![]() Dearest friends and family, Happy Advent by email. It is the season of waiting and in Canada we are not only waiting to celebrate the birth of Christ but also the end of the postal strike! This will be the second Christmas without my sister in-laws, Gladys and Nelly, and the 9th Christmas without Ernest George. I miss them still, especially Ernest. However, creativity must continue and so I am now writing my fourth book. It is my first effort in fiction. It is a book of short stories on the topic of kindness; a subject much needed, I believe, in these days of climate crisis and other eco-justice issues. I'm hoping by writing stories on kindness I might become kinder in the process! I post the stories on my weekly blog which appears on Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn and Twitter (I know that the name is changed but some of us continue to say Twitter for political reasons). I hope you will join me if you are able and inclined on these platforms or on my website/podcast Storysoupenterprises.ca. See you there. Christopher Charles continues to teach Academic Literacies & Identities, a specialized English language course, at the University of Toronto and is still enjoying his work enormously. In his free time, he has gathered a group of friends and designs fantasy games which he leads. He's also called upon to design games and be the game master at a local pub or two from time to time. He bought an electric bike just over a year ago which isn't all that one might wish. It has its downside and so now he can be seen most frequently going to and from the university on his good old “acoustic” bike. My favorite activity remains an every other week Zoom meeting with a group of five old friends. We meet for about an hour and a half to talk about the climate crisis and give each other support and to keep up with one another. Last summer we again met in person. This time at Mary and Ian’s lovely farmhouse, about an hour or so North of Toronto. This gathering includes partners and we spent the day around their big old country kitchen table, took a walk in their woods and each of us went home with a bunch of homegrown asparagus. I also continue to meet with the neighborhood book club. There are six of us in the immediate neighborhood and we meet once a month in each others’ homes to discuss chosen fiction novels and gossip about the neighbours who aren’t there. I still have the same tenant in my little basement apartment. He is a graduate student writing his Doctoral thesis and so since the basement is no longer my guest room I receive guests in the spare room on the third floor. Chris assembled a queen sided bed for me with a memory foam mattress and I'm told by the several guests I've had so far that the bed is quite comfortable. It is awaiting all your visits (perhaps not everyone at the same time). One guest, Winifred, is new to Canada from Ghana and she stayed with me for two weeks while she found her own apartment. Because I'm a lover of language, particularly old/new English words, I wish you all a Happy Brat Christmas and a 2025 as free as possible from brainrot. Much love, Sally [email protected]
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![]() “Bob, I'm really getting worried about Dad. He cleared up the breakfast things this morning and when I came into the kitchen, I opened the fridge and the dish detergent was in there. Now that's not the worst thing in the world, but I swear yesterday when I came down for breakfast he looked at me and I could tell, that for maybe as long as a minute, he really didn't know who I was. I know he couldn't remember my name and then he kind of came to and seemed alright. Sometimes he seems fine, but other times he really isn’t. I worry about the two of us working such long hours and leaving him here alone so much of the time. But if it weren’t for these long hours we really couldn’t survive financially. What if he leaves the stove burner on or what if he just walks out the door not quite realizing what he's doing and disappears? You hear about things like that.” Bob listened to her attentively and said, “OK, we have talked about this before and maybe we need to have a family meeting with Dad and revisit the idea of the long-term care place. We've heard really good things about that one and we know someone who's stayed there so let's see what he thinks”. Bob and Sherry had their meeting that evening with Dad, and Dad, always mindful of the fact that he might be a nuisance to them, agreed that they should definitely look at Happy Valley and that he was ready to move into it if it were the right kind of place. They went to see it the following Saturday and the rooms were spacious and light and clean, of course. The staff were very friendly, pleasant and enthusiastic about the home itself. They talked about the extra benefits like music programs and party nights and games afternoons and it sounded like just the sort of place that Dad would enjoy and where he could make new friends. So then and there the three of them made the decision that they would take the next available room. They went home in high spirits. Although they were sad, they felt they had made the right decision. Two days later they received a call, much sooner than they expected, that there was a room available. It was on the ground floor overlooking the garden. They had seen that room, and it was indeed a pleasant space. So, packing began and frisky, Dad's dog, whom he loved