Today’s bloggy post….

Nothing: not a thing, nil, zero, naught, zilch, zip, nada, diddly-squat, squat.

Maybe tomorrow.

Thanks for checking.

I have four different books going right now. Two are audio, and the other two are the type where, I have to do actual page turning.

This morning I decided not to finish one of them and I only just started it.

I’m fairly quick to cool it on a book if it doesn’t grab me early or if it causes me to stress. Reading is too hard for me to struggle.

I’ve already read two books under my 2017 reading challenge of books that can be put in the category of “a book made into a movie.” I read Hidden Figures and another one I can’t think of right now. But, I picked up A Dog’s Purpose at the Sally Anne yesterday, thinking it would be a nice read. Dogs and all.

Nope.

Even though it seems like a sweet book about the life and times of a dog – I do not like in the least, any mention of a person not being nice to a dog. Nope. Can’t even read about it. This book is closed for me. I remember closing up the book Water for Elephants the same way. I do not like it when any one is mean to a critter. Nope. It doesn’t even need to be blatant, even the hint of cruelty is enough for me.

The other page turner, I’m half way through, is a book I read before. I rarely read books multiple times, but I also know I will read this one again in years to come.

My Hitler Youth by Jürgen Grohne is one I’m filing under the books written by someone who is not a writer.

Jürgen was a my friend. He was one of the first people we met on Bowen Island. He was also one of the finest men I ever knew. Jürgen died in 2004, and not many days pass, where I don’t think of him.

I remember sitting in his backyard, listening to his stories — the same stories that are in this book. Jürgen can write, but he wasn’t a writer. He was a graphic artist, who wrote. I am glad he wrote this book. It deserves its own review another day. Stay tune.

The two audio books are as different as can be. The Three Musketeers and Insomniac City.

The Three Musketeers is entertaining. I find listening to classic books easier than reading them. But, my mind wanders as I listen; and I have a hard time following the action.

Insomniac City and was recommend in Brain Pickings By Maria Popova. I’m surprised by her recommendation, because I think it’s a stupid read. I should quit this one as well — maybe one more chapter.

I know calling a book stupid, is not a real review; but it’s what I have so far.

I’m starting to think I should focus on one book at a time, because this multi-task reading, is not doing me any favours.

I watch cooking shows on TV now.

Martha Stewart has a show called Martha Bakes and she also has one called Cooking School or something like that. She “teaches” cooking and baking using every possible kitchen appliance and gadget. She makes it look easy.

I also watch, with less enthusiasm, the cooking competition shows. The kind where they say you must use cashews and only have 20 minutes to make a flaming desert.

There’s also a show featuring fancy chefs. These chefs have other people doing all the prep and chopping, and are at the beck and call of the chef. “Amber, will you turn the scallops.” “Becky, I need more scallions.”

One theme all these shows have in common, is how to cook anything, at least three different ways.

The people in competitions call it “beans three ways.” Martha and the big chefs are happy to share “another way to use pineapple.”

Last night I watch Martha make three different types of bread.

They ALL had the same ingredients. Flour, eggs, yeast, salt, sugar. The big difference was the proofing of the yeast..

One loaf was proofed in a warm place, one in the refrigerator, one rolled up in plastic wrap. Another big difference was, one recipe used the mix master, and the other was mixed by hand using a wooden spoon.

Fascinating.

Another thing all the shows have in common is they all tell a personal story while they cook. “My grandmother made these buns for us every Sunday.” Or, “This sauce smells like my childhood home on a warm summer night.”

I have no point to this story, except that I dreamed about cooking something three ways last night.

I admit one way of making anything is challenge enough for me. And Top Chef or Chopped aside, there have been times when, I open the pantry, grab a few ingredients, and 20 minutes later, dinner is ready. On these nights only Ken’s happiness — not $10,000. is on the line.

