Fw: Once and for All plus Book List for June 2025 (attached)

----- Forwarded Message -----

From: ann turner <annpturner@gmail.com>

To: deantudor@yahoo.com <deantudor@yahoo.com>

Cc: Ann Tudor <atudor1958@gmail.com>

Sent: Sunday, June 29, 2025 at 01:00:44 p.m. EDT

Subject: Re: Fw: Once and for All plus Book List for June 2025 (attached)

Haha, thanks!

On Sun, Jun 29, 2025 at 11:25 AM deantudor@yahoo.com <deantudor@yahoo.com> wrote:

To: ann Tudor <atudor@pathcom.com>

Sent: Sunday, June 29, 2025 at 11:21:47 a.m. EDT

Subject: Once and for All plus Book List for June 2025 (attached)

Sent: Sunday, June 29, 2025 at 10:54:16 a.m. EDT

Subject: text musings

Once and for All

Once and for all let's deal with this question of age, of being old, 
becoming old. I was with a group of friends recently; our ages ranged 
from 91 to maybe 65. That youngster of 65 had many things to talk 
about besides age, but the rest of us? No matter where our sentence 
started we ended up back at that irresistible topic of what it is like 
to be as old as we are.

So many permutations: what does it feel like? How does the world react 
to your oldness? Analyze the issue from the viewpoint of physical, 
mental, emotional, and spiritual changes.

That's a lot of territory to cover in one little lunch party. Here's 
the thing. It's all new. Wandering into this new land (not 
voluntarily, I might add) separates us from everything else. I guess I 
was more prescient than I knew when I wrote "Hesitating at the Gate" 
and described (from my relatively young 70 years then) the border 
between the Land of Old and the rest of life.

The hardest stumbling block is that things don't get better. Every 
physical insult that befalls you becomes the new normal you. Things 
don't get healed, you just get inured to them and accept them as a 
part of life.

I remember a time (at 70) when I bemoaned the loss of words. I don't 
talk about it as much now because the loss is on such a large scale, 
so all-encompassing, that I can if I wish spend hours fretting over 
the difficulty of finding a word I knew perfectly well in the previous 
moment.  The only thing to do is let go. Let go of your need for the 
word or phrase or idea. Maybe it will come to you some other time. 
This morning at 7 I lost and could not retrieve the name of the 
daughter of a friend. I knew it began with C and had an O in it, but 
Cordelia was all I came up with and that wasn't right. Just a few 
sentences ago it came to me: Courtney. Blessings on you and all of us, 
Courtney.

We inspire fear in the younger ones, I'm sure. Our children vacillate 
between seeing us as immortal and all-powerful ("Mom, you will never 
die") and dreading the day when we lose yet another of our important 
faculties and become the dreaded thing: a burden. The one approach is 
simply denial, the other is a form of catastrophizing.

Not to mention the physical changes that frighten off the young: 
wrinkles, thin and wispy hair, bent and limping legs, groans upon 
rising from a chair, thinning arms with pleated flesh that dangles, 
ears that grow impossibly large, noses that become the focal point of 
the face. No wonder they ask: where is my dear little grandmother?

As usual, I've wandered off the original topic as I imagined it and 
have reduced the whole issue to a catalog of superficial ills. Not 
what I wanted. What I was trying to convey was how very separated we 
become, as old people, from everyone else. Our issues are not 
comprehensible. Blame enters the picture: if she'd done the Wordle 
puzzle every day she wouldn't be dealing with dementia now. If she'd 
walked every single day the way we told her to, her legs would still 
work.

Here I am at the end, still a long distance away from any final word. 
But I'm done for the day.

Fw: Once and for All plus Book List for June 2025 (attached)

To: ann Tudor <atudor@pathcom.com>

Sent: Sunday, June 29, 2025 at 11:21:47 a.m. EDT

Subject: Once and for All plus Book List for June 2025 (attached)

Sent: Sunday, June 29, 2025 at 10:54:16 a.m. EDT

Subject: text musings

Once and for All

Once and for all let's deal with this question of age, of being old, 
becoming old. I was with a group of friends recently; our ages ranged 
from 91 to maybe 65. That youngster of 65 had many things to talk 
about besides age, but the rest of us? No matter where our sentence 
started we ended up back at that irresistible topic of what it is like 
to be as old as we are.

So many permutations: what does it feel like? How does the world react 
to your oldness? Analyze the issue from the viewpoint of physical, 
mental, emotional, and spiritual changes.

That's a lot of territory to cover in one little lunch party. Here's 
the thing. It's all new. Wandering into this new land (not 
voluntarily, I might add) separates us from everything else. I guess I 
was more prescient than I knew when I wrote "Hesitating at the Gate" 
and described (from my relatively young 70 years then) the border 
between the Land of Old and the rest of life.

