I have sad news. Lucinda has died. But before you break out the tissues, not to mention the thoughts and prayers,  I have to come clean and admit that Lucinda was a tomato plant; two tomato plants if we’re being precise but all one to me. Let’s back-peddle for a moment.

Lucinda was seeded during June 2019. Yes, very late for the season but I had a lot of work on and procrastination is my middle name. She took her own sweet time about germinating and didn’t put in a plant-like appearance until the end of August, when everything else on the balcony was ending its run. Perhaps she didn’t like the competition or the winds that sweep around our third floor apartment but she was spindly and stubborn, and growth was slow. Her first fruit appeared in early October, when I had given up hope of there ever being any and, given imminent Canadian frost, feared for her survival. As November loomed, I gave up and moved her inside, parking her beside the glass balcony door. She loved this new location and immediately grew up the bookcase behind her, flopping over at the top when she reached the ceiling.

Lucinda was a cherry tomato plant and she fruited abundantly all through the winter of 2019/20. As news of the gathering pandemic grew, she cheered us up with her bright baubles of juicy delishness. We went into lockdown a year ago this weekend. While trapped indoors for most of the six weeks, my first stop on my morning trip to the kitchen was to greet Lucinda, touch her leaves and make sure she was comfortable. In the true spirit of give and take, during those dark and dreary times, she would offer up another tiny tomato every few days.

Someone asked me the other day if I had any hobbies and I had to stop and think. As a child, I collected stamps and autographs and wrote letters and learned to knit and so,       I suppose, those would have been my hobbies. As a young adult, I still wrote letters, augmenting them with plays and a novel, while also indulging in teenaged shopping therapy. My knitting got quite complicated and then, into adulthood, it became my work.  A friend and I opened a designer knitwear studio on Yonge Street in Toronto and our hobby became our every waking moment. Five years later, struggling through a recession, the business closed and I was more than ready to never look at another knitting needle again. Those were dark days. I couldn’t afford shopping therapy and so turned back to the cheaper option, writing.

Jooin.com

I am still writing. I have managed to churn out a few novels and picture books in the intervening years and there are those who, judging by my spectacular lack of a publishing deal, would still consider writing as my hobby. True, I have to work two jobs for a living which means that writing is often relegated to the minutes between waking and shower, or supper and bed but I take it too seriously to consider it a hobby.

I do have one guilty pleasure (apart from reading the products of other people’s publishing contracts). I love antique picking. Show me a flea market or an auction and I am in heaven. Now it has to be said that Nova Scotia is a picker’s paradise. To begin with, there is a chain of thrift stores called Frenchy’s that have become a Nova Scotian institution. Shoppers come from all over North America to go ‘Frenching’. There are even bus tours. These are great barns of places with massive tables piled high with goodies brought in from the States. The diehard bargain hunter checks them out systematically every week,  hitting stores all over the province on their travels. They clothe their families there; find seasonal gifts; home decor and yes even books. Who needs Walmart, we certainly don’t.

Guy’s Frenchy’s

The Frenchy’s are closely followed in thrifting importance by the charity shops; there’s one in every town. And a visit to the other side of the province always has to include casing the charity shops as well.

Summer is yard sale and flea market season. They are rarely advertised. The routine is you jump in your car and troll the area as far as your gas tank will take you. On any sunny weekend from May to October, you are bound to find bargains to your heart’s delight.

In the Spring and the Fall another Nova Scotia institution hits the curbsides. Twice a year the various counties run extra garbage pick-ups for larger items. All manner of wonderous things are left at the side of the road and are fair game for anyone passing by. Traffic slows to a crawl as rubberneckers attempt to assess each pile for buried treasure; they drive well into the night, armed with flashlights and trucks hoping to find something of extraordinary value.

As a diehard picker, I have indulged in all of these pursuits and my heart beats faster as soon as I clap eyes on an item with potential. Will this be the motherlode? The ultimate score? As the sap is rising and the snow receding I’ll feel the familiar itch to be back on the road. Spring is in the air, the snow is receding, save up those toonies, it’s time to go picking.

