Trying to be Helpful

This morning, I drove by the mailbox as the driver was putting the mail into the slots for the houses in my area. A letter carrier was also collecting her bundle of mail from the truck and starting out on her route. As she started up the block, I saw something drop from her hand. From where I sat, it looked like a chain with keys. She didn't seem to notice, so I stopped my car, turned it around in the intersection, pulled over to the side, got out, and . . . no, it wasn't keys at all.

Four elastics. Four wide elastic bands--the kind used to bundle mail together for the carriers.

Hmm. The truth of what had happened dawned on me. Those elastics were not dropped by accident. The carrier unbundled her mail and THREW them on the ground. I picked them up, got back in my car, and continued on my errand run.

Thinking back over this, I wonder now how that letter carrier thought those elastics were going to be useful there in the snow. Or how they would be "recycled" through the layers of pavement once spring came and the snow melted away, to return to the earth from whence they came.

I wonder.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

Solving My Own Problem in an Environmentally Friendly Way

Yesterday, I called the local home renovation centre and asked if they had any reel lawn mowers. “You know,” I said, “the kind without an electric or gasoline motor.”

“Oh,” said the woman on the other end of the line, “you mean you want one with a diesel engine.”

No, actually, what I meant was that I wanted one with no engine at all. I wanted the kind everyone used to have. Mechanical moving parts. A handle, two wheels, and several twisted blades that turned when the wheels turned. The design hasn’t changed much over the last century.

“Let me check and see what we have. It’s kind of late in the season. We might be all sold out.”

After a few minutes, her voice came back on the line. “We have one.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll come down and have a look.”

It was just what I was looking for. The handle and frame were turquoise and the blades were orange. A Gardena brand. Hmm . . . at $289 plus tax, the price seemed a bit steep for the end of the season and no motor. I’d have to think about it.

I called my son-in-law to see if he could stop by on his way home from work and have a look at it. He knows about all things mechanical. He was busy but said that he thought my next-door neighbour used to have a push mower.

“Maybe you could try before you buy," he said. "Just ask. Maybe they’ll let you try theirs out.”

Good advice, as usual. Today, I saw my neighbour out tending her beautiful flowers in her yard, so I took the opportunity and popped over. I explained my situation and she said, “Sure.”

She opened her garden shed and there was . . . the exact same model as the one I had just seen for $289 (plus tax!).

“If you want, I’ll even sell it to you,” she said.

That was music to my ears! Back over to my side of the fence. Up and down in rows not-quite-straight. The grass was actually a bit too long—I had let it go for too many weeks without a trim—and so in some places, the mower didn’t exactly cut, more like just mashed the grass down. But back and forth a few times in the same spot solved the problem. I was out there in the front and back yard for more than an hour. These mowers don’t have a handy bag that catches all the grass, so raking is necessary unless you want to go au naturel and leave the clippings. Because the grass was so long, I decided to rake this time.

I knocked on my neighbour’s door. “The good points are: I can work it, but I’m not crazy about yard work, but it’s good exercise and I can do it myself. I don’t have to fiddle with it to start it or mess around with gasoline. How much do you want for it?”

I held my breath. Any amount less than $289 would sound good to me. She had used it for about six years, she told me, but really, what can go wrong with this type of mower?

“How does fifty dollars sound?”

More music! I had been prepared in my mind for two, three times as much! I was delighted!

“I’ll run to the bank and get you the money right now,” I said.

“Well, take it easy for a bit and cool down,” she said.

I must have been working harder than I thought. My car keys were in my pocket. I opened the garage door. Having conquered the mower, I hauled out my bike. Cheap to run and provides some exercise. Just like my new lawn mower!

Ready and Willing

I'm the kind of person who, if a friend mentions a book that he or she is reading, I'll read it, too, so we can talk about it together. That's always my hope, anyway.