To sum up — what I’ve learned by watching all these shows is:
1. You must have all the ingredients on hand.
2. A sous chef would make cooking easier. Also, buy the right pan, or spatula, and have sharp knifes.
3. You absolutely must have a story to go with the meal. (The best story comes from your childhood, watching your Grandma cook.)
4. And, of course, you need to be able to make any meal, with any ingredient, at least three different ways.

They never say anything about setting pot holders on fire.

The local paper arrives on Friday. We scan it for anything interesting, mostly the listing of Saturday yard sales. after that,  it becomes what Ken calls, fire starter.

We aren’t much for the news, local or national.

We do not need a thing, but we like yard sales. What we really like is running into the other people who like yard sales each week. Some are getting to become friends. We like to chat as we poke and paw at other peoples stuff. Sometimes, we come home with a new dog toy for Boze!

Last Saturday, we went to Davis Bay to check out a sale. As we swung by the sale, we noticed a For Sale sign on the house we almost bought two years ago.

We really like the view the house had, and were all set to put an offer in, when our realtor Gord, showed us the house we are in now.

We are so happy we bought this place instead of that one. But, had we bought that one, I’m sure we would be just as happy. Living in Davis Bay is different than living in West Sechelt, but we wouldn’t know it.

No one knows the path not taken!

Anyway – seeing this house on the market again made me curious. I googled it and was shocked at the price they were asking.

In just two years time, I expected the price to go up a little, but now they are asking $240,000. MORE than when we looked at the place.

Come on!

It looks like the coast is catching the mainland in the housing insanity crisis.

Our first hockey night in Canada was fun.

Would I do it again? Probably not.
At least not in the same way.

The tickets we had were luxury tickets. Our seats included a smorgasbord of all we could eat, fancy food, and service by a staff that made the catering on a cruise ship, look stingy.

We were told to arrive early — which is music to my ears, because If I’m not early – I feel like I’m late. And, don’t tell Ken, but, we really did not need to go THAT early!

We arrived at a separate entrance from the regular fans. Up the elevator to the Encore Lounge. After coat and hat checks, we were offered prime rib, roasted chicken, seafood, pizza, salads of all styles, sushi, and several different types of deserts, including chocolate covered strawberries and mango cream with something.

In the land of too much — it was too much.

Everything except booze was included in the ticket price, yet, while, I’m sure the servers were not thrilled that we didn’t drink, we were still catered to as if we owned the place. Excuse me, my linen napkin is wrinkled and I used this fork once already. 🙂

We had this beautiful lounge to hang out in. There was a cozy fire place with sofas, and leather chairs, and in the washroom, there was a big screen TV. (You wouldn’t want to miss anything!)

We filled our plates a couple of times. It was silly.
What is it with us, when fancy food is offered, and we are told to “help yourself.”

What has this to do with hockey? Nothing.

When the game started, we watched from centre seats, up high. We could see everything quite well. Of course there was the big screen for replays, and the fun of panning the fans to see how everyone cheers.

There was no kiss cam. To me, it seemed the camera focused on the children, and fans who danced, had signs, or wore costumes, and believe me – there were plenty of them.

The best part of the game for me, was watching the teams warm up. The skating was incredible and so fast. The really fun part for me, happened during commercial breaks. Twenty something young skaters cleaned the ice with choreographed precision. They were great fun to watch.

I have to say, the Canucks did not play well. The goalie of the Islanders did. The most exciting the game got was in the last two minutes, of the third period, when the Canucks tied the score, it went into overtime.

At first I was afraid that meant we would have to stay for another 20 minute period. Luckily, in hockey overtime, they leave only three players on each team and give them five minutes to do their best. At the three minute mark, New York scored and it was over.

We did have fun, we cheered — Ken even high fived a stranger! I’m glad we went. But like I said, if there ever is a next time; we would do it different.

Next time, I would go as a regular fan, not a fancy dancy one. I would sit with the crowd and have popcorn, not prime rib.

At least now this Canadian can say, “Yes, of course I’ve been to a hockey game!”

