When we downsized, this box, which had no key and none of our keys on rings fitted it, came with us. So, we had to find a locksmith.
The name Beeler came up, along with a bunch of other names. I dropped into the store and it happened that Steve was at the counter and, after telling him that I had no idea what was in the box, though I thought it could be letters, he tried one of his many rings of keys. None fitted. I lost count of how many rings of old keys Steve tried, but none fitted. Eventually, Steve called Dad Mike from the back of the store and he could not find a key which fitted. It really had them puzzled: this had never happened before. Mike decided that if he found a key which seemed like it partly fitted, he might be able to cut it: so he did and it did! These two had already spent almost an hour trying, so when Mike eventually cried, ‘It works’ everyone was joyful. I could not thank the owners of Beeler Security Service enough for the care and time Steve and Mike took over one old writing desk and I wrote a great review on Google.
On opening it, we found out that it was an old writing desk, even equipped with an ink well. The ink was dry!
The letters were dated 1951 and 1952 and it showed that while each of us was in a different university, we wrote to each other daily. This habit continued even while I was in Canada for nearly two years, although then it became a weekly mail. But, in those days, I could write and mail a letter on a Sunday afternoon, My Beloved received it usually on a Thursday and she would respond over the weekend, so I would expect a reply about 10 days after mailing my letter. From Moose Jaw, Canada to Southampton, England and return!
Mike and Steve asked me if I wanted to open the box and, on doing so, inside were love letters written from and to my Darling wife, who died in July 2023, after 68 years of wonderful marriage, but we both knew when we were 13 that the other was THE ONE.
I made a fateful decision: I read one. I could hear her lovely voice in my head, using those silly words that lovers do, or what these two lovers did, a simple one being ‘I lub you!’ for ‘I love you.’ And there were others scattered throughout the usual 3 pages of closely written handwriting. And more when she signed off. Are you surprised I was in tears for an hour or two. Some of you know that Beryl’s parents were teachers and they wanted her to be one, but in order to be that, she could not be married. That was the law in those days. Consequently, they tried every which way to keep us apart. I must say that it was her father who was the ruler of their household and no-one dare upset him or he could go into a long sulk, speaking to no-one for days.
While in England for five weeks last September/October, Jenny, #2Daughter, joined me for the last two to three weeks and she particularly wanted to see some of the old haunts her parents used to escape ‘father’. One was the Cowherds Inn on the Southampton Common. One evening, I took My Beloved there and, after dinner, took her to a large oak tree behind the inn. As the story went in memory, and what I retold to my friends and relations in October, she leaned her back to the oak and I said, I think we should get engaged, to which, to my surprise, she said, no, we cannot because of the situation at home. So I repeated the story that she had turned me down.
BUT, on reading one of the letters today, I found a sentence which said that I should not say in a letter to someone that ‘we are engaged, even though it is a secret between us’ and she started writing in her letters to me about being my fiancée. I do not remember ever having asked her again and to which she must have said yes. WOW!
Some day I must finish reading the letters and discover more secrets, such as, when and where did I propose. Apparently, we had decided to have two children, but four if we could afford it. As it turned out, we must have made enough to have not just four, but five!
These are known in the apartment as the ‘Holy Slippers‘.
Think I need to buy another, nay, a new pair?
Some people think so: one person thought so. And bought these:
Nice slippers, but they haven’t been worn since the first day I donned them, I can’t remember whether the kind-hearted close relation bought them for my birthday or Christmas: they just didn’t feel right. They are known as the ‘Not-4-Me Slippers‘.
Now, here you see where another very kind relative did some research from the inside of the Holy Slippers, which had been purchased maybe ten years before, but which were still being produced identically to the Holy Slippers. The kind relative purchased them for me – Amazon, of course. These are called the ‘Unholy Slippers‘.
All of my family and my friends who are aware of the three pairs of slippers have, virtually the same opinion: garbage the Holy Slippers and donate the Not-4-Me Slippers. That is not the opinion I hold.
My decision has been to, yes, donate the Not-4-Me Slippers. BUT, keep the other pair!
Why, they – and you – ask?
It’s a simple answer. I have to take Polydextrose-Iron Complex, bought under the easier name of Feromax. However, I have to take them every other day, not every day. How do I remember which day? I imagine you may have some pills which you have to take at different times, such as morning or evening, and you can’t remember whether you have taken it at that time. My family doctor even admitted to that.
Well, my solution is simple: Imagine the Holy Slippers as being human and the hole representing an empty tummy. If I have been wearing them all day, I know that to satisfy the Holy Slippers hunger, I have to take my Feromax pill. Now, at the end of that day and when I go to bed, I slide Holy Slippers back against the baseboard and put the Unholy Slippers by my bed for use the next day. The evening of that day, I know my Unholy Slippers have no hole in their tummy and they are not hungry, so I do not need to take a Feromax that evening.
It’s all so simple!
I will post more often, since I am totally retired now – finally, at age 91, after my wife and I started our company back in 1978. Be well and keep well!
July 13 I last wrote to you. It was the day My Beloved died. Memories – sort of
You know – no you don’t unless you have travelled with me and My Beloved- but My Beloved would talk to Silva, our Chrysler 300, circa 2013 and all the others of our previous cars. She might say, “Silva, I’m sorry he hit the curb. Whenever we leave the bank, he cuts that corner and hits the curb, doesn’t he. He’s not treating you very well, is he?” or, more often, “Silva, I think you should slow down a bit: 140 in a 110 zone might be a bit fast.”
But, talking to an inanimate object was not limited to our cars. No. My Beloved frequently talked to one of the many stuffed toys. On making the bed and knocking a stuffed Smiley off the headboard, I might hear an exclamation such as, “Oh, Smiley, I’m so sorry. Here, back you go. Are you OK now?” Or, it might be something like, “I know I put my pencil down somewhere [addressed to no-one in particular] Where are you, pencil? Pencil, where are you? [addressed to, obviously, an animate pencil]“, which I have never heard reply to tell her where it is..