Once I slogged through an 1,100-page biography of American actress Lilian Hellman because a friend said she was reading a biography of Hellman. It didn't quite work out as I thought, though. The book I got from the library was a biography of Hellman, but, unfortunately, it wasn't the same biography as my friend was reading. Imagine being famous enough to have two fat biographies written about you! Anyway, we never did discuss it.

Then there's my Spanish-speaking friend. "I'm reading Robinson Crusoe," she announced one day. "I've already read it in Spanish, but now I'm going to read it in English."

Wanting to encourage her, I said, "That's great! It's been a while since I've read it. I'll read along too and then we can discuss it!"

As this was a relatively non-busy time for me, I whipped through the library copy fairly quickly--a week or less. I was ready to discuss!

"How are you coming along with Crusoe?" I asked one day shortly after that. Well, now that school was back in, it was a relatively very busy time for her as she was taking six courses, and Robinson Crusoe was left on his island by himself. Another book I never discussed!

Now it's summer again, a time for relaxing and, yes, reading the afternoons away. Having abandoned Crusoe, my Spanish-speaking friend is braving Wuthering Heights. This time, I didn't have to run to the public library to get a copy. Right during our Skype conversation, I pulled my own copy off my bookshelf, noting that I had read it during a fourth-year Women and Literature course in the Spring 1996 semester. Fourteen years ago! No wonder the details were foggy!

I promoted it to my bedside table and am making my way across the heath and cliffs. Last MSN conversation I had with my friend, I casually asked, "How are you making out with Wuthering Heights? I'm on page 48."

"Ahhhhhh!" she shrieked. "I haven't even got my copy yet."

Is this another not-to-be-discussed book? I hope not because my copy is a veritable rainbow of highlighting--blue for the supernatural (devil, angels, hell, heaven), yellow for banishment or exile, orange - Nelly, pink - forgiveness, and green for references to the landscape. Such a shame to let all that work go to waste! I'm not sure if the discussions will ever take place, but I'll keep on reading, just in case.

Tonight, I was talking with a friend whom I haven't seen for more than 30 years, but who recently reconnected with me. You guessed it. She mentioned a book she's reading: Why I'm Not a Calvinist. "Ah-ha!" I pounced. "I have the companion volume, Why I'm Not an Arminian. You read yours, and I'll read mine, and then we can talk about them."


Even as I said these words, I was reminded of some verses in James:

Come now, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit"--yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, "If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that" (James 4:13-15).

As a strong believer in the sovereignty of God, I rephrase: "You read yours, and I'll read mine, and then we can talk about them . . . if the Lord wills."

Folly

All over, in many cities and towns across North America, this weekend was a soccer weekend. No, I’m not talking about the FIFA World Cup. It was something on a smaller scale—thousands of kids played in outdoor soccer leagues during May and June, and this weekend was the tournament weekend.

Parents and grandparents ferried their kids and grandkids to the fields, watched them play, cheered them on, and proudly took photos of the kids receiving their medals. For the younger ones, participation is rewarded, with everyone on every team getting the same medal. For the older kids, they are out there hustling for the gold, silver, or bronze!

Such an event takes lots of planning, and I salute those who did such a great job. Coaches, too, deserve a round of applause for dedicating at least two evenings a week for two months to helping the kids develop their skills and encouraging team play.

Of course, with hundreds of kids gathered for hours on end, there need to be “facilities.” And there were. Johnny was On the Spot, and made use of during the day. It was hot; the kids are running hard and drinking lots of water. You see my point.

It being the weekend, however, those companies that supplied the Johnny on the Spot facilities were not available to collect them after the tournament was over on Sunday. I guess workers will arrive on Monday to do that job.

Where is the folly that the title alludes to? Well, this afternoon I saw several young people (teens) do something foolish. They were crossing one of the school yards where the soccer tournament had taken place. On seeing the Johnny on the Spot that was waiting to be removed, they took matters into their own hands and tipped the small grey building over. This was accompanied by pushing, shoving, and lots of laughter. They quickly went on their way and disappeared from the field.

When those teens arrived home, and their parents asked them what they had been doing that afternoon, my guess is that they did not tell their parents about what they had done. Probably their parents would not have been amused.

