A Good Home

Sharing a Smile

Inside the house, I rarely use a cane, as there’s furniture and walls to hold on to if my right leg acts up.

But I always use a cane on the outside deck as the furniture  and railings are farther away.

So guess who has decided — all 16 months of herself — to copy her grandmother?

Made me laugh.  Hope it does you too!

Happy Mothering Sunday to my British relatives and friends and to anyone who has mothered or grandmothered a child.  And yes, I include all those women who have helped to raised other people’s children. Many young parents are blessed with your help, as my husband and I were when our own kids were young.




A Good Home, Writing letters

The Letters

I have written many letters to which no-one ever replied.

Not email letters. Real letters.

It’s frustrating, I tell you, and enough to make a person pledge to never send another letter. Why bother, when these people either don’t care or lack the manners to acknowledge my effort?

I don’t expect replies to greeting cards and I’d never think of asking if they were received. It’s enough to know that I sent them. 

Blog Photo - Greeting card Thank you

Close friends and relatives get affectionate birthday cards, ones that may contain the word “special” or “love”, or “the gift of friendship”.  Humorous cards are only for close relatives or other people I know very, very well.

Blog Photo - Greeting Card - Peonies

But letters: they’re a whole different matter. Letters require more thought, more effort, more time. One has to think what news to respond to, what worries the person last confided, what wishes and needs were expressed.  

So I settle down and write. 

And there I am, weeks later, months later, wondering why I never heard back.

If I’m concerned enough, I will check with the guilty party.

“Did you get my letter?”

I am always shocked when the answer is: “No. When did you send it?”

And there’s the rub. I can’t actually pinpoint when. Can’t remember when I addressed and stamped the envelope then walked to the mailbox to post it.

What I remember is writing the letter. It’s mentioned right there in my journal, for heaven’s sake! I wrote it.

Blog Photo - Greeting Card - Caribbean House and chickens

And those cards had been sent.


The truth revealed itself gradually, while I was doing that thing I hate: cleaning up my office and putting papers away. Opening boxes and large envelopes jam-packed with bits of paper and whole documents, many having only the most general connection.

An old receipt for gas. Don’t ask why. I don’t know.

An even older greeting card, kept for sentimental reasons.

A letter of reference from a former boss lies under a theatre programme.

It’s a collection of this, that and what-nots, evidence of a disorganized mind.

Blog Photo - Greeting Card - Market scene

And then I spy…

I don’t believe it.

A greeting card I’d carefully chosen, written in, addressed and stamped.

And then — there are more. Three more.  

Blog Photo - Greeting Card - Happy birthday

The get-well wish, the celebration of success, the expression of heartfelt condolence.

Four cards, never sent.

Blog Photo - Greeting Card - Faith

And then I saw the letters.

Several of them, thoughtfully handwritten, two pages or three long.  

Never stamped, never taken to the mailbox.


It gets worse. 

One day I caught myself writing a letter in my head.  And realized I’d probably done this with other letters before.

Written them, yes, but only in my mind.




A Good Home, Humour - Kinda

What Kind of Idiot Loses Her Crutches?

My kind of idiot, that’s who.  

Proving the old saying by another idiot: “I’d forget my head if it weren’t connected.”

Last night, my daughter asked me for the umpteenth time: “But how can a person lose her crutches, Mom? It’s not possible.”

Trust me, it is.


I rarely drive these days, but on Monday, I drove myself to the hospital. On my way home, I noticed the car was dirty inside. While waiting at the car wash, I took a few steps to the coffee shop right next door, and came back barely managing to hold on to my crutches, handbag and coffee cup.

Somewhere in the complex task of  entering the car, securing the coffee, placing my handbag on the passenger seat, it seems I forgot one of my crutches leaning up against the rear car door.

And drove away. And didn’t realize it till I got home. 


I called the car wash place. The person who answered the phone thought he couldn’t possibly be hearing the right thing.

He passed the phone to someone else, who treated the matter with suspiciously great seriousness, but said “No, ma’am. No-one has turned in a crutch. You said a crutch, right?”


“So are you saying someone stole your crutch, Mom?” asked Daughter. “Who would steal a single crutch?”

She Googled “people who lose their crutches” and declared — shaking her head — that there were no other cases.

Daughter: “Mom, you realize that the only entry I found is from an episode of South Park, right? Which is fictional. A TV comedy.”

Me: “You realize I lost 3 of my canes the same way, in earlier years, right? And had to nearly crawl from car to house each time?”

She gulped. We almost choked with laughter. 

Lord give me strength. Or a brain, at least.