Humor

What profession do you admire most and why?

Daily writing prompt
What profession do you admire most and why?
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What profession do you admire most and why?

Why admire a profession? I used to admire the fire-fighters when I was in Spain. Then I discovered that a small group of them were setting fires deliberately so that they could get double pay and danger money extinguishing the fires they had set. I used to admire politicians. Then I discovered that they weren’t always honest, had their hands in other people’s pockets, used their positions to entrench and enrich themselves, and pulled all sorts of tricks to stay in power. I used to admire priests. Then I started reading horror stories of child abuse, abuse of power, negligence of priestly duties. And these things aren’t new. In The Book of Good Love, (Spain, 1330-1343) written by Juan Ruiz, the Archpriest of Hita details how the celibate priests were ordered in a letter from the pope of the time to give up the ladies with whom they were living (and with whom they had children) to return to a life of celibacy. All fictitious, of course, but also based on a truthful reality, as was the Seller of Papal Bulls (as described in Lazarillo de Tormes – Spain 1554, and published anonymously because of its anti-clerical content).

I hope, with that short selection of potential professional felonies, I have made my point. In brief, to admire the ideal of a profession is one thing. But to admire the unprofessional conduct of certain individuals who ruin the reputation of their own profession is something else entirely.

Therefore, I would propose that we change the title of this prompt from What profession do you admire most and why?, to What professional do you admire most, and why? Now the question can be answered with ease. I most admire those professionals whose profession is a vocation. They do their jobs out of love and not just for money. They are dedicated individuals who put their profession and the people they serve before their own home comforts, wants and desires.

Such unsung heroes abound. The baker who gets u at 4:00 am, arrives at the bakery at 5:00 am, bakes, prepares, and wraps the goods, until 8:00 am when the customers arrive and the shop opens. This is done at minimum wage, autumn, winter, spring, and in the summer when the heat warnings go out and the bakery is a living hell, what with the ovens and the heat dome outside. The teacher whose work does not end in the classroom, but starts outside, when class has ended, and the students really need the TLC that comes from a teacher who puts them before his/her office schedule of 30 minutes student time a week. The general practitioner who does not retire at age 55 to bask in the sun on a Caribbean Island, but who continues his work, until at age 80, he can tend his flock of patients no more, and who then retires with grace, heartfelt thanks, and love from a job well done.

These are my heroes. These are the professionals that I most admire. Not the profession, but the person who performs that profession with skill, hope, love, commitment, and a dedication that reaches out to embrace that specific professional world, whatever it is, and the people who share it.

Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

Daily writing prompt
Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.
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Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

Scour the news – what on earth does that mean? Let’s begin with scour – If you scour something such as a place or a book, you make a thorough search of it to try to find what you are looking for. Rescue crews had scoured an area of 30 square miles. Synonyms: search, hunt, comb, ransack. Search, hunt, scour, ransack – well? Which one are you after? And how long have I got? Question: what am I looking for? Answer: an entirely uninteresting story. What a tremendous waste of my time. And, when you get to my age, time is precious.

As for the news, well, what on earth do you mean by that? I speak several languages fluently. Am I looking for an entirely uninteresting piece of news in all of them? As one of the Two Ronnies used to say “You’re having me on, aren’t you? You’re having me on.” Let’s just stick to one language – English. Then let us ponder for a moment the meaning of the news. How many newspapers do you wish me to purchase and peruse? I am not a millionaire, you know. Or do you want me to listen to the news on the radio or the television? If so, how many channels? How about sending me online? I love the thought of that. There are thousands of websites out there filled with all kinds of news, good bad, indifferent, fake, artificial? And you want me to scour them all in search of, and I quote “an entirely uninteresting story”! Pull the other one, as the old comedians used to say, ‘”it’s got bells on”.

I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll scour your prompt, that’s what I’ll do. Having given it a brief analysis, I declare it entirely uninteresting. Next I’ll consider how it links to my life. Well, sorry, it doesn’t. If I were to follow it through, I’d be sitting here for hours, wearing my fingers out on the keyboard. So, what’s the link between your prompt and my life? A total waste of time, that’s what. Sorry, I have better things to do with my life. Like reading Shakespeare – “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and prompt readers, lend me your shovels. I come to bury this prompt, not to praise it.”

Here endeth the lesson and the prompt.

If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

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If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?
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If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

That is a very hard question to answer. I think of all the material things that everyone else can think of, but I do not want to sell commonplace things – antique furniture, paintings, books, stamps, groceries – I could go on and on, but I will resist the temptation to do so.

When I lived in Santander, Spain, the local wines were sometimes called ‘sol embotellado‘ / bottled sunshine. I wouldn’t want to open a wine shop, but I would love to bottle the essence of a warm sunny summer day and – why should I sell it? I wouldn’t. I would give it away, free of charge, to all the needy people, inner city boys and girls, the impoverished, those who live in the streets and sleep in doorways or under bridges at night. Oh the joy and happiness that would come when they opened their bottle of summer sunshine and felt the warm fresh air gather around them so they could breathe it in.

But why stop there? I would also give away ‘essence of butterflies’, that special feeling that comes on the colored wings of a butterfly and combines with the joy of flowers and the gift of taking flight. How special that would be. But sell it? It is much too valuable to sell. Put a dollar, Euro, yen, rupee, or sterling price upon it, and all its powers would vanish, like fairy dreams fading away.

Fairy dreams – yes, I would offer them as well to those who needed them. And not the sort that fade away, but those fairy dreams that suspend us in the wondrous beauty of their ethereal light. And I would bottle hope, and self-belief, and the power to change oneself from what one is to what one is destined to be. And I would add essence of self-knowledge and powder of Davey Lamp light that would enable the seekers to seek in the darkest corners of their souls and find that elusive inner self, and bring it out from the darkness. And I would stock fragrant filaments of firefly that would also allow my customers to enlighten that darkest of nights, the dark night of the soul. And a map of hidden foot paths that would allow the wanderer to wander and never get lost.

How about an elixir of happiness and joy? A quintessence of rainbows, perhaps? Or a magic lantern that would shine out from heart and eyes and enlighten the soul friends of those lucky souls who were able to locate and enter my shop of conditioners, vital vitamins, and soul magic for all those lost and lonely people. And there, that mirror on the wall – look in it, gaze deep into your own eyes, and maybe, just maybe, you will find my shop.

And “What will your shop be called?”, you ask. Look into your heart and you may find the answer engraved therein. It will be called The Gift Shop of Hope Restored. I look forward to welcoming you when you open the door and step in.

What’s the most money you’ve ever spent on a meal? Was it worth it?

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What’s the most money you’ve ever spent on a meal? Was it worth it?
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What’s the most money you’ve ever spent on a meal? Was it worth it?

The real question is not, how much money did you spend, but was the meal worth it! Think hamburgers – they can vary in price from a couple of dollars to twenty or thirty dollars, each. Is a good hamburger at $2.00 worth more than a rotten hamburger at $20.00? Of course it is. However, if you get a rotten hamburger at $2.00, even those dollars seem to be a waste of money, in the stomach pains of post-gobbling regret.

The same question and answer can be applied to most things – a sweater, a suit of clothes, a dress, a diamond ring… What we are really talking about is value for money. One of the best meals I have ever eaten was at a small restaurant outside the railway station in Lisbon. I arrived early for the overnight train to Madrid, checked my luggage in the left-luggage office, and walked down the road to this wonderful restaurant. I had plenty of time.

When I arrived a plate of hors d’oeuvres appeared before. These were meant to be snacked on before I placed my order. I asked for the menu of the day and chose pork tenderloin cutlets, with patatas bravas (hot spicy fried potatoes). After this came a small omelet, with fines herbes, French style, and this was followed by a lettuce, tomato, onion salad, in an oil and vinegar dressing. A fresh loaf of bread accompanied the meal and red wine was served throughout. Dessert was half a melon, hollowed out, filled with ice cream and soaked in cherry brandy. Afterwards, came a cigar (I smoked occasionally in those days), and a glass of brandy, with espresso coffee. It was simply delicious. How do you valley such a meal? I asked for the bill and reached for my traveler’s cheques (these were indeed the old days, before the ubiquitous credit card). I was ready to pay what the waiter demanded.

When the bill came, I couldn’t believe my eyes – $25, $50, $75, $100? No such luck. $4.50 and $5.00 with the tip added on. I didn’t need my traveler’s cheques. I pulled my wallet out and gave the waiter the equivalent of $10. What a wonderful meal. Totally unforgettable.

I have eaten in five star restaurants, in Michelin recommended restaurants, in restaurants owned by the friends of friends, and I have been ripped off, left right, and centre / center – whichever way you want to spell it. I have often found that the simple restaurants, with home cooking, and a simple menu were better than the over-rated, highly expensive, glitzy showpieces.

In Santander, we used to regularly visit a small restaurant that specialized in fish. The owners had their own fishing boat. They would net fish at sea, but line fish on the way back to port, genuine trawling, the old-fashioned way. The fish they caught was fresh, unbruised from the nets, and, at their restaurant, always cooked simply and well. Family and friends, we all shared the bounty of the sea. And the prices were low, while the quality and love was high.

Discourse Analysis – look at the question. Think about the words and ask what they mean. Search beyond them (and the simple answer) for the true values by which you wish to live your life. Do you crave the $100 cigar, or the free one delivered to your table after a wonderful meal? The $100 sauces that cover up the taste of the rancid meat or fish, or the simplicity of family food, hand picked and as fresh as fresh can be?

Oh yes – and I remember waiting two hours for my meal at one restaurant, a tiny one in a small community in Northern Spain, that nestled by a fish-filled stream. The trout, fried with bacon, were on special. The owner’s son had been sent to the stream to catch them, but they were slow to bite that day. The wine and tapas were free until the meal arrived. And arrive it did, dripping wet and still wriggling slightly. Twelve delicious trout, four each between the three of us. Who’s for fast food? Not me. I want the simple life – shared with friends and filled with love – any day of the week, no matter the cost. But when you look well and seek wisely, it will not cost that much – and it will be unforgettable.

And look at the paella I made for my beloved and I – in the photo above -. Warm for supper and cold for lunch the next day. Simple, relatively quick, and four round meals (they really weren’t square) served at about $2.oo a plate. Unbeatable. Unforgettable.

What are you curious about?

Daily writing prompt
What are you curious about?
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What are you curious about?

I am curious about how you generate prompts for people to write about. Do you put words in a hat and pull them out? Or do you examine a multitude of Christmas crackers to see what words of wisdom are contained within them? As for me, I am curious about Olde Curiosity Shoppes and the curious things that one finds in them.

I am also curious about aliens. There are so many of them. At night, they often invade my brain and stamp around causing enormous damage up there. I think they think the own the place, throwing parties at two in the morning and chanting things that shouldn’t be chanted. They embarrass me. Even worse they sometimes shame me. You should hear the things they say and sing. Snippets of old rugby songs and limericks that never even saw the shores of the Emerald Isle. Sometimes, next day, they are still partying, and those little snippets go earwigging their way on and on.

What’s worse, they speak several languages and I hear them chanting in Latin, French, English, Spanish, Catalan, Italian, Galician, and even in Welsh. As for the Welsh, it rolls on and on – ar hyd a nos – in fact they sing until Harry is hoarse. I looked in the mirror one morning, and I saw a whole crowd of them waving their tentacles like multiple octopi and chanting yma o hyd. And yes, indeed, they were still there. They weren’t going anywhere. They followed me around all day.

Another thing about which I am curious – how do I de-alienate the aliens who have alienated me from my old peaceful world of curiosity shops? “Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho, tell me if you know, who the, why the, where the, what the, where do aliens go?”

And if you happen to be curious about what makes me tick, well, I have a long arm and a short one, just like a grandfather clock, and a key in the middle of my back with which you can wind me up and set me off on any topic, however curious it may be. Just light the blue paper and retire.

Do you still sleep in your childhood bedroom?

Do you still sleep in your childhood bedroom?

Good question. A better one might have been – “Did you have your own bedroom as a child?” The answer is “No, I didn’t. Not that I can remember.” As a war baby, I was moved around quite a bit in my childhood. I remember sleeping in three different bedrooms in our first house. Then we moved in with my maternal grandparents, and I slept in three more bedrooms, often in the same bed with one or other of the grandparents, sometimes on a makeshift bed on the floor. Later, or it may be around the same time, those early childhood memories are so hazy, I went to live with my parental grandparents – three more bedrooms there – same conditions. The family also had a bungalow close to the beach on the Gower peninsula. It had three bedrooms and I slept in all of them, under similar conditions, and seldom alone, until my later years.

I was bundled off to boarding school while I was still a child. Two dormitories at the first boarding school. I was between six and eight years old, and the memories of that school are not sharp, though I recall with total clarity the canings and the shaming of myself and the other young children. It was a religious school. And I need say no more on that subject.

My second boarding school , a preparatory school, saw me inhabiting four dormitories that I can remember. My clearest memory of that place is running away one night, only to be brought kicking and screaming back to the place. Both my parents worked. During the holidays, I was shipped around to various members of the family – aunts, uncles, and grandparents. When I left that school, for the last time, age eleven, my grandparents drove me to my new forever home in a city far from my birthday place. There, three bedrooms witnessed my sleeping habits.

My third boarding school, the Junior School of a larger college, provided me with two dormitories, one per year while I was there. This was the time at which I started to travel with my mother during the vacations. A coach tour on the continent once saw us visiting six countries in two weeks, and that wasn’t the only coach tur I did with her. A succession of hotel bedrooms, then, and no nocturnal stability at all.

I stayed in my fourth boarding school, the Senior School of that Junior School, for five years and received a new dormitory each year. From there I went to study in Paris – more bedrooms – then down to Spain for the summer courses at the International University in Santander, but by now, age eighteen, my childhood was over.

So, a quick count shows that I slept in at least twenty-five bedrooms during my child. And that’s without counting holiday hotels, flats, apartments, and other forms of lodgings, including Youth Hostels.

So, remind me – what was the question? Ah yes, I remember now. “Do You still sleep in your childhood bedroom?” Well, my friends and readers, the answer is a very loud “NO!” Think about it – how could I have? I am not sure that I even had a childhood bedroom!

On what subject(s) are you an authority?

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On what subject(s) are you an authority?
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On what subject(s) are you an authority?

First, I would like a definition of an authority. Here’s what I found – 1. the power or right to give orders, make decisions, and enforce obedience – as in “he had absolute authority over his subordinates”. 2. a person or organization having power or control in a particular, typically political or administrative, sphere as in – “the health authorities”. Isolating the words enforcement, power, and control, I am delighted to say that no, I am not an authority on anything, and I have no control over anyone. Also, I am not a monarch, and I have no subjects.

What happens if we change the meaning of the words slightly and ask another question? Here is a suggestion from the online Cambridge Dictionary – searching for an answer to my question “What is an example of authority on the subject? – I found this – The phrase “authority on the subject” is correct and usable in written English. You can use this phrase to describe someone who has extensive knowledge or experience on a particular topic. For example, “Dr. Smith is considered an authority on the subject of modern psychology.”

Now this becomes a very interesting question and it can be answered from a variety of perspectives. In our two person household, I deem myself an authority on some forms of cooking. I regard my beloved wife, my better two-thirds as I call her – an authority on the forms of cooking that I have trouble with – for example, baking, cooking vegetables, boiling eggs. She does a wonderful boiled egg. I am hopeless at boiling eggs – either too hard or too soft, usually the former. But I am the authority on Spanish omelets and scrambled eggs. They are my specialities. She makes wonderful chowders. I specialize in gazpachos, sopa de quince minutos a very quick (15 minute) Spanish sea-food soup, and Cawl Mamgu and other Welsh stews.

Once we step outside our kitchen, the world changes. In a world (New Brunswick) where cricket is virtually unheard of (save in the minds and cultures of fellow immigrants) I am considered an authority on cricket. Not that I am an authority, but at least I know what it is and have a good idea of what is happening in a cricket match. Therefore, we must also consider ‘being an authority’ in the context of the audience that receives our words of wisdom. To my nine year old grand-daughter, I am an authority on several subjects. However, I have absolutely no control over her – how she thinks and what she does. I can suggest or persuade, but I cannot and will not enforce.

In the undergraduate classroom, in which I taught for 43 years, I was considered an authority on Spanish by my students. Outside the classroom (and sometimes inside it) I learned more from my students than they ever learned from me, especially in my formative years as a Canadian when I was learning to skate and to ski. Don’t go there – too many painful memories of falling only to rise again!

But when we moved from the classroom to the wider university, to the full Canadian Scene of the Learned Societies, as they used to be called, I became the learner and the authorities were to be found elsewhere, often on the podium, sometimes in the bar. Same thing when we move onto the international stage. There are very few world authorities, in my field. However, there are many wannabe’s, but for them, after careful analysis of their strengths and weaknesses, I have usually had very little respect.

So, today we have opened another can of worms and look at them, wriggling and crawling before our very eyes. Worms – one of my friends really is an authority on earth worms. She knows all about them. Another of my friends is an authority on worms in puppies and kittens. A world wide authority, known every where and often quoted? I doubt it. But certainly in my garden and the vet hospital where I take my pets, they are both authorities.

Ah, the joys of Discourse Analysis – maybe, one day, I can be an expert on that. But take my words, as always, with a large pinch of salt, and, whatever you do, don’t put salt on slugs, and snails, and puppy dog tails. On that point, we can all be authorities.

What are your daily habits?



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What are your daily habits?
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What are your daily habits?

“The habit (Greek: Σχήμα, romanized: Schēma) is essentially the same throughout the world. The normal monastic color is black, symbolic of repentance and simplicity. The habits of monks and nuns are identical. Additionally, nuns wear a scarf, called an apostolnik.”

So, my daily habits are a little bit monastic. “Monks were very religious, lived simple lives and followed certain rules to discipline themselves. The monks didn’t have any possessions, they didn’t even own their own clothes and they wore a simple garment known as a habit. Monks chose to live in the monastery as they wanted to help others and worship God.”

I can’t say I am very religious, in the church-going sense, but I do live a pretty simple life. My rules and disciplines consist of daily exercises, stretching and strength, a morning wash and shave, getting dressed in my non-monkish habits – jeans, shirt, sox, shoes or sandals. Coffee and fruit for breakfast. Writing – (a) in my journal (b) on the computer (c) in my poetry book. An early lunch, usually a sandwich. A post-prandial walk around the garden with my roller, examining the hollyhocks, the yucca, and the clematis, and checking on the progress of the other flowers.

The daily routine of a monk is somewhat similar. Monks typically wake up early in the morning, often before sunrise. I wake up early, text a couple of my best friends on the cell phone beside my bed, and then I go back to sleep again. I often begin the day with a prayer or a hymn – as do the monks – “Every morning, when I wake, / oh Lord, this little prayer I make, / that thou will keep a watchful eye, / on all poor creatures born to die.” Then I begin my daily routine of work and meditation. The specific activities and schedule can vary, but generally, I spend several hours each day in work (writing) or study (reading).

I try to think like a monk – to think like a monk means to remain calm and focused under all circumstances, especially when life gets challenging. Alas, at my age, I meet challengers all through the day. Things fall to the floor – challenge – can I pick them up with my magic claw? I can’t open bottles and cans – challenge – can I do so with one of my two magic appliances? I actually have three, but one of them doesn’t work. The other two, however, are wonderful. It is almost impossible for me to open plastic wrappings – challenge – can I do so with a pair of scissors, a pocket knife, or must I, in the worst case scenario, use a genuine can opener? Good tip, that, incidentally, especially for bubble packs. There are many other challenges, the worst of which is always what to do if I fall down. We won’t talk about that – I just do my best not to fall.

I also do my best to lead a relatively simple life – I try (1) to do one thing at a time – (2) to commit whole-heartedly to my family and few close friends – (3) to simplify my life and concentrate on what I am doing – (4) to develop my mind by not indulging excessively in social media – (5) to order my existence by making lists of essentials that must be accomplished – (6) to express myself and my love for the world around me in poetry, prose, and paint – and finally, (7) to remember that, the day I was born, I took my first step on the path to death. Beyond that, I do very little more.

Write about your first crush.

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Write about your first crush.
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Write about your first crush.

No. No, I can safely say that I have never had that sort of crush, except on a teddy bear or a little poo-pee aka puppy. I guess my first real crush was an orange crush. And no, again, not that orange crush either. I guess I have never been a fan of the Denver Broncos. But, as a child, I loved Orange Crush and Dandelion and Burdock, the former suitable for children and the latter looking remarkably like grown aka groan up beer.

During my time at university, I fell victim to several crushes. One was at the bottom of a collapsed scrum while playing rugby. Never much fun that sort of crush. All those sweaty, smelly bodies. Another came in an attempt to beat the Guinness Book of Records under the achievement – how many people can you get inside an English Telephone Kiosk? This was in the sixties, when England actually had telephone kiosks. If you have never seen a real English telephone kiosk, there’s one down in Kingsbrae Gardens, and I highly recommend a visit to that antiquity – almost as good as the statues in the gardens.

Anyway, one day in rag week, a group of Bristol University students, me among them, started crowding into a telephone kiosk. We entered upright, tried kneeling, others kneeling on our shoulders. We managed about twelve.

Doors open or doors closed? This baby came with no instructions. Poor parents, even more miserable single parents. And they are almost always young women, aren’t they? Come to think of it, maybe we should have invited some female students to join us – much lighter in weight and far less smelly – in the bad sense!

So, we tried a different tactic. If the first measure was a crush, and indeed it was, well, the second measure??? Judge for yourselves. One of us held the door open, the rest of us lay down like logs, feet outside the door, and the newcomers lay down on top of us. Ingenious indeed. But those at the bottom could scarcely breathe. They were the victims of a real crush.

Like the finger in the woodpecker’s hole, we reversed it – feet in, heads out. We got up to twenty-seven students. Then we ran out of student volunteers. Revolting. We asked passers-by to help us. But to no avail. Reversed and removed. Equally revolting. Sent our efforts in, with photos. There was no response. We didn’t make it. I still don’t know what that particular crush record is.

In Cassis-les-Calanques, 1960, I was one of eight people standing in a Citroen Deux Chevaux. That was quite a crush. But, in Santander, Spain, 1970, Clare and I watched 11 people, yes, eleven, get out of a SEAT 600, a 600cc Spanish four-seater car, otherwise known as a bullet / bala, and with about as big an engine as your lawnmower. They exited, one by one, and proceeded to enter the local church for Sunday mass. Can you imagine 11 people riding on your lawnmower?

Maybe that wasn’t a crush at all. Maybe it was just a (Morris) minor miracle.

If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?

Daily writing prompt
If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?
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If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?

Oh dear – such a difficult question. I have seen so many people puzzling over which dress they would choose, which blouse matched the skirt, which tie best highlighted the shirt, what color hanky, suitably folded, best suited the little breast pocket of the suit. Why do we have to have outfits? Couldn’t we have infits.

Now that’s a great idea. The one infit that I wear, every day, regardless, is my birthday suit. I have worn it, day in, day out for 80 years and it still (in)-fits me and, quite honestly, I have never spent a day without out it. Of course, it has worn a bit over the years. And no, I will not show you any photos.

However, I can say that the six pack that I once sported has become a rubber tire. There are bruises and scars where once the skin was white and tight, or bronzed and shining bright. Muscles have shrunk. Back has bent. Arthritis kicks in, now and again, but my birthday suit adapts to everything. It really was a wonderful invention.

And, guess what! Every day is my birthday now and today I am 29,370 days old. Not everyone can say that. And yes, I can also tell you, in all confidence, that I wear my birthday suit every day now in celebration of each passing birthday.

In Spain everybody has two birthdays – the day they were born and their saint’s day. The saint’s day is the day on which the saint after whom they are named is celebrated. Two birthdays is lovely – but to have 365 birthdays a year, to wear my birthday suit for every one of them, is spectacular. And it’s even better to have 366 birthdays in a leap year.

I know you know that a leopard cannot change its spots, but did you know that a leopard had 365 spots on his coat – one for every day of the year? Now that’s a fact that not everybody is aware of. What about a leap year, you ask. Well, on the 29th of February, every four years, to find that extra spot, you just have to lift the leopard’s tail. And don’t ask me how I know, because I am not going to tell you.