It would appear that the pirate viking (he has an eye-patch) is an artist – notice the paint brush he is holding. I bought him because I liked his orangery red hair.
We got one duck free with our homecoming bag. I think that was the blond on the left with the axe. The white haired viking, on the right, with braids and a spoon may be female. Who can tell with rubber duckies! The other ducks cost me a dollar each. Cheap fun at that price!
My eldest sister is not a fan of our viking mascot. Mostly because every image of a viking that the town uses is male. I agree we need a female viking representing our female athletes.
Someone like Lagertha perhaps.
Aren’t Rubber Duckies fun!
Today, September 19th, is Talk Like A Pirate Day.
Para Abnormal Comic by Dave Lowe
Pirates were my first love then came cowboys. I yearned for wide, open spaces free from the conflict of the reality of school where I was tolerated or ignored. I wanted someone to rescue me and pirates seemed most up to the task. I wouldn’t have to make a decision. I could be kidnapped by a handsome, devilish rogue instead. It didn’t matter that I lived on the prairies about as far from the sea as one could get. It didn’t matter that pirates weren’t real (at least as far as I knew – we only got local news back before the internet told us everything we didn’t want to know)!
Pirates were handsome. Pirates were rogues. Pirates were devilish. They may be unkempt but were never smelly. They may be thieves but they had honor. A pirate code was a code of conduct for governing pirates. The pirates would draw up their own code which provided rules for discipline, division of stolen goods, and compensation for injured pirates. They took care of their own and once kidnapped, I would belong somewhere. I would be with people who wanted to be with me. (Lets just ignore rule six for now shall we)!
I’ve always been a sucker for devilish rogues with questionable morals. Rhett Butler is the man with the plan in Gone With the Wind. He knows what he wants and goes for it. Never mind the fact that I would run from a real man who acted like he did. I’d make him walk the plank and send him far away from me right quickly.
Though if he spoke to me like this, I think I would possibly swoon. Le sigh…
Dear Scarlett! You aren’t helpless. Anyone as determined and selfish as you are is never helpless. God help the Yankees if they should get you. — Rhett Butler to Scarlett O’Hara
I want a man who sees me as strong and capable well also loving me passionately!
Oh, Christian, why do you always play such bad, bad boys?
Who wouldn’t love a man whose best friends are monkeys and parrots?
And such monikers they had – Blackbeard, Bluebeard, Calico Jack!
“This heres me man, Calico Jack!”
They winter on tropical islands. They have adventures that require scavenger hunts and treasure maps. They have plenty of money to shower you with gowns and jewels. Their treasure chests contain numerous pieces of eight!
X marks what spot?
Okay, do I want to ensnare a pirate’s heart or do I want to be a pirate
like Anne Bonny and Mary Read?
Remember talk like a pirate today and
follow me, follow me away to the sea!
Here are some seasonal additions to Ailsa’s new travel theme; which this week is Grey/Gray. I’m Canadian – we consider either spelling correct. It makes spelling bees easier!
I was in the city yesterday. My sister and I have an annual tradition of going to the Fringe and the Ex’s Saturday night free grandstand concert. Before the fun started, we went to a craft store where the pre-Halloween decorations were out. You need time to create the perfect scary display! But, then again, the Halloween candy is also out (who buys it this early? I would have it all eaten before Halloween if I bought it now).
Seeing all the orange, black and grey has me anticipating Halloween and Fall. I want a shorter summer and a longer autumn!
The greyish skeletons remind my sister of death and she fears them. I see fun and mystery in them. I see dancing skeletons and ghosts yearning to tell their stories to all willing to listen. She sees reality. I see story.
I like the raven pillow here. It makes me want to going around murmuring “Nevermore” under my breath. The tombstones dream of becoming sinister props in a fake graveyard. They yearn for pithy says.
The day started out gray. By the time we hit the festivals the sun was out and bright. There was a nice breeze flowing through the grandstand in the evening (it kept the mosquitoes away. Hooray!).
We traveled home in the dark and encountered greyish northern lights.
That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.
― Ray Bradbury
I ask nothing. I promise nothing.
I come from nowhere. A land-locked nowhere. I am surrounded by fields of flax and wheat that undulates in the wind. There is nothing here. The people are not dreamers, they are practical. Is it any wonder that I ran away.
I ran away to the sea because it was the furthest I could go. Once you reach the sea there is nothing else there. I thought it would be less work. I thought it would be more pleasure than pain.
But, like the family farm, the sea is also a harsh task-master.
The winds blow harsh and fierce in both places whipping up the tempest of dust or water – it does not much matter which.
