Monday 30 October 2017

Poetry Monday: I'd Love To Have A Blue Pair

The weeks are getting shorter--or so it seems. Here it is, Poetry Monday already! Didn't we just have one?

This week's theme is "feet" as suggested by Diane  (her blog is HERE). Join Diane, Delores (her blog is HERE), Joan (in the comments here), and me, as we waltz, quick-step, two-step, hot polka, run, jog, mince, flounce, or otherwise use our feet--and brains--to cover this topic. Anyone can play and you can write a poem on a different topic if you prefer. The more the merrier, so sharpen your pencils (or your fingers)(no, wait, not your fingers)(maybe your typing skills),  bookmark your favourite "rhymes with" website and write a few lines just for fun.

Feet. FEET. FEEE-E-E-ET. . . Is there anything that can be said about feet that Dr. Seuss has not already said? He did a smashing job of writing about them, didn't he? For anyone who hasn't had the pleasure, here is the first bit of his book on feet, to give you a sense of just how deeply he delves into the subject:

Left foot, left foot
Right foot, right
Feet in the morning
Feet at night.
Left foot,
Left foot,
Left foot,
Wet foot, dry foot
Low foot, high foot
Front feet, back feet
Red feet, black feet
Feet, feet, feet
How many, many feet you meet.

(You can read all of it HERE, if you like. I would, if I were you. You will find yourself mentally chanting it the next time you have to walk somewhere and you need some rhythm.)

This short week is getting only a short poem from me, because for a short week it sure had a lot packed into it. Crafting and baking for the craft sale, the all-day craft sale itself, root canal, work deadline, trip to Emerg with my mom--yep, that short week covered a lot of ground.

Here's my short poem.

Big Important Question

If feet rhymes with feat,
And meet rhymes with meat,
And beet rhymes with beat . . .
Why doesn't greet rhyme with great?

Blue-footed booby feet. Aren't they a great colour? Who needs blue suede shoes with feet like those?

Here is the whole bird:

(Photo by Benjamint444 on Wikimedia)

What kind of feet would YOU like to meet?

(BFB feet courtesy of Pixabay)

Friday 27 October 2017

Celebrating Black Cats: Redux

Did I hear someone say "Donkey's got the dates mixed up; we just did a Black Cats Appreciation Day post in August"?

Well, if that was you, you're darned smart. Yes, I did do a post on black cats in August (HERE).

But if one day a year is good to celebrate black cats, then two are even better. It turns out that October 27 is National Black Cat Day in the United Kingdom, so we're going to have a bit of deja vu, except without the accents on "deja vu" because I haven't learned to do that yet.

I know some of you are big fans of black cats, as am I, so I'm thinking a second post on black cats will not be a huge imposition. (Spoiler alert: for the rest of you, at the end of the post there are some black dogs.)

First, here is the latest Simon's Cat video, which is about . . . black cats, of course:

And right here, I was going to put some pictures of the three black cats who have owned me through the years, starting when I was about eight, but I ran out of time due to the straw that broke the camel's back . . . I was handling my work deadlines okay, and I was handling my craft fair deadlines okay, and we were eating regular meals (okay, so a lot of the time lately they weren't homemade and they weren't very balanced, but they were food) and we were wearing clean clothing and our two remaining cats were complaining about not getting hours of attention but they were doing all right if you ask me . . . and then today my mama (who you may remember is getting older and has health anxieties) needed to be escorted to outpatients, and those six hours were the straw, as it were. She is fine, don't worry. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

But getting back to my very own black cats, that will have to be a post for another day.

Wishing you a lucky-black-cat kind of Friday, and in case you're a dog person and you're feeling left out, here are some nice black dogs (no, no, not that kind of black dog--the nice kind) to keep you content. And when I was looking for pictures of black dogs I learned that apparently it is as hard to find homes for black dogs living in shelters as it is for black cats.

Eight-week-old black Lab puppies

And one more, just because of the sweet widdle bottom teefies on this little guy/gal:

Sorry about the lack of contrast; it's too late now to find new pictures! I feel like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, looking at my pocket watch and saying "I'm late! I'm late!"

See you on the other side of the weekend!

(photos courtesy of

Monday 23 October 2017

Poetry Monday: Sport Shorts

Well, folks, it's that day of the week again, the day we put on our togas or our peasant shirts or our smoking jackets (what DO poets wear, anyway?) and lie around on our chaise lounges or our Ikea furniture or our (imitation) leather couches (what DO poets recline on, anyway?) and scratch out poetry with our chisel-and-rock or our stubby pencils or our fountain pens (what DO poets write with, anyway?) . . . or, more likely, we sit at our computers trying to fend off curious cats. Or is that just me?

