The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Christmases come and go, but one that stands out in my memory personified the gift of loving and sharing. It did not involve a tangible, touchable gift but instead, thoughtful loving promises which were fulfilled during the coming year.

Our first gift was for January 2009, when we were invited to be guests of our daughter, Terry, and our son Mark and his wife, Carol, for an Imax double feature, followed by lunch at the Old Spaghetti Factory.

At the end of January 2009, Ken and I were invited for a 'sleep-over' at Mark and Carol's (they still lived on Vancouver Island at that time).  





Mark, a photographer and memory-enthusiast, was anxious to complete a video he was making of our journey through life.  

Ken and I arrived with armloads of family albums, photos, slides, and movies, which Mark used to compile a two-dvd set chronicling our married life. Carol kept us well fortified with delicious meals and lots of wine as we shared so many memories.  Terry ensured that our dog Miller was well cared-for in our absence.

In February 2009, Carol and Terry hosted a valentine-themed luncheon 

for myself and my group of 'scrabble ladies'. 

In March 2009 we enjoyed an evening of board games at our home, refreshments provided by Carol, Mark and Terry.

In April 2009, during our annual mini-vacation at Yellowpoint Lodge, we were joined for lunch by Carol, Mark and Terry.

In May 2009 Carol and Terry hosted a spring scrabble luncheon in Mark and Carol's beautiful yard.  .

While we feasted and chatted, Mark and Ken had a walking tour of Sidney and 'bonded' over some fish and chips.

In July 2009, after a game of mini-golf, we enjoyed a picnic atop Mt. Tolmie (Ken's old stomping ground) with Terry, Mark, Carol, and grand-daughters/spouses.

In September the plan was a stay at a lovely condo on Mt. Washington, to include lots of long walks and family time.

What wonderful, thoughtful and inspired gifts were spread out for us over that year - proving that time together means more than all the glitter and glam thrust upon us during Christmas season.

Away in a Manger

Many families have favourite Christmas traditions.  Our family became obsessed with home entertainment in the form of each person present doing his or her ‘party piece’.

Our very precocious three-year old granddaughter decided she was going to sing ‘Away in a Manger’ with the appropriate ‘rocking the baby’ motion.  Her grandfather was not convinced she was capable of remembering all the words, so he volunteered to perform a duet with her.

For weeks he coached her and felt that by Christmas he could trust her to perform with his support.

The turkey had been consumed and all were gathered around the fireplace.  Several family members had recited, sung or played a musical instrument and now the big moment arrived for the youngest performer.

She looked so angelic, dressed all in white, with her proud, but somewhat anxious grandfather by her side.  A hush fell over the gathering as Grandma‘s hands, poised over the piano keys, began to accompany the little singer.

The performance was a great success, and as we wiped a tear of emotion from our eyes and then clapped in unison, that little imp turned to her grandfather and said,

“Now Grandpa, do you think you can do it by yourself next year?”

Precious Memories

My mind often travels back to when our granddaughters were young.

Sometimes my husband and I took them for a stroll to the University grounds.  On the way we would encounter throngs of grasshoppers noisily foraging through the undergrowth and long grass.  Grandpa even wrote a story about them - 'A Grasshopper's Tale'. Often we stopped to feed the ducks.

During winter visits, we had such fun at the Christmas Store.  It was really magical.  I told them they could each pick out an ornament.  After much discussion they each selected one of those delightful 'snow falling' ornaments (snow globes?).

Then there were the years we made and decorated Christmas cookies.  Once the dough was rolled out they stood on chairs and did the cutting out with their tiny hands.

I mixed egg yolks with a drop of water and separated the mixture into small containers, added food colouring, provided paint brushes. 

Soon they were off in their own little world of imagination and creativity.

One year we were ambitious enough to tackle making a gingerbread house.  I will always remember that particular Christmas as our gingerbread roof was a bit 'challenged', so we ended up supporting it with an empty roll of toilet paper.  The finished product was a joy to behold, but we knew the secret that lurked underneath.

Another Christmas memory I have is of Heather and Lindsay cosily ensconced in front of a roaring fire.  Lindsay was busily knitting some item while Heather read out loud to her.  Being twins, they were quite content, like a couple of old ladies sitting by the fire enjoying its warmth and just being with each other.

