boy on a bike
spins circles in the dirt
making his mark
Today’s Daily Addictions prompt: BIKE
boy on a bike
spins circles in the dirt
making his mark
Today’s Daily Addictions prompt: BIKE
Good morning everyone.
We woke up yesterday morning to a delightful fluffy blanket of fresh snow and a calm, mild sort of day. This morning it’s -15° C / 5° F and a serious wind from the NW, reducing the temp to -21 C / -11 F with windchill factored in. a person doesn’t want to be out side long in this “invigorating” weather.
And it’s Boxing Day here in Canada. While this day hasn’t no spiritual significance, it was traditionally a day to at least think of the poor. Back in Ebeneezer Scrooge’s Day folks would have packed up boxes of food and goodies as a special treat for the poor. Of which there were many, as the Ghost of Christmas Present reminded Scrooge, including Ebeneezer’s own clerk, Bob Cratchett.
When it comes to charity, some folks are truly giving and kind, no strings attached, bless their dear hearts. When they give a gift, it’s a quality item. Others have agendas of buying friendship or affection, and still others use this as a way to feel good while getting rid of outdated, unwanted stuff. I managed a Thrift Shop for a year and could write lots about this. 😉
And there was a generation that saved everything and passed it on. My Aunt-Mom grew up in very poor circumstances and never wanted to throw away anything that might be useful. She didn’t hoard, though; she passed it on. After I was married, she’d pack and mail big Christmas parcels for us with all manner of things like cookies they couldn’t eat, blank menu sheets from the restaurant they sold, stamps they hadn’t sold at the post office, or Grandma’s old dresses for me to make into girls’ aprons. I still think back with affection on Mom’s grab-box parcels, but I can’t say much got used.
Mine is the generation that’s had to move those dear old parents and grandparents into small apartments, which meant helping them downsize. I’m sure a lot of you can tell about an endeavor of that sort. While I’m trying to declutter for my children’s sake, I still have that mindset that “This might come in handy if / could still be used for…” Yes. they’ll still have a lot of stuff to deal with when we move on.
Back to Boxing Day. I doubt anyone’s packing boxes for the poor today. Christmas hampers are generally given out ahead of time by a number of charities these days. Boxing Day has come to mean SALES! Advertised well in advance. Two weeks before Christmas we got a “BOXING WEEK SALE” flier from some store.
Traditionally, stores here in Canada have been closed on Boxing Day, though some are pushing it and some provinces are allowing store opening today. In one way, Boxing Day is our Black Friday, except that Christmas is over, the pressure is off, and there’s no scrambling over each other to get to bargains. Boxing Day/Week sales are simply the way stores get rid of surplus inventory — especially seasonal and/or perishable — before the Easter sales start in February. Sigh…
And now I shall treat myself to a cup of fresh hot coffee and think about my day’s work. We aren’t having our family Christmas until Sunday, which should give me time to scrounge through my closets and come up with a nice box of misc-this-and-that as a special treat for my grandchildren. Then they’ll have something to tell their children about Granny’s Christmas parcels — and my daughter will be that much ahead when it comes time to deal with our stuff. 😉
The Ragtag Daily Prompt yesterday was BUOYANT. Sadly, I wasn’t feeling buoyant enough to write anything — even though it was the prompt word I chose.
I did get some suitable pictures from Pixabay to illustrate the concept, like this cute hot air balloon:
Thankfully, I’m feeling much more buoyant today and almost completely recovered from the cold & sinus woes that laid me low for almost two weeks.
But life hasn’t been bubbles of joy this month for other reasons, too, as my sister has been in hospital for over three weeks now. She went in with pneumonia & infection and had a rough time of it, according to her husband. But things were looking up; last week he thought she’d be out by the end of the week. However, when I talked to him last night, he said she’d caught another infection and would remain in hospital until the end of this week for sure, right through Christmas.
Rose had treatment for lung cancer and reacted to the first chemo, so was in hospital most of December last year. To them and their family this is going to seem like a sad repeat. I’d love to visit her but, being sick as I was, I decided it wouldn’t be a kindness. and this week I have to work more shifts. So I’ll continue to send good wishes through her husband and hope next week will bring a good day to go.
I’ve tried to contact my sister Donna several times in the last few months, but she’s either moved or cancelled her phone service. It’s during seasons of “family visits and goodwill” that I really wish for closer ties with my siblings, but we did grow up apart and live such different lives now, too. Though we always had contact and spent the summers together, I was raised by my Uncle & Aunt Forsyth from the time I was three months old, mostly several hours away from my family.
