Category Archives: Childhood innocence

I Am So Offended!


What you ask has gotten me in such a state? The answer: people who take offence for a perceived insult.   A song written in 1944, that won an Oscar for best original song in 1949 and was popular in the 50s and 60s, offended someone more than 70 years later. So now it is an evil song about rape. Well that is one way to get into the spotlight.

Breaking News!! It was a different time. I am quite sure the writer did not consider it a rape song. Neither did I, I still don’t. What about the beloved Muppets being gay? First of all, who cares? These beloved characters were written to encourage children, not to coerce them to engage in sex. What is it about them that makes you want to label them? They are best friend!

Do you remember the year some Christmas Songs were re-interpreted? Some were considered homophobic, some anti-feminist and some just mean. Seriously people they are songs. Some were written many years ago. There was no evil agenda.

And then there are the children’s stories. Sleeping Beauty is about rape!!! Cinderella is a stereotype. Beauty and the Beast . . . well. Why do people insist on looking for the bad, the evil, the vile. You can twist anything if you try hard enough. I prefer to see the good, the wondrous, the hope that is in each of these stories. Am I turning a blind eye? Yes, I am. I prefer not to give the evil people of the world my time.

A woman is incensed because a 6 year old boy gave her 6 year old daughter a hug and a kiss in the school playground surrounded by 30 or 40 people. It was a innocent moment of affection between two CHILDREN. Nope, the mother said it was sexual assault and wanted the little boy removed from the school. Shame. Shame on that mother for making assumptions based on her hang-ups. What did those children learn?

People are constantly judging others negatively based on their own inadequacies. What are they trying to do? Does homophobia exist? Of course it does! Is it wrong? YES!!! Anti-feminism exists, sexual discrimination, racial prejudice exists. And so many more ways we discriminate against others and try to subjugate them. It is an evil world. But there is hope. Every year we as a people get a little smarter, a little more accepting. One day maybe we will truly be ONE people. I wonder what the perception of us will be in 70 years.

In the meantime, let the kids be kids and stop trying to pollute the playground.

I Am Not Where I Wanted To Be

When I was four I wanted to be a ballerina. My parents had a beautiful mirror that depicted two ballet dancers in mid pose. The male was supporting the female who was standing ‘en point’ with one leg out of sight behind her. They were in relief in the middle of this large ornate, silver mirror. I was memorized by the hidden leg.

When I was nine I wanted to be a veterinarian. I loved animals and I wanted to help them, care for them. But there is another side to the job that is necessary and it involves pain and death. Nope.

Airline Pilot: nice uniform, nasty passengers                                                                             Professional Dancer: two left feet

Then I walked the boards of a school Christmas play. I had one line: “Pearls of great price to him we adorn, is the worship of each lowly one.” I wore my Mother’s terry cloth bathrobe and a towel over my head. I was hooked. I was also 11 years old.

Scoot forward several years. In High School I was in several plays that won awards. I got to perform on a professional stage, with the High School, several times. I enrolled in a University with a well-respected theatre department. And I continued to shine. Learning lines was easy, blocking (movements on stage) was almost instinctive. This was my element. This was also within a controlled environment. Graduation is one hell of a wake up call.

I went on auditions and got several jobs. Walk on and bit parts. I was there to react to the ‘real’ actors. I did meet a very few: Martin Short, John Candy. Most of the time was spent far away from the principles and waiting and waiting and waiting and . . . You get the picture.

I was never good at selling myself – problem one. I did not meet the criteria for the current fashionable young female actor: blond, pert, skinny and um, not bright. I was a real red-head, not skinny and intelligent (although I learn to play dumb quite well).

But a girl’s got to eat and I craved independence. I got a real job. And then I discovered I had Multiple Sclerosis. Perspectives change.

There was an adjustment period to my new reality but also new beginnings. My Mother told me I was in charge and the choice was mine: give in and spend a life wallowing in my self-pity or live. Find a life or make one. And I did!

I am not where I thought I wanted to be. I’m somewhere better.

