zorazebic

Posted on August 17, 2016 by zorazebic — Leave a comment

Such conclusions

Girl with sunglasses and blue hair with lady in green

I saw the lady in green looking at the blue-haired girl in shades and imagined she asked herself, “Could I carry this look off?”

I recollected my teens and my many shades and styles of hair. I’d been adventurous and before my time. I wore business suits with t-shirts of lace, polka dots with stripes and highlighted braids in my otherwise straight hair.

I had laughed often at the hippie freaks who called me “a freak” and had said to them, “You all pretend to not conform, yet you all follow the crowd.” And follow the crowd they did in their trips to the mall, from their opulent homes, to purchase the latest tie-dyed shirts, bandanas and bell bottom pants. Every last one of them had Jesus-style sandals – as if any of them knew what Christ had worn on his feet!

It’s still like that today. I see the many youth who dress in goth, adorn with tattoos and piercings. They colour or style their hair wild. Were they to ask, I’d say to them, “You all pretend to not conform, yet you all go with the flow, unsure how to make your own mark.”

Writing this I thought of the children’s aid workers who had decided I was a follower. I never comprehended how they came to such conclusions. I was the only girl who climbed over fences and upon the roof. I scaled the cherry tree to toss treats to the other children, fear glueing them to the ground. They complained I was not “ladylike”, as if any child should be obligated to conform to the ways of adulthood. Nope, I’ve never been a follower.

Imaginary goblet in hand, I toast the blue-haired girl in shades, “May you find yourself, your singularity of character, your personal, unforgettable style and most of all, may you capture and hold on forever to your confidence and dignity.”

Posted on August 17, 2016August 17, 2016 by zorazebic — Leave a comment

A peaceful home

“Pretty, pretty like grandma’s picture.” the little girl exclaimed. “Don’t touch!” mom had commanded the child who had pointed her finger at the artificial red flower on the twig. It was out of her reach, true, but the child was known to find a way to bring things down to her level. A tilt of the flower vase and the prize would be hers. Mom was exasperated. It was a constant state of stress to raise a hyperactive child.

Mom thought how miserable grandma was as she’d scolded her for the plans to take the child to the doctor for a prescription. Grandma had said, “This child is far better behaved than you were at her age. I didn’t need to put you on drugs. In my opinion you are lazy and incapable of raising a child.”

Those words had stung. It was the idea of the teacher in the daycare after all. The teacher had preached the wonders of the behaviour modification drugs. She’d even pointed out the many children in the class who were already medicated. Their parents, she had said, were most happy to find a solution to a peaceful home, which was the added bonus of the drugs.

Mom consoled herself with the thought, “I want my child to be like all the other children.” With that she tucked away the final words of warning from grandmother, “The drugs sedate the child and take away their own thoughts. They become addicted to the drug and certainly they lose their individuality and artistic abilities.” Grandmother had never made a living off her paintings anyway, what was there for her child to lose?

Posted on August 17, 2016 by zorazebic — Leave a comment

Always focused

She looked ahead, not wanting to acknowledge him. It didn’t do any good to let him know she was aware of his presence. Those times when he knew she was aware he’d only start acting up, tripping her or pushing her into things. People thought she was a crazy old fool, ready for the home.

She tried to remember the first time she’d become aware of him but she was merely grasping elusive bits of memories. She remembered well the time he shoved her into the path of a freight train. She’d noticed him and had said, “I see you, whoever you are, I see you!” For reasons unknown to her, he’d shoved her with both of his hands. It was the hands of strangers who’d also been standing with her at the crosswalk which saved her.

One woman in the crowd had said, “My god! They should lock up the feeble mined.” A man had answered the woman saying, “Did you hear what she said before she jumped? It was like she was seeing somebody on the train.” To the ambulance attendants she had said, “I don’t remember saying anything, I just remember getting dizzy. I forgot to take my medications this morning.” They had been convinced and allowed her to go on her way, but in a taxi.

For a while she pondered the possibility he was a ghost. “A ghost of who?” she asked herself voicelessly. She’d been raised an orphan and had not ever learned who her father was. She’d never met any man, woman or child who claimed to be related to her. She’d never had a lover, well not a male lover. Celine had been her only love and her love had died in her seat at the restaurant. She thought how Celine would have wanted to die that way, making a scene of it! But this wasn’t Celine, she didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

Whoever he was, a ghost, an invisible man, a shadow man, like the one they’d talked about on the television, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t senile or ready for a retirement home. For whatever reason she had now a constant companion who, if nothing else, kept her always focused. She’d accepted his presence for that reason alone.

Posted on August 12, 2016 by zorazebic — 2 Comments

Time counts

“What is it with you and that camera?” he asked her. “I’m capturing time.” she responded. “Capturing time, just exactly how do you do that?” he asked. “Look closely at the hands. They are set at 11:22. I have captured this very hour and these minutes in my camera lens.” she answered.

“Ahh, that is it then. You are still obsessed with numbers.” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. She didn’t bother to acknowledge his taunt, he was correct but it would do her no good to deny it. Time counts.

Posted on August 11, 2016 by zorazebic — 4 Comments

The bus ticket

Sarah-Lynn

Today is my birthday, and thank you! I am going to treat myself to a ride on a Transit Windsor bus with a free ticket that was dropped off at my office for me. I don’t know who dropped off the gift, but it is appreciated.

A very close friend, so close she registered my husband and I as her family, is in hospital for a heart condition. Next week she’ll be taken by ambulance to London, Ontario for double bypass surgery.

The person who left the ticket for me does not know it became more than a mere token. Their gift provides me the transportation to visit with my friend at her bedside, thus two people were gifted.