more than anybody, was jumping around helpful as ever. Dogs were allowed to visit and they could visit frequently of course so it seemed all right. Moving day arrived. They had chosen Happy Valley, despite its name, and Dad moved in. The next day Sherry went to visit dad and all seemed to go well for a number of weeks. Then COVID-19 struck. Sherry went after work one afternoon and the attendant at the door refused to let her in. The attendant said that someone in the home had Covid so they were locked down and visitors were not allowed. Sherry went home confused and disappointed but tried again the next day and this time no one came to the door. There was a sign and it read, ‘no visitors allowed’. They called dad and he sounded confused as well. He didn't quite sound like himself, but everyone thought this will pass and we'll get through this soon enough. As the days went by and they continued to call him he sounded more and more not himself. His confusion grew and he was beginning to sound depressed. There were times when they weren't sure that he knew quite who they were, but they kept calling him and they kept trying to get into the place but were not allowed. They contacted the management and said they wanted to remove dad from the home. Because covid was rampant in the place by then Management said, “no, we are locked down and not allowed to release any of the residents”. Sherry and Bob were beside themselves with what to do and the more time that went by the more dad seemed to be deteriorating. So together they came to the home. They knew where Dad's window was but though it was on the ground floor, it was too high up to be able to see through it. So, they found a bench on the grounds and together they carried the bench over to the window, clambered up on it and looked through the glass. There was Dad lying on the bed, his back to them and the room was dishevelled. There were clothes lying around and dirty dishes everywhere. It didn't look like anybody had been looking after things. They'd heard on the news that so many of the long-term care home workers were leaving their jobs in frustration from overwork and underpay. They could see that there was simply not enough staff. They tapped on the window then knocked harder and eventually, Dad turned over in his bed and looked at them, not seeming to recognize them. They smiled and mouthed words and finally some light came into his eyes. He sat up on the edge of the bed and a small smile crept onto his face. He worked his way over to the window and looked directly at them. He put both his hands on the glass; Sherry put one of hers on one of his and Bob put his hand on Dad's other hand. They held themselves there for minutes. Sherry mouthed I love you and Dad smiled and nodded. Unable to stand any longer he took his hands down and turned and got back into the bed. Bob said to Sherry, “we will come tomorrow and bring Frisky. That might cheer him up, he’ll surely recognize Old Frisk.” But that night they got a call from the home. Dad had died - of Covid. Sherry and Bob had Dad cremated and for some time afterward they simply held one another while they shared regrets, grief and tears. Frisky seemed to realize he would not see his dear friend again and he was enormously helpful to his remaining humans, bringing them comfort where needed. At that time large gatherings of any sort could not be held. Certainly not funerals. Eventually Sherry and Bob gathered their closest friends and Bob's cousin, who was dad's nephew, and Frisky, of course, and they went to the care home garden and gathered outside his window. It was a bitterly cold February afternoon but there was something in the crisp air that felt cleansing. They all had the distinct feeling that Dad was there with them. They said prayers, sang songs and told many stories that they had shared through Dad's life as they passed a large thermos of coffee among them. It was a fitting and healing end of life eucharist for all of them. Not long after, Sherry was inspired. She was a technical person in an artistic community and her close friend was a story writer and storyteller. Together they conceived the idea of stories through the telephone for long-term care residents. Sherry did her research and came up with a phone company that through their collected donations they could just about afford. The storyteller pulled together other writers and tellers and they began to record their stories with the recording skills they had acquired during the pandemic. When it all came together, it was a simple technology where the resident of long-term care homes or anyone else who felt they needed this service could dial the phone number and then press one of the keys after the titles were announced and listen to a short creative story anytime of the day or night. This service, though helpful, did not replace all the healthcare workers and nurses that had to leave the homes from total exhaustion, but it was an opportunity to very simply dial up a story when someone felt particularly alone or in need of inspiration. This project continued as long as the meager funds lasted. We all know that the real solution is through support of people who can no longer look after themselves. Ringing bells and banging pots seemed encouraging at the time, but perhaps brought more relief to the ringers and bangers than anyone else. What is needed is literal support of the caretakers who are willing and able to care for the people most