Next up – curling!

We moved to Canada in 1996 and in all that time, we’ve never been to a hockey game!

A poor excuse of a Canadian if you ask me.

So – we are fixing that, and gallivanting, into the big city, tonight.

We have tickets to see the Canucks play the New York Islanders, in Rogers Arena.

I’m told, they are the two worse teams in the league, this season. But that doesn’t matter to us.

We plan on having loads of fun.

Now, while we will not be painting our faces blue, or wearing home team jerseys, and we don’t have one of those giant foamy fingers to wave around — you can bet, we will be screaming, and cheering, like life long, fans of the Canucks, all night.

Go hockey! I hope we get on the kiss cam!

I had a conversation about mental illness the other day.

I know my diagnose of my mothers illness is not mine to make. Still, it makes it easier for me to accept her behaviour if I think she was ill.

I truly believe her hoarding and OCD was an illness and not “just the way she was.” But, I am not a doctor, and no doctor I know of, ever diagnosed her with anything, other than heart disease.

Still.

This conversation also brought up alcoholism as a disease. I was asked if it was a mental disease and in the moment I said no.

I think I’ve changed my mind.

Alcoholism has been described as “an allergy of the body, and an obsession of the mind.”

With that description — yes, Alcoholism can fall into the category of mental disease.

The way I look at it is — if you are allergic to say, strawberries or peanuts, most people would quit eating strawberries or peanuts after the first bad reaction.

The first time I drank — I got drunk, blacked out, and have no clue how I ended up with black eyes. I felt like shit, and still… I drank again and again.

People who are allergic to different foods do not seek treatment. They do not need to meet with others who are allergic to strawberries or peanuts. They don’t talk about how, they had a bad day, or a good day, and that they REALLY want to eat a strawberry or peanut!

No one who is allergic to these thinks eating (just one) is a good idea.

Nor, are they given a chip, or a cake, when they make it a day, or year without digesting what they know, may kill them.

People with peanut allergies, do not relapse!

Yet, alcoholics do.

No matter how long an alcoholic is sober, many of us have a niggling thought — a great obsession; that one day… we will be able to drink again.

I believe I am an alcoholic. I may be wrong, after all, I diagnosed myself when I was but 28 years old.

It’s been well over 30 years since I’ve had a drink, yet, there are days I continue to think, a drink is just what I need!

I’m told this is normal behaviour for alcoholics.

My physical allergy to booze, comes this mental obsession and that’s why I’m still nutty about the stuff.

The disease concept of alcoholism continues to be debated even among people even in “the industry”. My healthcare in BC does not cover treatment for this so called disease, and there are plenty of people who blame the user for their “bad choices.”

Do I blame my mother for her choice to hoard? Did she have the choice?

If I drank again after all these years of sobriety — would you blame me or the illness?

I should be posting photos of flowering quince, crocus, and azaleas right about now.

But, no.

We woke to this today.

I am not thrilled about a springtime snow, but as I move my eyes a little to the right from this shot, I see….

We don’t have the best view the Sunshine Coast has to offer —
we have the one we can afford.

We are so friggen rich!

I take no stock in daily horoscopes. Yet, I’m in the habit of reading mine most days.

I like the musings of Georgia Nichols, for no other reason than that she is a Bowen Island girl. Today I feel Georgia has been watching me out of the corner of her eye.

My horoscope for today says:

Today you will work hard at whatever task is set before you. You won’t be erratic. Quite the opposite. You will work at a steady pace with strength and endurance and you will pay attention to details.

In other word —  you are stubborn and determined and will not let go of a big fat idea that requires you to sit for hours, ripping thread and making your hands hurt.

It’s true.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I am taking a quilt apart.

I’ve been ripping and picking for about 3 days now. I hope to be finished before my hands totally give out.

Most people, would move on and say, “Jeepers, that quilt is nice, but it’s not my favourite.”

