valeriesbookofme

  Ogilvy's Christmas window with thanks to Pinterest I hadn't really been very much in the Christmas spirit after US Thanksgiving this year. Tiredness, a feeling that it was all too much. And then, slowly, as the neighbors' Christmas decorations went up, as the Christmas songs and carols started playing on the radio, memories crept in. When my granddaughter performed in our local Nutcracker here in Sierra Vista--four years' worth of memories. When we had ward Christmas dinners with turkey and all the trimmings in Toronto--another four years' worth of memories. Concerts in Toronto and Laurie and I dressing up to go to them—the “professional” Nutcracker performances. Going farther back, to when I was 18-19-20, going to Radio City Music Hall in New York with my sister and her family, seeing the annual Christmas movie and live stage performances, then walking over to the Lincoln Center and watching people skating on the skating rink. Much farther back, to as early as I

These are very disjointed musings. A kind of Virginia Woolf essay ;) It’s sobering to look back at the things I wrote 10, 13 years ago and see that I am still mulling over the same issue--what do I want to accomplish in this final quarter and a bit stage of my life--if I live to be 100. And WHY do I feel it's a "struggle" to think about, to action projects and supposed goals and why do I (Richard too for that matter) get stressed about it?  Looking back to ten years ago I was settling into our first house (a rental) here in Sierra Vista. I was busy learning about the community, the folk at church, helping Laurie out because the kiddos were still young--M was 7, Porter 6, Jameson 4 and Quinn was 9 months. I subbed in the schools. I was very busy indeed. It was why I had wanted to move here; my own goal had been to be closer to Laurie and Richard acquiesced because there was a job there.  As I look at it, parts of my life today are still like that although I have let go of

 Have just finished reading what I wrote on “December 5ths past” in my private journal. About the little Christmas tree I have had for years and year; it's one I bought in Vancouver in a chocolate shop. About reconnecting with Jacqui last year--and that’s been SO great. About being isolated because of COVID. Well, the little Christmas tree is on a table in our living room again, counting off the days until Christmas. And, after giving our very large one to Laurie last year, we have a smaller 4’ tree in the living room this year. We put up our outdoor lighted wreaths yesterday. I had read “Skipping Christmas” this year and decided that, no, I don’t want to “skip” Christmas, just downsize it a bit. Although R and I have not done “big” Christmases for years now.  And we aren’t having to isolate because of COVID anymore although folks are still getting it. I wrote last year that we were hoping for a vaccine and, yes, it arrived and I was able to get the double dose February and March.

Richard and I had our COVID booster shots on Friday afternoon. This was my third Moderna shot; Richard had had the one-shot Janssen vaccine so he opted this time for Moderna. The pharmacist at CVS said the dose was half of the regular Modern. She also said that some people had experienced a reaction of sore arm, fever, fatigue, etc., and some hadn't had anything. Richard didn't have any reaction to the shot. I started feeling feverish, achey and just all around flu-ey in the middle of the night on Friday. Spent Saturday on the couch and in bed, alternately shivering and sweating. I am better today but still so tired! Curious as to why I was so sick and R had nothing more than a sore arm, I Google'd "Why some people have side effects...." The article had lots of medical jargon in it but, basically, the fact that I had side effects means that my immune system was working harder than R's was. (Some may argue with this, but it works for me.) Apparently, it's u

One of the worries I had while I was away last month was about Mitzi. R had email'd me that she wasn't eating, that the sore on her neck was bleeding. He felt she was on her last legs and wondered if he should help her on her way across the Rainbow Bridge. Mitzi is probably 12--she was a rescue, we adopted her 10.5 years ago so we don't know when exactly she was born--a senior dog. She's had the lump on her neck for months, I took her to the vet and it was diagnosed as a cancerous tumor. Vet said it could be operated on and removed but it was a major operation, a few weeks' recover with the dreaded cone, and there was no guarantee it wouldn't come back. R and I made the decision together not to have it operated on. I realize that others might have made a different decision and that's their right, I respect anyone for making a difficult decision. In our case, our decision was mainly based on her age and the trauma that the operation would put her through.  No

  Mitzi is glad to see me. And so is R. I arrived back in Phoenix at about 6:00 pm last night. R wasn't aware of how chaotic it is in Arrivals at Phoenix so it took awhile for us to meet up with each other. We eventually did, I heaved the cases into the car (last time this trip, yay!) and R drove back to Tucson, which is about 2.5 hours. Arrived home at about 9:00 pm to rapturous affection from Mitzi and a leaking toilet in my bathroom. We'd closed off my area of the house so that the dog wouldn't lie on the bed. A lesson learned: check on toilets, even if they aren't being used. When we go off traveling, we usually turn the water off. Ah well, it's fixed and thank goodness we have two bathrooms! Of course if we'd only had one, then R would have known about the leak.... I woke up this morning at 5:00 am full of energy. Groceries done and put away by 8:30, dog walked, all my clothes and stuff unpacked, washed and put away or hung up by noon. And then I collapsed