vulnerable in our society. This requires education through current knowledge of our care homes, a change of the societal attitude “someone else will look after it" and the provision of funds to pay the care workers what they are worth. Let us pray and work for this change to bring back our health workers to increase their work in our communities so that all those, like Dad, can be given care and hope and a decent life right to the end. ![]() Hello Doris it's me no no no problem just calling to catch you up on my doings. Well last night when it was time for bed I turned out all the lights and then I said to myself I wonder if I closed and locked that back door. So I went out to the kitchen in the dark and when I got there I heard the creek of the door opening and I thought to myself I better have a weapon so I reached out to the kitchen table and my hand landed on my blister pack I picked it up and bopped that intruder right on the nose quite a bop it didn't hurt him of course but it shocked him a bit and pills were just raining down from everywhere and he stepped on a pile of them flipped up in the air and went down flat on his back on the linoleum. I thought well this is my chance so I reached out for my cane you know the one with the foot on the bottom and I swung it in the air with the idea of putting it down on his chest holding him there until I could get some help as I swung it up in the air my glasses went careening off my nose to heaven knows where and my fall alarm went off saying “WE DETECT A FALL SPEAK IN TO THE MICROPHONE”. No no no no I didn't fall and the voice from the gizmo around my neck accepted this and disappeared. But while talking to my chest and swinging my cane I loose my balance and go flying to the floor landing on the intruder the fall alarm finally stops jabbering and I hear another voice coming from somewhere on the floor saying get off me it’s Mr. Dexter from next door and I thought oh my lord so I got up brushing the pills off me helping up poor Mr. Dexter and I said why are creeping through my back door in the middle of the night? He said I got home from my book club and I saw that your bin was still at the curb and I thought to myself I would take it back to where she keeps it and save her the trouble don’t know why they make those bins so big it was heavy as sin. I got it back here I looked up at the back door and said to myself that door does not look like it was fully closed. So I went to the back porch and sure enough it was open a crack and I stepped in and the rest is history. I said shall I put the kettle on? And he said no no gotta get home to Mirabelle she worries about me if I am out to late. Mirabelle is his cat but I cant judge because I talk to my plants and what’s more they talk back. He went home to Mirabelle and I didn’t have the heart to tell him the bin collection wasn’t today but tomorrow so I went out and took it back to the curb hoping it would be collected early so I could get it back here before he comes from his physiotherapy and finds out what a silly old fool he is. I went in swept up the pills and looked for my glasses which I still haven’t found and I thought to myself it’s a good thing I didn’t cry out during all of this or I probably would have lost my dentures as well. I tell you Dorris I’m ninety percent spare parts and 10 percent me. I gotta go the chemist now and get a new blister pack. Say what you will about our neighbourhood Doris but its full of good people… and its never dull. By Sally Armour Wotton ![]() “Oh, that tickles.” The mother raccoon lying on her side began to wiggle around. “You three stop that, you know I don't like to be tickled… 1 2 3 … 4? Four?” “Oh, mum, come on he’s only tiny and his mom walked away from him, didn't even say goodbye and you have plenty of spigots, and we like him.” So, the mother raccoon relented and continued to feed her three cubs plus this tiny, forlorn, abandoned kitten. They were fed their milk diet for quite some time until the awaited day arrived and the three cubs plus kitten followed their mother down to the waters edge where she taught them to move from a liquid diet to a more interesting one. She taught them to put their finger-like paws into the water to moisten their poms for flexibility and the cubs caught on very quickly. Kittencoon took quite a bit longer but eventually got the hang of it with the help of the others. They all sat up straight including the kitten. Mama had made it very clear that she thought pressing one’s face into one's food was disgusting. The furries lived in the country at the edge of a summer stock company and their favorite activity was to visit the performances which were every evening and some afternoons. Mumcoon would lead them along the fence at the back of the theatre, single file with kittencoon bringing up the rear. It was never long before someone in the audience suddenly shouted, “look” and the whole audience turned around to look at the back of the theatre and saw the five animals silhouetted against the early evening sky. The furry ones were pleased with the attention and the audience loved the extra performance. Everyone was happy, except of course the players. The stage manager would come back to the fence and attempt to shoo them away but the furries would not shoo. They sat and stared back at the audience through their charming masks and kittencoon tried to adopt the same dignity as his new siblings but invariably wiggled his whiskers and scratched