For those of you that pray, a prayer for Sarah-Lynn’s perfect health is a beautiful gift that will mean a lot to me. She is our hardest working volunteer at Street Help Homeless Centre of Windsor. Many a homeless client has benefited from her outreach of love.

Most of us have heard of the Good Samaritan: well, that is Sarah-Lynn. On every occasion that has presented to her, I’ve watched in awe as she fearlessly and lovingly embraces everyone who needs a hug and words of kindness. Dirty clothing, dirty hair, horrible smells and body sores do not get between her and her clients.

It is my honor to share my birthday with Sarah-Lynn, and, I’d bet anything she is going to reach out to give me a hug.

Posted on August 11, 2016 by zorazebic — 6 Comments

Blushing leaves

I went to look at the poinsettias among our potted plants on the windowsill. Two of the plants still hold some red leaves despite we are in the month of August. I will always be amazed by nature.

“My plant is crying!” I called out to my husband. “One of the poinsettias? he asked coming over to look at the plant. “No, another plant” I answered. Looking at the leaf he said, “That is a dewdrop.” I said, “I’ve never seen dew on an indoor plant.” Barry shrugged, what could he say? I’m still certain the plant shed a tear.

Like a lot of other folks, I talk to my plants. I think my husband secretly talks to them too, and that is why the plants from Christmas still cling to blushing leaves. He still makes me blush now and then, so why not them?

On the surface plants stand motionless, unless we use time lapse photography to catch them stretching, unfurling leaves and bringing buds to bloom. I don’t have the equipment to do time lapse poetry, not yet! Perhaps some day I’ll have the chance to learn what caused an indoor plant to cry.

Posted on August 11, 2016 by zorazebic — 1 Comment

Upper space

Woody, the shark said, “I knew you wouldn’t believe me so I had a tourist take this photo of me! This is when I went on my grand adventure to the world above the seas.” Pliable, his swordfish friend said, “You’ve been my friend long enough to know my name does not match my character. There is no world above the seas, it’s all a myth. So tell me, who helped photoshop this for you?”

Woody snapped his pectoral fin back and forth and moved side to side in a display of agitation. He said, “Look at my dorsal, do you not see the piercing where my safety line was linked?” Pliable laughed and said, “Woody, your piercing is no different than the ones sported by the teenagers. Come on, you’ll have to do better than that if you want me to believe you went on an adventure to a land above the seas.”

Woody’s mouth fell open in dismay and then said in his saddest voice, “I swam on things called air currants. It is essentially the same fluid mechanics that enable us to swim. I felt the wind on my face as I flew, not that you’d understand what wind is.” Pliable flipped around several times expressing his merriment and said, “My friend, I’ve heard the scientists theories of the possibilities of other life forms in upper space, but they are all theories. Nobody can survive long above the seas.”

Woody turned and swam away, his photo held firmly by his pelvic fin. There were girls to impress and wasting time trying to get Pliable to believe had already cut into his romantic plans.

Posted on August 10, 2016 by zorazebic — Leave a comment

Thanks duck

We set up our trailer for a week at Campark Resorts in Niagara Falls. We’d taken a great-niece and two great-nephews so they could have a chance to visit Marineland Canada. They had no interest in the aquatic life or other animals and wanted instead to go on the rides.

All three children demanded toys, very expensive cheap souvenirs. They busied themselves pouting, stomping feet, parking butts on sidewalks and arguing how cruel I was to insist they at least look at the main attraction, the animals.

I realized it would have been a better use of our money to have waited until the local carnival came to town. For less money the three children could have feasted on junk food, played carnival games and had passes for endless rides all the days the carnival was in town.

Despite my frustration with the behaviors of the children I had great moments. One of those was the duck who insisted I take his photograph! He blocked me, quacking and pacing back and forth until I knelt down to snap some pics. I’d initially thought the duck wanted me to buy feed from the vendor but when I put my camera away the duck turned and ran back on the grass and into the water!

I’m glad I’ll always have a photo and memory of the duck who insisted portraits can turn a bad day into a great day. Thanks duck!

Posted on August 10, 2016 by zorazebic — 2 Comments

Farmed, to be eaten

Her, “Don’t be looking at me like that.”

Me, “Looking at you how?”

Her, “Like I’m City Chicken.”

Me, “I can assure you I am not considering plating you.”

Her, “I know you have eaten my kind before.”

Me, “I have consumed turkey, chicken, pheasant and duck.”

Her, “See! I knew you feasted on aviators!”

Me, “They were all farmed, to be eaten.”

Her, “And that makes a difference to you?”

Me, “You got something there, I’ll admit.”

Her, “They are still my kind.”

Me, “You have a point, maybe?”

Her, “Stop looking at me like that, I said.”

Me, “Not to worry little City Chicken, you aren’t plump enough for me.”

Posted on August 9, 2016August 10, 2016 by zorazebic — Leave a comment

Eating weeds

I stopped to see an elderly man stooped over his squash plants. He held a small paintbrush in his hand and I said, “I love the shade you’ve painted the flowers.” He looked up and smiled at me, replying, “I’m transferring the pollen, not enough bees this year for a successful crop.”

He went on to explain the process and the tenderness of his brush stokes on the flowers fragile sexual organs and I’d felt my face get red. I laughed and asked about his dandelion sign. He answered me, “My wife bought it as a joke but I really do harvest dandelions. The leaves are great in salads, but only when they are young. I make dandelion wine too!”

You too could be drinking and eating weeds! Click these links for dandelion tea, dandelion wine, and five dandelion salad recipes. Mother Nature has gifted us many free edibles, we simply have to learn the secrets of our ancestors to reduce our grocery bills!