Although my actual flight to JFK isn’t until tomorrow, modern travel and my own paranoia necessitates that I begin the journey today. Driving in the UK is so very different than the US, even on highways, something I think I have mentioned in previous blogs. Although it is only 133.4 miles from where Sheila lives to Heathrow, closer than the distance from Sierra Vista to Phoenix, the journey takes 2.5 hours, assuming there isn’t an accident on the motorway. Sheila didn’t want to attempt the drive and I don’t blame her at all.  I could have gone by train but that would mean heaving my suitcases up and down from platform to train, since most of the platforms are several inches lower than the trains are. And transferring first at Bristol—platform change, one lift (elevator) per two platforms up and down to the tunnels connecting said platforms—and then at Paddington—walk from train station to Underground and try to make sure cases don’t go rolling down the subway car during the half hour p

  I arrived at Sheila’s house in Somerset after a tiring journey from London on Monday. After navigating my bags from my hotel in Craven Terrace down to Paddington Station—a 10 minute walk, thank goodness for rolling bags—I only had to wait a half hour before the train to Bristol. Paddington is much nicer than it used to be, when Sheila and I used to catch the train to visit her parents, who also lived in Somerset, in 1978-1980. It was very Victorian back then and they’ve kept the historical part of it—the soaring arches and large posters everywhere of what the station looked like in Victorian times—but also have added in all of the shops and cafes that the large train stations need nowadays. Paddington serves most of the southwest of England, Bristol down to Cornwall.  The other thing they have modernized are the restrooms (I can’t get used to saying “toilets”) and while I miss Paddington Cat and the nice ladies who worked in the facilities, I don’t miss having to pay to use them. Pad

  One of the reasons I came back to London after Ireland was to keep a date with my cousin Elizabeth: a Sunday morning walk in Richmond Park. When I moved to England in May of 1978, I rented a room in a house near Richmond Park. I'd heard of the room through a colleague at McGill University's Human Resources Department, where I was working as a Senior Clerk. Montreal had become a bit difficult for me to be in owing to a twice-broken heart and a feeling I wasn't going anywhere at McGill. It seemed like an omen, then, on the plane returning from South Africa in January of 1978--I keep promising to write about that--that I came across an article in a magazine about young Canadians living in London. I'd always loved the idea of being in London what with growing up on a diet of British movies and then all of the articles about Swinging London in the 1960s/early 1970s.  By the time I arrived at Mirabel Airport, I had the perfect antidote to my wounded pride over South Africa

This is going to be a very short (for me) post. Hah, how many times have I written that? It’s a Tuesday night, I’ve spent all day driving around Donegal, too much of that time on single lane roads. I honestly don’t know how I do it. It’s almost like someone takes over for me when I myself go catatonic with fear and before I know it, I’ve come out of that horrible road and am on to a more “normal” one. And the scenery in Donegal is breathtaking, even just glimpsing it now and then when I dare take my eyes off the road. Softly rolling hills, the Kerry green of fields lined with the darker green of hedges. Neat white cottages, sometimes stone. Sheep and cows. The sea in the distance. I was so thankful that the expensive Garmin that I rented from Avis (a story in itself, will be told sometime soon in another post) finally worked today. There is no way I could have navigated AND driven without the soothing British voice telling me calmly where and when to turn. It’s quite amazing for a Nort

  Helsinki went by so fast. Well, I guess for a lot of people, only spending two full days in a city IS fast. Especially when most of that time was spent sitting and talking.  I wouldn't have changed it for the world though--sitting and chatting with Vivienne rather than sightseeing. We connected in a very strong way. From the moment I walked down the hall at the Helsinki Airport and saw her sitting on her walker, waiting for me, even though it was after 11 pm. She smiled, we started to talk and it was like we had known each other all our lives.  I can't even remember specifically what we talked about. Traveling, for sure. Memories, absolutely, hers and mine. How things in our lives affected us, how they don't affect us anymore, how they do, where we want our lives to be. Although Vivienne is in her mid 80's she is so alive, so interested in things. She's an expert dressmaker, as you can see from her photo below--she made everything she is wearing, including the bro