I Read, I Write, I Learn, I Think (A Typical Day)

Now that I’m retired. Now that I live alone. Now that my time is my own. Now that I am almost 74 years old, my daily life has a regular slow pattern.

I wake up and begin my morning routine. I visit the washroom. I make my bed. I make a pot of coffee. I go to the computer and begin.

I read, I write, I learn, I think.

I read. I read it all. The good, the bad, the ugly. Although I can only take so much of the bad as it overwhelms me. Then I seek the good, flood my eyes and mind with wholesome, inspiring, beautiful messages to drown out the darkness. I read the news, I read human interest stories, nature stories, travel tales. I read poetry and prose and short stories, and read about fashion, writing, psychology, art, music, dance. I read about gardening and cooking, birds and children. When I’m done with the computer and the Internet messages, I curl up with my latest book in hand and disappear into another world of words.

I write. I write to friends, emails and Facebook entries. It’s important to stay connected and communicating. I let friends and family know they are important to me. I write ideas in my journal so I won’t forget them. Although I rarely reread them. Sometimes I am deeply inspired and I will create my own words, my own thoughts, like a waterfall pouring out on paper or on my computer screen. When that happens, I will work relentlessly, holding off on coffee or breakfast so that the Muse isn’t interrupted. I can tell when it’s finished its monologue and I can finally listen to my growling stomach or finally wet my dry mouth.  Sometimes I have a goal, I am a very goal-oriented person, and I will work relentlessly on my project, until the idea is complete and on the page. Don’t interrupt me with a phone call when the writing is flowing.

I learn. I am aware that I learn best by listening or reading and then transferring my thoughts to paper through my own keyboard or pen.  As if the repetition of the moving words imprint more deeply upon my brain cells, fire along the neuron pathways and embed their message into my body and soul, where they will last. Words are important to me but so are visuals. Beautiful photos. Art work. Colour, details, creative expressions, speak as powerfully as words to me. That’s why I love photography, my own as well as others. Photos are a way of stopping, examining, listening, seeing the world close-up and suspended in time. Some capture beauty. Some tell a story. Some pare the world down to its most important details. Some make me laugh. Some bring tears to my eyes. The best say Stop and look with me. Linger a while. Do you see it too?

I think. I fill myself up with ideas and information and then sit quietly and contemplate their meaning and place in my life. I dream, make connections, wander through memories, and make new links of knowledge in my brain.

Every day, I talk. One of my three daughters often calls me, Maegan on her long drive to her next client, Brittany during her solo walk to work along Toronto streets. Lara less often, but when she finds a quiet moment at home or in her car. Sometimes I will hear from Maegan more than once a day. I think I help her long drives to go a little faster. Harold phones me every night at 9:30 p.m. and we usually talk for at least ½ hour.

I socialize. Visits with my best friend Sandy, monthly lunches with my retired RR Alumni teacher friends, my Writing Your Life Story group, my Photo Club. I see Harold for three days of the week, either at his home in Orangeville, or mine in Guelph. I visit with my daughters and families whenever I can, at least once a month. That isn’t always easy as Brittany lives in Toronto, Maegan north of Barrie, and Lara in Orangeville. We always celebrate holidays with family, both mine and Harold’s.

During afternoons, I will continue with a new book or a new writing project if I have one on the go.Otherwise, I will do household chores, both inside or out. I grab my camera and take some photos. I go shopping. I plan meals. I love to cook, trying out new recipes or creating my own by checking “What’s in the Fridge or Pantry.”

Evening hours are spent in front of the TV which is purposely put in my rec’ room in the basement. I usually only watch evening programs; the news, game shows, American Idol, America’s Got Talent, The Voice, Dancing With the Stars, documentaries or movies. Oh, and Grey’s Anatomy. Can’t miss that. I love a good variety of movies, both old and new, comedies and romance, science fiction and action films.

By 11 p.m. I’m usually ready for bed.

I love being retired. I love having me time to do whatever I wish. I love having solitary, quiet time at home. To break my daily routine, I do enjoy gardening, camping, fishing, canoeing, volunteering at the annual Hillside Music Festival, road trips, and international travel.

Life is good.