Make it stop Mama!


When I was a child I had an annoying habit of making sounds. Nonsensical noises came out of my mouth. I would hum, make clicking sounds or pop, pop, pop. I would tap walls as I walked by. It drove my mother mad. Figuratively not literally!

Often I would hear my mother say “If you keep pursing your lips like that they may stay!” The idea of going around with my lips in the kissing formation was a sobering thought. But it was hard to stop. When friends at school started turning around at my odd noises, I pretty well suspended that portion of my higher education. The teachers never knew where the sounds came from. I wasn’t about to tell!

Move ahead a few decades. I have never had a singing voice. Speaking or sound effects, yes. That I can do. I joined the choir in high school but when it was decided that everyone should have a chance to shine by singing a solo, I quit. I love to sing but not where anyone could hear me! I have spent many great hours singing in my car with the windows up. I would sing with wild abandon, when I was alone.

Move ahead a few decades. No longer driving a car, I no longer sing. But I also find I have a lower tolerance for sound. And as quiet as my apartment may be, it ain’t silent! As I sit at my computer I can hear a couple of clocks ticking, I can hear the fans moving quietly blowing cool air through my apartment. My refrigerator works through the cycle and it starts to hum for a few seconds. It’s not really aggravating, it’s just there, like a white noise.

Now I’m starting to listen carefully. I can hear the cars go by on the street below my window. I can hear people talking, or perhaps it’s one person talking on phone. I can hear the wind whistling through the few trees that are close by. I like that sound. If I’m very quiet I can hear a faint roar from the highway that is not too far away. Occasionally I can hear a train. I love trains. Depending on the time of day the birds can be quite active down here. In the morning it’s the songbirds. Midafternoon, the gulls.   They are quite noisy! Oh, there it is: the ubiquitous beep, beep, beep, a truck backing up. I hate that!

These are sounds from a first world country. There is affluence here and people are happy (mostly).   I hear car alarms and laughter, I hear shouting and cell phone rings. I don’t hear gunfire or tsunamis. I don’t hear angry protests or children crying from fear and hunger. I wonder if people who are deaf actually experience real silence. I wonder what it would be like to experience that. I wonder about a lot of things. Sometimes it’s quite scary!

Father Dearest

This is something a little different. It is an excerpt of something I wrote for my father’s 75th Birthday. I hope you enjoy it.

This book is dedicated to my father. He was a man who guided us and tolerated us, a man who was our dad, our mentor and our friend. A man who is not so bad for an old guy!

Thanks dad, we love you.

Lectures my father gave and don’t tell your mother!

My father always has been and always will be a man of honour, integrity and stature. He is also human. He is a dad and subject to all the idiosyncrasies of that idyllic state. In simplest terms, he ain’t perfect. Of course growing up I just assumed he was perfect. Aren’t all fathers? We used to tease my father about his lectures. You know all the usual ones that fathers give their children – drive from point A to point B, no ‘parking’, look both ways before you date. As his children we would roll our eyes and say “Lecture 37” or “Lecture 210”. And we would all laugh. But we didn’t disobey. Or, at least not openly. Oops, I don’t think my father knew that bit. Father laid down the law in our family. Of course, laws were meant to be broken, or at least bent a little. I read that somewhere.

My father may be a distinguished looking man but appearances can be deceiving. Take the yearly trial of showing a beautiful but willful dog how to use the dog door. My father had installed a ‘dog door’ in the screen door off the kitchen to make it easier for Samantha (a brindle boxer) to come in and out at her leisure. In theory, as in practice, it was a wonderful idea. Of course, it was not used in the wintertime. So every spring Samantha was once again offered the opportunity to use her door. Here comes the good part. I don’t know if she really did have a fear about using the door for the first time or she just enjoyed the specter of my very distinguished father on his hands and knees crawling through that door, several times. I must admit my mother and I always made sure we were nearby. I wonder why I never took a picture?

Ask and the answer shall be…….

