June 11, 2001

The Big White Envelope That Couldn't



Here are a few of my favorite online haunts:
[This is the site I visit to fantasize about living in Toronto again, which is almost every single day during the winter]

Jonathan Cainer's Zodiac Forecasts
[This is where I visit in the morning, when I need a positive spin on things past, present and future.]

Living Local
[This is where I go to see what Canadians are up to, sometimes I even buy things from the businesses listed there.]

Environment Canada Weather
[This is the site I visit every morning, and before every road trip during the winter]

For what has seemed like forever, life has appeared a little dreary and edged with gray.

The universe is using color crayons again and my perspective has become accordingly bright and full.

What the difference is, I really cannot say. It is just one of those times when the blind acceptance of color is the only viable option.

Yesterday, Sunday, we cooked our dinner over an open fire in the back yard. It was our first "campfire" of the season. "The Teenager" got the fire started, but lost interest when the telephone rang. Attila kept it going until I arrived with a tray laden with all the raw materials for our simple meal. A long handled wire contraption allows us to grill sandwiches over the open fire. There is something special about these grilled cheese sandwiches, toasted slowly and browned to perfection.

If it had not rained yesterday after dinner, I would have baked potatoes in the embers of the fire.

"We" are putting a new roof on the garden shed. The use of the term "we" is an attempt at humor. Although I share the cost of the project, I have contributed little else but advice. I left Attila to hammer and rip the old roof to the ground. I pulled a few weeds in the garden as he sawed and hammered the new sheeting into place. I sat in the shade eating a juicy nectarine as the shingles were lined up and secured with hammer and nails. Attila is best left to his own company when such a project is under way; he whistled while he worked.

When the job was nearly complete, we ran out of shingles. The building center had sold all of their "Cedarwood" stock and was waiting for a new shipment. A storm was brewing and the wind was getting up. Attila stapled sheets of plastic over the unprotected portions of the roof and covered the whole thing with a tarp held secure with boards. The storm unleashed its wind, rain, and hail just as he was climbing down from the ladder.

Today, Attila managed to locate and purchase several bundles of shingles and will finish the roof when he arrives home from work.

I will spend part of my day hosting a "lunch meeting". My daughter and three others have been working on a model for their Geography class. It is large and cumbersome and must be transported to the school by automobile. That brings me into the equation. They will meet here at lunchtime to add the finishing touches, and then I will load everyone and everything into the vehicle and head off to the school.

The wedding is looming larger on the horizon. Attila's tuxedo has been ordered. The Bridesmaids have their dresses.

The invitations have been sent and the replies are starting to make their way back to the bride. Our invitation has found its way to oblivion through a series of unfortunate circumstances. It was addressed to a neighbor's house number by mistake. The neighbors promptly wrote "not at this address" on the envelope and popped it into the mailbox at the end of the street. The envelope sported no return address. The post office cannot trace it. Someday post office employees may open it, the RSVP envelope inside will reveal its proper origin, and it will be returned to my daughter.

It seems funny now, but at the time I first discovered this chain of events I was not amused. There are times when I wish that my sense of the ridiculous would come into play sooner rather than later.

The whole discovery was initiated by a phone call from Attila's mother, who wanted to clarify some details about booking rooms at the inn. She assumed that I had received the details enclosed in the invitation. I had not received our invitation and was completely oblivious to the information she thought we shared. Needless to say, rather than clarify details, I confused them further.

I called my daughter in hope of clearing up the puzzle. It was then that I first realized that our invitation was missing. After this discovery, things fell quickly into place and all was resolved happily.

"Oldest Daughter" will personally deliver our invitations when next she visits.

Top of Page

Worldly Distractions

Purple Iris Close Up
Inner Sanctum

Cowboy Junkies, The Caution Horses

On the Screen
A Touch of Frost rerun

8:22 PM DST
Temp: 21` C
Humidity: 64%
Wind: W 4 mph
Barometric:101.1 kPa

Sunrise 5:44 AM DST
Sunset 9:03 PM DST

Page by Page: A Woman's Journal
by Maggie Turner

Canadian Maggie Turner writes and publishes poetry, photography, and a personal journal online. Her work reflects the current way of life in Canada, embracing Canada's past, present, and future in a unique portrayal of everyday life. Maggie's voice is one of the many that actively depict the rich diversity of Canadian culture.

Photography: "a term which comes from the Greek words photos (light) and graphos (drawing). A photograph is made with a camera by exposing film to light in order to create a negative. The negative is then used in the darkroom to print a photograph (positive) onto light-sensitive paper.
Source: University of Arizona Glossary

Poetry: "a form of speech or writing that harmonizes the music of its language with its subject. To read a great poem is to bring out the perfect marriage of its sound and thought in a silent or voiced performance. At least from the time of Aristotle's Poetics, drama was conceived of as a species of poetry."
Source: Creative Studios

Journal: " "Though a journal may be many things - a treasury, a storehouse, a jewelry box, a laboratory, a drafting board, a collector's cabinet, a snapshot album, a history, a travelogue..., a letter to oneself - it has some definable characteristics. It is a record, an entry-book, kept regularly, though not necessarily daily.... Some (entries) will be nearly illegible, written in the dark in the middle of the night.... Not only is it a record for oneself, but of oneself. Every memorable journal, any successful journal, is honest. Nothing sham, phony, false...." (Dorothy Lambert from Ken Macrorie's book, Writing to be Read )
A journal is a way to keep track of your thoughts about what you read... as well as what you did on any given day."
Source: Journal Writing

A Blog is an online journal created by server side software, often hosted by a commercial interest.

"The term "weblog" was coined by Jorn Barger[4] on 17 December 1997. The short form, "blog," was coined by Peter Merholz, who jokingly broke the word weblog into the phrase we blog in the sidebar of his blog in April or May 1999.[5][6][7] Shortly thereafter, Evan Williams at Pyra Labs used "blog" as both a noun and verb ("to blog," meaning "to edit one's weblog or to post to one's weblog") and devised the term "blogger" in connection with Pyra Labs' Blogger product, leading to the popularization of the terms."

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