his ear. When all had enough of this performing, the mumcoon led her charges back along the fence and away, and the audience returned to the other show in progress. During the season two young men, players in the company, discovered kittencoon asleep at the foot of the tree that the raccoons called home. They began to bring the kitten some snacks and scratch his ears and talk to him. At the end of the season they came forth with a cat carrier, scooped him up, and put him in the van as all were packing to leave and go back to the city. The young cubs were very upset of course and ran to their mother and said, “they've taken our kitten!” But she said, “not to worry, I go to the city every year. We're going along and you'll love it. They have something called a green bin which is a raccoon McDonald's and I'm sure you will enjoy our new home”. As the players were saying goodbye to one another the cubs and their mother quietly slipped into the van and snuggled down underneath the costumes and props. Once in the city, the raccoons soon found a suitable tree and moved. Kittencoon moved into the apartment with the two young men and was immediately renamed Harold. He was amazed at the luxury of his new home – all the cushions and soft surfaces for long naps and he had his own dishes with food that came out of cans. He remembered his manners and sat up straight and dipped his paw into the food to bring to his mouth. He also saw that there were fun things to do - little knickknacks on the tables that he could flick off and chase as they rolled away. There were plenty of dirty socks on the floor which he dutifully picked up one at a time and put into the toilet and washed. One day one of the young men was soaking in the tub with the shower curtain closed having a lovely relaxing afternoon when Harold, hearing the water splashing, leaped into the tub much to the surprise and shock of the young man. But soon the humans and Harold became accustomed to each others unusual characteristics and settled into a very pleasant lifestyle. The only problem was that the two young men had day jobs which meant that Harold found himself all alone all day long and Harold was an extremely social being. He was always let out in the morning as the humes and Harold agreed that litterboxes were unacceptable. Harold noticed there were other people in the neighbour whom he could visit and so stopped returning to his home in the mornings when called. He spent the day socializing before a quick visit to mum and the cubs and then home for dinner. He had learned a few things from the actors in the summer stock company and thought Oliver Twist will be my role. As he mewed at the door you could almost hear the words, “please, sir, can I have some more?” He was invariably lead in and he found a whole new selection of foods, cushions and people who stayed home all day. He liked this new arrangement very much, and so did the neighbors. But the two young men, who had never met their neighbours, became increasingly annoyed with the fact that their cat seemed to be stolen by them. They also noticed that Harold was getting chubbier and chubbier and in fact downright fat. So, they put a note on his collar which read DO NOT FEED ME. The neighbors soon realized Harold did not agree with this note so they ignored it. One day when Harold was visiting a neighbor it began to snow quite heavily and the neighbor thought there was no way they would put Harold out in the snow so Harold spent the night. Well, this was his last straw for the two young men and they wrote a long letter which they delivered to all the mailboxes demanding that their neighbors stop inviting Harold into their homes and stop feeding him! The neighbors became a bit concerned because their neighbourhood had always been a warm and friendly one and they felt that their attention to Harold was creating a rift with the two young men whom they had yet to meet and, so, they decided why not have a party for the friends of Herold and invite all who know him. The two young men, who were dubious at first and resistant to the idea of a party, were overcome by curiosity and wanted to meet those who seemed to like Harold as much as they did. The party was planned, there was tuna casserole topped with kibble croutons and garnished with catnip. There were balloons that bounced around the room easily punctured with a claw making a very satisfying pop. One neighbor brought wind up mice that would skitter across the floor. Harold was startled to see all of his friends together in one room at the same time but he'd always assumed that humans were a bit magical anyway so he took it in stride. At the end of this very successful party the neighbours had become much better acquainted with one another and got to know the two young men who agreed that Harold should be allowed to visit the neighbors and be offered refreshments but no junk food. One more decision was made that there should be a Friends of Harold party at least annually. The two young men were cast in a touring show and Harold went along, of course, but that's another story. by Sally Armour Wotton ![]() The old woman moved her way slowly down the driveway, pushing the garbage bin with one hand and pulling her walker with the other. She was about halfway down and thinking, pretty good, I’m doing alright. She got to the end of the driveway and reminded herself not to let go of the walker so that it wouldn't run into the middle of the road like it did the last time and she had to wait forever for someone to come along and retrieve it. She said to herself I think this is the main sidewalk, I will just move this recycling bin to the curb. She tested with her foot and thought, yes, it's in place. She felt good about this and then felt silly because all she had done was take the garbage bin from the side of the house to the curb, but she was looking after herself with her household chores and it made her feel rather proud. A man walking down the street came right up to her and said, “can I help you?”