Or, another day, it might be, “Hey, Bun-bun, how are you this morning?”, addressed to her little stuffed rabbit wearing her little dress she had sewn for her when she was six or seven. I’m still not sure whether Bub-bun is male or female, because often both of us would would address her as him. It seems the dress makes him her. Whatever, Bun-bun always has had pride of place in the centre of the headbboard. He/she was/is very important – and still is to me. I think I will have to put the question to Bun-bun and see if I get a definite answer.
These monologues were not just occasional: they occurred frequently. Sometimes I almost wondered if, when I asked her while showing her that gorgeous Ceylon Ruby ring, if she would marry me, she looked at the ring and said, “I love you so much, oh, yes, yes” meaning the ring not me. Well, seventy such happy years later, I know it was I she did really mean.
I also remember the times, several probably, when in bed and kissing her good night, she would say, “Oh, that was a bit rough tonight.” Of course she was addressing the beard, not me. And beards are peculiar things. Basically I do not like them, particularly on gorgeous women, but there were times when we lived in Winnipeg and we would take a month’s vacation up at Victoria Beach on Lake Winnipeg and I would not shave for a month. A red haze would appear after a week or so, but by the end of a month, there was no real beard. It just looked like I hadn’t shaved, which, indeed, is what it was. No thickness, no style at all. Not worth the effort while making myself look terribly lazy for not shaving.
I try to take a four to five kilometre walk at least four times a week. that wears out walking shoes. So, a few days ago I went to Sport Chek with the intent of buying a new pair of Skechers, a brand I have come to respect. When I walked into the store in Bedford, I was greeted cheerily with, “Good morning!” I was directed to the far corner of the store and there I found a goodly set of walking shoes, Most name brands have shoes at outrageous prices, but with Skechers I do not seem to have a problem, as they are always moderately priced. A lovely young lady helped me select a pair, but I said I needed 10 or 10 1/2 (note to self, why can’t WordPress format fractions properly as WORD does?). She told me there were no halves, but she would go in the back and bring both 10 and 11 sizes. On her return, I immediately chose the 10 and went to the check-out. Deal accomplished. I told them to keep the old pair and I walked out of the store in my new shoes.
As I am walking towards the car, I find myself saying, “What we are walking on is pavement – wet pavement”, and “That silver car over there is ours.” Suddenly, I realise I am talking to my inanimate shoes!
And later, after I park Silva in the Sobey’s parking lot and start walking toward the store, “And this is one of the large stores we frequently visit,” and “this is where we go inside,”. Well, I got no reply from my new acquisitions, but it made me think, “Hey, Darling, are you behind my pointing out to my new shoes how comfortable we are talking to each other, even if you don’t reply in a voice I can hear?
I’ll try to post a story more often in the future.
Heartfelt and good wishes to all and sundry – take notice if you are talking to your shoes today!
As many of you know, we have sold our house and will be looking for a new abode.
Also, as many of you know, for twenty years we spent four or five months of the Canadian winter in the delightful city of Palm Springs in California, where we, usually, except for the one year when we had flooded impassable roads, had lovely warm days.
That all ended in April of 2017, four years ago, when both My Beloved and I had some little issues requiring the use of a knife. Perhaps I should say scalpel, but whatever it was, it meant we couldn’t leave for extended joyous days in the sun.
And then CoVID-19 paid a visit to this planet.
The past four winters have been spent here in Nova Scotia and, to tell the truth, the first three of them were respectable, or at least, proper, tolerable. I must admit that ofttimes while in Palm Springs, I have been guilty of Schadenfreude in that I would scoff at my winter-bound friends back in Nova Scotia having to shovel snow. So, it seems that this fourth winter is pay-back for my naughtiness.
Weekend after weekend would see my snowploughing guy, Monty, come with his tractor to rid my driveway and parking area of the dreaded atmospheric water vapour, frozen into ice crystals and which falls on my property as light white flakes comprising drifts a metre or more in depth.
Don’t think that because the cars look relatively clean that I exaggerate. Oh, no, that’s because Monty’s son came and brushed off the worst before his dad came to clear around the cars. After all, what would be the point of ploughing the parking clear and then dumping more on the ground?
Now three successive weekends meant I dished out sixty bucks a plough. That’s more than a good Mexican meal for four at JJ’s in Palm Springs. With vino tinto.
Before we write of the fourth weekend, which is the one in which I am writing this, let me take you back to Thursday. The day started all right: a good clean shave, no nicks. Breakfast of grapefruit and eggs on an English muffin, well-buttered. But, somewhere during the course of the morning, there was the ominous sound of water splashing on ceramic tiles. Oh, no!
Opening the doors to the music room/joint sunroom (what the Brits might call, in their inimitable way, a conservatory), revealed what an ant could call an Olympic swimming pool. The niagara (lower case n intended) was cascading at a rate of ‘can-I-keep-up-with-it’ by wringing out towel after towel (actually the same towel) and squeezing the one oxygen and two hydrogen atoms into a bowl. I lost count of how many squeezed atoms filled a bowl and how many times I carried the bowl to the sink to empty.
It wasn’t until My Beloved said, wouldn’t a mop be easier? Of course. Where was the mop? Oh, it was in such bad shape it got put out with the garbage as part of our downsizing.
Into the car and drive to Redmond’s (aka Home Hardware, but all locals still call it by it’s founders’ name). As I was looking at their selection, granddaughter in Seattle videoed me. Ah, she’s such a lovely young woman whom I love deeply, I had just taken the call when, simultaneously, our new owner of the house, Darrell, called to ask for photos of the sunroom and of the roof over it. I had to abandon Cierra. It has to be explained that our deal with the house is that the closing is the end of April, so we, My Beloved and I, are still responsible for the house until then. About two months ago, a similar flood had occurred and, at that time, Darrell had asked me to phone him if it happened again and while it was happening. So I had phoned him before starting squeezing towels after towel. Darrell is a developer, so has trades at his beck and call. Except this was a miserable day and they may be tied up somewhere else. Of course.
