Doodling

At McGill, I would diligently take class notes (with pen and paper, of course), as the professors pontificated. But then I’d get distracted and start inventing typefaces in the margins. Then I’d sketch the professors, or other students, or what was outside the window. Then I’d blink and stop myself and get back to work. But why was I doodling? Why was I so distractible? I finally got my answer last week when I read a letter Dad wrote to Mom when they were both 17. Taking up half of the second page was a doodle. So, apparently, it’s genetic.

Inspired by Artless. The image is of my Dad’s doodle, the caption reads: “You would love my daughter even if she didn’t have any money? That’s all, son. You can go now. I don’t want any idiots in my family.”

Notice

The minutes and hours click by as you scroll on your phone, bored and interested at the same time. Your eyes begin to blur and hurt, you look up, hours have gone by—days maybe—what have you done recently?

Who have you talked to? Did you notice the breeze? The taste of Autumn in the air? The edges of leaves turning gold? The raptors on the wing—riding the thermals? You haven’t? Where have you been? This isn’t criticism. I, too, have trouble being present. I, too, feel numb of late. I, too, let the world pass me by. 

Inspired by September Mourn. Image of what you might be missing right now, by AI (for the irony of it).

The End of August

I confess I don’t know what to write about. Not one clever line or idea has come to me. I’m in that dull transition phase—my breath held—before the onslaught of September. I always feel like this at the end of August—after the quagmire heat of high summer, just before everyone comes back from vacation and the school across the street is once again alive with children’s voices. I have shut off the screens. I am in the backyard listening to the cicadas, anticipating that perfect bit of coolness in the evening. I am wondering what comes next.

Inspired by not much really. Image is of Nancy’s overgrown, late-August garden.

A Little Bit of Magical Thinking

“It’s doomsday,” texts my son about the yellow miasma out there. Close the windows tight. Shut the doors. Put on the fans. Purify your air. Wear your mask. Help the evacuated if you can. Wish the firefighters well. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES reply to those idjits down south who think we’ve given them the stink-eye just to mess with their summer vacations. What would be the point? You can’t argue with magical thinkers. But do, while grinning, envision our crappy air infiltrating his gold-plated office and taking up residence in his lungs. After all, what goes around comes around.

Inspired by Heading Home. Image cropped from a photo by Cole Burston.

My True Nemesis

I hate packing, so I’m never moving again. My kids will have to pack up all my stuff when I’m gone. So I’ve said countless times. But that was before the meniscus tear on my left knee and the onset of arthritis in both. Now I know my true nemesis—the one that might make me go back on my word—the stairs. It’s an Edwardian workers’ house, so they’re steep, narrow and worn. I am frantically exercising to strengthen the muscles around my knees—wondering if I’ve left it too late. While every day, my nemesis creaks with laughter.

Inspired by Existential Home Improvement. Image of her stairs by Nancy

How I Wrote This Drabble

Spent the previous four days procrastinating
Reread Laurie’s drabble
Took a shower to think about it
Spent an hour phone scrolling
Made a cup of tea
Cleaned off the cat hair from my office chair
Answered emails
Went pee
Read Laurie’s again
Wrote
Deleted
Wrote
Deleted
Played Candy Crush
Wrote 340 words
Had lunch while watching an episode of Deep Space Nine
Answered emails
Cut it down to 88 words
Put some words back
Now it was 108 words long
Cut 10
Added three
Hyphenated-something
Got it to exactly 100 words
Found an image at the very last moment
Posted

Inspired by Routine. Photo by Nancy of Daisy, the culprit who sheds hair over Nancy’s chair.

Being Judgey (or, Okay Boomer!)

I don’t understand selfies. Who needs so many pictures of themselves? I don’t understand taking a selfie while pulling down a branch laden with cherry blossoms (right beside a sign that says: “Don’t pull on the branches please. It damages the trees”) and then getting into a car and leaving. I don’t understand people who post a picture of their food before every meal. I don’t understand spending every second of your vacation taking photos (most of which you delete eventually) instead of just being there. Are these experiences not real unless they’re recorded? Do we only exist on screen?