A ‘Flight’ful Family Day

Yesterday we celebrated “Family Day” in Ontario, Canada. Most of my family were able to get together. I made a “Flight” lunch for them with three different soups, and a variety of grilled cheese sandwiches.

Lunch started with an appetizer tray of bocconcini cheese balls served with spears of cherry tomatoes, small dill pickles, olives, and pickled garlic cloves, with an array of crackers.

Soups were Caribbean Mushroom Soup with Rice and Peas, Tortilla Soup, and a home-made Vegetable Soup. The grilled cheese sandwiches were made with three different cheeses: Cheddar, Mozzarella, and Boursin Scallions & Chives Cream Cheese, topped with bacon, ham, and/or fresh sliced tomatoes.

We ended the meal with a two-tier tray of sliced watermelon, canary melon, fresh grapes, and an assortment of cookies, brownies, chocolates, and candies.

After lunch we had a fun time at the local bowling alley. What better way to enjoy each other’s company than through a home-cooked meal and a family outing.

AI Overview

“In the food world, a flight is a curated selection of three or more small-portioned, themed food or beverage items served together for tasting and comparison.

“Flights are designed to spark curiosity, offer variety, and provide an interactive, experiential dining experience. They cater to “adventurous eaters” who want to try multiple items at once.”

Back on Track

This morning I am awakened out of a deep dreaming state by my daughter’s regular phone call. She calls me on her way to work as she walks the 15 minute distance. She tells me there is a pile of snow out there. I go and open my bedroom blind and, wow, she is right. It is the most snow in one fall that I have seen all winter. Oh no. A huge amount of snow shovelling to do. I’m supposed to go to my writing group meeting and my sister and I are to meet for dinner in the late afternoon out of town at the Hungarian Club, then she is to return to my home for an overnight visit. I don’t think that will happen.

I go to my computer to do my morning scroll and my friend from Australia had sent me some very vile and disheartening videos with American men degrading women and their place in leadership. All this to emphasize our discussion before I went to bed of Renee Good and her hideous murder. I went to bed with the words “Fucking bitch” in my head. Thank God, it didn’t transfer to my dreams. But here it is again this morning.

Snow, cancellations, war, Gaza, suffering. I haven’t even had coffee and I’m all shook up. Too much bad news and not enough good. Too many tears and not enough laughter.

I keep scrolling and soon enough I have my favourite sites coming up. The ones that make me laugh, the ones of beautiful photography, the ones with inspirational words and soothing music. More new recipes. More cute children. More words of wisdom. More positives.

I’m getting back on track. I finish my first cup of coffee and begin to review my Facebook Memories, a morning ritual where I review some of my postings from the past. What was I was saying and thinking on January 15, 2025, and then January 15, 2024, 2023, and so on? Positive after positive words of inspiration come up again and again. Oh, how I need that this morning. 

January 15, 2025 – “We all have dreams, but do we have the courage to live those dreams?

I remember a friend telling me she was too fearful to ask for love in her life because she was so afraid that if she got it, it would be ripped out of her life like a tablecloth being ripped off a table pulling all the fancy china with it. She was so afraid of achieving her dream because she was already anticipating the pain of losing it.

I told her that maybe, just maybe, the dishes will remain solidly on the table. That’s what makes it “the magical tablecloth trick.” If we never take the gamble, we will never get to experience the joy of living our dreams.

It doesn’t matter what the dream is. Maybe you desire a fancy car but won’t get it because you’re afraid it will get scratched in the parking lot or stolen. Perhaps you desire a child but can’t stomach the thought of losing that child while they are still young. Or maybe you have a dream to travel but won’t because you’re afraid you’ll get pick-pocketed or catch some horrible disease if you do. Maybe you want a better job but you don’t believe you’re capable of handling it.