. She thought this was a bit funny as she had just completed the task, so with her usual sarcastic humor, she said, “with what?”, and he, assuming that since she obviously had some disability she must have them all, spoke more loudly and said, “can I help you?”. Well, she thought, he didn't get my sarcastic humor. I'll just try one more time. “With what?”, she replied. To which he said, “all you had to say was no!”, and he stomped away up the street. This was so deflating she no longer felt proud of her task, in fact, she was quite annoyed as she realized this man is an obvious ageist. She went into her house and put on the kettle and thought what is wrong with people? They repeatedly ask can I help you when I have done something perfectly well. Apart from their grammatical error, asking can I help you, I find it so frustrating. He must be a neighbor; probably lives quite near by. The woman thought to herself I used to be somebody. I used to be respected even admired. Just a couple of years ago I was teaching part time at the university, people called me Professor. I had a student who phoned me for advice and took notes. I was somebody important, now I don't know who I am. Apparently, I am just an old woman. Listen to me feeling sorry for myself, that’s ridiculous. I still come up with creative ideas, do my own cooking, laundry and I can take the garbage down to the curb, thank you very much! I’m a widow but we produced the most wonderful child, now grown, that I could ever wish for. As the water comes to a boil she heats the pot and thinks, I wonder if I will have the opportunity to apologize to that man. He'll probably be walking on the other side of the street from now on. Meanwhile five doors up the street the man, still fuming, went into his house and filled the kettle. He thought what's wrong with that old lady? I was just trying to help. That's all I ever do these days is try to help, but I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know who I am, as a man or as a person. Particularly women are forever objecting to whatever I say or do. It doesn't seem like I can do anything right. I thought I was going to get that promotion, silly me, obviously as my boss is a woman she hired another one and that's it for me, I guess. At least I’m still working. And my wife! I absolutely can't put a foot right with her. No matter what I say or do she looks like I've gravely insulted her. I’m supposed to ask her about her work, I suppose, but what do I know about interior decorating. The biggest problem is our daughter, Samantha, I used to be her knight in shining armor. We had such a marvelous relationship and now, just lately, she’s turned like all the rest. Just yesterday I said, “why don't we go out for some ice cream?”. She looked at me like I'd spat on her. She said, “do you think I’m six years old?, I have plans with my friends, dad, I have no interest in going for ice cream or gaining an extra ten pounds”. I often ask myself who am I? I just can't answer the question. I can’t even be helpful to an old disabled women. One thing is for sure, from now on I am going to be walking on the other side of the street. He poured a bit of milk into his favorite mug, ready for the kettle to boil. The old woman pondered, at over 80 years old, maybe it’s time for me to think of other people first for a change. I didn’t even wonder what story that man was walking out of as he walked into mine. Perhaps when the next stranger who says to me, can I help you?, I could resist thinking of him as an ageist and imagine his story for a change. I have learned by now that sarcasm doesn’t sway agists, disablists or any other ists. As she poured the hot liquid into her mug she thought something to mull over as a sip my tea. As the man poured the boiling water into the pot he thought, my elderly neighbour obviously has enough to cope with without my offering help she hasn’t asked for. And I bet Samanatha is going through teenage angst. If I apply a little imagination I might come up with something to say or do that will make me her hero again; something to think about as I drink my tea. ![]() “At last week's Sunday service Reverend Pike read a parable from the Gospels in which Jesus and his disciples, having arrived in a village, are invited by a woman into her home. Having made them all comfortable this woman, Mark thought, retreats into her kitchen to fix them something to eat and all the while she's cooking and getting second helpings, her sister Mary is sitting at Jesus’ feet. Eventually Martha has had enough and she lets her feelings be known, ‘Lord’ she says, ‘can't you see that my idler of a sister has left me to do all the work? Why don't you tell her to lend me a hand?’ or something to that effect. And Jesus, he replies, ‘Martha, you are troubled by too many things when only one thing is needful and that is Mary who has chosen the better way’. Well, I'm sorry, but