I couldn’t find what I wanted for a mop in Redmond’s, so went on to Canadian Tire. There I saw Margie, a cashier who is there all weekdays, but not on weekends. Hi, Margie, can you point to where I can find a mop? Margie, as happens if she is not serving a customer, walked me down the aisles past electrical and plumbing and camping and other categories until, yes, there were the mops. Who uses mops these days when there are such great accessories as water vacs? The mop will have to do.
Back home mopping was commenced and my arms, hands, and back certainly said thank you for getting a mop. Just after the snow on the skylights had melted away, niagara slowed to a lovely country brook.
A knock at the door and there was a face I recalled from the past. Matt, our sometime grass cutter said hi and asked if this is the house that has snow on the roof to be removed? He told me he now worked for Raymar, the family company soon to be the owner of our house and he had three helpers with ladders. Around the side of the house they went and started tackling the snow.
Young Matt had a shovel larger than I could ever have handled and he was lifting ice and snow and throwing it over the side as easily as I used to throw snowballs at our kids.
To be young again!
And they discovered the flaw – otherwise called the flow. It was an ice dam at the base of the skylights preventing thawing snow, aka water, from flowing off the roof and forcing it up and over the flashing. And if that description is incomprehensible, it translates to an easy fix when the sun is shining from the heavens and warming things up a bit.
With that event solved, we turned to the fact that most of Nova Scotia was in a freezing rain warning. Freezing rain can form on power lines and break them or pull the power poles over. (Why haven’t developers and power companies gone to the extra cost of laying power lines underground everywhere? I know I would pay extra to get uninterruptable power.)
Without power I would have to light the fire. To light the fire I would need matches or a lighter. We have no lighter – it was left in Palm Springs. We are downsizing and my two large boxes containing thousands of book matches, collected from hotels and restaurants all over the world, were taken by our BFs Peter and Karen to a store which will sell them. No matches in the house. No fire to warm the house and us.
Remember Redmond’s? Back there again, late Friday – oh, yes, we are in Friday – and the trip was successful. I returned with matches and a lighter. We are set for no power.
But as for this winter…… …….I can’t wait to get into an apartment around August. No more snow shovelling. Parking underground. Close to civilisation. i.e. theatres and stores.
Oh, I hear there could be other issues, though. i.e. noise from neighbours or outside.
And I will miss my bird friends and squirrels and, particularly my chipmunk friends.
But, maybe, I will make more friends of the human kind. And perhaps I will find doggy friends through becoming a dog-walker.
Growing up in England, I was a cyclist, so much so that my Mother always said that if I could have ridden my bike upstairs to bed, I would have.
However, at age sixteen I got my driving licence and, in those days, that allowed me to drive by myself or take passengers with me. My Dad had purchased a 1934 Austin 7.
It was a neat little car which would do 50mph going downhill. After a while, I was allowed to drive it to school – while my Dad walked to school. But his school was not even a mile distant from home, whereas mine was some 5 or so miles. Note that I have been showing the speed and distance in miles, whereas I normally talk about such things in kilometres: that is because, I think using the statute system is more in accord with the time about which I am writing.
One big advantage of having the car at school was that in the lunch hour, I had time to drive over to My Beloved’s (Beryl, as she was then) school and meet her; even take a quick drive over to a common. And then get her and myself back to our respective schools in time and on time. That meant that I had not had time for eating my lunch, butt what did that matter? I was seeing the one I loved, even for brief minutes.
A much different use of the car was being able to get tickets to Wimbledon and take three friends with me to watch the tennis.
Another time, I took Bill (Musker), Allan (Driz), George (Bell), all sadly deceased, and Ken (Dommett) to Bournemouth, about 30 miles from my house to see an opera. We all loved music and this was just one of the trips, others to such as Drury Lane in London. Each drive was an exhilarating experience. The Austin 7 was not built for speed indeed, it’s average to get anywhere was between 35 and 40mph. So its centre of gravity did not have to be low. It wasn’t. it was somewhere up in the sunshine sliding roof. However, although designed for four passengers, we often had three in the back seat. This meant that they, back there, were jammed in. The time we drove to Bournemouth, on arrival at the door of the theatre, I will never forget the face of a policeman as he watched Ken jump out the passenger door and the three in the back climbing up and out of the roof. His face was classic incredulity.
On the way there, Ken was always in the passenger front seat, on going down a hill through the New Forest (a little steeper than the pic) at max speed and on seeing an approaching left bend, I told Ken to open the door and hang out to balance the C of G. Over time, he got quite good at it. (Remember, it was right hand drive.)
Another best friend, Michael (Ridges, whom I chose as my Best Man at our wedding), lived just a few minutes from me and our ‘Gang’ used to hang out there quite often. I well remember Mrs. (Betty) Ridges standing at the end of her driveway as I drove up and then proceeded to drive along the sidewalk chasing her son. She declared one day she was going to tell my parents what I was doing in the car. Mothers don’t know everything about their prodigy’s behaviour. She never did tell and she gave us as a wedding present, a great big bowl of beef drippings. On toast with Marmite I used to adore it and she knew only too well that I did. Those days are long gone of course. Nowadays, it’s salmon and salad for dinner.
So, yes, I did have a car in High School, or Grammar School, as we knew it. And it served me, let alone our family of Dad, Mum and me, very well.
It was the same car in which I had an accident years later, after I had returned from pilot training in Canada, and Beryl and I were going somewhere local in Southampton, when a dog jumped out in front of the car. I pulled sharply to the left, hit the curb and, as the C of G was so high, it tipped over onto my side of the car. I, stupidly, tried to put my arm out to stop it from tumbling to the ground, but the car got the better of me and trapped my arm beneath it, breaking it in the process. Several people arrived on the spot and lifted the car back upright. No damage except to my arm. Beryl was fine, despite the lack of seat belts then. I ended up at an RAF rehabilitation hospital, Hadley Hall. But all of that is another story.
My Beloved and I are well-known for our proclivity to dining out. But for 14 months of CoVID-19 we have been unable to do so. Until we got our first shots.