I cannot hide. There is always work to be done. I beware of strong winds. I watch my step. I mind my head. The captain, like my father, is harsh and unforgiving.
Both sea and farm are harsh mistresses.
The sea has too much water. The farm has too little.
The farm has too much dust. The sea has none.
I long for warm beaches and petty pleasure.
I ask nothing. I promise nothing.
I want. Nothing.
The above is a poem written for September 19th which is International Talk Like A Pirate Day.
Click here for a modern pirate tale.
We interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcast to bring ya’ talk like a pirate day.
Have ya’ ever had the urge to chuck it all and ran off to the sea.
Ayyy, not to be a sailor but to be more than all that.
To pillage & plunder.
To drink Grog, play the Hornpipe and hunt for buried treasure.
I need me some sparkly pirate booty; doubloons, pearls, rubies, emeralds – I want all the pretty sparkly things!
I fell in love with a pirate a very long time ago.
Long before Johnny Depp personified Captain Jack Sparrow.
My 1st pirate movies starred the swashbuckling Errol Flynn.
Picture a Sunday afternoon in September, two rambunctious children, and a sleeping baby.
The oldest (a boy) had way too much energy.
And a 13 year old babysitter in for the long haul (all Sunday afternoon).
Thankfully, in those days we had Sunday afternoon TV movies (old movie classics usually).
Which is when I met Errol Flynn – pirate, raconteur, hero of rambunctious little boys everywhere!
The movie had it all – sword fights, canyons, the high seas, and only a teeny bit of romance.
What did we watch?
It didn’t matter. The baby slept, the boy was quiet, the little girl was enchanted by the costumes and the big girl was enchanted by the sea.
She wanted to run away to see the sea!
She was enchanted by pirates the way she would later be enchanted by cowboys and aliens (separately and together).
Thus, at 13 I became enamored with the sea, freedom, and untameable men.
Ah, what is about wild things?
“Never love a wild thing. You can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree, then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up if you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.” ― Holly Golightly
How do you like my fancy new cast? I slipped on the ice on Easter Sunday and fell on top of my wrist which broke, of course. This was not the change I was looking for. But I am learning a lot!
Like how hard it is to get dressed with only one operable hand and forget hanging up jeans at all. Forget hanging up anything or making a bed or sweeping a floor. I’m becoming a slovenly teenager late in life! Didn’t I just mention a few posts back how I wanted someone to take care of me – send applications to 😉 .
I had to get my sister to open the jam when she was here last weekend but I was able to figure out how to open the juice today by myself. I held it under my armpit and used my good hand to untwist the lid. It wasn’t too messy and now my armpit smells like mangos.
And did you know that regular pill use gets you constipated! Not fun!
Plus, it would be a good idea to cut your long hair before you break your arm as it is very hard to wash it one-handed.
I’d ask how Pirates did it but then they were never known for their cleanliness!
And the more expensive the toilet paper the easier it is to tear at the perforations.
I’d show you pictures of my bruises but they’re on my good hand and I can’t use the other hand to take photos right now.
I only have four button down shirts and on three the buttons are too small to do up with one hand. Let’s not even talk about bras and how hard they are to do up even in the best of circumstances.
Breaking bones leaves you very tired and the resetting is worse then the breaking. The emergency room doctor was impressed that I didn’t swear when she reset my wrist even though I had permission to do so. I guess I wouldn’t make a very good pirate after all.
My blog posts, for the rest of April may be shorter than usual as I adjust to this change!
And learn what it is possible to do mostly one-handed.
Are you ambidextrous? What can you do one handed? I can turn on the bath tub taps with either foot but that is not helping me now (can’t shower, can’t take a bath, can’t get my cast wet).
I wish I were a cat and could lick myself clean as sponge bathing is annoying (but there are certain parts you don’t want to lick)!
Can Winter be over now, she asks, as she watches the snow come down (once again) outside her window?
Inspired by The Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge.
(Click on the second photo for a book recommendation).
What’s the best thing about being a pirate?
Is it looting or doubloons or the grog or cutlasses or shanties or The Spanish Main?
This is the argument that opens this tiny, adventure-filled tome, aka book.
A novel about Pirates! and Charles Darwin. Funny, witty and blurbed by Eric Idle. The infamous Pirate Captain and his bored crew, tired of trying to build a bouncy castle out of Jellyfish attack the infamous Beagle and end up ferrying the young Mr. Darwin and his friend Captain FitzRoy to Victorian London. Where many adventures abound.
Victorian London differs from modern London in that…there was soot and orphans everywhere, and gaslit cobbled streets full of fog and sinister gentlemen out for a night of illicit murder (p. 55).