Design Bundles.net

Clo Carey Feb/20

Blog challenge #2020 @southshorepubliclibraries #SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #antiquepicking #hobbies #thriftingNovaScotia #Frenchys

#write28days Feb18

At the beginning of every calendar year, one of my colleagues launches the reading challenge that she has spent the previous months pulling together. Some of these challenges she makes up, some she finds online and some are provided by the winners of the previous year from each of our library branches. Most of her co-workers and some of our patrons grab the sheet listing the 24 challenges as soon as the New Years fuss has died down. We start off with great gusto, picking through the list. Some begin with the easy ones, like “Read a book by one of your favourite authors” or “Read a book with a protagonist who shares your occupation”. Some with their least favourite which, depending on your taste, might be “read a book with a non-human character” or “read a book about politics”.

Tick, tick, the first two are checked off with no trouble at all. It’s January, it’s cold; reading is therapy against grey skies and black dogs. Commitment and determination are brought into play. This challenge will be conquered.

Each participant approaches the challenge differently. Some spend hours carefully researching every category. Some rely on the provided cheat sheet and do no research themselves at all. Some go one further and expect the library staff to amass all the books for them. These are the patrons for whom the annual reading challenge has become a blood sport. They must win at all costs and are damned if time will be wasted finding their own reading materials. Several have also been known to add books that they read for a previous challenge. Subterfuge and skullduggery are often employed. The race is on, and ferocious attempts are made to finish first, with a great deal of fuss to be made.

By now you will be thinking that the prizes for this exciting contest must be phenomenal. They are not. No, it’s the kudos that is sought; the bragging rights and the winning streak to uphold. As such, the competition is fierce and woe betide the library branch that fails to provide the required book at the appointed time!

Yolanda Santamaria/Rad Retro/Pinterest

Continue reading “The Challenge of Reading” →

A couple of evenings ago a market research company called my cell phone. Would I be willing to do a survey on the gambling situation in the province? For once I wasn’t running around like a mad thing chasing my tail. Here would be an excuse to sit down for once, so I agreed.

The survey started in the usual way. Having got the demo/psycho pigeonholing out of the way we progressed to the nitty gritty.

Did I gamble? – Well I buy a lottery ticket about three times a year, does that count?

Was I aware of the…. mega list with everything from dog racing to bingo; scratch cards to casinos that followed? – Yes I was.

Did I indulge in any of the aforementioned list – See first answer.

Did I consider myself a problem gambler? – No I didn’t.

Did I ever lose more than I could afford through gambling? – Well to be honest that $5 on the Max is borderline but probably not what they’re looking for.

Was I aware of the various groups that help gamblers turn their backs on the whole malevolent practice? – Yes I was.

I was happily and somewhat smugly answering “no” to every question when she posed one that stopped me in my tracks –

Was I aware of the level of contribution to the arts, culture and sports of the province that is provided by lottery revenues? – Well, yes I was.

Did I approve of lottery revenues being used in that way – And there you have it. What to answer? Did I or did I not. Continue reading “WINNER” →

I’ve never paid much attention to my eyebrows. Oh back in the day when I spent the required teenage hours in front of a mirror, I did pluck and shape them into symmetrical arcs leaving a smooth canvas for the application of lashings of highlighting white eye shadow. Otherwise, for the most part my brows behaved impeccably. They were dark; so never needed the application of a darkening agent. They were fulsome; so thickeners need not apply. They were the perfect wash and wear pair and all through the I-can-barely-drag-a-comb-through-my-hair-I’m-so-tired baby-raising years, I paid them no attention at all. As time went by, I would drag out the tweezers for special occasions but never had a great deal of weeding to do. By this time my beauty regime had been reduced to a daily shower, with visits to a clip joint to tame shaggy locks as infrequently as possible.

Then came the day I decided I was selling myself short by never succumbing to an upmarket salon. I booked myself in and prepared to be pampered. Highlights were recommended by my stylist du jour and my hair pronounced “challenging”; a special formula was devised and much mixing and inflating of the price followed. Did I want my eyebrows coloured to match – no, I did not. It was after the big style reveal that closer inspection of the brows came into play. There was a shocked silence and then minutes of tsking and tutting. Did I ever trim my eyebrows – no, I did not. I hadn’t even noticed their existence in months. Another shocked silence followed. I had obviously failed womanhood 101 and would be sent home with a failing grade. How could I be such a failure; it had never even occurred to me to trim the brows.  Stylist du jour clattered about in her box of surgical instruments, selecting and rejecting several pairs of scissors before gritting her teeth and settling in to the monumental task of taming the tangled masses.