While we appreciate that the first shot does not provide total protection, it does provide much better than no immunisation, so when Karen said Dee was leaving for Ontario at the end of the month of April and were we up to a lunch to bid her farewell, My Beloved and I said, since we had the shots two weeks earlier, we were: with apprehension.
After anticipation lasting a couple of weeks and after due discussion as to whether Karen and Peter were going to walk to the restaurant or we would pick them up, Karen said, since you don’t know exactly where the Restaurante A Mano is, pick us up and we will walk back afterwards.
Well, Italian is not my first choice – or even my second or third – but since our guest of honour had requested it, Restaurante A Mano it was.
So, we picked up our friends and, after zipping out of their street, which means accelerating asap left across two lanes when there is a gap in the traffic into a, hopefully, empty lane, and after turning across in front of a cyclist and having an oncoming car trying to make a left turn across our bow in a traffic light intersection and having him honk at me – the cheek of it – we turned into the courtyard wherein is Restaurante A Mano and a zillion other restaurants and there, as Karen had predicted and as she now shouted, ‘There – there – at the end of those cars on the right – oh and there are two on the left!” – I pulled into the blue wheelchair parking space on the right. All safe and sound.
Now, the entrance to Restaurante A Mano does not open onto the courtyard, which maybe explains why there are no blue parking spaces near it, only those ‘over there on the right’. So, we hiked across the courtyard and up to Lower Water Street. To be fair, we found out after the meal that there is an exit onto the courtyard, which cuts off half a kilometre.
Excitement rose to My Beloved and me, along with greater apprehension than we would have thought necessary. Our minds, however, directed our feelings. So we sat at a very nice window table Karen had reserved. It was a gorgeous day and I could see all through the meal people enjoying themselves in a patio off another restaurant. Karen had originally said on hearing my initial apprehension, maybe we could sit in the patio at Restaurante A Mano. Apparently, they had not yet opened their patio. Maybe just as well, for it might have been too cool outside, the temperature being about 14C. Whatever, we had a lovely table with our lovely best friends. Awaiting the arrival of our guest, Dee.
Now, while being a bit of a linguist, my knowledge of Italian is limited to trying to figure out the Latin root of words. And knowing that left hand in Latin is that very sinister couple of words, sinister manus, I thought Restaurante probably meant Restaurant and A Mano very probably meant ‘by hand’. It does, but I also did my M-W (Merriam-Webster) search along with my friend Google Translate and found out that a mano, as an adjective, which it could be referring to the noun Restaurante, also means carry-on. Well, we were not going flying, so that rules that translation out and leaves the first translation. It’s a restaurant by hand, whatever you think that means.
Thank God Dee arrived. Not that we were not enjoying Karen and Peter’s company, but My Beloved and I were still feeling maybe a trifle uncomfortable and had not taken our masks off since sitting down.
We haven’t seen Dee since she arrived at our front door one day just before Christmas, when she backed away from us on our opening the door, but she had put a lovely bottle of Port and some daughter-made jam on the deck for us to pick up. She kept her distance, knowing we were being very CoVID-19 correct. What a friend!
So, it was good to see her again and her arrival quickly put a stop to any hesitations about taking masks off a tavola (at the table). My Italian is improving.
As the wine and the food arrived – and got consumed – any inhibitions about dining in a restaurant seemed to diminish and, eventually, disappear.
I recall that Karen and Peter shared a pizza. They had no inhibitions, having been to this restaurant a number of times before, even being known by the staff. Dee had some form of an insalata (my Italian broadening again). My Beloved and I shared a garlicky soft bread with a dip, while, simultaneously, she had calamaretti fritti – flash fried calamaretti served with lemon garlic aioli and my additional choice was the Crostini Trio – Goat cheese, honey, fig & pistachios – Gorgonzola, roasted pears, and mascarpone – Ricotta, basil pesto, pomodorini confit.
Pomodorini, you ask? So did I, my Latin being totally useless, since tomatoes of any sort, especially cherry tomatoes, which this word turns out to mean, had not been introduced to Europe until the early 16th century.
Well, it was, Italian or not, all exquisitely delicious.
However, My Beloved and I had not finished: we wanted, nay, needed, a desert. We shared a decadent Torta al Cioccolato e Arachidi – Chocolate cake with not one, but two layers of peanut butter icing, chocolate ganache, candied peanuts and we added a scoop of chocolate Gelato.
It was a wonderful re-introduction to living the way we like it. Thank you Dee, Karen and Peter for not only getting us back into the flow of things delectable, but for introducing us to another great restaurant.
The only issue from the lunch was that we came home and slept for over an hour. And later, I must admit to a little bit of nausea, which disappeared quickly, in the middle of the night. Food I am not used to and so rich.
So that was, as I said, our re-introduction to dining-out.
Our wedding anniversary was two days afterwards, on the 9th April, so I mooted to My Beloved that it might be an idea to dine out again. It did not take too much urging. Seems like our apprehension of a few weeks back was nowhere to be found. I had had a hankering for fish and chips for some weeks and this was the time to go for it.
Lefty’s. A family style restaurant (no Italian necessary) just ten minutes away. We checked if we needed a reservation, but, no, they do walk in or take outs.
On arrival, we were welcomed and shown to a booth immediately. Pinot Grigio for My Beloved and Malbec for me. Small glasses only. It did seem strange, however, to be back at one of our customary spots again after so many months.
Two pieces of beer-battered haddock and chips for me;
honey-garlic chicken wings for My Beloved.
In times past, we would have ordered garlic toast as an appetiser. Not nowadays.
So, we enjoyed this dinner and gave thanks for the fact that in Nova Scotia, people have been very good over the pandemic, resulting in relaxed regulations. Friends, Gloria and Ken, from the church came in while we were eating and were shown to an adjacent booth and on answering the question, we replied it was our anniversary dinner except for the lunch two days previously, it had been fourteen months since we last did this.
And then came the time for paying. I gave the server my card, only to have him return it, saying, it has all been taken care of by your friends in the next booth. Oh, how wonderful to have such friends. Bless them for their generosity and love.
So, getting back to dining out has been an adventure we have enjoyed with five great friends. We consider ourselves so lucky to have such friends.