The hardest stumbling block is that things don't get better. Every 
physical insult that befalls you becomes the new normal you. Things 
don't get healed, you just get inured to them and accept them as a 
part of life.

I remember a time (at 70) when I bemoaned the loss of words. I don't 
talk about it as much now because the loss is on such a large scale, 
so all-encompassing, that I can if I wish spend hours fretting over 
the difficulty of finding a word I knew perfectly well in the previous 
moment.  The only thing to do is let go. Let go of your need for the 
word or phrase or idea. Maybe it will come to you some other time. 
This morning at 7 I lost and could not retrieve the name of the 
daughter of a friend. I knew it began with C and had an O in it, but 
Cordelia was all I came up with and that wasn't right. Just a few 
sentences ago it came to me: Courtney. Blessings on you and all of us, 
Courtney.

We inspire fear in the younger ones, I'm sure. Our children vacillate 
between seeing us as immortal and all-powerful ("Mom, you will never 
die") and dreading the day when we lose yet another of our important 
faculties and become the dreaded thing: a burden. The one approach is 
simply denial, the other is a form of catastrophizing.

Not to mention the physical changes that frighten off the young: 
wrinkles, thin and wispy hair, bent and limping legs, groans upon 
rising from a chair, thinning arms with pleated flesh that dangles, 
ears that grow impossibly large, noses that become the focal point of 
the face. No wonder they ask: where is my dear little grandmother?

As usual, I've wandered off the original topic as I imagined it and 
have reduced the whole issue to a catalog of superficial ills. Not 
what I wanted. What I was trying to convey was how very separated we 
become, as old people, from everyone else. Our issues are not 
comprehensible. Blame enters the picture: if she'd done the Wordle 
puzzle every day she wouldn't be dealing with dementia now. If she'd 
walked every single day the way we told her to, her legs would still 
work.

Here I am at the end, still a long distance away from any final word. 
But I'm done for the day.

Believing in Maybe

From: Ann Tudor <atudor1958@gmail.com>

To: Ann Tudor <atudor1958@gmail.com>

Sent: Sunday, June 15, 2025 at 11:31:54 a.m. EDT

Subject: [delphicitizen] Believing in Maybe

Believing in Maybe

In the Medieval world

beliefs were communal and universal.

In our inconclusive world

of disparate and scattered beliefs

it is thrilling to believe in the maybe,

which roams over wild hills and quiet oases

and affords us the comfort of imaginings.

Indeed, if "this" then maybe also "that"

and there we are:

ideas to make a meal of, a feast of, a harvest table of,

flavoured with toasted cumin and coriander seeds

and heightened by the zest of a lemon.

Fwd: Accept the Gifts That Come; Scenes from the Journey, vol. 22, no. 11

Subject: Accept the Gifts That Come; Scenes from the Journey, vol. 22, no. 11

Accept the Gifts That Come

What an order. How foreign the notion of accepting whatever arrives in your life. For me to accept the unexpected? That will require deep breaths, trust, and a recognition that gratitude is always appropriate—nay, necessary—when gods give gifts. And what better manifestation of gratitude than the full-hearted acceptance of the gift, no matter how strange, no matter how unexpectedly frightening. Gods' gifts don't always answer prayers but may represent the next level—a path we with our limited vision would never have been able to foresee. Accept what will take you beyond, for that will always be where you need to go.

ok

Dean Tudor,  Prof Emeritus T'karonto Metropolitan University (formerly Ryerson) School of Journalism

Treasurer of Wine Writers' Circle of Canada http://www.deantudor.com
http://gothicepicures.blogspot.com
https://twitter.com/gothicepicures

Off and Running

Off and Running

 

 

 

Well, I seem to be more interested in adjusting the little screw in the arm of

 

my spectacles than in responding to the dropped flag that signals the start

 

of this writing race.

 

 

 

"You're off!" says the flag. And there they go, down the straightaway, around

 

the first curve, back along the far straightaway. And while those engines

 

roar and those wheels spin, devouring the territory with speed—while that

 

takes place, one lone car, as sparkling a racer as any of the others, is left at

 

the gate, its engine idling.

 

 

 

The hapless driver (don't you love that word, hapless?) jiggles with the

 

starter button, revs the engine as she holds the clutch in, and then slowly

 

releases the clutch and guns the accelerator. To no avail. The car doesn't

 

move.

 

 

 

This continues for too long—long enough, in fact, for the pack of other

 

writers (er, cars) to have circled the track two times. The lack of movement is

 

a mystery.