if ever you needed proof that the Bible was written by a man, there you have it . . . I believe that Noah built an ark and herded every manner of living thing up the gangplank two by two before it rained for 40 days and 40 nights. I am even willing to believe that Moses was spoken to by a burning bush, but I am not willing to believe that Jesus Christ, our Savior, who at the drop of a hat would heal a leper or restore sight to the blind, would turn his back on a woman who was taking care of a household. So I don't blame him. Whom I blame is Matthew, Mark, Luke and John and every other man who served as priest or preacher since . . . Any woman who's gone to the trouble of making strawberry preserves can tell you how a man sees the world. . . Making preserves is a time-consuming venture, just picking the berries takes you half a day. Then you have to wash and stem the fruit. You have to sterilize the lids and jars. Once you combine the ingredients you have to set them on simmer and watch them like a hawk, never letting yourself stray more than a few feet from the stove to make sure they don't overcook. When they're ready, you pour the preserves, seal the jars and lug them into the pantry one tray at a time. Only then can you start the process of cleaning up which is a job in itself... It is above all else unnecessary thanks to Mr. Smucker at the grocery where there are 15 varieties of jam selling for 19 cents a jar, season in and season out. In fact, jam has become so readily available you can practically buy it at the hardware store. So yes, the making of Strawberry preserves is time consuming, old-fashioned and unnecessary. And why, you might ask, do I bother to do it? I do it because it's time consuming. Whoever said that something worthwhile shouldn't take time? . . . Time is that which God uses to separate the idol from the industrious. . . What the worthy endeavor requires is planning, effort, attentiveness and the willingness to clean up. . . I make preserves in the manner that was taught to me by my mother, God rest her soul. She made preserves in the manner that was taught to her by her mother and grandma made preserves in the manner that was taught to her by hers and so on and so forth back through the ages all the way to Eve or at least as far as Martha. And I do it because it's unnecessary. For what is kindness but the performance of an act that is both beneficial to another and not required? There is no kindness in paying a bill. There is no kindness in getting up at dawn to slap the pigs or milk the cows or gather the eggs from the hen house. For that matter, there is no kindness in making dinner or in cleaning the kitchen after your father heads upstairs without so much as a word of thanks. There is no kindness in latching the doors and turning out the lights or in picking up the clothes from the bathroom floor in order to put them in the hamper. There is no kindness in taking care of a household because your only sister had the good sense to get herself married and moved to Pensacola. No, I said to myself while climbing into bed and switching off the light. There is no kindness in any of that. For kindness begins where necessity ends.” ![]() Two men, Trayvon and Jim, shared a hospital room. Trayvon’s bed was next to the only window in the room and Jim’s bed was across the room in the darkened corner with his only view the room itself. Both men were there as results of accidents and Jim’s leg and arm were in traction. Trayvon had no family and lives in a town quite a distance away from the city in which these two strangers found themselves in this hospital room. Jim also was without a family and had no real friends. So, the two men were dependent on each other. Trayvon persisted in making contact with Jim and eventually their conversations began. Trayvon began to chuckle, and Jim said, “what's so funny?” Trayvon said, “well, there's a park outside the hospital and there's a dog walker there who has five dogs on five leashes all wanting to go in five different directions, now they're all in a heap on the ground!” No one is hurt however, so both men laughed. Each afternoon Trayvon described something that he saw through the window. There were three little girls playing skip rope. You could tell they were calling out the rhymes that went with that game. There was a little boy who very reluctantly and slowly climbed the ladder to the top of the slide. When he got to the top and looked down the slide, he then climbed back down the ladder much to the consternation of the children coming up behind him. He watched the others for some time until finally he got up his nerve to take the plunge. His smile lit up the park and his confidence grew. There was an old couple who came out every afternoon. You could set your clocks by them at 3:00. They came out together and sat on the bench that faced the playground each with a cup of take-out coffee. There were the gardeners who planted the spring flowers around the trees and the pollinator plants in various spots all across the park. There were people hustling down the sidewalk that ran past the park and young lovers strolling hand in hand. Even on a rainy day, the children were not deterred. The little boy of the slide came out in his raincoat, Wellington boots and a big umbrella searching for puddles to splash in. Even the old couple came out in the rain with take out coffee in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Each day brought a new