As the girls grew to be teenagers, I often took them shopping at Mayfair Mall for their Christmas presents. We wandered from store to store "Below the Belt" "Above the Belt" - you name it!  I sat patiently listening to loud rap music while they paraded in front of me in various outfits.  Once they made their decisions, I paid for the goods and we headed for Swiss Chalet for lunch.  When we returned home, there was always a fashion show staged for Grandpa.

Was 1996 the year of the crippling snow storm that hit Victoria?  For four days after Christmas we were marooned in our son's home in North Saanich.  It was a magical time.  We had plenty of food, roaring fires while the snow fell relentlessly. We listened to radio reports of people unable to get to work or trapped in their homes needing milk, eggs or bread. Neighbors reported in to each other via the radio, each one trying to help the other.  We played lots of board games, told stories, laughed and probably drank some wine.  Little did we imagine that many years later our son and daughter-in-law, as well as our three granddaughters and great grand children would all be living in Prince George where they experience that type of winter wonderland every Christmas!

Oh what precious memories to have.  I am forever grateful for them, and I know, too, that my granddaughters appreciate and treasure those special times.

Cookie Decorating

Back in 1960 five nine year old girls decided to form a little 'do gooder' club which they called 'The Saanich Secret Helpers Society'.  They held meetings and discussed how they to raise money to help people who were less fortunate.  They collected bottles, raked leaves, sold raffle tickets (the prize was a jigsaw puzzle). 

They held a bake sale outside our local grocery store - we mothers rising to the occasion with our ovens going full blast.  I recall them putting on some kind of play for the children at Queen Alexandra Solarium, they also wrote stories which they produced in multiple copies with the use of a gestetner machine (anyone remember those?).  By the time Christmas arrived, they were able to present a needy family with a turkey and box of Japanese oranges.

In time these little girls grew up and some moved away from Victoria for a time, but the seed of wanting to be together at Christmas, and to do good to others, remained.  In the early 1970's, a more 'mature' group began meeting each Christmas to decorate cookies, many of which were given away to various organizations and families. 

  

Each December since then, pretty much the same group, with a few additions, gather together at our home for the annual cookie-decorating party.  My daughter Terry makes the cookie dough.  She and I roll and cut out the cookies, ready for the decorators' arrival.

We supply the participants, now in their 60's, with coloured egg yolk and paint brushes, as well as 

wine and goodies to nibble on when the cookies are all baked.

The 'girls' drink wine and chat and turn out the most fabulous creations - it's almost a shame to eat these cookies.

This year, the cookies will be given to a group of especially needy and genuinely hungry students who rarely have a taste of home-made goodies.

This group of lovely ladies also fills gift bags for homeless women.  They each bring an assortment of items such as scarves, socks, toiletries, gift certificates for places like Tim Horton's, and this year something beautiful and more personal - handmade earrings.

Miller loves give the filled bags a final inspection.

I make sure our house is fully decorated, the heat is turned up (!), the fireplace is glowing and some gentle Christmas music is playing in the background.  

 It is such a pleasant experience to be part of this annual gathering, the seed for which was planted so many years ago by those little nine year old girls.

Costume Party Time

Speaking of parties, as Ken and I got older, we attended numerous costume parties held in the garden of our friends Rollie and Edith, who were fabulous host/hostess. Edith came up with a particular theme and then alerted all her guests.  Although the parties were always fun, Ken and I dreaded that phone call from Edith. It meant we had to rack our brains to come up with an appropriate costume.  There was one couple who made an easy costume choice - every year they arrived wearing red and green wigs.  However, we entered into the challenge and came up with some great creations.

For the Depression Era theme, Ken draped himself in newspaper headlines declaring the stock market collapse.  I dug out an old suitcase, decorated it with slogans like 'California, here I come!' and 'Brother, can you spare a dime?', and dressed up like a hobo.

On another occasion we borrowed outfits from a devotee of the Society of Medieval Anachronism - Ken became a monk, and I an abbess.

A total contrast was the time I turned myself into a belly dancer (wearing bifocals) and Ken became a chubby-cheeked sultan (he was on prednisone at the time).

One unforgettable party with the theme of 'artists' saw poor Ken portraying Emily Carr.  I dressed him in a dark dingy frock and he wore a turban (Emily often had her hair wrapped in some form of covering). He clutched an artists paint palette and carried a stuffed monkey (Emily had a pet monkey that often accompanied her).  I, on the other hand, donned one of those naughty t-shirts showing the outline of a curvy, sexy babe (I was supposed to be an artist's model). It must have been quite effective because one old guy kept leering at me all afternoon.