Neither will the workers who arrive at the field on Monday to pick up their cargo. Johnny is no longer on the spot where it had been installed.

One True Sentence

A friend was staying with me this weekend. She’s a writer, with 16 fiction and non-fiction books to her credit, plus hundreds of articles and short stories, some of which have been anthologized. She teaches writing workshops to school children as well as to adults.

She was telling me that, over the years, she’s had 38 jobs. Some lasted only one day. Her last job lasted for 12 years. Once, she up and quit her job, called up her travel agent, and said she wanted an adventure. She got one: on his advice, she, her husband, and their two daughters left Canada for a year to live in Australia.

She has what I call a “spirit of adventure.” Not only does she do many different things, she mines each experience for the most it can give her. She meets people, talks to them, takes a genuine interest in what they do and in their lives, and then composts all those experiences into fertile soil for her writing.

She’s a great story-teller. Story after story, one leading right to another, the words rush out of her mouth, putting the listener in the middle of the scene. With all her adventures as foundation, she has many tales. Yarns they might have been called in another era. But they’re something more than that. They’re art.

Art? Yes, art. Life happens. Life is messy. It’s the unexpected, the unexplainable, the unpredictable. Life is definitely not art.

Art, on the other hand, is Life Arranged. The medium doesn’t matter. We compose a photograph, moving over slightly to avoid the appearance of a tree branch sticking out of someone’s head. A painter arranges and interprets a scene, adding something here, removing something there to make a harmonious whole. Even a portrait that looks the very likeness of its subject is the result of an artist’s mind and hand working in concert to interpret the face, the posture, the body language, the light, the shadow. A writer, also, arranges: time, events, moods, accidents, coincidences, and a cast of characters to tell the story.

I’ve been inspired! I want to rev up my spirit of adventure. This doesn’t mean I’ll be taking off for Australia any time soon, but I want to soak up all I can from the experiences I have. I want to gather raw material and put it into the composter. I want to remember the details—colours, smells, sounds, faces, postures—so when I tell a story, it’s true.

Even if it’s not exactly the way it happened, it will still be true.

Cheap at Twice the Price!

I received some advertising today from a national (maybe inter- or multinational) company that sells a variety of electronics goods and gadgets. Not being important enough for a cell phone and not owning an iAnything, I don’t often shop at this store, but today, something in the ad caught my eye.

The price wasn’t too high, only $79.95. Oh . . . then I saw the small print: on a 3-yr. term ($399.95 no term). Hmm . . . well, that upped the ante quite a bit, but still not too far out of reach.

The paragraph describing the item was sprinkled with words with the TM (Trade Mark) beside them, words that even my Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary, 11th edition, doesn’t carry. I guessed that DEXT had something to do with text, and MOTOBLUR—this sounded a bit negative to me, as if I wouldn’t want it, but apparently, it must be something excellent as it was mentioned twice in the small paragraph, once preceded by the word Only.

The photo showed what I’ll call a two-layer cell phone, a cell phone with a little sliding tray with a mini-QWERTY keyboard. It claimed to be a smartphone, Bluetooth compatible, with a 5 mp camera, capable of sending and receiving e-mail, media-ready, Internet-ready, and Wi-Fi ready.

Now I must admit that I have been a bit left behind in the electronic revolution. Once a few years ago, I thought I was ahead, but now I know I’m not. I’m running pretty close to the back of the pack.

I wasn’t interested in this ad because I think I need a cell phone. No, no! And I have a camera already and a cheap mp3 player, the name of which does not begin with “i.” If I want to send or read my e-mail, I actually sit down in front of my computer at work or at home and compose or read my messages.

No, I was interested in what this smartphone promised to bring to my life, beyond the fact that I’d have “no apps to open and no menus to dig through.” No, I was interested in only one thing.