Just dream. And start stepping towards the fulfillment of that dream. Believing it will come true and all will be well takes courage as well as an acceptance that it might not. But how will I ever know unless I take those first steps and begin the journey? BH”

January 15, 2024 – “Misery might love company, but so does joy, and joy throws much better parties.” Quote, Bill Ivey

January 15, 2021 – “Do not be dismayed by the brokenness in the world. All things break. And all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.” Quote, L. R. Knost

January 15, 2020 – “Teach me how to trust my heart, my mind, my intuition, my inner knowing, the senses of my body, the blessings of my spirit. Teach me to trust these things so that I may enter my sacred space, and love beyond my fear and thus walk in balance with the passing of each glorious sun.” Quote, Lakota Prayer

I learn these lessons best through conscious dance — a free way of moving that drops me directly into my body, releases my mind to a stream-of-consciousness flow, and ignites my spirit. Conscious dance teaches me full embodiment so that the lessons I learn on the dance floor go with me into my daily life. Conscious dance helps me to be a better person.

January 15, 2018 – “Beauty is quietly woven through our ordinary days . . . Everywhere there is tenderness, care, and kindness, there is beauty. “ Quote, John Donahue

January 15, 2015 — The Storytellers by Barbara Heagy

Reading good books inspires me. We need to tell our stories, they connect us, as we share the tapestry of our lives.

In more ancient cultures the oral story-tellers were held in esteem as they were the reservoirs of life tales. They ensured the tales of long ago were passed on to future generations, and not just for entertainment. The stories were told so that we would never forget, so that one’s memory could live on through future generations. They were told so that we could learn from the past. Stories helped others understand who they were and where they came from.

The oral story-tellers in our modern day culture exist now in bars where tales are told over foaming pints of beer, around campfires, dinner tables, and steaming cups of latte in the local coffee shop. We have become a world of printed words and pictures. Electronic media connects us and these are the new ways our stories are passed on in busy lives. Readers sit behind worn paperback books, computer screens, glowing Kindles and Smartphones. Facebook, Hotmail, Youtube and Instagram ensure we continue to share our lives with each other. We still love our stories. We still need the stories. Now we need the writers, the photographers, and the film-makers to be the tellers of the tales and, with technology, we all have the potential to be the story-teller.

Past or present, we are all human, we are all the same – we live, we breathe, we smile, we wipe tears from our children’s faces. We share joy and suffering, the strong look after the weak, we bury our dead as we, too, will be buried someday. Stories satisfy our desire to stay connected, for when our stories end, we end. Stories are as important for us now as they were a way back then.”

May my stories continue to lift others up as their stories lift me. Thank you for the story tellers.

And now, now it’s time for brunch. I’m back on track!

Stone Cold

Tom, my husband of only four years, a second marriage, passed away on December 11, 2010, lung cancer claiming his life. This piece of prose is written in his memory, fifteen years after his death.

Stone Cold by Barbara Heagy

The first snow of winter
Has left the ground frozen and white.
Your memory sits by the back door,
Stone cold,
In a small garden where a tiny purple crocus
Comes up every spring without fail.

You wanted to be cremated,
Your ashes spread in Little Cove,
The pure waters of Georgian Bay
Where you had spent many a beloved summer
In God’s country, as you called it.

And so, in a summer after you passed
I took those snowy ashes to your favourite shore.
We made small paper origami boats,
Filled them with a single white candle
And a sprinkle of you
And set them free into the bay.

I waded out toward the waves,
The rest of those powdered ashes
Were poured into the cold waters
Where they sank to the bottom of the rocky bed.

One of those stones became your headstone
With a simple one word epitaph
TOM

And now your memory sits by the back door,
Stone Cold,
In a small garden where a tiny purple crocus
Comes up every spring without fail,
Brought back to life by spring suns and warm tears.

Bee Time

I finished my latest book ” Bee Time – Lessons From the Hive” by Mark L. Winston. It’s a fascinating read, written in lyrical prose, celebrating the many roles and gifts bees offer us through the eyes of a variety of disciplines: art, science, agriculture, environment, business, urban planning, nature, philosophy, religion and spiritual growth. Bees have many lessons to teach us.

I offer this poem and photo as a gift to Mark L Winston for his enlightening read and love of bees.

“Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt – marvelous error! —
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.”

~Antonio Machado

It’s a Black and White Day

I wake today in gloom. The cloudy skies are keeping the sun at bay and the rain is dripping from barren branches of autumn and soaking through the fallen leaves now covering my resting garden.

It’s been a difficult week and I have been away from my own bed and quiet home for almost two weeks now. I have been in and out, repacking my suitcase and rushing off to help family, fulfill obligations and responsibilities, doing for others, my focus outwards.