One year, the hostess with the most-est declared the theme was Ascot races.  Ken turned out in a silky looking jogging suit representative of a jockey, a specially decorated bike helmet, Queen's plate stuck on his chest (a paper plate bearing a picture of the Queen) and a pair of Jockey underpants pinned to the rear of his jockey outfit.  As the ladies attending Ascot are noted for their fancy headgear, I decorated an old hat with fresh hydrangeas which proved to be quite effective.

Another party had a circus theme. Ken appeared as a two-headed person, utilizing an old wig stand and wig.  I searched the garage and located a discarded pith element and immediately became a lion tamer with a whip.

One of our more inspired efforts were the outfits we wore for the 'dry' t-shirt party. Ken wore an old t-shirt on which I had glued many many golf tees. My t-shirt was studded with many tea bags, each one sewn on by hand.

There was the pyjama party, with me wearing beach pyjamas and Ken forced into an old pair of my pyjamas, and sporting a wig set with rag rollers, and cheeks spotted with painted-on freckles. He 

carried a well-loved teddy bear.

 

There was a 1900's theme party:

But we outdid ourselves for the Oscar themed party.  I walked in as Judy Garland, portraying Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, complete with braids and the famous red shoes.  Ken was an Oscar-winning writer-producer.  If you've ever watched the Oscars, you may have noticed some of the award recipients can be very 'over the top' with their acceptance speeches.  Ken dressed the part of a 'hip' guy - white shirt, bow-tie, red suspenders, an earring, white running shoes and that annoying five o'clock shadow-look (I smudged some kind of soot around his chin and mouth), and of course - sunglasses and backwards ball cap.  His acceptance speech (for a re-write of Gone With the Wind) was written on a roll of toilet paper and went on and on and on.  He thanked his Grade One teacher, his first wife, his second wife, etc.  We won best prize that year - a bottle of Rollie's potent home-made plum wine. 

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end...but, sadly, they did....

Party Animals

Back in the 50's we attended and gave many parties.  My husband Ken worked at the Post Office.  Because many of the employees had helped each other build their own houses in the those financially tough years right after the war, a special camaraderie developed amongst them.  There were lots of parties and often if one couple couldn't afford to pay a babysitter or just couldn't find a sitter, the baby ended up sleeping among the coats on our bed.

The games we played were silly and harmless, some a little risque, but all good clean fun.  The Honeymoon Game was a hit.  A group of us sat in a circle in one room while the innocent victim (usually female) was ushered into our midst.  We all stared at her in silence.  Finally, in desperation, she would blurt out something like "Well, what do you want me to do?" or "Now what?"  or "This isn't fair!" We would all let out great hoots of laughter and explain that this was supposed to be the first thing she said on her honeymoon.

Another game involved placing several items in a line on the floor.  Then the female victim (why is it always us?) was blind-folded and instructed to "walk the line", without stepping on any object.  Urged on by warnings such as "be careful" "you're doing good" etc. she finally completed the obstacle course.  Meanwhile, the objects had been removed and replaced by several husbands lying on their backs in a straight line on the floor. The blindfold was then whipped off the giggling, embarrassed victim who was greeted with much laughter and shouts of "We see London, we see France, we see Betty's underpants"

Another time we filled a brand new pink 'potty' with beer and weiners and passed it around for each participant to sip.  One timid wife refused, saying "I just can't do it".

 We played 'pass the parcel' wearing oven mitts and using knives and forks to open the parcel.  Unfortunately this particular game resulted in Eric stabbing an artery and being rushed to Emergency where, with some embarrassment, he explained the nature of his injury "I forked myself".



Once we made up a lengthy story which began "one dark and stormy night" and continued with each person speaking the next 'bit' into a tape recorder (state of the art). When we played back the whole story we all broke into peals of laughter at the ridiculous tale we had concocted.

We had sing songs around the piano and we danced.


We had some wonderful New Year's Eve parties.

And sometimes we wore costumes...




Most of the party animals are gone now, but we have lots of great pictures and even greater memories.