Over the coming weeks I kept an eagle eye on the offending brows. Were they really so awful? Well yes, it seemed they were. They had, while left to their own devices, become downright errant in their ways. There were those who had some kind of longevity contest going on. Others had decided to grow straight out instead of hugging the brow line in a neat and orderly fashion. Still more had developed a curious kink and one or two, horror of horrors, had taken it upon themselves to change colour!

It’s true with the coming of what we might call ‘vintage years’, I do expect changes: The lumbago to play up, the Zimmer frame parking to be reserved, the prescription drugs to proliferate. I am stoically prepared for my hair to thin, my boobs to droop and my mental faculties to play hide and seek but eyebrows in open revolt were another matter altogether. To do so before I have come within spitting distance of my declining years is downright treasonous. My time is running out and minutes are wasted weekly as I make the necessary inspection and tackle the required pruning.  While everything else will be grinding to a halt, I suppose I should rejoice that my eyebrows did not get the memo but the situation raises serious concerns for the future. Will I end my years a disgrace to the human race, hiding my demented face behind herbaceous facial hair? Will there be anyone designated to tend the sullen brows?  Or must I add a care and tending of the eyebrows codicil to my living will? Bleak times indeed!

Photo credit 1 – Drew Graham on Unsplash

Photo credit 2 – Unknown

Clo Carey 12/18 What Is It With Eyebrows

#eyebrows #aging #facialhair

To my mind, it already does. That’s right; you’ll never find me pitching my tent in the margarine camp. I will never use “You can Tell It’s Not Butter” when cooking scrambled eggs or baking cinnamon buns. I even like butter with my peanut butter and if that’s not diehard fan, what is? To be fair, I have given the opposition a fair shake. I have tested the relative merits of avocado versus olive oil margarine (can’t tell the difference) and just to be perverse, prefer mayo on my baked potatoes but welcoming any butter substitute into my life on a long term basis is just not going to happen. My debate is more along the lines of which butter rules them all.

I grew up in Ireland, well versed in and fattened by the outstanding grass fed butter that is, as far as I’m concerned, the Holy Grail of butter. Canadian butter, while tasty, is but a pale shadow in comparison and, rumour has it, also contains its fair share of antibiotics and other unmentionables. American butter, subject to different regulations, is supposedly even worse.

What is the real difference? Grass as opposed to grain feeding. You know those fifty shades of green that represent the fields of Eire, well they add up to create one heck of a cow. One heck of a cow produces a European-style butter with a higher butterfat content which translates into stronger flavoured, richer and creamier butter. Richer and creamier can’t be all bad, now can it?

Except from certain stand points, and I’m not talking arteries here, it can. The doyenne of Irish butter is Kerrygold and as a result of curmudgeonly Canadian dairy farmers and an aggressive dairy marketing board, it is not available in Canada. While it is possible to bribe friends to smuggle it across the border, a quick check on Amazon reveals that it retails for $35 a pound plus shipping and is currently out of stock. It’s also true that a trip down south to purchase it cheaper will end up costing a whole lot more than the already over blown $35. As a result, richer and creamier butter no longer lives on my fridge shelves.

Don’t get me wrong. I support Canadian dairy farmers despite their blockage of my favourite butter. I don’t take it personally that their marketing board charges more for milk in impoverished but dairy-rich Nova Scotia than they do in wealthy Beef Rules Alberta. They charge what the market will bear, the local rep informs me, happily cheating milk buying Nova Scotians out of every last dime. For that reason I am not a supporter of NAFTA, believing that any trade deal signed with the US screws Canada sideways but this time around, with negotiations having handed the dairy farmers another bum deal, I can’t help hoping that the borders will be opened a crack wider. Is it possible that the occasional block of Kerrygold richer and creamier butter will filter through and rule my world again? Sure do hope so.

Clo Carey 09/11/18

Photo credit: Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

blog challenge South Shore Scribes NS @www.emilybowers.ca @http://chasscribbless.blogspot.com @ https://contentinretirement.blogspot.com @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626/ #butter #Kerrygold #IrishButter