Inspired by The Rule of Turds. Image by Nancy not understanding.

Now That’s Customer Service

On a train from Ottawa, we’re told, due to maintenance, there’ll be an hour-long detour towards the Toronto end of the line. We slow to a crawl—stop for minutes at a time—than inch forward again.

     An announcement comes on: “Attention passengers, the detour today isn’t going very well. Thanks for your understanding.”

     We erupt in laughter. Then the train starts going backwards. 

     Another announcement: “In case you were wondering, we’re not heading back to Ottawa, we’re just backing up to merge onto another track. Thanks for your understanding.”

     When we finally make it to Toronto, we’re still laughing.

Inspired by a recent train trip. Photo by Via Rail Canada.

The Long Car Ride Home

In the silence after the argument—with miles to go before they reached home—Grace death-gripped the steering wheel and stared at the road, illuminated by the headlights, emerging from the darkness inch by inch. Beside her, Annie had retreated into herself, her head against the window, her eyes shut. Grace cursed her thick tongue and its inability to find the right words. Well into her fifth decade, Grace knew better, but still nuance was alien to her. Should Grace try to explain herself again? Or would that make it worse? She bit her tongue and contemplated the road ahead.

Inspired by all the road trip drabbles. Image by Artic Photo.

Freedom of the Road

On the cusp of adulthood, one Friday in the 1950s, Dad, with his Elvis pompadour, left work and picked up his brother Alan. They drove all night from Montreal to NYC to have Saturday lunch at the Automat and catch a Habs/Rangers game at the Gardens that evening.

On the way home Sunday his second-hand Dodge broke down somewhere in Vermont. “We were late for work on Monday,” he tells me with a grin decades later. At 32, Alan died from cancer. Don’t know what happened to the Dodge.

Inspired by Blink of the Eye. Image of Madison Square Gardens in the 1950s, photographer unknown.

You’re Cheating!

My favourite card game growing up was Cheat because, duh, you were allowed to cheat. My favourite type of cheat in the game was not the bold straightforward move of putting down two “threes” and calling them two “fours,” but the sly manoeuvre of putting down two “fours” and slipping in a stray “three” at the bottom of your pile.

And then, just to make it more fun, we’d play with five incomplete decks of cards—so none of us knew just how many “fours” we were actually playing with. We’d play for hours on rainy afternoons or snowed-in Sundays.

Inspired by Word Games. Photo by pmmart.

Self-medicating

Shopping to my mother was part medicine and part recreational sport. Many Saturdays she’d drag us to the mall. We’d spend the afternoon getting our steps in while she rummaged through every bargain bin for yet another new summer top, or purse or decorative thing-a-ma-jig. We’d sit on all the new sofas upstairs at Sears. We’d try on a bunch of shoes (the sales attendants must have loved us). This wasn’t about need. This was about dopamine hits, dreams and boredom. Shopping was her opium. Fun at the time; a little sad in retrospect. And I’ve hated malls ever since.

Inspired by The Cop Out. Image by ThatHolisticMom888.

Rant

I remember when all I had to remember was my home address and my seven-digit land-line telephone number. Now I’ve got hundreds of online accounts each one needing a unique password—because heaven forbid I use the same one. That’s just asking to be hacked. And don’t forget to change the passwords occasionally and to include random characters—letters (capital and non), numbers and specials. And then there’s all the card numbers and PINs and expiry dates and CVCs. Sometimes I so long to go back to an analogue world. Sometimes I want to talk to an actual bank teller. 

Inspired by Saturdays, Sundays and Holidays.