Children with curious minds ask questions. My parents never tried to dissuade or put off our questions and they always tried to tell the truth. The truth can sometimes be a bit bewildering to a ten year old. Like the time I asked my father why the sky was blue. He told me. Really. Scientifically. Reflection and refraction. I nodded my head and tried to look wise. I was ten years old! I wasn’t mature enough to know what wise was! Fifteen years later I understood what he meant when I took a lighting course at university that explained light reflection and refraction.

When mom is away dad will play

Then there is the time I came home to find my father painting the two story stair well in their house using a short ladder, a rope and a very old, very shaky side table. Of course he was tied to the second story banister if anything went wrong! When I pointed out that he would have a fit if I attempted such acrobatics he smiled his tolerant smile and said that he was the father and that made it different. I was also vehemently instructed not to tell my mother!

Or the time he fell off a ladder in the back yard. I wasn’t a witness, the neighbours were. Mom was out of town and I called to check up on my father. I knew something was wrong. When I inquired, he laughed. He did say it was a bit of a problem getting out of the middle of a bush. He was sore and a little bruised, but I was not allowed to tell my mother! Aaaaahhhhh!

My father is a man of the nineties. The eighteen nineties!

He just recently learned how to actually open the dishwasher. He knew where it was, he just wasn’t too sure what exactly it did. He really is becoming quite capable. He can vacuum and do the laundry. He can also cook bacon and eggs, and beans (from a can. Good on toast?). Dad retired and donned jeans (only in the backyard of course). We are still working on the t-shirt, but he is perhaps still a little young for that. My sister is trying to wean him from the white socks and brown shoes. A child’s work is never done.

Drive/Don’t Drive

Driving with my father is interesting. Actually it is an experience. My father is a very good driver, he’s been at it for more than a few decades. Well, we all learned early on that it is a better world when one is a passenger in my Dad’s car, not the driver. There was a time when my dear sweet father requested that I drive home from their boat. My parents and I had just spent a wonder weekend at the marina. Great weather, good food, good company. Unfortunately perhaps it had been too good. Dad wasn’t feeling well and he asked if I would mind driving home. He did look a little peaked. At first I said no, but I did relent with one proviso, he would lie down in the back of the car and not raise his head above the bottom of the back windows. I figured this way he would not be the proverbial back seat driver. After all, it was only an hour drive. Boy, did I ever underestimate the power of a father’s abilities. It started out okay. Before we had driven a few miles my father started. “What lane are you in?” “How fast are you going?” “Are you checking your rear view mirror?”. Ah Dad. I eventually told him that either he was quiet or I would pull off the road and he could drive, sick or not. It was at that point I heard my dear sweet father chuckling. The rat! He was needling me on purpose! He is just too smart for my own good.



These are just a few of the wonderful memories I have of a man who helped to make me who I am today. I think he did a good job!

James Edmund Marius Read

August 24, 1925 – January 3, 2007

Memories fade

Another Blast from my Past. It made me smile when I reread it. I hope it makes you smile and remember fondly those in your past.



When I was a child the world was my oyster and I was always shucking for pearls. I had a wonderful childhood. Unfortunately I have noticed that some of my memories are starting to fade. That is a very sad thing. But you have to understand not everything I did as a child or youth deserves to be remembered. Trust me there are quite a few things I would prefer to forget. I would if I could but I can’t so I won’t.

We have reached that time of year when we celebrate our parents. (Something we should do every day kids!) I find that I’m forgetting things. I forget the way it felt when my father used to pick me up when I fell asleep in the car. I was a small child and I would inevitably snooze in the back seat. I would be half awake when he picked me up and I can remember nuzzling against his chin. He smelled so safe, so warm. But I can’t remember how his arms felt. It was more than 50 years ago and we are not computers. Some things will fade.

As I was growing up my mother always made me my favourite meal on my birthday. It was seafood crepes with a pecan pie for dessert. I’ve forgotten what the crepes tasted like. I’ve had other crepes since but I haven’t had hers in probably 25 or 30 years. Probably haven’t thought about them in that amount of time either.