It’s something that I’ve worked hard all my life to achieve, and yet, it still seems to elude me. I’ve put in lots of effort, sometimes some money, and plenty of time over the years. I’ve spent hour upon hour talking on the phone to friends and family, helping them through crises of one sort or another. I’ve stayed up all night on occasion, more than one, to comfort a friend. I’ve carried on thousands of conversations with myself in my head, practicing what I’d say in certain touchy situations, so it would come out right and wouldn’t offend. I’d worked hard, and now, I was confronted with the upsetting news that I could have saved myself the trouble. For a mere $400 less loose change, I was being promised something I’d been on the qui vive for all my life.

Instant social gratification. Yes, that’s what this ad promised, as incredible as it may sound! Doesn't that seem like the answer to world war, world peace, global warming, global cooling, climate change, environmental degradation, and all the other ills of this world? Think of those three words separately--instant . . . social . . . gratification—and now put them together for a powerhouse expression—instant social gratification. Who wouldn’t want this?

For $400, sign me up!

The Number of our Days

There was a lot going on in town today. It was the annual Bluey Day. It’s a day, when in sympathy for those who undergo chemotherapy, and, as a result, lose their hair, people young and old voluntarily shave their heads. In preparation for today, my grandson's 11-year-old friend dyed his hair bright pink a month ago. Both of his grandmas had breast cancer and one died from it.

A couple of weeks ago, he sent me an e-mail, asking if I would like to sponsor him, and I said yes, of course I would. Today when we arrived at the shearing station to cheer him on, he was $1.70 short of having raised $2010. The significance of the amount did not escape us, and I hunted through my change for the $1.70. When his turn came, we watched as the volunteer from the hair salon ploughed a path from his forehead to the nape of his neck with her electric cutter. After his head was shaved, we took pictures of the kids with him. Well done!

Another event today was the annual Relay for Life, a fundraiser that takes place in towns and cities large and small all across the nation. The junior high school track is the site for this 10-hour walk, with teams sporting names such as the Chemo Queens, Gunning for Cancer, and the Rootin’, Tootin’, Shootin’ for Pink Mountain Mamas. On the Memory Board, participants can post photos of those who have died from cancer. The closing ceremony, with more than a thousand luminaries (a white paper bag decorated with the name of someone who has survived or died from cancer; a tea light candle is placed inside the bag) lining the edge of the track is quite moving. The word HOPE is spelled out with luminaries. We walk a silent lap and remember.

How much time and money will it take before cancer is beaten? I don’t know . . . but these events remind me that we are not God . . . and neither is cancer.

It is God who gives us our breath. When we leave this earth, it is not some random accident. Our life is in God’s hands. He knows the number of our days.

Our hope is not in research funding, as needful as that is. It is not in earlier detection, better care, or chemical miracles.

Our hope is our God and our Saviour. Psalm 71:5 says: For you, O Lord, are my hope, my trust, O Lord, from my youth.

On days like today, this comforts me.

The End of An Era

I lost a great friend today.

A long-time friend who loved me with all his heart. I believe there is nothing he would not have done for me.

He was my spiritual father. He preached the gospel to me, the good news of forgiveness and salvation through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. He prayed with me as I confessed my sins and received new life in Christ.

I first met this man when I was 16. Although he was just over four years older than I was, I always thought he was a lot older. He was already mature in God. He was a leader in Montreal Youth for Christ. This Christian outreach youth group operated in many high schools in Montreal, but, for some reason, was not allowed in to Macdonald High School, where I was in Grade 10. An alternative arrangement was made, and a group began in the home of a member of the local Presbyterian Church. I attended this group because it was in the home of a friend (my boyfriend’s sister’s boyfriend!)

It was there that I first heard the gospel. It was there that I prayed the sinner’s prayer. It was there that I turned my life over to Christ. It was there I received forgiveness.

That was more than forty years ago. In the forty years since that time, I saw that this friend was a man who loved God. He loved the Word of God. He used to joke that he’d forgotten more scripture than most people ever knew. I saw a man who was fervent in his search for the things of God.