Today's theme is "sports" and you can find sports-related poems at Diane's blog (HERE) and Delores' blog (HERE), as well as right here on Procrastinating Donkey (including Joan's poetry from Joan of Devon, in the comments). Feel free to read, write, or contribute in any way. Have fun!

I have to say right here that I'm not really a sports fan. I'm a fan of sitting. There isn't much sitting in most sports, and even the ones that do involve sitting don't let you get away with doing nothing, as your arms are in constant use (eg., rowing, paddling, kayaking) or else you are in constant danger from excessive speed (eg., bobsledding, racing).

I've never been coordinated, I've never had a personal energy surplus, and my speed and balance are below average. I don't like danger and I don't like competition and I'm not motivated by winning or losing. I don't like doing anything that requires strapping things to my feet or any other part of my body, or anything that might cause me sudden pain from being hit in the face or stomach or from breaking a bone, and I really, really, really don't like wearing spandex or a wetsuit or a helmet.

Nevertheless, in my high school--and probably in yours--gym class was a compulsory course.

And we had a compulsory uniform. For girls, this was called a "gym suit" and was a one piece article of clothing, in school colours, that looked like a blouse sewn to a pair of short shorts and buttoned up the front. For boys, the uniform was short gym shorts in school colours, topped with a plain white T-shirt. The most important word to remember for the sake of the following poem is "short." Remember we are talking the late sixties, early seventies here. There were no long baggy shorts for guys and those gym suits had no mercy for girls whose thighs weren't perfect.

Enough background! Time for the poem of the day.

As I Remember Gym Class

She cavorts;
He cavorts;
They all cavort in short shorts.

They'd rather not--
Unless they're hot
And like to show off what they've got.

The rest of them
Themselves condemn,
And wish for shorts with longer hems.


Here is what our gym outfits looked like, approximately, except ours were maroon because our school colours were maroon and grey:




What did you wear in gym class? Did you like sports, loathe them, or was it a mixed bag?

P. S. I may have slightly overstated my aversion to sports :)

Friday 20 October 2017

A Pinch Of This, A Sprinkle Of That . . . Bork! Bork! Bork!

It's a mixed bag of stories today, because I've been reading so many good articles on different topics that I can't pick just one to talk about. I'm still in crafting mode, in addition to work deadline mode, in addition to family birthday mode, so I'll keep my comments to a minimum and provide links to the original articles that caught my eye.

Rent control gone awry:
Many countries have a bleak history where their indigenous people are concerned, and Canada is no exception. As our country marks its 150th birthday this year, not all our citizens are in a celebratory mood, and no wonder. The original inhabitants of this country got a raw deal long ago, and things haven't improved a whole lot. The latest item in the news: First Nations seek to raise Canada's rent after 150 years of $4 payments

Another blot on the Maple Leaf . . . literally:
If you read Steve's blog "Shadow & Light", you will have already seen the pictures he took of maple tar spot disease on maple leaves in England. We have the same fungal infection here in Canada, not on our native maple species (sugar maple) but on the Norway maple, which is an import from Europe and Asia. Here's the link to Steve's post with the pictures, because his photos are excellent and mine are not: West Wickham to Hamsey Green (scroll to the final photo). Thanks for that, Steve :)

On to some lighter fare . . . or maybe not:
If you've ever considered seriously decluttering your belongings, you may have turned to books or blogs to get tips and encouragement. Books by authors as diverse as Peter Walsh and Marie Kondo have been available over the years, and there are many blogs on the internet to help people pare down their belongings. Now there is "dostadning" or "Swedish Death Cleaning" which is defined as ". . .  slowly and steadily decluttering as the years go by, ideally beginning in your fifties (or at any point in life) and going until the day you kick the bucket . . ." , the purpose being ". . . to minimize the amount of stuff, especially meaningless clutter, that you leave behind for others to deal with . . ." This is the real reason behind my decluttering these days. My husband and I are both "savers" and although we've donated and shredded and discarded many things, there are miles and miles to go before we sleep . . . so to speak . . . and I don't want our grown up kids to have to do any more work than necessary when the time comes.

Okay, some truly lighter fare, also from Sweden . . . sort of:
How many of you remember the Muppets? The Muppet Show was big here in the 1980's, and my favourite character, hands down, was the Swedish Chef. With his unintelligible commentary, his signature "Bork! Bork! Bork" windup to his intro song, his carefree tossing of kitchen implements (and other things) over his shoulder, and his trusty blunderbuss, he stole my heart.  Just the other day I found some compilations of Swedish Chef segments from the shows, and fell in love all over again. Check out one example here: Swedish Chef Compilation Part 1

That's it from my house to yours. Have a good weekend, friends!

