anything other than my long, thick, luxurious hair.
Like most of us, I started out with hardly any hair at all. I was blonde as a child and my hair had a slight curl to it. The picture above was probably from my second Christmas when I was 20 months old. I still have that dog. I don’t have many childhood pictures (you really didn’t back then). My father was the family photographer and he left shortly after this picture was taken. I only have four pictures of me as a baby and my younger brother has none.
Pictures, back then, were reserved for special occasions (1st day of school, confirmation, Easter, Christmas Etc). We always found the money, even though we were very poor, to buy the yearly school pictures.
Here I am around 1967 when I was seven. I have never looked good in pink. It’s one of the few pictures of me without glasses. I have had glasses since Grade One.
Here I am around 1970 at about age ten (they must have made me take off my glasses for the picture). I look very tomboyish with my short hair. My hair was short, as a child, because that was how my mom wanted it. She said as long as she was dealing with it every day I was not allowed to let it grow.
My hair darkened as I got older. It went from dusty blonde to chestnut brown.
My mom finally let me start growing my hair out. I was tired of pixie cuts and haircuts that seemed to take forever.
My hair grew quickly. By the time I was thirteen, my hair was long, long, long and frequently very tangled but I loved it anyway. The kids I babysat loved to brush it and if I wheedled long enough either my mom or eldest sister would braid it for me. I loved having someone braid it in one long braid down my back after I got out of the bath. It would be days before I would unbraid it to reveal luxurious waves.
The picture above was taken after my eldest sister put in a mini ponytail. She was being artsy with her new camera and I was willing to sit and pose.
By the time my second sister wed, when I was sixteen, my hair was down to my waist. (I still don’t look good in pink). A classmate, one year above me, had hair long enough to sit on. I didn’t want hair that long. This was long enough and it stayed that long for decades.
Since then, my hair has gone from just below my shoulders to just above them and back again. I like keeping my hair long enough to put into two side braids. When I am tired of my hair, I put it in braids and leave it that way for days and days.
Lately, my long has started to greatly aggravate me. I fantasize about shaving it off (I won’t as my skull has bumps and thus I don’t think it would look good shaved).
I am contemplating short hair. For me, all changes start with contemplation. Perhaps even as short as a buzz cut. Now is the time to do it as Summer is the season for short hair. An university friend recently buzzed hers after a disastrous dye job and she looks marvelous.
But I am wary. I have had long hair for a very long time. What will I look like with short hair? How will I feel? For me, long hair has always been a defining aspect of my personality.
I have long hair thus I am feminine.
I have long hair, therefore I am!
So I appeal to you oh mighty internet. Send me clips of short hair styles that I can contemplate. Send me your stories and your pictures.
Should I cut it off? Should I cut it all off?
For most of my life this has been the view I see as I go on my way traveling here, there and everywhere. You think I would be sick and tired of it by now. However, the amazing truth is that no trip ever offers the same view even when I am traveling the same roads that I have traveled forever.
Unfortunately, my driving trips have never turned into anything like Mrs. Todd’s Shortcut.
This post is in response to Ailsa’s Travel Theme: Tangle.
When I think of a tangled mess, I think of Jewelry. Unless I kept mine in their individual boxes my necklaces were always in a tangle.
My Scottish grandparents use to buy us a necklace every Christmas when we were young. We only wore them to church. I was (am) a fiddler, if my necklaces were not in a tangled mess then their chains were broken from me constantly fiddling with them.
As a young adult, I wished to appear sophisticated so I bought my self jewelry. I never wore it. This is the last of what I bought all untangled and on its way to big sister’s house for the nieces and grand-nieces to enjoy.
I’m sitting here staring at an empty space
It’s not that I don’t have things to fill it with
In fact, I have an abundance of things
Thoughts, memories, hopes
But they’re all jumbled together
Tangled, like poorly stored necklaces
The chains wrapped tightly around each other
Almost impossible to separate
(First of three stanzas)
This is a hard question. How do I narrow the possibilities down to just one?
