Are you telling me . . .
This conversation from 40 years ago is burned into my memory. I still remember the incredulity of the tone. Let’s go back in time together.
Are you telling me . . .
Yeah, never a good start. Especially when it’s repeated. From his point of view, he’s giving me fair warning: a chance to recant. An opportunity to climb down from an untenable position. Clearly, in his mind, what I just said was ridiculous.
Are you telling me
that you can create crust
by cutting bread differently?
1 Exercise on a Monday night
(nothing fun happens on a Monday night).
I exercise six days/week. Are there six Mondays?
14 Buy a cheap blender and use it to finely chop onions
(it saves on time and tears).
Or just buy sweet onions.
17 Don’t be weird about how to stack the dishwasher.
What are we doing? Reviewing the Guardian’s 100 Ways to Slightly Improve Your Life Without Really Trying.
As my father before me, I have two sets of photographic records. His were slides and prints; mine are prints and JPEGs. My father’s records exhibited a clear discontinuity: it was almost all slides all the time until–Poof!–there weren’t any slides ever again. There was little overlap: Once he switched to prints he was all-in. My transition has been more gradual: My JPEGs start in 2003 and have gradually come to dominate, but even now, 20 years later, I still get handed the occasional print.
The other day, not being busy, we decided to circumnavigate Terminal 1 of Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson International Airport (hereinafter LBPIA). On foot.
No, no, that’s not true, we didn’t quite circumnavigate it, although as we doubled back completely on our seemingly endless path (one way!) from arrival gate to Canada Customs (Connecting Flights subdivision)–Oh look, there’s our arrival gate on the other side of the glass–and hopped awkwardly on-and-off occasional moving sidewalks before being spit out into the domestic-flights concourse at the farthest-possible remove from where we next needed to be, it certainly *felt* true.
It was, we might say, our trudged experience.
I’m not sure what part of Colorado John Denver had in mind, although I expect it was, well, a more mountainous part than I’m in. But the clear, crisp air and the blue blue sky made a short walk pretty spectacular even in this populated part.
Fall aster, I think – still blooming under the imminent threat of snow.
Scrubby oaks, en route to brown
A pine tree with exposed roots, hanging onto the hillside for dear life
Seedpod from . . . what? A thistle?
A perch for a red-tailed hawk, now departed
Not a red maple, but nice in the afternoon sun
Feathered seedpods from another unknown plant
And with no walking required at all, a graceful ending to the day.
Where did the colour come from in these sparkly shots of a dew-dappled car hood? I don’t know.
It’s just another optical mystery. This is getting to be a habit.
Black leggings. Black and white sleeveless tunic top. Black button-free cardigan with tight sleeves. Black sandals. It’s an edgy look, I’m thinking, especially at my age: I turned 71 this year. It’s definitely not grandmotherly.
House dresses or dressy dresses. Matching low-heeled pumps. Nylon stockings. Not one pair of pants of any description. Shorts? Ha! Capris? Nope. Jeans? Don’t be silly. This endless parade of dresses was a grandmotherly look, I’m thinking, completely appropriate in that day to my city-dweller grandmother’s age: She turned 71 in 1961.
Imagination is joyous. Free and free-ing. Oh, and bloody hard work.
I’m spatially challenged: Seeing what is no longer there is beyond me, for the most part. But that’s OK: There’s an app for that, at least for selected “ancient sites and wonders”. There won’t be a skill-testing question, but I encourage you to click on the twxxt and then we can meet–as the TV interviewers say–on the other side.
I can’t pick a favourite: I think it’s a tie between the Colossus of Rhodes and the hanging gardens of Babylon. Why hasn’t someone recreated those? But they’re all amazing, yes?
Step back slowly. Very slowly.
And since we’re here, and to end on a happier note, here’s a less-menacing one from pepper on a scallop.