One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood. Lucius Annaeus Seneca
This lovely wine’s nose of lavender with a shade of parsnips simply asks to be be sipped to enable you to balance the elegant forestry redwood nose with the delicate weediness of dandelions and stinkweed palate, all brought to your table from, since one year ago, our family-owned winery.
I am positive you have all read something along those lines when seated in a restaurant (when you could go there without a mask, which might have helped in covering the ‘nose’) and preparing to taste the wine the sommelier brought to the table.
Of course, it may not have been quite so caustic or drastic as that which I have composed as an example, but what I have read many times makes me almost want, to use a good old English word, to puke. Descriptions like, “lofty white floral aromas and fragrant minerality on the nose; while on the palate the wine is plush and full-bodied, superbly fruit-forward with generous mixed red berry fruit, mineral and earth tones, integrated sweet oak spice, augmented by sagebrush undertones with gritty tannins, zippy acid and a persistent finish,” (courtesy Vivino.com).
Of course, if you cannot read French, then the information on this back label, of which more later, will not help you establish of what the nose comprises.
There are a few of my friends who can tell the difference between a red and a white, except by colour. And having said that, I’ve lost my wino friends, save those many who don’t care which it is as long as it is a red or a white. Oh, well. I think they know whom I mean. One of them has had many an experience in the past with me, when we were much younger and could drink at least five bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape over a dinner and then be able to find our way back to the hotel. Of course, neither of us could – or would have wanted – to afford even one bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, but, in days of yore, we were on an expense account.
A ‘nose’, of course, means what the wine smells like, while a ‘palate’ could simply be stated as what the wine tastes like. In fact, to obtain the nose of a Chardonnay, a wine of which I do not like the palate, you have to stick your own nose so far into the glass to get the nose, you may cut the bridge of your nose open, or, at least, bruise it. And that’s the reason I don’t like the wine, the palate of it is, in my opinion, zero, tasteless.
Are you a wine snob? Oh, yes, such people do exist. But not I. I think at one time in my life some years ago I must have had Wine CoVID-19, for my sense of ‘nose’ and ‘palate’ regarding wines seems to have disappeared. I can smell bacon frying and love the taste of salmon, but as for the nose of any wine and then the mandatory sip to get the palate, I may as well not waste the sommelier’s presentation and time. Oh, I can tell a good Malbec from an awful Malbec, but to tell a Malbec from a Pinot Noir, I would have to concentrate hard and come up with, likely, no decision.
But to get back to the wine snob, he, for I have never come across a she wine snob, always presents the bottle for inspection, I would say shows it, to his guests and announces what it is; he always then makes a show of uncorking the bottle and placing the cork on the table for examination before he decants his wine, or to put it in less snobbish tones, he always pours the wine out of the bottle through muslin or some other filter, but never a coffee filter for a wine snob, into a flagon or carafe. From there, he will ask who would like to taste it. Now, this is where the wine snob shows his snobbish expertise. He will watch you like a hawk to see how you pick up the glass, by the stem or by the bowl; how well do you observe the colour; how you take it to your nose to get the nose; how long you take to nose it; how long do you take to taste the palate; and, finally, how do you replace the glass on the table and mumble, ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’ Of course, you can tell whether he is a wine snob, too, for while you are doing your job, he should be silent, watching you, not making lame jokes with the rest of the table.
Now, if you come to chez moi (that’s a snobbish way of saying, my place), we will usually use my home made wine. No snob here. Unless it’s to use a bottle of wine brought by a guest. But my home made wine is of exquisite quality with a fine nose and noble palate. And, besides, you do not have to go through the rigorous business of being presented with the bottle or nosing or tasting it. No. Because, bottling is a waste of time and as soon as my wine is ready to bottle, I put it back into one of the plastic bags in which the concentrate comes, stick a rubber tap on it and shove it back into a box in which it or some other concentrate came. I call that boxing my wine. No snobbish procedure there. By the way, I get three 7-litre boxes (over 20 litres) out of the one box of concentrate. Works out about $3.50 a litre.
There is one other sign of snobbery, that being the labels. Here is one example:
and here is another:
Let us compare the labels. Note that the former says it is from Brengman Brothers Estate. My label says it is from Chateau Melville, and, elsewhere on the label, at the home of Mel and Beryl. The former specifically states it is a ‘white wine’, nothing special in other words. My label states it is a Malbec. The former says produced in 2016. My label say this month, August, 2020. But it adds it is a Reserve. Oh, my, that’s almost being snobbish. I have no idea what is on the back label of the former, but my wine does not have a back label, but simply states that it was made for two particular people, although it is quite likely that others will drink out of the same box. But my label also states that it was made with our own hands and no feet were used in the process.
So, you can see that there is a great deal to say about wine critiquing and, with these words of a wise man I leave you until my next post:
So there above you have it: since I have been self-isolating, about 4 pm most afternoons, you will find me walking the rectangular deck in the photo.
I don’t walk every day, but today I started at a couple of minutes after four in the afternoon with 1,100 steps on my pedometer. I walked for 25 minutes and 1,900 steps, giving me a total of 4,000.
Can I say I walked around our deck? I don’t think so, as it is rectangular, so I rectangularised our deck? How about, I walked rectangularily? Although I usually walk using my Nordic poles on a trail or along our road, being a bit of the lazy type, if I walk on the deck, I don’t have to lace on walking shoes, I can walk in my slippers. Oh, my Chiropractor won’t like that – but they do have hard soles, Andrew.
And while walking rectangularily, what do I think of? First in my mind is the Nordic pole instruction to hold your head up. Do not look at the ground ahead of you. On our trails that can lead to stepping on horse dung, but it’s nowhere near as sticky or messy as dog poop. You can even pick the balls up and throw them like snowballs at targets in the hedge so the next poler won’t step on them. Anyway, no horses on our deck. Although some might think there is an ass rectangularising.