But on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day I remember. I remember them every day. And I miss them. We all have had people in our lives that we miss when they are gone.  I believe that my mother is sitting on my shoulder with a grin on her face saying: “tsk tsk tsk, do you really want that second cookie?” I can see my father out of the corner of my eye: hands in his pockets, wearing a knit vest, smiling and shaking his head “damn kids”. We were loved. I have not stopped loving my parents since I lost them. And I haven’t really lost them as they are a part of me. They made me, they helped me become the person I am today. Thanks Mom, thanks Dad. I love you.

A Blast From the Past

Punishments. It is a part of the growing process when it is done correctly. I was punished as a child. I was given the strap. No wait a minute. My brother and sister hid the strap when we moved one year and I never got it. They say that accounts for the deficiency in my character. Ok, I had a wooden spoon whacked across my backside. I think. I remember the wooden spoon and I remember (sometimes) what I did to deserve it but I’m not sure where I got it. I do remember getting my mouth washed out with soap. Talk about a punishment! It was for spitting and I tell you, it was fifty some odd years ago, and I can still taste the soap and I have never spit again. Period. End of story. Prison wardens have nothing on my mother when it came to punishments. Wait a minute. That wasn’t the best punishment she ever dished out. There is an episode that my sister and I both remember. It was that severe. The anguish that it caused at the time and the pain it can still bring to mind…. My mother was an expert at inflicting just the right punishment. Read on.

My sister and I fought. This is no surprise to anyone with two daughters I am sure. She is older than I am and I always admired her. No wait a minute, I was a kid. I was jealous. As an adult it is admiration, as a kid it is jealousy. I don’t remember what we were fighting about. It was just something we did. We fought. But my mom didn’t care for it. I guess we must have been pretty loud because my mother opened the front door and left. She just left. Her own house. Our fighting had driven our mother away! Talk about a guilt trip! I followed mom down the street to a dead end. She was just sitting on the curb crying. Wow. Powerful imagery for a child. We had made our mom cry. Fifty some years later I can still remember the feel of that curb. Now I am sure my sister and I still fought in those days but we never again drove our mother out of the house. At least I don’t remember. (My sister and I are now adults and we don’t fight – but that is for another book).


Animal Tails


Dog eats bird: Breaking News Ten Years Later

As a child I had a fascination with animals: all kinds of animals. At one time or another I had turtles, fish, birds, cats, and dogs. I always wanted white mice but my mother put her foot down over that one. Over the years I have had many birds along with the family dogs. One episode in particular happened while I was at school. I came home to find my mother at the door with a sad look on her face. My bird had died. My mother, being the kind soul that she was, buried the bird. I never thought to ask why I wasn’t invited to the funeral, or how the bird died. My mom wouldn’t lie to me or lead me astray, would she? Read on.

Ten years later my mother is regaling a friend with the story of this clever bird that would open its cage door and dive bomb our poodle. One day the bird attacked the family dog and, well, the dog grabbed the bird. The bird died. It gives a whole new understanding of the expression ‘dog’s breakfast’. The story continued. Evidently the feathers were so thick in the air you could have cut them with a machete. Ten years later and I burst into tears. Ten years. The poodle in question was sleeping on the floor at my feet. My mother didn’t want me to hate our dog so she told me the bird had just died. She didn’t actually lie; she just didn’t tell me the whole truth. The only reason I even knew the bird had died was because my mother couldn’t find another one to replace it. And she did try. Now I can appreciate why she would want to protect the child. Childhood is a fragile time. I understood death but not killing. Especially by someone I loved. And I did love that dog, killer that he was. Moms are so smart, I can’t remember the name of that bird but the dog was called Beau Brummel and I still miss him.