Today, I am home. But the events of the week still reside within me. We have faced death this week with a beloved family member. He wanted to live but was unable to continue. It was time to disconnect.

I feel a disconnection in my own life. Home is somewhere where I used to live. I need to spend more time here. To feel like I belong here. To remember its beauty. To savour the pockets of comfort where I used to reside. To linger. To connect once again with the beloved creations of who I used to be. To love it again.

And so, on this dreary day, I take my camera in hand, turn out the lights, and let the limited natural light of this cloudy day seep in through the windows and doorways.

I sit, quietly and consciously observing the interplay of light and shadow throughout the room. I recognize and connect to the darkness which co-exists with the light. It mirrors my emotions today. I too am dark, melancholy but want to recognize and remember light-filled days. The brightness is still there. I need to look for it.

I give time to remind myself of the joy I had in creating and arranging small areas filled with memories. Once again I search for the spaces of delight that once illuminated my life. They are still there. And today I have the time to appreciate and cherish them. I focus, I remember, and I snap a photo. I snap another one as I move from room to room.

I am taking an online course called Photography and Mindfulness, 10 lessons that arrive every Tuesday and Friday. I have completed five of them and they are teaching me to slow down, use my senses, change my perspective, observe with curiosity and not judgement. I am learning to accept these dark emotions, give them space. They don’t need to leave. Dark and light co-exist together. They complement each other. Yin and Yang. A balance. I am learning to allow the darkness to just be and let my own light gently illuminate it. And that perspective is reflected in my photos.

I shoot them in black and white, recognizing that the black is as important as the white. Shadows cannot exist without light. Light cannot exist without shadows. They are a duality. Their borders touch and interplay with each other. The bright dried hydrangeas from the garden, sit side-by-side with my Korean print in its muted tones, the blurred framed photo of my brothers and sister in the background. It’s slightly out-of-focus as is my memory of my deceased brother Ping. Light spills in from the front door, illuminating the hall, creating shadows along the edges of the angled walls and staircase.  Texture and tones are accented on the carved vase, the feathered grasses, the struggling spider plant, and the carved wooden bird on my bedroom side table as light and dark play among them.

Sitting with these memories brings back the joys and the pains of my past. I have been in this house now for twenty years and there have been many light-filled days as well as the burdensome weight of dark days too. There has been life and death, celebrations and failures, hopes and disappointments. I have cursed them at times but I accept and am grateful for them. I reside with them all. They live within me.

I am my home. This is where I live and belong.

Taking Secrets to the Grave – Recipes Revealed

We all know cooks who have a secret recipe that they will just not reveal to their doting fans. Kentucky Fried Chicken is perhaps the most famous for its secret “11 herbs and spice” recipe. Some recipes are kept secret for commercial reasons: professional chefs who have signature dishes, corporations who will not reveal all the ingredients in their marketed product, family recipes that want to be kept in the family as part of their traditions and legacy.

Whatever the reason, many cooks go to the grave with their secret recipe still unrevealed. Until now. Author Rosie Grant has released a new cookbook “To Die For — A Cookbook of Gravestone Recipes” with 40 recipes that have been carved into headstones after the passing of the loved one.

Naomi Odessa Miller-Dawson’s “Spritz Cookies”, Dr. Death’s “Ranch” dressing, Kinette Lee DeCota’s “Kim’s Carrot Cake” and “Cream Cheese Frosting” are some of the featured recipes along with stories and photos of their culinary creations, all made with love for their family and friends.

I know myself that my grandmothers died before revealing their recipes that often were not recorded but were passed down traditionally through oral stories, observation and practice. It was one of the reasons I wanted to write my own cookbook “For the Love of Food: Family Edition” so that our favourite dishes through five generations would continue to be passed down through the years. Food was and is a language of love in my family and there is much joy and celebration in the making and eating of our treasured creations. Now I am happy to say that, with my book, we do have a written record of recipes and meals to pass on through the family line.

Check out Rosie Grant’s newly released cookbook as well as my book “For the Love of Food: Family Edition.” They both are a tribute to those who use food as a language of love.