 

 

 

Until someone on the crew realizes: the chocks are still blocking the back

 

wheels. Well! Well, it's the work of a moment to kick the chocks out of the

 

way and finally the car is off and running, though no longer IN the running,

 

having lost too much time to win, place, or show.  Nonetheless, she (it) is in

 

motion, hurtling down the gravel track, slowing slightly for the curve (notice

 

the skill with which she slide-skids the rear wheels on that curve—the work

 

of a real professional).

 

 

 

And the race is on. But as with most car races, the crowd is losing interest.

 

Even diehard fans admit (when their third or fourth beer coaxes honesty

 

from them) that the greater part of a car race is boring beyond belief. Round

 

and round. Round and round. No indication as to who is leading, since

 

some of the cars have lapped others. The dominant feature of the race is

 

noise. But if you look closely you'll see that many in the crowd are wearing

 

earplugs. Or even, in some cases, earbuds connected to a Bluetooth device

 

so they can listen to the baseball game on the radio for entertainment while

 

the race does its interminable thing.

 

 

 

And if the excruciating languor of a baseball game provides more

 

entertainment than a car race, well that's all the measure you need of the

 

tedium of today's race.

 

 

 

Nevertheless, let's give a little praise to today's last-place finisher. At least

 

someone finally remembered to kick the chocks out of the way and the

 

driver actually left her starting gate. We learn one thing from this fiasco: this

 

driver must be nice, 'cause those are the ones who finish last.

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2025  Ann Tudor

Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

 

ListenandLive: https://listenandlive.com/index.php?

 

route=product/search&search=Ann%20Tudor

 

Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor

 

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Elation

Elation has been rare.

Moments of happiness, yes,

because that is accessible and can be

stimulated from the outside.

But elation is an inner thing.

One might say you either have it or you don't.

Truer to say we all have it—

it's one of those birthrights,

like creativity.

 

At a young age you might have been squelched

by the killjoy who,

wittingly or not,

felt it his/her duty to take you down a peg—

over and over

or just one time at a crucial juncture.

When sat upon, the joy of a child

learns to suppress itself

and that joyful energy, frustrated,

turns to misery and depression

or to a sharp-tongued defensiveness

that, like the thorned thicket

round Sleeping Beauty's castle,

repels all suitors.

 

Healing can happen,

in the right circumstances,

re-opening the possibility of elation.

Aim for it.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

ListenandLive: https://listenandlive.com/index.php?route=product/search&search=Ann%20Tudor

Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor

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Choosing Idleness

I seem to be playing a little game with myself these days: how far can I go? I'm assuming—rightly, I hope—that the answer to that will become clear at some point.

 

How far can I go in dropping activities before I dissolve into a big puddle of indolence? I don't have a lot of experience with this. I've spent my life doing, sometimes from necessity, sometimes to counter what I fear is an innate laziness—the kind of laziness that brings shame if someone else sees it.

 

This fear's long history dates back to my childhood. In my memory (which may not be reliable), all I ever wanted to do was read. I see this now as an escape mechanism to avoid my more extroverted, noisy family. But maybe I'm making this up. At any rate, I do know that as a child I read constantly. I did other things: practiced the piano, made good grades (essential if you wanted parental approval in our family), and performed my chores no more reluctantly than did my siblings. Nevertheless Eileen, my mother, saw me as lazy. So she called me, whenever she saw evidence of this trait, "Queenie."

 

Carrying Queenie in my subconscious for these many decades made me pretty sensitive to the question of laziness, so I've always worked hard. I've not ever been a decent housekeeper (though I did used to vacuum, I'm sure) so I deliberately did other things to compensate: I made all our bread and cooked our meals from scratch, sewed clothes, knitted, and volunteered. Now we have the blessed Cristina who comes twice a month to do the cleaning that I won't do.

 

My game these days consists of dropping one activity after another, leaving my days (and most definitely my evenings) as empty as I can make them. I think I want to see how I will fill my time once I have, say, two or three weekdays totally empty. Will I just read more? Do more Ken-Ken puzzles? Or will I remove myself to a quiet room and practice my tai chi or meditate for longer periods? Or perhaps I'll rebel, leap up screaming from my chair and race to the kitchen saying, "I can't stand this idleness! I'm going to make six piecrusts and a new batch of walnut-buckwheat crackers. I'm going to make bread until the freezer can't hold another loaf. No more lolling about! Time's a-wastin'." And so much for idleness.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

ListenandLive: https://listenandlive.com/index.php?route=product/search&search=Ann%20Tudor

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Saying a Hearty Yes! to Adventure

Leaving the house to go to the opera. The adventure of it. Clutch (oh, lightly) the railing as you go down the steps. Look at the flowers and see the weeds--but still, look at the flowers. Here's the next set of steps. Railing. Sidewalk.

 

Dog-person coming. Flat-faced stupid dog. Don't be unkind. Cute doggie with humanoid face. That's better. