Sharon's Blurb

 "You always look so busy!  What exactly do you do all day?" I was asked recently. I took it as a compliment. It was meant as one. The person asking was not meaning to be offensive; just curious and interested as to what I was doing to look so occupied all the time. As I began to rhyme off my daily activities, I realized it was a lot, and yet nothing of any real consequence, at the same time. Retired from my previous "full-time" occupations as broadcast journalist and then realtor, I now busy myself with a part-time gig as a companion caregiver for seniors.  That gets me out of the house for many hours of the week, and gets me out of my head as I focus on helping others. The rest of the time is filled with volunteering duties:  helping people exercise in their homes; editing a non-profit magazine; and showing up for a program that helps seniors. In between those duties, there is a household to manage, pets to care for, things to clean, laundry to wash,...

 He fell out of the sky one day last summer, landing at the horse barn. A tiny, bright coloured green, yellow and blue budgie. He was caught and put in a pretty cage in the tack room. And there he stayed. For days. Weeks. Months. A tiny room with a closed door so the barn cat couldn't get in. A cage with only two perches, a water dish and a seed dish. The thought was that his owner would want him back. But despite repeated and numerous attempts to find an owner, none ever showed up to claim him. Perhaps he had escaped through an open window somewhere. Perhaps he was set free intentionally. They can be noisy. I brought him a few seed sticks, where he would get some enrichment having to chew away to get to those tasty treats. I brought him a couple of hanging toys, so he would have something to do and wouldn't be lonely. And then, November came. It turned cold. The heater in the tack room was on high, but it would sometimes get overheated and t...

  "Did you bring your gloves?" I found myself involuntarily asking my senior client the other day. "It's really windy out today - don't get blown away!" I then blurted out without thinking that they are a grown-assed adult and don't need to be reminded about that! Least of all from me! I have never had children and am not a birth mother. In my 20's I yearned for children, as one does when one's hormones are in peak form. However, by the time I hit 30, I came to my senses. I had a lovely little career in broadcasting going by that time and didn't want to put that on the shelf to have children. A choice I have never regretted to this day. My maternal instincts have been satisfied doting on numerous pets, however. And more recently, some long repressed motherly instincts are rearing their lovely heads, and I find myself turning into my mother. Something they say all women do, eventually. In a good way. And now, I find I...

 I have recently realized that giving someone a tour of my home office may be off- putting. There, atop the rolltop desk, sits the beautiful lavender urn containing my mother's remains, surrounded by some lovely mementos like her stuffed toys and chocolates wrapped in purple and mauve. A short distance away, at the other end of the top of the rolltop, sit the urns of Peanut and Ivan, my two beloved cats who were brothers, born of Princess, and who both died at 15 years of age within two months of each other.  Bonded even in death. Next to the rolltop desk sits a bookcase, and atop that, a small urn with some of the remains of my younger brother, Wayne, who passed at the age of 55 from complications of pneumonia.   Surrounding him are more than a dozen miniature motorcycle models that were once his, a baby shoe, his handprint in plaster, and other memorabilia from his life that I have dedicated to him in a mini-shrine of sorts. Back to the rolltop display is...

 I was sitting on the back deck minding my own business one afternoon when I heard a whirring in the willow tree. I thought it was a hummingbird, or a chickadee. The birds are scarce this time of the year - the robins have gone, the little yellow and red finches seem to have disappeared too. It was then I saw it. A male cardinal, in all his red feathered and magnificent un-camouflaged glory. It is incredible how these birds continue to exist. Their bright red colours a calling card to all predators. It's no wonder they are shy, elusive creatures, constantly on the lookout. Unless they are looking for a mate, in which case I have witnessed them perched on rooftops calling their song. But this particular cardinal was on a mission. He seemed intent on something on the tree branch.  But he only plucked a few leaves, and then a few dead twigs from it. Then I spied its target. A nicely sized spider in the middle of its web, spanning from the tree to a deck ...

 August has arrived with a pang in my heart. It is still officially summer, but already there is a change in the air. A palpable difference to the atmosphere. The flowers are wilted - their leaves drooping with lack of rain. We are having a hot, dry summer, with little precipitation. And it is showing. The pink hydrangeas on the corner of the deck showed off only one small flower this year. The blue rose of Sharon's are barely blooming; the mallows have already given up after two small burgundy flowers emerged yesterday. And the strawberry-vanilla hydrangea tree is reluctantly offering up only small white blooms; it should be in its showy abundance this time of year. It has been a tough one for the garden. The grass is burnt yellow, the hosta leaves are brown, the tiger lilies are drying and crisp. Thankfully the air is still warm, and the cool chill of autumn has not yet begun. But the end of the season is nigh, it is everywhere and yet nowhere all at once....