Happy Birthday

Life seemed so simple when I was a child.  I can recall attending a birthday party down the street.  We had little sandwiches probably peanut butter and jam (no thought of nut allergies) followed by a dish of shimmering jello which, if we were lucky, was topped with ice cream.  Then a home-made birthday cake was carried in and candles lit.  For entertainment, we played games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, and musical chairs. We departed happy and satisfied.

It was pretty much the same with our children - simple sandwiches, jello and home-made cake. The games didn't change.  Once, in our home, we tape recorded each guest wishing the birthday child 'Happy Birthday' - that was pretty exciting.

In the year our son Mark turned four, he received many gifts, one of which was a shiny red truck. It was love at first sight as he clutched the truck to his little chest.  The kid that gave him the truck asked if he could play with it for awhile.  Our precious son said "No!" and made a big issue out of the request.  I explained that it would be 'nice' for him to share his new toy "No!" he yelled loudly. It hurt to witness my sweet little boy acting like a spoiled brat so I said, "okay, if you don't want to share, then you don't get to keep the truck" and promptly gave the gift back to the giver. 

Well, apparently that taught Mark quite a lesson.  To this day he laughs and says it left an imprint he has never forgotten.  He has turned out to be a thoughtful, caring and SHARING guy.  I was just fortunate, I guess, that my 'lesson' in sharing didn't backfire on me.

From what I hear, these days birthday parties have gone from the sublime to the ridiculous. Sometimes children go to a restaurant to eat, then to some form of amusement - swimming, a movie, miniature golf, paintball.  Some little girls go to a specialty store where they can all get hair and nails done and pick out a special 'take home' gift. And even parties held 'at home' end with all the guests receiving a gift bag to take home with them.

All this boggles my mind and must be very costly.  Maybe there will be a turn-around and the 'in thing' will be to do a 50's theme party and give the money to the poor that we would have spent on a special outing and gift bags for everyone.  Wouldn't that be great?

Girlhood Memories

I guess I always enjoyed writing.  I can recall being a student at Girls Central School. I adored my English teacher, Mr. Rudyard Kipling (yes that really was his name).

We had been asked to write an essay on some character we had encountered. I chose old Bill Nye.  He was what we now refer to as a 'street person'.  He was a disreputable old guy who sported a long stringy gray beard. His pants were held up by a piece of rope.

I often did my homework at our sturdy dining room table, the only sound being the crackling of the fire in our little heater, and with my mother seated beside me, always ready to help.  She had been raised by British parents and still clung to many of her parents' verbal expressions.

With her eager assistance, I was soon going great guns on my essay about old Bill.  At one point she fed me the expression 'green grocer' to describe the Chinese fruit and vegetable store that Bill Nye frequented. A few days after I proudly handed in my completed story, Mr. Kipling asked me to remain after class.  He gently reprimanded me for not doing all the work myself - he said he knew I must have been helped with the story - I was too naive to realize my mother's old-fashioned British expressions gave away her involvement in the project.

Aside from memories of school, I well remember the delightful Saturday afternoons spent downtown with my girlfriends.  First, I'd have a long discussion on the phone with my friend Margaret, arranging what we would both wear, though sometimes I'd change my mind after I hung up the phone.  I could just feel Margaret's wrath coming to a boil, the closer she got to the corner where we met to go into town.  I was met by a scathing "I thought you were going to wear your RED skirt".  After she calmed down, we'd hop on the old street car and head into town where we'd meet up with our mutual friend, Bette-Jean. We treated ourselves to a coke or maybe a fruit salad and toast or hamburger - I don't ever recall having a cup of coffee.

We'd spend the afternoon window shopping and then, enticed into the stores by the beautifully attired mannequins, we shopped till we dropped, stopping only to check that the seams of our stockings (attached to our garter belts) were still straight.  There were times when I purchased two dresses in an afternoon as everything I tried on looked great on me (those were the days!).  In those days, most shops had lay-away plans and it was easy to build my wardrobe.  Nowadays I have difficulty finding something to camouflage and accommodate my bumps and bulges.

Christmas shopping was a time of magic.  The windows of our two department stores drew crowds.  There might be a miniature train weaving its way through snow-laden mountains, or tiny figures skating on a glistening lake.  These days, the indoor malls do a good job of creating a festive atmosphere, but it is not the same.

My girlfriends and I thoroughly enjoyed our carefree shopping expeditions and it was common for us to walk down the street together, all holding hands.  Fortunately for us, in those days street photographers were also part of the downtown scene and so our lovely memories are forever captured.