Next, looking straight ahead, I see the trees separating us from our neighbour to the north. And I can hear the tchk, tchk of the black-capped Chichadees, giving me a good telling off for preventing them from coming to the feeders. So, I turn right and see some azaleas and our rhododendrons. Oh, they are not in bloom yet, but I have looked at the buds and know it will be a brilliant display – like these pictures of azaleas and rhodies from last year.
Some time in late November or early December, after hurricane season and I can be sure of no more wind damage, I wander around, yes, around, the rhododendron bushes – almost trees after forty years of growth, adding one or two little plants each year – and I check how many buds are on them. In the Spring, there is nothing more beautiful than witnessing all those buds bursting out of their winter hiatus.
Then I make another turn right and see the ocean and islands as shown in the featured pic at the top of this post. Pretty bleak, isn’t it? Not even a fishing boat out there. Who can blame the fishers? Fishers? Oh, yes, in this day of me too, you never know who will be on that boat you can see. In days of yore, it would always be men or boys on board, but today it could as easily be women and girls. Or it could be a mix of genders.
And that’s what I could be thinking as I continue my walk. Or, it could be making up drivel like this, I wonder as I wander my rectangled deck how birds at the feeders go peck after peck and empty my feeders and bank account too yet I love them and ne’er want to bid them adieu.
My, how low have you sunk, I think to myself, for dreaming up such stuff as I complete my 50th rectangle. (Could I sneak a word like circuit in instead of rectangle? Likely not or some smart Alec – and I know who he is and his name is not Alec – will come back to me saying circuit is a circular route that starts and finishes at the same place.) I reverse direction every 25 rectangles and I was surprised the first time I did that everything looks different. I don’t get to see the water as well; I see parts of my neighbour’s house through a thick barrier of trees; I get to see my reflection in the door to the sun room. What a sight, that is! The wind has been blowing my extra long hair and I look like a creature out of Harry Potter.
My mind also does a turn-around as I find myself saying, 50 in 16 minutes, that’s lets’ see…. Oh, I don’t want that, I want to know how many paces in one rectangle. So, it’s the number of paces divided by the number of rectangular walks. Or is it how many minutes in an hour? See how my mind shifts? No, it’s nineteen hundred divided by fifty…….hmm, there are two fifties in a hundred and I have nineteen hundred, so double nineteen. Hmm, after a moment or two, thirty-eight.
Having solved that immense problem in my brain – wow, I still have one – what do I do with the answer. Answer: absolutely nothing. The answer is useless information which may just exacerbate the fact that my brain is retaining less and less because the storage room is diminishing.
Fifty-one, I say, as I pass go and do not collect a parking ticket; fifty-two I say; and a few seconds later, fifty-three. I see the crow waiting for me to go inside. I know he hates me. Even when I have been somewhere in the car and return to the parking lot, he sits on top of one of the tallest conifers and squawks at me. He thinks I hate him. He’s known me now for nigh on twenty years. Perhaps he’s right: I don’t hate him. Perhaps I just dislike the way he tugs on the large feeder and shakes it to make the seeds fall on the ground. And I don’t mind that too much, for the pheasants get to feed. But, he goes on and on until I chase him off.
I did 75 rectangulations today. It’s not a lot, nowhere near as far as when I am on the trail or road, but it is half an hour and it is almost two thousand steps. It kept me interested and discovering sights and sounds in my immediate vicinity. And I didn’t have to be aware of animal poop.
It had been snowing and we had been out shopping – oh, yes, this was before, what does Trump call it, the Chinese Disease? How ignorant! No, he’s changed to the Invisible Disease. Before COVID-19, anyway.
Not only had it been snowing, it had rained on the snow and then frozen some of it into ice. That slippery substance.
We got out of the car, not together: My Beloved out of her side and I out of mine. I said across the top of the car, be careful and follow in my footsteps. So, we edged towards the trunk which was open and had bags of foodstuffs – reusable bags, not plastic ones. Sobey’s nowadays has no plastic bags in the store, so you have to use your own. Reminds me of going shopping with my Mum before WWII where Mr. Fruen would cut some rashers of bacon off a slab, place it in a piece of newspaper and hand it to us to put into our bag.
I led the way very carefully across the icy patch where I could put one foot after another onto a patch of sand I had previously thrown down. The rain had melted some, however. Which again had refrozen, so it was a patchwork of sand patches. Hm! One step after another, I edged my way towards the steps where I could see safety, reminding My Beloved to step into the steps I had gone. I had almost reached the steps when a foot slipped and I couldn’t move forward or backward without fear of not only falling here, but sliding all the 50 metres down the driveway on my butt. I had done that on my front some years prior, much to the delighted chuckle of My Beloved. So, as I seemed to be temporarily stuck, My Beloved decided I was there in perpetuum. She tried to move around me, safe on her boots with spikes in the heels.
Nope! She was who ended up on her butt, sitting on wet ice, soaking up the water in her slacks. I must point out that My Beloved has knee and back issues which prevent her from getting up from the ground without support. I was the support.
Nope! I, or rather we, could not raise her from her decidedly cold, wet perch. Well, I said, there’s only one thing around here which will help. Silva, the car with the open trunk and rear-view camera. Oh, I had to shut the trunk on order to have the camera showing where I was going rather than up into the cloudy heavens.
So, I went back and put it into reverse and hoped the accelerator wouldn’t stick as I edged towards My Poor Beloved. And that the brake would work. Slowly, Silva backed up, even more slowly, as we approached the target. Well, perhaps that’s the wrong word: the supplicant, might be better. With her feet just about under the rear fender (bumper for you Brits), the brakes worked. Together, we were able to get her hands into the trunk and she could pull herself up. Then, by stepping very carefully on her spiky heels, she reached the steps and we got Silva unloaded and parked.
So you may be wondering what the featured pic is at the top of this post. One day, at the end of February a knock at the door meant the UPS man had brought a totally unexpected box. On opening it, we discovered all of the items shown: a bag of Liqorice Allsorts for Gramma, a Toblerone for Grampa, some caramels for both, two bags of seasonings, a jar of marmalade for both, I think, but it could have been for Grampa, and some photographs of her, ourselves with her, and a framed one with her between us. And additionally, a beautiful card telling us she had been passing by a store, went in and suddenly saw a number of items she knew would appeal to her grandparents. So she bought them, packed them and UPSed them. Out of the blue from a granddaughter – yes Cierra. And we were so astonished we cried.
