Real Men Eat Moose

My hubby, God bless his tummy, has just consumed three moose steaks. They were marinated first, only because I can't stand the smell of moose cooking on the stove. It smells like a combination of swamp grass, leeches and rotting cow.. "Get the picture". Hubby on the other hand is drawn to it like a cat to catnip. He gets his moose from a co-worker. As a family we are amazing barters. Computer work for moose, sounds like a fair trade to me. How about jewelry for services rendered, or chocolate. That never happens. Let's take a minute and examine this wild animal. It resembles a deer on steroids. It has a rack of antlers that not unlike our Christmas Tree is adorned with hanging green lichen smeared with vermin and parasites of every kind. They live in swamps and are constantly using the forest as a scratching post. In Newfoundland they are having quite the problem with these guys. 145 thousand of them roam free and last year alone caused 869 accidents on the highway with some fatalities. So the government is giving away 33 thousand licenses to kill.  I realize that the moose is as part of our Canadian culture as say maple syrup or the Toronto Maple Leafs. Up in our neck of the woods plenty of hunters still exist. They prepare all year for "Hunting Season". Spending hundreds of dollars. Remember Elmer Fudd? Camps are booked, ATV's oiled and lubed..  I won't even mention the cases of beer and recreational beverages that go along with this journey. Dressed out in their best camo. they grab their rifles and pretend their soldiers stealth fully hunting down the enemy (whose not very bright by the way). When I was first married, as part of my initiation into the right of being married to a true northerner we went a hunting for partridge. It was a rainy day and cold but I was warm in my youth and innocence.. .. There they came, an entire partridge family.. Keith, Danny, Laurie, Chris and Tracy. In shock I ran after them.. "Save yourselves,, run run" I yelled. Hubby never took me out hunting with him ever again. Every year the city puts on a wild game smorgasbord. Skunk fritters, breaded ermine, deep fried weasel,(which tastes an awful lot like chicken by the way) and chocolate covered fox tales.. The door prize is usually a Davy Crocket coon hat, or a lucky rabbit's foot. It seems that being part of the 21'st century eludes us at times.. Perhaps it's just that gene recessed from centuries past. You know the one that's dressed in plaid. Perhaps at one time we were all hunter gatherers. That hunting instinct is still strong. It's changed format a little. My brothers all had guns and target practice was a favorite game. My sons on the other hand are into virtual killings.. Duck Hunt allowed them to use a real gun. Then paint ball with MARKERS.. "Whose kidding Who".  We were smart parents. We let them play there video games, but had them turn off the sound and the blood. Tonight I'm cooking hamburgers. They came from a hormone injected cow. The smell is much more pleasant and sanitary though. I suppose the moral of this story is you can take the woods out of your husband, but you can't take your husband out of the woods. Or you can't have your bullwinkle and eat him too. Adieu my friends until the next time. ♥

Forever Young

So, on Friday I gave my bro his yearly birthday call. I miss him (but that's another story).  My first mistake was asking him how old he was. You would think that I could remember this important piece of info considering he's one year younger than I. You see, when I turned 52 I stopped counting. At first it was kind of funny but then like every lie, over time you begin believing it. When I found out the truth I was in shock. It couldn't be. Where has the time gone?, One day I was "Little Suzy" and the next "Gramma Moses". I'm not complaining, I've earned these wrinkles. The One on the left side of my cheek is from all those years I was homeschooling . The one on the right from staying up all night with sick kids. I'm certain that the crows feet are from years of financial wows. Many years ago the elderly called Pneumonia "the old folk's friend". Back then if you were 70 you were considered over the hill. My mom is now 86 and my husband's dad just had a quadruple by pass. He is also in his 80's. Why, I saw a pic of Tina Louise the other day. Remember her of Gilligan's island fame, and she must be in her 80's. She looked terrific. Albeit she"s  had a zillion plastic surgery's. In my room in the privacy of my space I am learning how to  "Shuffle". I am wanting to volunteer at the home for the aged, to play the piano, to take singing lessons. Life for me has just begun. The thing is I am soooo grateful for each new day. Each morning when I wake up I say  "today,  I will make a difference". I will tell my family and friends how much I love them. I'll bake one more pie and one more meatloaf.  Age, my friend is only a number. It's a marvelous thing that I'm not good in Math. For now, I like the sound of 52. It also helps to have a daughter who listens to "Demi Lovato" and teaches you all the latest trends and styles. Or to have a son or two who keep you updated on the newest technology. One night I went to bed a little worried about the prospect of Alzheimer's. Good job that when I woke up I had forgotten all about it. :)  The good thing is that my hubby and I both have reached that age together. You know, that season when you've  forgotten why you've argued and who cares anyway. The time when coffee at Timmy's or at home is the biggest decision of the day. When you finish each other's sentences , not because your in sync but because you actually can't remember what you were saying. Now, you both have to wear glasses. So for some strange reason you look like your photographed through gauze and your hubby is the most handsomest man on this planet. You know the old saying that "Life is to short". I think life is just long enough. If we do the best and say the best and be the best we know how to be, then in the end life is just long enough.   Well, I'm off to dance and laugh and sing.. Adieu to you and may you too be Forever Young.

The Chicken or The Egg?

My story begins on the100 acre wood. It's not the one where Winny lived but the one where Whinny lived (but that's another story). My dad bless his heart dabbled in farming.  My mom planted and did up a lot of our fruits and vegetables. I have some fond memories. One of them is about the 100 fuzzy baby chicks that we would get faithfully every spring. They were a mass of peeping  wonderfulness. Dad, devised some sort of incubator where they would spend there days growing. I was in my glory. Each day I would get up and visit with my little brood. I gave them names and picked them up ever so gently, rubbing them on my face. I pretended to be their mamma. Then one day, they would be gone. I hated this time. They were old enough and strong enough to be banished to the barn. In time there names were forgotten and replaced with "Fried Chicken, Sunday Dinner, poached , scrambled and boiled." It reminded me of just how great of nurturers we women are. From baby dolls, to chicks then to our own little flock. Some of us took our role very seriously. WE worried about vitamin D intake and bowel movements. We recognized hungry faces or hurting ones. If someone were to ask us their sizes or weight , we were at the ready with an answer. I was reminded of the tragedy of the empty nest quite a few years ago. At this time my two eldest left for University. I cried for 2 weeks in my little rocking chair. But I learned to let go, slowly. I didn't forget their names , nor were they banished to the barn, but it was time to say goodbye. So this weekend my 20 year old, (whose been out on his own for 2 years now) was in crises. We told him that he could come back and live with us. This to him was more terrifying than the crises he was in. He would have to share a room and put up with a barking dog and noises never imagined. My little boy no longer needs me. I wonder sometimes if he even likes me. He's told me that I was eccentric, ecumenical, and did not dress nearly good enough at being a hippy and that's only recently. He's really a great guy, and very smart, but I'm no longer important in his life. Time has a way of healing. Oh sure, I'm hurt, but I'm also glad that I raised an independent son. I still have 2 more at home that I can coddle and make deserts for. I can see myself cutting up my husbands meat and fussing over him when all the children have left the nest. Once many years ago my youngest told me that she was to old for me to be brushing her hair. I crumbled. That's when I got Muffy. I now sing to her "How much is that doggy in the window" every morning. I give her a spoonful of olive oil before she goes to bed at night. I can brush her and carry her to the windows showing her the many sites that only doggies could love. Hopefully there's a divine law of reciprocation set in place. One day this old grey mare may need a little bit of caring for.  Well, I'm off to make myself a fried egg , all this talk of chickens has got me quite hungry.. Adieu , and have a great day..