Fear not: Procrastinating Donkey keeps one ear to the ground for all the latest news :)



Monday 16 October 2017

Poetry Monday: Why Wasn't I This Clever When I Went To School?

It's Poetry Monday, as I'm pretty sure you all know by now. Started by Diane (here), picked up by Delores (here) and me, with regular contributions here from Joan (of Devon). Anyone can join in! Write a poem, read a poem, borrow a poem--it's all good. If you post on your blog, please leave us your address in the comments so we can follow you home and admire your work.

No more preamble today; the whole back story is contained in the poem itself.


History in General, and Mine in Particular

It was late in the sixties and bell-bottoms ruled
When I entered into junior high school.
Six years later they let me go free,
Clutching my high school diploma--Whee!!

School didn't bother me like it did some;
It was something to do, sometimes even fun.
I loved English class, and French, and Home Ec.
Math I loved less, and Science less yet.

But at the absolute bottom of the heap
Came History, a subject so wide and so deep,
I felt close to drowning from all of those facts:

So when graduation meant I was free,
I thought, Never again will I take History!
On to an Institution Of Higher Learning I went
And tuition never NEVER on History was spent.

My learning was leaning to far different things,
For that is the freedom university brings.
A business degree doesn't bother with much
Except business-y things like accounting and such.

Working and marriage and babies came next;
The long years of busy-ness replaced "business".
And a funny thing happened as the years went by:
I started to ask--Who, What, When, Where, Why?

Why are they fighting? And Where did it start?
When did their countries all fall apart?
What will it take to make enemies friends?
And Who are the leaders to best make amends?

Who are the players, and What makes them tick?
When did the critical junctures get missed?
Where will the answers be found for release? 
And Why, people, Why can we not live in peace?

I think that you know how this story proceeds--
History is more than reciting old deeds.
To understand Now, we must study the Past;
Only then might the Future be better at last.

I try every day to make up for lost time,
To do my small part to find reason and rhyme.
The volume of knowledge will always dwarf me,
But I'm finally keen to embrace History.


I know that finding world peace is only one reason to study history. What do you first think of when you contemplate the word "history"? One of the things I like best about Poetry Monday is seeing how differently people think about the same topic! Let me know what you're thinking.

Sunrise courtesy of Pixabay

Friday 13 October 2017

I Hear The Train A-Comin' . . .

Just two items today, since I'm pushing up against the craft sale deadline here, one of the items making up the choo-choo of frantic activity in which I am engaged each year from September to December.


First, a blogging problem.

I am a procrastinator, although I try to counteract that by using schedules and deadlines. Knowing this, I decided when I started this blog to have a set posting schedule here, too. Mondays and Fridays are my days to post. I'm pleased to say I've never missed one.

But last Monday's post, although written and published, didn't reach some of you who have kindly signed on to receive my drivel automatically. I noticed on a number of blogs--those with a sidebar showing the most recent post--that it had not appeared. On further checking with a friend, this sad fact was confirmed.

I'm not sure what the problem was; it might have been that I edited a couple of errors in the post immediately after it published. I don't know how these things work. Does it take some time for the post to make its way around the world? Are the internet's series of tubes clogged?

If my editing wasn't the issue, I fear there may be a problem with my Blogger account.

Has this ever happened to you?

Anyway, if it's Monday or Friday and you haven't received my post, there's a jagged fracture (or a huge clog, same result) in the internet, or in the blogging world, or at least in my Blogger account. You can always check my blog directly to find the post instead:


And I want to recommend a book I just finished. It's not a recent one, and it was much acclaimed when it was published (and also won the Pulitzer Prize for Biography/Autobiography), so perhaps you've heard of it: The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. It tells the story of the first year after the sudden death of Didion's husband. For more, you can go HERE.

I knew this would happen. As soon as I want to talk about a book I've read, I run out of words. Seriously, my word bank just dries up. This is why I don't write reviews. But the link above will cover the material in the book nicely. And I really only wanted to add that I found it very moving, I found it very familiar (grief is grief, no matter what relationship is under discussion), and I felt relieved--as I tend to do--to find out I was not alone in my reactions to grief.


And why was I reading when I have a craft sale deadline? Because procrastination, that's why.

That's it, plus a picture:

This dear little deer was caught on camera looking in our basement window last week. It was one of two fawns who, with their mother, were having a snack in our back yard in broad daylight.