For a while, I thought I might give it away, or that Boze, would like a nice dog bed. I know I could donate it, or I could just add it to the ever growing pile of quilts in this house.

I could MOVE ON!
But, NOOOOO!!!

I like the fabric. I’m just not happy with what I did with it. And now, I have a big fat, better idea.

So, I pick. I sit and pick, and won’t stop until every friggen stitch comes apart.

And yes, I bemoan myself for experimenting with machine quilting, before I had a clue of how to machine quilt something.

Pick, pick, pick.

The good news is perseverance furthers and I’m passed the half way point. There is no turning back now. Also, I’m creating a zillion little pieces of thread that I can put outside for the birds to use in their nests.

We are happy Boze is the breed of dog, that does not shed. Her hair is not all over the house. Unfortunately, I’m the breed of quilter who not only puts quilts together — I take them apart, so my shirt, and the floor are totally covered with thread too short to save!

And yes, dear Georgia, today, this Taurus will work a steady pace with strength and endurance.

I wrote this story in 2012

I dug it out of the files, after a particular conversation with Sandie.

Henry Chambers

Henry was the fourth born of the 12 children, Ella and Hubert Chambers had.

It was 1942 the depression was ending, and the war was just getting starting. Henry was just 14 years old when he set out on his own. Life at home didn’t make sense with all the other mouths to feed, and Henry knew he could help out by just being gone. He left the only home he knew in Lynchburg, Virginia, and made his way to South Carolina. He found a job in a print shop and started working for Oscar Thomas.

Henry was an honest and loyal worker for Mr. Thomas.
Day in and day out he kept the shop clean and neat. Henry took pride in sweeping the floor, and wiping down the press. He secretly wished he could be a pressman, as he watched big, bold posters being printed, in full American colours.

Instead, Henry did his part by taking big stacks of posters to the streets. He plastered them on walls and poles —  the flyers with Uncle Sam pointing his finger and looking at you right in the eye exclaiming, “Uncle Sam Wants You.”

Henry wondered what it would be like to be wanted by the friendly man, in the tall hat, but he would never know. Henry wasn’t wanted by Uncle Sam. He never would be, Henry was deaf and didn’t speak.

Henry worked for Mr. Thomas until 1968, and when Mr. Thomas died the print shop closed.

Now 40 years old, Henry moved to Cloverdale, Alabama to lived with his sister Irene. He took care of her after her surgery.

After 2 years of odd jobs, he found a job at the Morning Sun newspaper, as a janitor. Henry worked the night shift, and in the quiet of his world, he would gently tap his foot with the rhythm, and vibration of the press, as the daily news rolled out.

After work in the morning hours, Henry went to the Dennys for dinner, then stop in the Corner Pocket for a beer; sometimes  two.

This was Henry’s routine for 22 years.

In 1992 the owner of the Corner Pocket, Miss Lucy McTavish, died. To everyone’s surprise and shock, Henry became the new owner of the bar the day they read her will.

It didn’t take long for Henry to run the bar into the ground. He knew nothing of business; and some took advantage of his good nature. Depressed, Henry started to drink more and more. He lost his job at the paper.

One Tuesday morning Henry awoke to the surprise of nothing.

This was the most eventful thing that had ever happen to Henry. At age 67, Henry had an awaking. He was tired of nothing, he was sick of going along with life. Henry thought there could be more for him. He was no longer willing to sit back and watch his life pass by.

Henry Chambers wanted to start over.

With a courage he didn’t know he had, Henry packed his one suitcase on a Friday morning, and caught a bus south. He got in touch with his younger brother William, in Louisiana, who was the pastor at the First Baptist Church in Shreveport.

Henry was offered work at the school for the deaf, in Shreveport, and was able to take free classes in exchange for odd jobs around the school. Henry was happy. He learned to use the computer at the library, and on the internet he met Mary.

Life was picking up for Henry when Hurricane Katrina hit. No one has seen Henry Chambers since.