There are the famous I’d like to meet. Those I feel like I’ve known forever like Bernadette, Broadway actor extraordinaire whom I’d like to have seen on stage as the witch in Into The Woods. Susan, whom I’ve followed since Thelma and Louise first rode off into the sunset (and Geena, of course, who is such a smart woman and strong feminist). Jodie, whom I watch grow up on screen since I was just a wee bit like her. They could help me understand how one lives a happy, happy life in spite of all the idjits out there.
Then there are the historical women like Mary Shelley and her mother who had such interesting lives despite society’s views on their womanhood.
And what about all my fellow spinsters out there? I don’t have enough time to explore them all.
The answer to this question changes daily, nay, hourly, or by the minute!
My choice right now would be someone alive and kicking, someone nearish to my age so we could be life-long admirers of each other’s works. I would have liked to have had her childhood (she grew up in a funeral home) and I get her references because we have the same cultural markers in our lives. I shall start following her on facebook because, in this day and age, I can.
Her name is Alison Bechdel and I have read her comic since the beginning though heaven knows how I (a young woman in rural Saskatchewan) ever first discovered it since, Dykes to Watch Out For, a cartoon strip that ran for twenty-five years, between 1983 and 2008, ran mostly in alternative newspapers.
Her view point is not mine. Her life style is not one I aspire to. I like that she, as all these women do, shows me a different world that is, in many ways, exactly like my own.
So, here we have today’s (this minute’s) one singular sensation whom I would like to be reading my blog.
Describe your relationship with your phone. Is it your lifeline, a buzzing nuisance, or something in between?
I dread the ringing phone. I always have. I always will.
I grew up on government assistance. It was drilled in to me early to never answer the phone. It might be someone checking up on us and answering would only result in bad things happening.
So I learned to ignore the persistent ringing of the phone at my mother’s house. I wrote recently how annoyed she would get about this (bad) habit of mine.
I also ignored the phone at my father’s house. He was very particular about getting his messages correctly and would yell if a message was forgotten or wrongly transmitted. Thus, I learnt also to ignore his ringing phone and let the answering machine take the message.
The phone has never been my friend. I hate answering it. I hate making calls on it. There is too much that can be misconstrued.
I was not the type of teenager who spent hours talking to her friends on the phone. My youngest sister would get home at seven and still be talking with friends on the phone at midnight.
My university boyfriend would call me and chatter on for a half hour with little input from me. My mother (and other family members) don’t expect much from me on the phone besides an occasional “uh huh.”
I can not tell you how much I love the new smart phones. I don’t have to talk to anyone (mostly). I can get answers and services taken care of through text (mostly). This is heaven. This is bliss.
My mother worked as a telephone operator in her younger days and thus knew all the small town gossip. My older sisters have no trouble ignoring a ringing phone without feeling guilty. The phone to them is a useful tool. To me, a ringing phone is an incessant demon berating and punishing and never conveying good news.
No, a ringing phone is not my friend.
If you need to talk to me, text me please.
This is a picture of the first phone we ever owned. It sounds like this. It sits on my desk, loud and annoying. The ring, even turned all the way down, scares the cat. We are thankful that it barely rings once every few days.
Remember, text me, don’t call!
Or is it Old Man Winter I should rail at!
Spring was sprung!
Spring was finally here. The grass was starting to green. The birds were waking me up with their early morning sing song. All was as it should be.
Then BOOM! Winter walked back in the door.
It snowed all day yesterday. Big wet fluffy snowflakes perfect for snow people and snow balls.
Old Man Winter and Mother Nature would have got pelted with many snowballs if they had dared to show their faces around here yesterday.
Perhaps they were upset because I forgot all about Earth Day on Wednesday.
Perhaps they just like to mess with me.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the ground stayed brown on my birthday and so they sent the snow to my big sister instead to ruin her birthday party.
Well, the joke’s on them. We’re not celebrating till next weekend when it will be brown again (it might even be green).
The snow turned to rain over night (messy, messy, brrr).
The temperatures continue to rise.
Still, not cool, Old Man Winter and Mother Nature!