I saw a man who, when his first wife was killed in a plane accident, gave glory to a sovereign God and did not falter in his faith. Many eyes were on him at that time, and the faith of many was strengthened.

Through the providence of God, I was blessed with the friendship of his second wife, who became my dear, dear friend. I drew close to their family, and their family and my family spent countless hours together. Talking, playing, planning, studying. Always returning to the history we had together, to the bond of love in Christ that bound us to each other.

This great friend was a man who dreamed big. He had grand ideas, even if he didn’t always have the ways and means to bring them to fruition. He was never downcast. It was always “onward and upward” with him. Today, he went onward and upward. Today, he went home to be with the Lord.

He was a dynamic and charismatic person, and I loved him. I loved his love of the Word. I loved his love of God. I loved his laughter, his voice, his smile. I loved him for who he was. I loved him for the man he was in God. But mostly, I just loved him.

Ross Walter Bracewell. February 20, 1947-May 28, 2010.

Dancing with the Stars

There were many things I could have done tonight. There’s always lots of housecleaning to do—and spring is coming. Alternatively, I could have gone to a Film Society showing of “Cooking with Stella” at the cinema. In addition, a local café was hosting an event for International Women’s Day. Finally, there is always lots of reading piled up on my bedside table.

None of those things drew me. Instead, I bundled up and headed out to the back deck with my binoculars and telescope and gazed at the stars. The temperature was -4 but with the wind, felt like -10. The sky was wonderfully clear as it has been for the past couple of weeks.

I saw many friends there; as well, I met some new ones. Every time I go out to look, I try to find something new, something I haven’t identified before. Last night, by chance, I found Coma Berenices, a beautiful cluster in the eastern sky. The trick of course is being able to find the same thing the next time . . . and yes, I did! Same place. Although some people might be able to see it unaided by binoculars or telescope, I am not one of them. First, I scope it out with the binoculars. Then, I look at it with the telescope.

“The heavens declare the glory of God” the Psalmist announces to us. He got it right! The brilliance, the flashing scintillation, and the diamond-dust of the stars takes my breath away! I never tire of looking.

From Coma Berenices, I moved on to the Beehive Cluster (M44). Right now, it’s easy to spot, “southeast” of Mars, which is high in the sky, next to Pollux of Castor and Pollux fame (that’s right, the Gemini twins). I had seen the Beehive before with the binoculars but it was even more stunning through the telescope. I have a Meade EXT-125, which was a gift from one of my children several years ago. Between Procyon and Sirius, I spotted M46 and M47, two more dazzling star clusters. A trip to the sky isn’t complete without stopping by to greet the Pleiades and the Hyades. Oh, and the nebula (M42) in Orion’s sword.

On a night like tonight, I want never to come inside. When I do, it takes me an hour to warm up!

I dream of retiring to dark-sky country somewhere, where I can have a clear view of the sky 360 days a year! Some place warmer, maybe! I dream of filling my eyes with the wonders of the sky. I dream of dancing with the stars.

I May Never Have to Buy Another Birthday Card!

I'm on a cleaning up and throwing out binge. This urge comes over me every once in a while--not often enough, some would say--and I get great energy and start going through drawers and closets and chucking stuff out--not quite at random, but something pretty close--and by "out," I of course mean to the proper recycling container in my garage.

Tonight I hit my desk drawer and my stationery drawer. The desk drawer had become of late a shambles of pens, pencils, rulers, staples, paper clips, bookmarks, sticky notes, felt pens, dry erase markers, ear phones, business cards, rolls of Scotch tape, and other miscellany generally useful in a home-office setting. My tactic was to take everything out of the drawer and put it all in a large pile on the floor. I wiped out the drawer. Ah . . . a clean start! Then I sorted. Like items with like items. Finally, I returned the useful things to the drawer in containers of various sizes and shapes, and threw the rest out. One down, many to go.