(I am in the middle, the other brunette is Bette-Jean, and the blonde is Margaret.)

$1.49 Day

Thinking about how we 1950's housewives tried to stretch our household funds made me remember the days of the old Woodward’s $1.49 grocery department sale. 

On arrival on this special day, the first challenge was to locate a parking space, the next, a shopping cart.  It was advantageous to shop with a partner, leaving one party to guard the prized cart, while the other sallied forth, unhampered, into the fray.  If you were smart, you first tore off several plastic bags and located the necessary twist ties.  This in itself was no easy matter as one had to reach through a mass of other shoppers intent on the very same task. 

Woodward’s always offered a certain number of oranges or grapefruit for $1.49. As you intently counted out your allotted fruit, concentrating on the selection of thin-skinned, juicy but not over ripe fruit, inevitably someone at your elbow asked “How many are we allowed?” Not wanting to be rude, you replied, lost count of your own stash and had to count all over again.

Once you wormed (oops) your way to the salad section, through a maze of carts and customers, you faced crowds of people pawing through the lettuce, feeling for the firmest and tossing their rejects in your direction.  Arms loaded, you wove your way back to your patiently waiting partner, encountering en route many who insisted on pushing their carts into the narrowest possible spot, or others who came across an old friend or former neighbour, deciding to stop and chat, completely oblivious to the congestion they caused.  I remember meeting an acquaintance who, because she was a grandmother many times over, stood gently rocking her cart to and fro while we talked, forgetting it was not her usual baby buggy.

In the meat department, there were other obstructions; a cart parked plumb in the middle of the aisle, its absent owner completely engrossed in the business of converting grams to ounces.  It could not have been more accurately centered, had the owner made use of a tape measure.

Waiting in the long check-out line ups, it was entertaining to overhear conversations.  Tired, distraught husbands muttered “If I had known it would be like this, I never would have come” or “It sure isn’t worth it”.  Often a naive shopper who sauntered in, stared in horror at the milling crowd and exclaimed “Oh my goodness, I didn’t realize it was $1.49 day!”

Eventually you reached the next-one-in-line category, only to find the cashier had either to replace the cash register tape,  go for coffee, take time out to exchange some of her large bills for smaller ones or become embroiled in controversy with a patron over an item purchased.  The only way to deal with frustrations of this sort was to laugh and chat with a fellow shopper.

Many bored customers succumbed to the tantalizing display of reading material conveniently set out within arm’s reach of the cash register.  How could anyone resist headlines like “Baby Sings in the Womb” or “85 Year Old Grandmother has twins”?

Over the years, Mayfair Mall has expanded in many directions to become a very sophisticated shopping complex. It is difficult to picture that Mayfair, Victoria’s first regional shopping mall, opened October 16, 1963. The variety of shops now offered to the consumer is mind boggling.  In the resulting maze, it is difficult to visualize exactly where the old groceteria was located.

Times change, other malls have been built, huge food emporiums with giant bulk food areas have come into being, but for many Victorians, that old  jingle “$1.49 Woodwards, $1.49 Day, Tuesday” evokes a fond memory.

Back to the Future

It's often said 'what goes around, comes around'.  Lately, this has been demonstrated to me by our grand-daughters, now in their late twenties and early thirties.

On a recent visit from granddaughter Lindsay and Mike (grandson-in-law - is that right?), who has taken a keen interest in old records, told us they have purchased an old stereo on which to play them.  We spent some time around the fireplace, rifling through our large selection of records.  We too have a lovely old stereo and Mike soon got the turntable working again.  We sipped some wine, lulled by the mellow renderings of Nat King Cole.  What a delightful afternoon.  It gave us so much pleasure to see the enjoyment and appreciation on Mike and Lindsay's faces when they left to return to Prince George, taking all our old records as well as the avocado green 'fake' leather chest in which to store them. Eventually they will inherit our mint condition stereo cabinet, which they greatly admired.

Lindsay also gazed longingly at our old cast iron hot water radiators and said 'Grandma, did you know they are the 'in' thing?' Little did we know we were living in such an enviable atmosphere. 

Her face flushed with excitement as she noticed our collection of leatherbound Readers Digest Condensed Books - she said they would make such a great 'fake' library!  