But, back to the present, two weeks ago, after shutting the door of the Commercial Enterprise Centre, where I volunteer, we went into self-isolation.
Actually, we have had lots of practice at this. For some forty years, our risk management consulting business has been run out of our home, so the two of us have worked very easily and satisfactorily side by side for all that time. We’ve never had an issue ending in a nasty argument. Reasonable discussion has always ended well. And we’ve never gone to bed without saying I love you – and meaning it. So, the only difference is that we cannot go out together and, say, shop. Or go to the theatre. Or go to church.
I say, only difference: however, it is not until the first two weeks have passed that we realise how large a difference it is. Previously, we have been able to go out together to shop, to the theatre, and to church. And to other places, like a friend’s place for dinner. One day, a week ago, it was Sunday, Saturday had been gorgeous, at least we Nova Scotians though it had been. It was; it was a pleasant eight degrees Celsius. So was Sunday. But the wind was strong and the anticipated pleasant walk along the beach would have been rather cold, so we sat in the car, opened the windows for fresh air – and fresh, or rather windy, it was – so My Beloved’s window got closed fairly quickly, and we took in the view from inside Silva.
Look at the beautiful blue sky in the photo; it looks so lovely. But the beach was empty except for a lady and her little child and they look huddled up. That didn’t surprise us. Nor you? Oh, you may see two others and a dog way down the beach. Certainly, those on the beach are maintaining their required 2-metre distance of separation.
I believe that only one person now is allowed to go out to get essentials, such as food or medicines, but we don’t: (a) for people of our age (87), it is much too lethal if you get it and (b) we order from the store, pay online, then, at an appointed time, go to the store and they put it in your trunk. So far, we’ve had to do this only once. Before we did that, a couple of friends had bought and delivered a few items, but we don’t ask them any more, as we consider it too dangerous for them to go to the store for us and we don’t want to put them in danger.
Yesterday, I phoned a large order of food at the Superstore and they have given me an appointment of Saturday, April 4th between 10 and 11am to drive to the curb and they will put the order in the trunk. Times are interesting.
I have been taking the non-regular walk with my Nordic poles when weather allowed, say ‘Hi’ to the odd walker or dog-walker across the other side of the street, saying how sad it is we can’t stop and chat these days, and, two days ago, after returning, I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves and sat on the main deck in the sun for another good hour. This afternoon, I simply walked around the main deck 50 times, registering 1,600 paces in 15 minutes.
Also, I have been preparing a PowerPoint presentation for every Sunday service for four years now and, as we have now gone to on-line ZOOM, I am still preparing it for every Sunday, only it’s changed to Morning Prayer instead of Eucharist. If you’d like to join us, go to our web site http://www.stnicholasanglican.ca/virtual-church/ and click on the church at 9.30am Atlantic Daylight Savings. In the UK that would be 1.30pm and in San Francisco, 5.30am so, note the time difference.
Other volunteer work includes being Chair (Beryl is the Treasurer) of a large Adult Literacy/Numeracy network and up until a few weeks ago, too, we were still busy with it. Not now: it is basically totally shut down, but at least one of our teachers is maintaining contact with students virtually.
Although I didn’t like our Prime Minister Justin Trudeau when he was elected and though he has started employing shut-down and financial assistance somewhat, in my opinion, a bit late, I have been impressed recently both by the new emergency programs enacted and his daily conversations with the nation followed by answering of press questions outside his residence. An American friend recently told us that Canadian citizenship is a certainty now simply because of the way he has been handling the COVID-19 issue and his daily reports – particularly as compared to Mr. Trump. And as for the economy: it will recover. That’s my prediction having seen “Black Monday in October 1987, in 1994 and 1998; the Latin American, then the Asian currency crises, then during 2001-2003; the Tech Crash, and of course, 2007-2009; the global financial system meltdown” to quote from a financial advisor friend. All of those My Beloved and I rode and came through safely, so I still believe the economy will recover.
A really big event occurred two weeks ago, before we were self-isolating: My Beloved applied for and got her Blue card to hang in the windshield, so we can now park in the best spots. Large benefit for an unfortunate life-changing mobility issue, which she has dealt with without complaint for well over a year now.
Our dining-in has been very varied, for our freezer has been overly-stocked for ages and it is about time we started using some of our comestibles. A daughter and son-in-law, Tanis and Robb, buy us a whole lamb from an old school and military friend, Sharon, every year. So far, every year, anyway. No guaranties, I guess. So we still have a lot of Brutus left. But, for lunch, I will vary it from yogurt and unsalted roasted almonds or cashews to peanut butter and tomato sandwiches to the plate below.
Lunch: beefsteak tomato, a pickle, pickled dill carrots, jalapeno Monterey Jack cheese; banana for desert.
And with that, I bid you keep safe and free from the COVID-19. By the way, you did know how it was named by the WHO, didn’t you? Of course, you knew it was from coronavirus disease of 2019.
When My Beloved and I finally retired, some few years ago, we thought we would be able to relax, take life at a more sedate pace, even lie in a little – not too long or we wouldn’t be able to do our exercises.
But, take this morning: I had set the alarm for 6.45am, so when the appointed minute arrived, my phone softly woke us. Up, out of bed, shave, bodily functions, shower, dress (that was easy, since I had left the clothes I had on for church yesterday ready for me to jump into), went downstairs to weigh myself and do some easy exercises on our Wii, had breakfast, made sure I had my laptop in my computer bag along with some papers I needed to work on………… hey! Stop right there!
I said I was retired, yet here I am taking some documents to work on. Work. Taking. Where am I going? Oh, to one of my volunteer jobs, at the Reception Desk of the local not-for-profit Commercial Enterprise Centre for four hours every Monday from 8.30am to 12.30pm. I also sometimes assist in another area of the CEC.