The second drawer was my stationery drawer. It's the bottom drawer of the tall dresser in my bedroom. There were many boxes of cards--male birthday, female birthday, kid birthday, cheering up, and blank. Unfortunately, in my hurry at various times in the past, I would open several boxes to choose an appropriate card, flip through them, and then hastily shut the drawer, thinking I'd get back to rearrange it when I had more time. Well, tonight was that time.

Being the multitasker that I am, I pulled the drawer out, set myself up on the living room couch, and turned on an episode of Bones. Meanwhile, I took all the cards, writing paper, and envelopes out of the drawer, made little piles around me on the couch and used the hour of watching Bones to rearrange the drawer.

Here's where the title of tonight's thoughts comes in. If I lived to be 150, I don't think I could use up all the cards and writing paper. Maybe you're wondering how it is that I have so much choice right at my fingertips. I think it's a convergence of several things. First off, I have always liked writing to keep in touch with those who have departed--moved away, that is. Second, a Carlton Card shop that used to be open in the local mall went out of business. It was so long ago that I can't even remember when it was, but some time in the last six or so years. Not one to resist such bargains, I do remember scooping up several, if not many, boxes. They were at least 50% off and so lovely! Finally, and most importantly, accumulating these ways and means of keeping in touch seemed to me to be a tangible way of hanging on to . . . something . . . I'm not quite sure I can articulate what. Keeping in touch, that's what it was all about.

Anyway, I have brought order out of chaos. I have a sense of accomplishment. And I may never have to buy another birthday card!

Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed.: The Cutting Edge

As I usually do, I stopped on the way home from work to pick up the mail. I was hoping to see the red tag and key for the package compartment because I knew that it had been several days since my Amazon order had been shipped, but there were only some advertising flyers. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

When I got home, much to my surprise and delight, I saw that the box from Amazon had been delivered to the door! Bonus day!

In the box was a new Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition.

I did already have a dictionary, a really good one. A Big One. Random House Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language, Second Edition. In fact, it is the exact same one that the local college library has. I have used mine countless times since I bought it shortly after it came out in 1987. Now, it's more than 20 years old.

Admittedly, I was drawn to the Collegiate 11th edition by the shiny silver sticker on the front, which lists some of the new words that are included: acai (haven't we all heard 10 different pronunciations of this one!), staycation, softscape, sudoku, celebutante (hadn't even heard that one!), and others just as intriguing.

Besides, I watched a video (also outdated) that had this advice: if your dictionary is more than ten years old, you're missing out! Language is alive and changing, and hundreds, if not thousands, of words are being added to the English language yearly.

As I mentioned, today's mail also brought some advertising flyers. As I flipped through one, I saw two words I HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE!!! Great! An opportunity to use my new dictionary. Here's what the ad said: Kitchen Knives: NSF approved German steel blades retain an ultra sharp edge; blades have granton depressions for easy cutting without binding; non-slip santoprene handles.

Actually, there was also that abbreviation, NSF. From my banking days, I recalled that it meant "non-sufficient funds" but I doubted that was the meaning here. I found that meaning on the Internet: National Sanitation Foundation, a non-governmental, not-for-profit organization that develops standards for health and safety.

So that left "granton" and "santoprene" . . . NEITHER OF WHICH were in my new Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition!! Oh, the disappointment.

Yet all is not lost! I had heard of "neoprene" - work gloves are made of this stuff. So the -prene ending indicated some kind of manufactured material made from some chemicals. In fact, "neoprene" was in the dictionary. But santoprene? Well, in this day of the Internet, sure enough, santoprene.com came to my rescue. Santoprene is an Exxon Mobil chemical brand name used for all sorts of things - from chairs that give comfort by conforming to your body to a substance for improving pipe gasket performance. Okay, the knives had some kind of plastic handle. (But will they withstand the rigours of the dishwasher?)

I still had to deal with granton. The dictionary had nothing. Rien de tout. Nada. Back to the Internet. Hmm . . . a granton (often capitalized) edge has thumbprint-shaped depressions in a line about one-quarter to one-half an inch from the sharp edge of the blade on both sides. Apparently, these depressions prevent food (for example, tomatoes or soft cheese)from sticking to the knife.

