Here It Comes . . .

So, we're past 'frost on the pumpkins' and moving right on to snow on the apples. I hate this time of the year, though I love (in another overall sense) the passing of the Seasons. But there's something especially sad, poignant about the end of Summer and finally of Fall. I've over-committed usually for the Fall months and am majorly 'out of gas' by November. The leaves go, the days shorten, the grey, cold, blustery wind and rain descend - and it is not yet Christmas !

This year my discomfit is attended by a dose of first-time shingles - apparently from the long-dormant chickenpox-virus of childhood hiding in my backbone, coming out and affecting nerves and skin. Supposedly it's caused by stress or aging, medication or lack of care of schedule and body . . .

I feel like I've been punched and pumelled, front and back on my left side, and there are attending angry red spots and rashes - kinda like pressing five or ten thumb-tacks randomly into various swatches of skin.

Not at all pleasant; though its mostly passing now, leaving weakness and some lingering pain (not like the PAIN that was first experienced).

And, yes, this too shall pass - and another November, to be sure. It will soon be Advent and then Christmas - so hope springs eternal (if I may be permitted to mix Seasons).

Hurtin' Song

Is it okay for an older man to like the Corrs? I just like the way they sing - and the way they look . . .

When your day is long
And the night
The night is yours alone
When you're sure you've had enough of this life
Well hang on

Don't let yourself go
Cause everybody cries
And everybody hurts
Sometimes

Sometimes everything is wrong
Now it's time to sing along
(When your day is night alone)
Hold on, hold on
(If you feel like letting go)
Hold on
If you think you've had too much of this life
Well hang on

Cause everybody hurts
Take comfort in your friends
Everybody hurts

Don't throw your hand
Oh, no
Don't throw your hand
When you feel like you're alone
No, no, no, you're not alone

If you're on your own
In this life
The days and nights are long
When you think you've had too much
Of this life
To hang on

Well, everybody hurts
Sometimes, everybody cries
And everybody hurts
Sometimes

And everybody hurts
Sometimes

So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
(Everybody hurts
You are not alone)

Tares and Tears

Sometimes you just miss people - I’m feeling that way, just now; missing loved ones departed and dear ones alive - but so far away . . . .

Sarah MacLauchlan sings of such moments, so I hum the tune . . . Can't Cry Hard Enough -

I'm gonna live my life
like every day's the last
Without a moment to lose
it all goes by so fast

And now that you're gone
I can't cry hard enough
No I can't cry hard enough
for you to hear me now

I'm gonna open my eyes
and see for the first time
I'm gonna let go of you like
a child letting go of his kite

There it goes
up in the clouds
There it goes beyond the skies
For no reason why
I can't cry hard enough
No I can't cry hard enough
For you to hear me know

I'm gonna turn around
to see you standing there
When all that remains
is an empty chair
And now that you're gone
I can't cry hard enough
No I can't cry hard enough
For you to hear me now.

— by the Williams Brothers

Old Clock

This clock belonged to my great aunt, Mary Willoughby Potter, who lived with her husband Jim at Freeman’s Corners (now part of Burlington, Ontario) early in the last century. When she died she left enough money to my grandfather, Gordon Barber, for him to purchase a farm on the Upper Middle Road (now the Queen Elizabeth Way), just east of the Guelph Line. The farm is now the property of Tamarack Lumber.

Aunt Mary is long gone now, as is my father who enjoyed the clock for many years, always desiring it to be placed in a place of prominence - honouring not only the time it kept but also the kindness of an aunt who helped to launch and stabilize a family that otherwise would have continued moving around, just trying to keep afloat in depression times.

The times change, dear ones go, but clocks themselves keep ticking.

Beatrix at Essendon

Beatrix Potter (standing), Camfield Place, 1873

As a girl, Beatrix Potter used to visit her grandparents at Camfield Place, often staying there over the summer. It was at an estate adjoining Essendon Place (near Essendon, Hertfordshire, England), where earlier in the century my ancestors, Sarah Lawman King and her daughter, Mary Ann King Frost, worked as laundresses. Mary Ann’s husband, William was employed there as a bootman (a shoe and boot maker).

In the last century Camfield Place was the home of Dame Barbara Cartland, writer of numerous Harlequin novels and step-mother of Princess Diana.

The parish church in Essendon was damaged during WW I by a bomb dropped from a German zeppelin.

 

I suppose, right about now, I really ought to be in church - but there are sometimes things that just get in the way. In my case, this morning - ta, da - shingles. You don't ever want to get this, believe me!

Words

It's not so much the lush, colourful, viscous or viscious things one says - it's just that, well, having said them they're very hard to retract.