But, I also said I was taking some work with me. That’s because we still have one client for whom we provide risk management counsel and Monday mornings at CEC are notably quiet, so I am sometimes able to do real “work”. It keeps the grey cells working, too.
When I get home, it will be lunch time. Then nap time.
This particular Monday, will be free the rest of the day, so I will do the PowerPoint presentation for next Sunday’s church service. That entails doing the whole service, including the hymns, which the Music Director will have given me, and finding interesting, often humourous, slides as openers and closers. Oh, yes, God has a sense of humour!
The third Monday of every month entails both My Beloved and me attending the church Finance Committee in the evening from 7pm to whenever, but our chair runs an efficient meeting and we can sometimes be away in less than an hour. And if you don’t believe God has a sense of humour, come to a Finance Committee meeting and listen to the discussions about the state of our church.
Tuesday, of course, starts off the same way, although, I admit we may be an hour later arising. I might have to make wine or box it, so that takes most of the morning. I box it, not bottle it: meaning I put the finished wine back into the large 7-litre bags in which the concentrate comes, attach a tap and stuff the bag of wine back into the box in which it came. Oh, it’s much easier than having to wash and sterilise bottles, which, before I became wise, I used to do.
Then comes lunch, but no nap, for this Tuesday, it is our regular Adult Literacy Board meeting, of which I am Chair and My Beloved is Treasurer. Both of us for one more year. 20 years of that is enough and two people are prepared to take on these duties. For the next couple of hours, I try to keep eight or so people, each with his or her individuality, on the Agenda. It’s really strange how quickly we can get sidetracked, sometimes with totally extraneous issues, such a have you tried the new restaurant?Nevertheless, they are a great group of people who become friends over a period of time – and the occasional item of business does get attended to. So, a couple of hours later, back home to get dinner.
Wednesday starts the same way, but we have to get out for My Beloved’s appointment with our family doctor at 9.30am. She’s a hoot and we love visiting her. She is excellent as a doctor, just the very best, but we love the humour with which she is endowed – often at our expense.
After seeing the doc, we drive to the Bulk Barn. Oh, you can spend a complete day there looking at all the different flours, nuts, seasonings, spices, pastas, pastas with no wheat, candies, chocolates, chips and crackers for dipping, dried fruits…….. After we pick up our items, we head for home and lunch. And nap.
Thursday, after the usual program, we head to the chiropractor for adjustments and some bone-cracking. He is very good and we invariably feel our spines are still able to keep us up and walking. Speaking – or writing, rather – about walking, a week or so ago I bought a pair of Nordic Pole walkers and I have found that they are really, really good, once you get the hang of planting each pole alongside the opposite foot. Going up hill is much easier now.
Normally, choir practice would be in the evening, but as our church is putting on two weekends of 3-course dinner theatre, they are rehearsing every day of the week, so no practice . We were told yesterday that performances this Saturday, next Friday and Saturday are totally sold out; only this Friday’s opening night has some seats left.
So, now we get to Friday. Every Friday morning when I do not have another appointment, I attend a Friday morning sort of prayer and book club. It’s fun and we get into all sorts of discussions, most having little to do with the book we have been reading. Sort of like the Board Meeting on Tuesday. Quite often on Friday afternoon, after lunch and nap, we do our weekly grocery shopping, spending all that hard-earned money the government is so generous to give us oldagers – sic with sarcasm.
This coming Saturday, we have volunteered to get to church by 9am to prep the meal for the dinner theatre show that evening. I know I will be spud-bashing, as we used to call it in the RAF, peeling and cutting potatoes. And maybe peeling and cutting carrots in preparation for putting them in the food processor. But it comes with lots of fun and laughter, so it’s a very enjoyable time.
Then lunch and nap. Maybe a long nap. Yes.
Some Saturdays, we go to the theatre, the Neptune, as excellent a professional theatre as one can see anywhere. And, as we always choose the matinee performance, after that, we go and eat. Yum!
Sunday, of course, means we have to get to church to sing in the choir by 9.30am and afterwards, we get together for coffee and nibblies. Then, if you like, you can stay and sit to discuss some bible reading. We don’t like, so we skedaddle. I guess we may pay for that in the next world!
And that’s our week.
Except this past week, we had to go to visit our last and only client in Prince Edward Island (one of our three Maritime provinces). So, that took from Tuesday noon to Thursday late afternoon.
However, some of my fans have been asking about food and telling me I haven’t given any descriptions recently. Well, no, because there haven’t been any posts recently. The last one before this was w—a—a—a—a–y back in mid-July of this year.
So, here’s how we fared with our client last Wednesday evening at a restaurant in Charlottetown called the The Brickhouse Kitchen.
My Beloved and I arrived first, having walked from the hotel in which we were staying, so we chose our seats at the back of the booth and immediately ordered a Pinot Grigio. “Sorry, madam, but we seem to be out of that. ” We jokingly said, well the liquor store is immediately around the corner. Some of our guests arrived and one also would have liked the Pinot Grigio. However, she chose the same as My Beloved, a Spanish white Verdejo. Minutes later one of our guests saw a fellow carrying four bottles of wine crossing the street and into the restaurant. I guess they took us at our word.
Me? Well, you know I would not grace myself with a white, so I ordered a bottle of Argentinian Don David Malbec, after checking they had at least one other bottle in reserve.
We had a shared calamari platter for all of us, one guest having Chowder, My Beloved had half Caesar Salad and blue mussels (obviously PEI mussels); another guest had a Scallop paella; and another the Steak and Fritz; and I, the Salmon Carpacci as a starter followed by the Special of the day, bacon wrapped scallops with brisket and one of the most delicious meat sauces I have ever had the pleasure of tasting, a dish another of our guests also had and she declared it excellent.
Bacon-wrapped scallops and Brisket
Steak and Fritz
And how did we get back to the hotel? One of our lovely guests gave us a ride back, with me in the back seat along with the baby seat.
But, if that is retirement, then it is definitely not quite what a large Life Insurance Company used to imply when advertising Freedom 55. But I love it.
From time to time... 