Still Blooming, Still Growing

“One day you will look back and see that all along you were blooming.”
~Morgan Harper Nichols

I’m a little sad to see that fall is making its appearance with cooler temperatures and dying vegetation.

And yet, my garden still blooms.

My petunias have straggles of browned stems but colourful blooms still reach for the warm sun and declare, “We’re not over yet!”

The Morning Glory blossoms are not as prolific as they were, but some flower funnels still glow in brilliant colours, greeting the morning sun.

The Echinacea are no longer in their prime but they still bloom, not yet ready to give up completely.

How like my garden I am. We both are in the fall of our lives. Maybe not as beautiful as we once were, but still blooming, still growing. There is still time to enjoy the day’s gifts and make an offering.

Childhood Summers

Photo by Bill Jobe, Killbear Provincial Park

Summer as a kid for me: it was home-made popsicles made from jugs of Kool-Aid, games of Kick-the-Can with the neighbourhood kids, and bouquets of wildflowers picked from the meadows behind our farmhouse.

It was rolling down a grassy hill like a cast-off log, snapping fresh green and wax beans with mom on the back porch, and running with my dog through fields of long grass.

I remember sleeping on a groundsheet overnight, cuddled up in a warm sleeping bag, lost in the canopy of stars above me.

Oh, that noisy cricket in my bedroom that I could never find.

Fresh-picked corn-on-the-cob drenched in butter was a favourite (still is), as was wading in the creek, toes squishing through gooey, thick, black mud. It was so much fun scooping up tadpoles out of the back swamp and building tree forts with bits of deadfall and scrap lumber.

It was running my bicycle up and down the long gravel laneway leading to our country house. I used to sit for hours gathering the most colourful stones; sparkling quartz, red granite, and  fossilized limestone. I used to put them into old pickle jars full of water to bring out their true colours and beauty and put them on my dresser so I could enjoy them longer.

It was whittling away the end of my wooden stick to a fine sharp point with a penknife so that I could slide my slippery hot dog on to cook over a burning campfire, without splitting the skin and it falling off into the hot coals. There was a knack to that!

When I was ten years old, I remember building a pair of stilts out of extra lumber from the garage and teaching myself how to walk on them. I walked all the way from my house to Tim Horton’s Donut shop, two full blocks away and back, on those homemade wooden stilts.

It was afternoons at the park with my brother and sister, running from swings, to the merry-go-round, to rocking horses, to teeter-totters and back again. I learned to pump my legs back and forth and throw my body weight forward and back to send my swing soaring into the sky to greet the clouds, then falling into a downward arc back to the earth, hair tossing and flowing, smiles and giggles glowing. The teeter-totter was tricky. You had to find the right balance with your partner or you might find yourself stuck at the top, them chortling with glee as they looked up at you from their grounded perch.

It was sandy beaches and shovels and buckets of endless construction. You had to get enough water in the sand so that it would stick well and keep its shape but not too much or it slid out of your bucket in a slippery cascade. It was lapping ripples on your toes or wading waves that knocked you over with their rolling, foaming power. It was swimming underwater and opening your eyes to see sunbeams streaming through the blurred world of water and under you, rippled mini-sandbars formed by the endless swells. Here you weighed nothing and could kick and swim freely; here, gravity was powerless. How long you could hold your breath became a challenge so you could stay in that underwater world as long as possible.

It was camping holidays in the old tent trailer, the fresh damp smell of aged canvas and the sound of falling pine needles leaving their shadowed silhouettes on the roof. It was being first up and opening the trailer door and catching the early glow of twilight before night finally gives up its ghost and the morning sun claims the day. For a moment, that magical moment, the world is silent, holding its breath before it all begins.

It was rubber balls, and skipping ropes, and baseballs and bats. My favourite game involved an Indian rubber ball in an old stocking, and I chanted as I bounced that ball off the outside brick wall of my family home: “Hello, hello, hello, sir. Are you coming out, sir? Yes, sir. No, sir. Why, sir? Because I have a cold, sir. Where’d you catch the cold, sir? At the North Pole, sir. What you doing there, sir? Catching polar bears, sir. How many did you catch, sir? One, sir. Two, sir. Three, sir. Four, sir. Five, sir. Six, sir. Seven, sir. Eight, sir. Nine, sir. Ten, sir. That’s enough for me, sir.”