This is a novel with educational footnotes*, occasional pirate jokes, plank walking, bits of piratical history, cooking debates, a learned monkey and bloody death vignettes as well as P. T. Barnum and his circus of freaks. A tale ripe with science, mystery, religion and fashion. A jolly reading experience for lads and lassies.
You could finish off this book, it’s only 134 pages, while in line to plunder your own doubloons from your friendly, neighbourhood bank. Then take more doubloons out so that you can purchase the whole pirate series.
Don’t worry if you can’t understand the language, included at the end of the book is a list of words to know and just for fun, a Comprehension Exercise; every test should be this interesting.
*You share about 98.6 per cent of your DNA with a common chimpanzee. And upwards of 99 per cent of your DNA with a pirate! (p. 35)
The Pirates! In an adventure with Scientists
N.Y.: Pantheon Books, 2004
Don’t Forget ….
September 19th (every year) is International Talk Like A Pirate Day.
In every city (town, village, hamlet…nay, country) there are little hidden gems. They lurk half hidden, half forgotten, off the beaten path and just out of reach around the corner. Above is one of ours; I call it the Statue Graveyard; others have called it a Sculpture Garden.
It is located in a back corner of the University adjacent to the river and the Meewasin walking trail. It is the final resting place of statues that have been donated to either the University or the city (I think); statues that may have had other homes or statues that are lost and lonely (perhaps).
Most of the statues are nameless as well as homeless. They are seldom seen. I came across them when I was temporally homeless myself and went to live at one of the campus dorms for a month a summer or so ago. These pictures were taken the Fall after on a cloudy, stormy Saturday. I haven’t gone back for winter pictures as the Statue Graveyard is over an hour walk from my place when the trail is walkable (and right now, for various reasons, it is not). So, I would have to take the long way around which would take two to three hours that I don’t feel like giving up right now. Even though, today I am being lazy and a stay-at-home enjoying the sunshine, like a cat, through half curtained windows.
Here, you can see University buildings in the background and construction cranes, from last year’s project, to the left and the right. I wonder, are the satellite dishes artifact or operational? Here is a field perfect for flying kites or family picnics right beside another of our museums. But no one goes to visit; the Statue Graveyard is always empty of living, breathing individuals, when I go there. There are, however, numerous gopher holes – watch your step if you go. You wouldn’t want to twist your ankle.
Starting this week and to the end of February, I will explore three of the statues and make up stories for you about them. I have a few supposes for you but little fact. I will be a pirate plundering pleasure from hidden treasures for my own (and hopefully, your) enjoyment.
See you next week.
Ahoy me hearties,
I see through me spyglass from me lofty perch upon the crow’s nest that Saturday, September 19th be Talk Like A Pirate Day!
Now, don’t be looking at me like I’m addled (and I ain’t been in the grog either); this is one of my favourite holidays. Right after that spook and goblin one. Shiver me timbers, y’all!
Here’s a picture of a pirate ship for ye and no, the Mizzen mast ain’t missing, ye landlubber. Don’t be flying the Jolly Roger, we ain’t surrendering yet.
Now, being a generous pirate wench, I got me some booty for ye, some bookish treasure. The Cap’n says books are as precious as doubloons ye know and don’t ye let anyone be telling ye tales otherwise.
Ye wouldn’t even know of that blaggard Bluebeard or pompous Cap’n Hook if it weren’t for books.
Those old sea dogs don’t hold a candle to the saucy wenches that really ruled the seas. You won’t find either of them down in Davy Jones’s Locker. Don’t be disrespecting em or they’ll make ye swab the deck or walk the plank.
So, without further formality I introduce to ye two of the most notorious pirates to ever sail the seas, Anne Bonney and Mary Reade.
Now this lady, Jane Yolen, she wrote a ballad, a sea shanty about the two and this fair gentleman, David Shannon drew some pretty pictures to go along with it. It’s a mighty fair tale if ever there was one.
Tis a historical tale, set centuries ago. Port Maria bay in 1720, news from afar traveled like birdsong on the air and governors and government chased the pirates down.
“And silver the coins and silver the moon,
Silver the waves on the top of the sea..”
Tis a pleasant ballad the fair Lady Jane has written and I won’t be spoiling the tale by telling it. Go out to ye local shoppe or free library and seek the treasure for ye self. For treasure chased is pleasanter than treasure given.
The Ballad of the Pirate Queens
By Jane Yolen & David Shannon
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; 2001
Remember, Dead men tell no tales. ;-0
Fair Winds to the crew of ye.