Happy weekend, all!


Monday 9 October 2017


It's Poetry Monday but I am giving it a pass today in order to post something that has been on my mind lately. Anyone who would like to leave a poem in the comments is still welcome to do so. The theme this week is Harvest, and you can use it or not, as you like.

Today is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. I have a lot to be thankful for: living in a democratic, peaceful country, in a region where the weather is varied and interesting but not deadly, with access to good health care paid by our tax system, and caring, kind family members close by. I have plenty of healthy food, clean air, decent shelter and, as you might recall, far more than enough clothing (although I will remind you it was purchased at dirt-cheap prices).

About twenty years ago, a friend lent me a copy of Amy Dacyczyn's book, The Tightwad Gazette. It was based on the newsletters of the same name that, at their height of popularity in the 1990s, had over 100,000 subscribers. Her tips for living frugally were meant to help people pay less but be able to live happily and healthily. There is a short YouTube video from 2009 HERE. It explains a little more about her philosophy if you're interested.

As much as I enjoyed Amy's frugality ideas, recipes, sewing tips, and overall approach to life, there was one essay in her book that really stood out for me, so much so that I typed it out to keep, and I have thought of it in many situations and at many times in my life in the ensuing two decades. It is called "A Stolen Thanksgiving Soap Box Speech", and was paraphrased from a lay sermon preached by her neighbor, Charlie Woodward, who worked with low-income families and the homeless.

In Amy's words:

I had heard bits and pieces of this sermon before. I have picked his brain on a number of occasions to understand why poor people are poor. Invariably the conversations have concluded as Charlie patiently reminded me that we have not all been born with the same gifts.

A gift is anything that we have that we did not work for. People born to wealth have more advantages than those born in poverty. People with a high intelligence will probably fare better than those born with low intelligence . . .

. . . Being born in [a First World country] is a gift. While not all of us are rich, we are likely to have greater opportunities for education, health care, and employment than those living in Third World countries.

Health is a gift, at least the health with which we were born. Most of us are botching it to some degree or another. But our genetic package plays a large role in why some can abuse their health and never get sick while others work at being healthy and still get sick.

Those of us who were raised in good families have a gift. Not everyone was raised with love, security, positive feedback, and values. Charlie believes that the "work ethic" is also a gift. Some parents taught it to their kids and some parents did not.

Many examples come to mind of individuals who have overcome a lack of gifts. These people always have a variety of other gifts.

The bottom line is to understand that what we have and who we are has a lot to do with factors we received in a package deal when we came into the world.

She goes on to explain that most people use their gifts well enough to have either a surplus of either time or money, and that by donating some of our surplus time, money, or energy we express thankfulness for the abundance of gifts with which we were born.


Over the years I have tried to do what I can to help others. Money has not always been in surplus here but there are other ways to give back. When our children were young, I did quite a lot of door to door canvassing for various charities, and for eight years I was a local officer of a national organization to promote education .

During this time our daughter became very ill and volunteering went by the wayside for a few years. Her health had just begun to improve when my father had his stroke, and for the next eight years I was busy with responsibilities related to his care. It took me two years after his death to feel like I had the energy to do anything other than look after myself (except for "mom" emergencies, fuelled by adrenaline rather than a surplus of energy).

And that brings us to the present.

I'm thinking it's time I started doing something to give back again. I don't know what that something is, but my eyes and ears and heart are open.


Have you been lucky in the lottery of life? Have you had bad luck but choose to do what you can with what you have? If you are giving back to the world, would you consider sharing with me what you do? I am looking for ideas, the more the better. (Note: I know some of what a few of you do--I have been paying attention, but maybe tell me again for the benefit of others who may not know.)


Friday 6 October 2017

Like Watching Paint Dry

I mentioned on Monday (HERE) that I'm busy sewing for a craft sale.

One of the most important items I use when sewing is the lowly straight pin. Plus all its brothers and sisters, because one pin isn't a whole lot of good all by itself.

I'm going to assume that everyone knows what a straight pin looks like, but if anyone doesn't, scroll down and you'll see several pictures to illustrate.

I'm not sure how many pins other people go through in their lifetime, but I still have all the pins I ever bought. I started sewing on my mother's treadle machine, and back then I was still using her pins. That was over fifty years ago. I was about eight. My mother sewed her clothes and my clothes, and I sewed doll clothes.

This is what a treadle sewing machine looks like, by the way:

Uses foot power, not electricity. This looks a lot like my mother's machine.