event and Jim began to live for these stories. Their doctors visited them both. Jim was destined to be there for a very long time unable to leave his bed, of course. But Trayvon was getting better and better. And soon his doctor said, “good news! You have been walking the halls with your walker and tomorrow afternoon you're going to be moved out of here to the rehab hospital”. Jim overheard this, of course, and thought, “typical, he's going out. He'll be able to see people in person, experience the sunshine and the rain and I'll still be stuck in this dark corner in traction”. So the next afternoon they came for Trayvon with the wheelchair and settled his packed suitcase on his lap. As they pushed him out of the room Trayvon tried to say goodbye to his friend Jim, but Jim turned his face to the wall and was pretending to be asleep. Trayvon had mentioned that maybe they would move Jim into the side of the room with the window, but Jim didn't have a lot of hope for that. Soon the nurses came in and made-up what had been Trayvon's bed with clean sheets. And a few moments after that Jim’s new roommate was wheeled in and settled into the bed next to the window. Eventually the new man and Jim introduced each other. Jim looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 3:00 and asked the new man, “could you do me a favor? I’m wondering, is the old couple sitting on their bench? You can’t miss them. They'll have takeout coffees and she'll have some crazy sweater on; she has a remarkable collection of bizarre sweaters”. And the new man said, “sorry buddy, but the only thing visible out this window is the brick wall of the building next door”. In the UK, the question, ‘What’s for pud?’ replaces our question, ‘What’s for dessert?’ A pud is like a steamed cake, easy to make with ingredients readily at hand. The exception is the Xmas pud which is ingredient heavy and takes six hours to steam! So … since Easter is fifty days long and a pudding basin is round like an egg I thought we could all make an Easter pud!
![]() By Joseph J. Juknialis In his seedling years he had heard those who were older speak of God’s word. But when he asked what the word was which God spoke long ago their words would stumble and trip as they tried to explain. Still he kept om asking, hoping someone would tell him what word it was which God had once said. One day when he had asked his mother one time more than she could endure, out of exasperation, she finally agreed to tell him, I think you are now old enough to know, she explained as her eyes twinkled with a quiet smile. The word God spoke long ago, Was chrysanthemums. In awe he stood there before the revelation. Chrysanthemums! How powerful the word he thought. How special it sounded. The very fact that it was difficult for him to say convinced him of its truth and its importance. Chrysanthemums! From that day on whenever anyone spoke of God’s word, he along with his voice would jump up and down Chrysanthemums! Chrysanthemums! In time he grew old enough for school and when the new teacher asked what anyone knew about God, he volunteered his wisdom. Chrsanthemums! Of course. At first the teach smiled and paused pleasantly startled, her imagination captured. After a while, however, the teacher grew more adult and serious for answers need to be correct and proper and tell of how life truly is. Chrsanthemumd was not the looked for answer he soon learned. Thereafter he was cautious of sharing his bit of divine wisdom. Oh, on one or two occasions He had suggested chrsanthemums, but others still seemed startled and unable to understand, trapped between laughter and confusion. Yet his mother would not have lied, he reasoned. The truth must be in chrsanthemums. Years later when his wisdom had aged like wine and seasoned memories, he came to understand why only to a few in his life had he entrusted chrysanthemums. They were those whom he loved and who loved him with gentleness and with strength like a flower with longlasting faithfulness and a common beauty which survived the common. Often he had daydreamed why God would have spoken chrysanthemums. Why not a rose or an eagle or fire or wind or woman or man? Why chrysanthemums? Truth, however, is not always borne with reasons – more often with the heart. And so he simply lived with his word, absorbed its beauty and became that word enfleshed. When he grew ill one final time and memories gave the only strenth that mattered, he lay waiting in silent peace. A friend came, then, one who had known his heart and his dreams. She brought him flowers, chrysanthemums. She placed them there on the table beside his bed, And he simply smiled in thanksgiving and quietly closed his eyes. When next he saw again, he found himself in God’s presence and this time God smiled and said chrysanthemums! ![]() As you may have guessed, winter is not my favourite season and February is when I most want creature comfort. My solution is a good book (perhaps a Louise Penny), a fire in the fire place and a cup of thick, hot soup. For those of you who also prefer the sofa to the ski slopes, I offer you this recipe for comfort. Curried Butternut Squash Soup 2 Tb oil 1 medium onion 1 Tb curry powder 4 cups squash cubed 2 pealed medium potatoes cubed 4 cups veg stock ½ cup milk salt and pepper Cook 30 min before blending and then add milk – 4 – 6 servings I bake the squash for ¾ hour at 350 degrees before starting as it makes the squash much easier to peal and cube. Enjoy! |