In case anyone reader is interested: My brother Jim is 11 months older than me; as children we were really close. I come second; Donna is 3 1/2 years younger. We were close, too. Rose is 5 years younger, but lived with my Aunt and Uncle, too, for three of her preschool years because of her health issues. Wilma is 6 years younger than me and Lorraine 11 years younger than me. I’ve had very little contact with the youngest two.
Now back to the present: I’m breathing easier, hacking less, and I have the day to myself. Maybe I can get some things accomplished here at home, including posting something for this morning’s Ragtag daily prompt. Here’s wishing you all vim, vigor, and a buoyant holiday week.
Ragtag Daily Prompt for today is MEMORY LANE
My response will be this trip down memory lane with poet Edgar A Guest. Happy the boy who has felt this way.
When I was but a little lad, not more than two or three,
I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of me.
He liked the little ways I had, the simple things I said;
sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes he stroked my head.
And when I’d done a thing worthwhile, the thought that made me glad
was always that I’d done my best, and that would please my dad.
I can look back today and see how proud he used to be
when I’d come home from school and say they’d recommended me.
I didn’t understand it then, for school boys never do,
but in a vague and general way it seems to me I knew
that father took great pride in me, and wanted me to shine,
and that it meant a lot to him when I’d done something fine.
Then one day out of school I went, amid the great world’s hum
an office boy, and father watched each night to see me come.
And I recall how proud he was of me that wondrous day
when I could tell him that, unasked, the firm had raised my pay.
I still can feel that hug he gave; I understand the joy
it meant to him to learn that men were trusting in his boy.
I wonder, will it please my dad? How oft the thought occurs
when I am stumbling on the path, beset with briars and burrs!
He isn’t here to see me now, alone my race I run,
and yet someday I’ll go to him and tell him all I’ve done.
And, oh, I pray that when we meet beyond life’s stormy sea
that he may claim the old-time joy of being proud of me.
From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company
The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is HUG.
In response I’ll offer this poem from Saskatchewan poet Roy Lobb, who was born in Ontario about 1892 and lived in the Melfort, SK, district.
Two little arms and two little legs
each night would kick and toss;
ten little scratchy finger nails;
all these belonged to Ross.
Ringlets and curls on a high-set brow,
with blue eyes peeking through;
little stub nose and flushy cheeks
as fair as heaven’s dew.
A loving heart in a wee broad chest,
reserved a place for me;
stood near the gate and waved good-bye
as far as I could see.
Two little feet ran down the lane
to meet me coming home;
those happy thoughts I’ll treasure dear
wherever I may roam.
A little brown pup close by his side
would wag his tail in glee;
each night when I came home from work,
they’d want to play with me.
Two little arms around my neck
would start to scratch and tickle,
saying, “Dad, I’ll give you one big hug
if you give me a nickel.”
At close of day he’d climb my knee
and cuddle in a heap,
saying “Daddy, tell me a story now
before I go to sleep.”
The Word of the Day Challenge this morning is LABOR.
This interesting poem by Edgar Guest will be my response.
If you want the position, you gotta earn it. 🙂
HOW TO BE A CAPTAIN
“I’d like to be the captain of a ship that sails the sea;
I’d like to wear that uniform,” a youngster said to me.
Said I: “Let’s ask the captain what a youngster has to do
who wants to be the master of a vessel and its crew.”
So up we went to see him, with this question on our lips:
“What is it captains have to do before they get their ships?”
There was a twinkle in his eye as unto us he said:
“Well, first I tugged at anchor chains until my hands were red;
I scrubbed the decks and learned the ropes and trundled bales below;
I washed the dishes for the cook, but that was years ago
I carried slops and polished brass when I was young like you.
There wasn’t anything about the ship I didn’t do.
I stokered and I learned to oil, and in a year or two
they let me take my trick at wheel, which I had longed to do,
And well I mind the happy lump that came into my throat
The day they made me Number One of the Number Seven boat.
I served as petty officer for several years or more
and by and by, as second mate, a uniform I wore.
And when I’d learned a little more–I don’t recall the date
My captain recommended me to be the vessel’s mate.
So when you see a captain in his braided uniform
it means that he’s been tried below, and tried above in storm.
He’s had many years of service in the crow’s nest and the hold,
and worked his way through grease and dirt to get that braid of gold.”
From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest,
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company