Beau Brummel

When we were growing up we used to take a drive almost every Sunday after Church. It was a great way to see what was beyond the boundaries of our home. On one such trip we stopped for lunch at a small diner in a town near Kirkland Lake, Ontario, Canada. After eating, my brother (11) and sister (9) wandered away and found a phone book. They returned to the table to inform my father that there was a dog kennel in town and that he had promised them a dog. That is how we ended up in a kennel looking at a litter of poodles frolicking on the floor at our feet. My father wanted a Shepard but the owner would not sell a Shepard to a family with small children because of possible biting problems with the breed. So we watched these poodle pups for a minute. In the midst of the ruckus was a slightly older puppy, 8 months old. No one wanted him because his front legs had been broken as a small pup and not set properly. As a result his front legs were not straight. He walked and ran just fine. His lineage may have been good but he wasn’t perfect, except to us. Beau lived to be 17 years old and he was a valuable thread that weaved through all our lives.


I hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse into my past  . . . .


Trick or Treat


Ghost b

Juan’s hand gently caressed her cheek until his hand cupped her chin.

“I love you my darling Persephone.”

She closed her eyes, her lips pursed in anticipation.

Juan’s mouth hovered over Persephone’s, his breath warm on her cheeks.

“My darling,” he whispered as he placed his full, quivering lips against hers. In that moment the world ceased to exist. Her breath caught in her throat, her arms encircled his neck and she . . . “

“Penny, sorry to disturb you but I have got to have that report on the boss’s desk by noon and I still don’t have your numbers. Wake up girl friend; you can’t daydream all day, work to do, work to do!”

Penny blinked rapidly. She couldn’t quite grasp that what she had just experienced was a dream. The reality was that she was sitting in an office in a cramped cubicle with a four inch pile of work in front of her that needed to be completed by the end of the day.

“I’ll, I’ll get right at it. I’m almost finished, I promise.” She stammered her words as she tried to make sense of things.

Penny Elizabeth Foster was an ordinary woman, in an ordinary job, in an ordinary world. What was extraordinary was her imagination. As she went about the rest of her day Penny smiled at a secret memory. Her Don Juan had taken her in his arms and made mad passionate love to her. The fact that that memory was actually only a dream was immaterial. To Penny her fantasy life was just as vibrant and vital as the real world.

So the rest of the day Ms. Foster did as was expected of her. She collated, she typed, she filed. She filled the endless minutes with minutia and with deadlines. Eventually the magical hour approached: the end of her day.

“Happy Halloween Penny! Are you getting dressed up to give out candies tonight?”

“Yes Eddy and no you can’t come over. Besides you would scare the neighbourhood children. Say hi to your wife, Eddy.”

The last thing Penny wanted was to get involved with the office romancer. Or at least that’s how he saw himself. She packed up her purse and coat and made her way to her car. It wasn’t a long drive home but it’s one she enjoyed because she didn’t have to listen to anybody else talk. She could continue her fantasies as she wished.

“Ladies and gentlemen we have a special treat today: Ms. Persephone Foster is in the front line up for today’s race. She is a world renowned stock car driver. She has won both the Daytona 500 and the Brickyard 400. Her mentor was the legendary Don Juan of car racing. The let’s sit back and enjoy today’s race. Gentleman and lady, start your engines!”

“Hey lady, the light’s green, move!”

With a grin Penny realized that she was still sitting at a green light. She chuckled and continued on her way home.

She had always enjoyed Halloween. It was a time when every one could indulge in their secret fantasies without being seen to be odd. Yes there were the ghosts and goblins and the scary monsters but there were also characters from history and whimsical creatures. That was the part Penny enjoyed most. Besides who couldn’t resist a child dressed up like a bunny? Yes she loved this day in the year.

So with her usual efficiency Penny set about getting the candy ready to be handed out to the children, or more specifically the ‘trick or treaters’. After all, the indulgence in fantasies or whimsy is not just for the children.

She had spent a great deal of time preparing her own costume. It wouldn’t do to answer the door in jeans. No, Penny was going to be prepared in a costume that was appropriate to her frame of mind at just this time. She had always liked the concept of a damsel in distress so she dressed herself in flowing garments reminiscent of Sleeping Beauty. If only her Prince Charming could come by tonight.

“Trick or treat! Trick-or-treat!”