It was buzzing bees and a hornet’s nest high in the tree. It was sprouting mushrooms in the forest, smelling earthy and moist. It was slices of watermelon, juices dripping down my chin, seeds spitting out of my mouth.

It was chasing butterflies through fields of yellow buttercups and white feathered Queen Anne’s Lace while leaping grasshoppers bounded out of my way.   

It was rainbow colours arcing across the sky after a cooling rain on a hot, steamy summer day. At night, it was the patter of raindrops on my grandparent’s aluminum siding farmhouse roof, lulling me to sleep.

Most of all, it was lying back on warm rocks, the hot sun melting my body into a pool of calm. That’s still my favourite. When the doctor says, “Go to your happy place,” that’s where I go. Those hot flat rocks at Killbear Park.

Oh, what a delight summer was. And still is.

Summer Day Trip #2 – Mennonite Farms & Charm

One of my goals this summer is to take day trips or mini road trips to explore spots in Ontario that are new to me. There is so much to see in our beautiful province. Mennonite country with its spreading farmlands and unique culture in south-western Ontario was our destination today.

Summer Day Trip #2 – Mennonite Farms & Charm – SW Ontario

After packing a light snack and drinks, Harold and I headed out for Conestoga Lake Conservation Area in southwestern Ontario for a few hours of fishing and swimming. It was a beautiful drive through rural farmland and small villages with names such as Dorking, Hollen, and Salem. This is Mennonite and Old Order Amish country and it’s common to see the occasional horse and buggy driving along the side of the road with a family dressed in traditional clothing; the men and boys in long pants and suspenders, plain shirts, and broad-brimmed hats; the women and girls in long-sleeved, high-necked dresses, and head coverings such as bonnets or caps. Most often they were in dark clothes, but sometimes we were surprised to see bold purples and other bright colours or prints or even lacy head dresses.

We drove through farm after farm of fields of waving wheat, grazing horses, and corn reaching for the sun, dotted by the occasional small village with its local stores and churches.  It must have been wash day as many of the spreading farm houses had long strings of clean laundry hanging out to dry on this windy day. Many of them had their own tidy flower and vegetable gardens, some with a small table or booth at the end of the driveway selling fresh blooms, strawberries, or even pop for the thirsty traveler.

Conestoga Lake Conservation Area has camping, fishing and swimming areas. It was easy on this weekday afternoon to find an empty picnic table under a shady tree on the shoreline where we could easily cast our fishing lines into the water. As usual, we didn’t catch any fish but our lures got a good soaking, and we enjoyed ourselves for several hours watching fisher folk, boaters, wind surfers and others enjoying the lake on this overcast day with its cooling wind.

By late afternoon, we packed up and headed out for supper. Our destination was Anna Mae’s Bakery & Restaurant, a very popular eatery in the village of Millbank, known for its wholesome, made-from-scratch Mennonite fare and delicious home-baked pies. We were surprised at the busy parking lot considering it was a Monday evening but we had no trouble in getting a table in their large restaurant with its side rooms.

The menu is simple and varies day-to-day, with a short list of meat options depending on the day of the week. This Monday, the Hot Meal offered was the choice of Broasted Chicken (my choice), Farmer’s Sausage, or Roast Chicken and Dressing (Harold’s choice), with a side option of fries, mashed potatoes, or potato salad, and an offer of carrots, corn, or coleslaw. I ordered the soup-of-the-day, a creamy Potato & Ham, and fresh strawberry pie with a good dollop of fresh whipped cream. The servings are generous. I brought home enough chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy for another meal. Harold’s regular meal cost him $16.99; my Full Meal Deal with soup and dessert cost me $24.95.

After dinner, we bought some goodies from the gift shop. I came home with a large stick of smoked salami, a fresh-baked Dutch Apple Pie and a pretty birthday gift for my granddaughter.

Returning home, we criss-crossed rural routes with mixed farms and small villages until, once again, we were back in our own region and its more urban setting.

What a wonderful day we had! I am enjoying these short day-trips and the surprises they offer. I look forward to the next one.