Saturday Afternoon

Outside the tiniest of snowflakes float. Inside, sunlight from the window hits the dust motes hovering above the hot air vent. The furnace has kicked in, rumbling melodically from the basement. The fridge hums. The cat on my lap purrs. I flip a page in my book. I notice the soft sound of my rough fingertips moving over paper. I breathe in. I breathe out. A gust of wind outside now. The snow scatters—the last of the autumn leaves dance. The cat shifts her weight, resettling on me. I breathe in. I breathe out. I turn the next page.

Inspired by the afternoon. Photo by NetPix.

Whose Home Turf is it?

One drizzly March day, laden with shopping bags, I reached my street corner when I noticed a group of women gabbing on the sidewalk across from me—totally oblivious to anything around them including their dogs barking furiously and pulling on their leads. I vaguely wondered at this, then rounded the corner and saw the reason: a large stray—no, my mind registered—a coyote, looking wet, pissed off and bedraggled. I froze, but it took no notice of me. The light turned green. The cars stopped. And it sauntered across the intersection towards High Park and out of sight.

Inspired by Oooh, Ahhh. Photo by Harry Collins.

Like, I’m Going To Tell You

Once, when I worked at a hospital Charitable Foundation drafting fundraising reports with impossible deadlines, I found in the break room a box of buttons left there by HR. It was an employee wellness initiative. On each button was a different mood statement: “Grateful,” “Grumpy,” “I need a hug.” We were to pin on a button to share how we felt that day. I laughed, eyeing the one that said “Overwhelmed.” No one wore any of the buttons and a month later when I asked to work remotely so I could take care of my ailing mother, they let me go.

Inspired by Let’s Not Talk. Image based on a blank button by PhotoStockImage.

Knitting World

She was in love with the wool—not so much the knitting. Or maybe it was the idea of crafting something into life. She didn’t delve too deep. She just bought: canary yellow merino, blue sky mohair, Aran creamsicle prints—colours and textures you could sink into piled high. Imagine the cozy afghan for the couch in her mountainside cottage; the chunky sweater she would make for him; the tiny baby booties; the striped scarf for her daughter-to-be. It was worth learning the patterns for that—no matter how many times she has to unravel her stitches and start again.

Inspired by Star Bright. Photo by Delpixel.

Poker Game

Mary Ann was charming and funny, but she lacked a “stop” button. Take the infamous strip poker game at the back of the school bus where the six graders sat. Among a crowd of boys teetering on puberty, Mary Ann, past teetering, made the most of that 30-minute ride. When her opponent lost a round, she took off one of her many rings, which she wore just for the occasion. When Mary Ann lost, she went right for her shirt, and then her jeans. Her eyes were ablaze, chasing the attention, looking for the self-worth, she could not find elsewhere.

Inspired by Jordy. Photo by Stephen Rees.

Building Community Through Dance

The instructor puts on a reggae tune and counts us down: “Five, six, seven, eight . . .” All twenty beginner students take the first steps in unison—some confident, some not. Half way through, this middle-aged woman catches the beat, gets low with the rhythm. Hips sway. Feet ground on the good earth. Body twirls round and round. Arms and hands are raised to the darkening sky, her eyes bright and her face smiling. She lifts her head, letting her hair swing. The first droplets fall. But let it rain. Let people watch and stare and judge. She doesn’t care. She’s dancing.

Inspired by 7 Minutes. Image by Dmytro Kolin.

Frog in Pot

Like a frog unaware it’s boiling to death because the water is heated incrementally, most days I’m only vaguely aware of my body’s slow disintegration. Except when I woke up last Thursday with excruciating knee pain. People asked: “what happened?” Beats me. I don’t remember doing anything out of the ordinary. I was just living. Medical tests will tell me if it’s something mendable like a meniscus tear, or a new norm like arthritis—a level of background pain I’ll get used to and then live in denial about. Nothing to see here, just a frog boiling in a pot.

Inspired by One Foot In and Man Door Hand Hook Car Door. Image by Shutterstock AI.