The first of the ghosts and goblins had made their appearance and Penny was ready.

“Oh my goodness what very scary ghosts and goblins you are!”

As she handed out the candy to the multitude of children at her door Penny was reminded of her own costumes as a child. There was the cat with the long tail that kept dragging in puddles, or the space alien with the javex bottle for a helmet that was spray-painted gold. There was even a gypsy one year with all of her mother’s costume jewellery draped around her neck and her arms. Her mother had become quite adept at making costumes. It was something new every year.

Each year saw its share of ghosts and goblins, bunnies, squirrels and cats. It was exciting to see the wonder in the eyes of the children and the quiet fatigue in the eyes of their parents as they shepherded their children from door to door. But this year everything changed.

No one had rung her doorbell or cried “trick-or-treat” for about twenty minutes so Penny was starting to clean everything up. Another Halloween was over. There was something very sad about that. But then it just meant that one looked forward to next year.


“Trick or Treat.”

The doorbell immediately got Penny’s attention but the quiet little voice that was saying ‘trick-or-treat’ was far more compelling. When she opened the door Penny saw an adorable little brown bunny or more specifically a very small child in an oversized bunny costume. As she leaned down she could see incredibly huge pleading eyes that were almost in tears.

“Well hello little bunny, here is some candy, but are you okay?”

Sniff, “I think I lost my dad. He doesn’t like to be lost in the dark. Can you help me find him?”

Penny immediately looked up to see if she could find this errant father. How dare he allow this small child to wander the streets without him! She was not going to allow this youngster to stay out here alone any longer.

“You come inside little bunny. My name is Penny what’s yours?”


Do you want me to call your mother?

“It’s only my dad and me.” As she spoke Miranda put her tiny little hand in Penny’s. This small child needed comfort and she was going to take it from whatever adult was handy. Penny was touched. She knelt down on one knee and embraced her.

“We’ll find your dad don’t you worry.”

Penny was trying to be comforting but inside she was angry. What could possibly cause a father to lose sight of this precious child! When she found this man she was going to give him a piece of her mind! But first Miranda had to be reassured.

Within a few moments Penny was sure that her new charge was okay. She was sitting at the kitchen table with glass of milk and a cookie. Penny was preparing to call the police but she was hesitant. She had heard stories about children going into foster care and essentially disappearing into a system that was not conducive to proper child care. So she hesitated.

As she looked across the room to this lonely child she felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility. In this day and age we are all responsible for our actions and we should never shirk that responsibility. Sitting across the kitchen table was someone who was asking for her help. She just could not drop that responsibility on someone else.

Penny was about to take the child out again into the dark. She would find this man, the father of this child.


Once again the door unexpectedly demanded attention. When it wasn’t immediately opened, insistent knocking followed. Penny approached the door hesitantly, someone was anxious to get in. A moment ago she had been anxious to track down an errant father on a dark Halloween night. But now? Who knows what Spirits are walking in the dusky light? Now she was afraid to open the door. The knocking continued louder, and louder. They say that on one night of the year ghosts are capable of taking form and interacting with the living. They say that on one night of the year evil lurks within reach of the innocent.

The knocking continued, louder. A voice was added to the banging; “Miranda, I know you’re in there, Miranda!”

With a relieved sigh Penny realized who was at the door: Miranda’s father.

With no further hesitation she threw open the door and then stopped. In front of her was the man that she had been dreaming about earlier this day, a man of strength, of character and a father. Upon hearing her father’s voice Miranda ran to him.

“I’m sorry daddy, I’m sorry I ran away! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But this nice lady took care of me and she doesn’t have a husband.”

For just a moment no one said a word. And then the man spoke,

“I’m terribly sorry for what my daughter has done. She has caused both of us undo concern. I would like to make it up to you, my name is Don.”

Penny opened her mouth to respond but found that she was tongue-tied. In the doorway of her home was the man she had been dreaming about. She would have to say something witty and intelligent, but for the moment her mind was a blank.