But then I eventually went to high school and we needed our own supplies for sewing class in Home Economics. This is my first container of pins--yes, I still have it. And they are far superior in quality to the bendy ones you have to buy these days. More on that later.

Purchased in 1969. Nice and sturdy, and they don't reach out and poke you when you least expect it.

 And here's the pin cushion I made (hastily) from scraps a couple of years later--yes, I still have it.

Circa 1971. The light areas on top are where the nap has worn off the corduroy material. Just look at those loose stitches . . . I sewed it by hand and the stuffing put a strain on my lousy seam! I was fourteen years old. I have forgiven myself.

Somewhere along the line, I misplaced my little blue container of pins, and when I took up sewing again, I needed more. Here they are:

These pins are extremely sharp and much thinner and weaker than my originals. I don't like to use them because I hurt myself on them ALL THE TIME. And you can't sew over them with a sewing machine the way you can with thicker ones. The world is going to heck in a handbasket, if you ask me. Even if you don't ask me, it is.

And I was given a new pincushion by . . . somebody in my family (what? can you remember who gave you every single gift you've ever gotten?) at Christmas one year. Or my birthday. I can't remember that either.

This is the classic "tomato and strawberry" pincushion sold everywhere. The big part is the tomato and the little part is the strawberry and you can sharpen your pins and needles by running them repeatedly into the strawberry because it's filled with emery. (I had to look that up on the internet because I actually never knew what was in them before.) My husband says it makes no sense to have a tomato and a strawberry together, and he's right, but someone thought it was a good idea at some distant point in sewing history and apparently no one has put up much of a fuss because this is the way they're still made.

The tomato is upside down in the picture. On the bottom (not shown) is a piece of star-shaped green material to represent the leafy stem end of the tomato. But the pins won't go through that fabric, so it works better upside down. Another design flaw that has never been corrected! Some day I must register a complaint with someone, somewhere.

I've just remembered that I DID buy another box of pins between the two shown here, but I have no idea where it is. I'm lucky to have rounded up these ones for the pictures. You'll have to use your imagination to picture a small hinged plastic box with a black bottom and a clear top. The pins in it are also good quality. I'm set for life as far as sturdy pins go.

But the real whole point of this post is something I bought last week for fifty cents in our local thrift shop. I adore it. And I don't use the word "adore" lightly.

Here is my new pin dish:

I've been looking for a pin dish for months now. This one makes my heart go pitter-pat. I know, I know, I'm not right in the head.

And here it is being useful:

Sitting on the draft blocker that I sewed inside out by mistake. I don't even care! My pin dish makes everything better.

And now you know the reason for the title of this post :)

What's new and exciting (or old and comfortable) in your world? Do tell!

And please have yourself a good weekend :)

Monday 2 October 2017

Poetry Monday: thanksgiving (the lowercase version)

Poetry Monday was started by Diane, of On the Alberta/Montana Border, taken up by Delores of Mumblings, and by Joan (who contributes in the comments here) and me. Anyone who'd like to join in is welcome to do so on any of our blogs, or you can leave us your blog address in the comments if you are posting on your own blog.

Thanksgiving holiday in Canada is one week from today, and I have a special post for that day.

Today, though, the topic suggested by our fearless leader Diane is "thanksgiving" and I'm using it in the general sense, with a lowercase "t".

Try as I might, I could not come up with an original poem that encompasses my gratitude for all I have. The topic seems huge, and when it comes to poetry I'm better at humour than serious topics.

Therefore, I would like to share a favourite poem with you from author e. e. cummings. Perhaps you are already familiar with it; both the author and this poem are well known and well-studied by high school students here, and that may be true in other areas as well.

This poem expresses my feelings completely in a way that I'd never be able to do. Not holding religious beliefs myself, it could be considered ironic that I love this poem as much as I do. But I choose to interpret the concept of God in an exceedingly broad way, and its usage does not--for me--change in any way the power and beauty of e. e. cummings' words. (Source: click here)

i thank You God for most this amazing

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)


the spring version of amazing
the summer version of amazing

the fall version . . . where leaping greenly turns to fiery reds and oranges and yellows . . .

. . . and winter . . . still amazing with no leaves at all . . .

(All photos by Procrastinating Donkey, who has been procrastinating up a storm lately. You may (or may not) recall that last year at this time, I spoke of the feeling of standing on train tracks with a train bearing down on me from behind--the feeling I get every year from September to December. Well, that train has crept up on my procrastinating self again. Currently I am busy sewing draft blockers  for a craft sale. Today I sewed one completely inside out. And I sewed another one shut at both ends before I had a chance to stuff it. I'm a little afraid of what tomorrow will bring.)