And thanks to the cooksillustrated.com site, I found the origin of the term "granton edge":

Origins of the Granton Edge

William Grant, founder of the Granton Knives Company in Sheffield, England, patented this innovative edge in 1928. The company still hand-makes granton-edge knives with scallops carved all the way down to the cutting edge (imitators have scallops that stop just above it).

From the picture in the ad, I could see that these knives must be imitations because the grooves did not come all the way to the cutting edge.

A quick trip to Sheffield, England (via the Internet, of course) brought me to the Granton Knives Company Web site at http://www.granton-knives.co.uk/. These people know knives. They've been making knives for 408 years. I also saw that Granton is a registered trade mark, but, alas, like Kleenex and Scotch tape, now seems to have passed into general use for imitations, no less.

All this to say that the moment a dictionary is published, it's out of date (although the Granton edge was patented in 1928, so there's nothing new about it!)

Despite these slight disappointments, I hope to have many happy peregrinations through my new dictionary.

What's this world coming to?

I overheard an amazing snippet of conversation today. Amazing in a bad way, not in a good way.

I was at the local big-box office supply store, waiting in line behind two people who were ahead of me. Behind the counter, a clerk was talking on the phone in an almost-conspiratorial tone: "Can you help me? If I have eighteen inches, how do I turn that into square inches? I already asked Jeffrey, but he didn't know."

I was trying to make sense of her question. She obviously didn't know that something was missing. My mind flashed back to grade . . . five? Length times width equals area. That's square somethings - feet, inches back then - nowadays, centimetres, metres.

As I stood there, the clerk took her attention from the phone call and addressed me, pointing to the next till: "They can help you at Till One." So I darted over to Till One, where the drama continued. A man, perhaps a supervisor, leaned over the counter, took the phone from the clerk who was talking with the Need-to-Know-Square-Inches clerk, and said into the phone: "Length times width. You need two numbers to get square inches. What's the second number?"

None of the foregoing constituted the amazing part of the conversation. After the supervisor left, but before the two clerks at Till One turned to help me, one said to the other: "Square inches? You ever hear of that? Inches I know, but square inches?"

The other clerk, with a slightly superior toss of her head, answered: "Well, I've heard of square feet, but . . . not square inches."

I was amazed. Admittedly, they were young--teens with part-time jobs--but I was sure they had finished grade five. What I was unsure of was whether I should trust her to ring in my purchase.

New Year, New Start

Okay, I'm not even looking at the date of the previous entry. I'm just making a clean start right here, right now. It's a new year. I'm allowed to make a new start.

I felt strange entering this year with no list of resolutions. I didn't make any. It's not because I have a really bad record of actually keeping or fulfilling the resolutions I've made in past years. Ten or a dozen things neatly written and the list posted on the fridge where all who enter my home could see. About a month or so into the year, the list would be superceded by some artwork done by little people who love me. By summer, the list was just a vague memory. That wasn't it. It was just because nobody around me mentioned it. No one asked me what my resolutions were. Nobody brought it up. Nobody told me theirs. No one even said they wanted to lose ten pounds (a perennial favourite). Has making resolutions fallen out of favour?

If I were to make resolutions, I'd want some that would make my life less stressful. I know: every time I come into the house, hang up my keys on the hook that's in the closet. Imagine a life where I would never again have to say, "Has anyone seen my keys?" Ah, that's a certain bliss. I've already made a start on this one. At this moment, I know my keys are hanging right where they should be!

For a second one, I would commit to the One-Year Bible reading plan. I tried the 90-day plan, but I think, for me, slower would be better.

Three . . . would I be able to handle a third one? Maybe . . . choose others first. By this I mean think of others first. It's a variation on the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Speak kindly. Help others.

Well, they won't bring world peace or solve world environmental problems, but in the little circle that is my immediate world, perhaps they will bring a measure of peace to me and those around me.

So welcome to this new year and new way!