No doubt Mike and Lindsay would also be pleased to inherit our 1930's Remington typewriter...now I wish I'd kept my old meat grinder for them, too!

Granddaughter Colleen and family also recently paid us a visit and said she would love to have the spare bedroom light fixture, with all of its violent orange plastic beauty!  

Can this be the same ceiling fixture much maligned over the years by our daughter "Why on earth don't you replace that thing?"

Colleen's husband, Daryl, with great grandchildren Kyler and Cora in tow, left our home clutching several 1940/50's Popular Mechanics magazines.  He is a heavy duty equipment mechanic and these old magazines really appealed to him.

Our third granddaughter, Heather, (husband Adam and baby boy Oliver) has not yet laid claim to anything.  I wonder if she would like the 1973 avocado green stove which still works like a charm? 

Maybe she is not as interested in all our 'retro' stuff, or she may feel awkward about asking for anything.

As for Ken and I, we feel that now is the time to bring up the subject of inheritance.  My own mum died at the age of 68 and never discussed the future.  My father, who lived to 100, was very insular.  He never had the pleasure of seeing the happiness his bequests brought to us.

The days before Starbucks

Young housewives in the 1950's stretched their husbands' often meagre earnings as best they could.

We used our flannelette sheets till they were paper-thin and then sewed the good parts together.  My sewing machine was a very old one passed down to me from my mother.  You fed the material through with one hand, using the other hand to turn a handle.  I, like many others, removed worn-out shirt collars from shirts, reversed them and reattached them to the same shirt.  The result was immediate and the shirt soldiered on for a few more years.
We never had our hair styled, or nails manicured and we certainly never had pedicures.  The word 'spa' was foreign to us, as was 'massage'.  Yoga and Pilates were unheard of and as  for 'boot camp' - that was something endured by men in the armed forces.  By the time we had made our meals from scratch, washed and dried all the dishes, scrubbed and waxed floors, done the laundry - filling and emptying the machine by bucket, putting the items through the wringer and hanging them on the clothesline - our 'exercise classes' were over. Everything then had to be ironed - there were no perma press materials in those days.  Its a good thing we didn't get paid by the hour.

The odd day we housewives gave ourselves a break. Most of us were home raising our children, so we 'girls' got together with neighbours for coffee.  Usually with our kids in tow, we gathered in someone's warm kitchen to chat over cups of coffee, supplemented by home-made goodies - cookies, cupcakes or thickly iced squares.  No talk of calories or gluten free stuff.  We discussed recipes, husbands, mothers-in-law and other earth-shattering subjects.  Now most wives are out working. The little ones are closeted in daycare and that lovely social time has disappeared.  Sometimes I wonder if our simple life was less hectic and more rewarding.  We didn't have much but we had good friends and made time to cultivate our relationships.

Baby Daze

When I see my granddaughters raising their little ones, I often hark back to my days as a young mother.

First of all if one was not able to nurse (I couldn't), there was the time-consuming preparation of formula (we used milk and added 'stuff' to it).  Then the glass bottles had to be sterilized - that brings to mind the image of my husband heating a needle over a flame, puncturing a hole in the rubber nipple, then testing the warmth of the milk on his arm.  Once the formula was consumed all the bottles had to be washed (by hand) and the whole process repeated.

We mothers used cloth diapers and plastic covers or knitted 'soakers' (an appropriate name, and the only thing I could ever knit).  We had diaper pails in which the semi-clean diapers soaked.  I had to fill my washing machine with buckets of water and then empty it by turning a little tap at the bottom of the tub to allow it to drain into the bucket, then rinsed the diapers by the same method.  My daughter often sat at my feet during this process, and stirred the dirty water with her hands.

My machine thankfully had a wringer, many did not.  The whole process was followed by a trip outside to the clothesline, in all kinds of weather.

It seemed to take most of the day just to complete feeding and washing.

Mothers invariably placed the baby buggy on the front porch so baby could breathe in fresh air for the requisite four hours (prescribed by the famous baby doctor Dr. Benjamin Spock - not to be confused with Mr. Spock of Star Trek). I know I was forever checking to ensure some neighbourhood cat had not joined my precious bundle for a nap in the buggy.

In those days some mothers were naive enough to park their prams outside a store while shopping.  I was not one of them.  Nowadays, babies are often carried about nestled safely in snugglies close to their parents.  How very wise to create that early bonding.

