Monday, June 28, 2010

Signs of Summer

During my childhood, certain happenings signaled the start of summer. My father – a teacher – would start to sing, “The 25th of June. It cannot come too soon.” Our charcoal barbecue would make its way out of the shed to its summer home near the picnic table. And my mother would take us to Hiltz’s Shoe Store to buy summer sandals.

The store may have carried a full range of sandals, but my mother consistently steered us to the practical, comfortable and sturdy double-buckle sandal made by Savage. We were given a choice: navy or tan (after all, white would only show the dirt and any other colour would be impractical). Summer after summer, we returned to Hiltz’s to buy the exact same sandals – next size up.

While I envied my friends whose parents bought them less practical and more fashionable sandals, the routine was oddly satisfying. I’d slide my foot into the metal shoe measure and wait for the “shoe lady” or “shoe man” to announce my size (there was something gratifying about knowing I’d graduated a shoe size).

Once I’d been fitted and the sandals paid for, the clerk would inevitably ask, “Do you want to wear your new sandals home?” The answer was always yes, old shoes thrown into a bag in favour of fresh, albeit practical, sandals.

Those sandals, in all their practicality, withstood the tests of summer - water fights, soccer baseball games, endless rounds of hide-and-seek and trips to the beach. At summer's end, when the trendy sandals of my friends had likely been relegated to the trash, mine stood strong, never even betraying the dirt of their many adventures.

The signs of summer have changed since then. My dad, 20 years retired, has also long since retired his end-of-the-school-year song (although could likely be convinced to bring it back for the grandkids). Charcoal barbecues are a rarity, having moved over for propane. And sandal shopping at Hiltz's Shoe Store is a distant and fond memory.

Still, something about the newness and promise of summer always remains the same. Come to think of it, I could use a new pair of sandals. Maybe something sturdy and practical - in navy or tan.


Monday, June 21, 2010

"With Discipline Comes Freedom"

“With discipline comes freedom.” I believe Jane Fonda is the originator of these words (I’m not sure if she was referring to aerobics, acting or life). Recognizing the truth of the quote, I shared it with my colleagues a few years ago (giving due credit to Jane). Since that time, I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard someone say, “As Margaret says, ‘With discipline comes freedom.’” In spite of my frequent insistence that the words are not mine, people persist in giving me credit. Sorry, Jane.

The fact that anyone would attribute this particular quote to me is ironic at best. Discipline has never been my forté. I am challenged to complete tasks with any breathing room before a deadline (although I consistently meet deadlines, provided they are imposed by others). I am chronically late for appointments by five to ten minutes, always misjudging time in spite of its scientific predictability. And few have ever described me as "orderly", although I support the credo “a place for everything and everything in its place," at least in theory.

When I first started to blog, I asked friends, “How often should a blogger blog?” The answer came back definitively: “It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re consistent.” Hmmmmm…consistent, eh? This could be tricky.

I ignored their words of wisdom, opting instead to blog when I had the time and inclination. Lottery winners are less random. In the past year, I have written 14 blog posts. That’s about one a month, although my schedule is far closer to: Blog today. Skip a month. Blog two days in a row. Skip six weeks.

On the first anniversary of my blog, Jane’s words came back to me like an unrelenting mosquito. “With discipline comes freedom.”

Writers write and bloggers blog – or so I hear. Stephen King is known to spend hours each day writing, not allowing himself the freedom to do other things until he has completed the requisite number of pages (It would seem it’s working for him). In that spirit, I’ve decided to adopt greater discipline as a blogger. Today is the start of my weekly blog – Monday Musings by Margaret. Hold me to it (but please, be gentle about it).

Oh, and just so you know up front, I do reserve the right to take holidays off. After all, “With flexibility comes balance.” That one's mine. You can quote me.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Your cart or mine?

It happens all the time. I'm sure of it. After all, grocery carts all look the same. Well, except for the stuff inside them, but do people really pay attention to that level of detail at ALL points in their shopping excursion? It's easy to wander off with someone else's cart - almost inevitable, really.

After rolling away from the produce section, I make my way to the natural foods section. I throw in some frozen veggie burgers (they're good, really) and tamari almonds. I look down. Who put the ham in my cart? And the broccoli? And where are my berries? The cherry tomatoes are mine, but the rest of the stuff is unfamiliar. Yikes. Somewhere (probably in produce - the scene of the crime), is a lost soul seeking his or her missing meals-to-be. I return to produce and spot him right away - the man looking frantically around by the tomatoes. "Are you looking for your cart?" I ask. "Yes!" he replies, as relieved as if I'd just recovered his wandering child. I apologize sheepishly and grab my things from his cart - veggie burgers, almonds, cherry tomatoes - and transplant them to my cart, not far away.

I finish my shopping and exit the store quickly before anyone else gets hurt. I return home and unpack my groceries - blueberries, raspberries, cherry tomatoes, cherry tomatoes...Oh dear. Somewhere (probably in his kitchen) a man is making a salad, sans cherry tomatoes. Sorry about that, guy. But really, it could happen to anyone.