“Oh geez did I disturb you? The boss won’t like ya sleeping on the job! Look a bunch of us are going over to the pub after work, it’s been a rough day. Why don’t you join us? Nobody hands out candy anymore, the kids all go to each other’s homes for parties; parents are too afraid of serial rapists and poisoned candy. Penny are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! If you want to come to the pub we’re leaving in twenty minutes.

Penny blinked her eyes repeatedly. She was still at her desk, she was still filing and she was still single. Trick-or-treat?



I want to be an ‘ism’!


dec 2012 006


Think about it. ‘Isms’ have thousands if not millions who believe in them. Everyone knows at least a couple of witticisms. Some people believe them so much they live their life according to their wisdom. Volunteerism is regarded throughout the world as one of the better things human beings do. Millions of people love ventriloquism and so many are very much into vegetarianism.

There is tourism and synergism, survivalism and cannibalism. Oh, wait, not that one! Here’s a good one:   heroism! Yes, that’s better. Whew! How about absurdism or activism? Altruism and realism. Yes I want to be an ‘ism’. My daily quips could become Qu-isms! Isn’t that kind of cool? Cosmopolitanism or Cubism, eroticism, antidisestablishmentarianism. Now that’s a mouthful!

While I was wandering around looking up ideas for ‘ism’ I discovered that there are a lot of fun silly words that use that suffix. I also discovered some not nice even heinous, horrible words. Like plagiarism or narcissism or racism and terrorism. These are definitely words I do not want to have any contact with. As horrible as these issues are we must never dismissed them. They are part of our everyday lives. We must work within ourselves and in our communities to eradicate the negative isms. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop having a little fun. So I still think I want to be an ‘ism’. Wouldn’t you?

A Simple Wooden Spoon


I decided that I was in the mood for some homemade soup. One of my favourites is potato and bacon. Usually the kind of thing you want on a cold snowy day but I had a hankering for it.

As usual I got out my soup pot as well as the ingredients and utensils I would need. And then I stopped. In my hand was a wooden spoon. It wasn’t just any wooden spoon. This particular utensil had been a part of my life for close to 50 years. That was amazing!

When I was a child I was wilful and disobedient. I had one hell of a childhood! The corporal punishment usually inflicted was a few whacks of the wooden spoon across my buttocks. I’m afraid my backside and that piece of wood got together way too often. But I grew into a responsible adult so maybe it wasn’t all bad.

It often amazes me how we constantly reminisce about a time in our lives that is long past. There’re those who say the past should stay in the past. I don’t think that’s possible. We are the people we are today because of the actions that were taken before. The people that we met, the activities we engaged in, the failures we had. All of these things contributed to the person we have become.

What is it about who you are today that you like, love and hate. Nothing in this world is perfect and yet our memories often show us a past that seems to have been perfect. When I remember my childhood, I remember the good bits. I remember the love. I remember the support. I remember the laughter. There was a lot of laughter. I know my life wasn’t perfect. Isn’t perfect now. But I hope I will always remember easily the love and the laughter that is and was perfect.

I don’t want to forget the bad bits nor do I want to dwell on them. I was called names and beat up for simply being different. But that taught me tolerance and understanding. We are all different in someway. We should embrace that, celebrate that. I had spectacular failures and I had outstanding successes. I learned from all of my experiences and I am a better person for it.

Oh and that recipe for the potato soup? In case you’re interested:

Potato soup

One bag frozen hashbrowns

One can Cream of mushroom soup

4-6 cups chicken stock

1 cup cheese

One cup bacon bits


Put the potatoes in the crockpot. Add in the chicken broth, cream of chicken soup and half of the bacon bits. Add a pinch of salt and pepper.
Cook on low for 8 hours or until potatoes are tender.

Top with cheddar cheese and some additional bacon bits.

Personal bits:


I do this on top of my stove. I use extra old white cheddar cheese. I occasionally add leftover chicken bits. The amount of chicken stock you use denotes the consistency of the soup. I like my soup rather thick so I use less stock.


I hope you enjoy!