The other thing that interests me is the drastic change in baby clothing.  Our babies wore warm little undershirts and long nighties, split open down the back for easy access to diapers.  These days, undershirts are discarded in favor of little t-shirts, bare arms, tiny blue jeans and even smaller running shoes.  

I well recall our son Mark being swathed and swaddled in a blanket secured by a giant safety pin (like the ones used on kilts).  The poor kid couldn't move even if he wanted to.  Here is a photo of him at one and a half months, still looking mummified.

I didn't know any better, and Dr. Spock said 'keep the baby secure'.  I took my instructions seriously.

I did note that Kate and William's Prince George was well swaddled when he left the hospital - that makes me feel better.

My granddaughters seem to be able to create time for extra-curricular activities with their babies - which I think is wonderful.  I recently read an article about a young mother of three who just happens to be a practicing dentist.  One of their family activities is geocaching - I had to ask my daughter what the heck that meant.  In our day we would have called it treasure hunting but I sure didn't have time for anything like that when my two were little.  My idea of a treasure would have been just a few minutes for myself.

The good old days were okay - but they sure could have been a lot better.

Doctors Without Borders...or Ode to a Cell Phone

Doctors Without Borders or Ode to a Cell Phone?

About a year and a half ago, my fasciitis (heel-injury ouch) was acting up after months of my own doctoring.   I turned to the Yellow Pages of my outdated phone book and chose a podiatrist whose ad included explicit directions for locating his office. I snipped the directions from the page, and booked an appointment with a receptionist who naturally assumed I was referring to the ‘new’ phone book when I said I had found their ad in the Yellow Pages. Amazingly, they were able to see me at 2 p.m. that very day. ‘Oh boy’ I thought ‘finally I’ll get some professional help.’

My dear husband obligingly drove me , however we soon found ourselves in unfamiliar territory and shot past the turn we should have taken.  It was a stormy day and we lost time due to the poor driving conditions. Now we were running late.  We made a lengthy detour around the next block, only to realize there was absolutely nowhere to park. I left the safety and warmth of the car to hoof it to the podiatrist while my husband searched for somewhere to park. 

The rain and wind lashed me as I hobbled toward my destination, directions clutched in my hand.  Finally I reached the advertised location and was greeted by an empty storefront.  The podiatrist had relocated!

I stumbled into the doorway of the next business.  There I was greeted by a masked figure,  raising its head from the hand of a customer. Startled, I took a moment to realize I was in a salon. The manicurist mumbled something unintelligible in response to my question about the podiatrist and gestured in the general direction of several blocks north.

Again I hobbled out into the weather but quickly ducked into a fast food outlet to escape the storm, and asked if I might use their phone?  A burly chef kindly dialed the number I provided and in a moment I spoke with the receptionist, who apologized profusely for any confusion about their new location and gave me the new address.

Meanwhile, one of the fast-food customers took an interest in my plight.  He was unshaven but seemed to be a diamond in the rough as he commented to me ‘That address is a couple of blocks from here – I’ll give ya a ride’.

It was late. I had no idea where my 91 year old husband might be.  My 87 year old foot was really bugging me, so I took a breath, faced the good Samaritan, and asked brightly ‘How do I know if I can trust you?’.  

He gave a hearty laugh and said ‘Now lady, THAT is a silly question if I ever heard one!’

Gratefully, but  with apprehension, I clambered into his questionable vehicle – its interior matched his exterior. 

The first block I thought to myself ‘What have I done? Why didn’t I just call a taxi?’

The second block I thought ‘my son and daughter are going to kill me’’

The third block I thought ‘they won’t have to kill me, this man is probably taking me to an abandoned warehouse’

But my fears quickly fled as my driver pulled up at the front door of the podiatrist, gallantly opened the door and helped me alight from his ‘carriage’.  Mentally, I patted myself on the back – ‘boy, can I pick’em!’

The receptionist greeted me warmly, assuring me she would let my husband know I had arrived safely, if he should call to check on my whereabouts.  The podiatrist emerged from his office announcing he would gladly have retrieved me from the old location himself - now that truly would have been ‘doctors without borders’!

Eventually my harried husband arrived, having had his own adventures during which he too had depended on the kindness of strangers with phones.

Maybe it IS time to break down and get one of those cell phones after all…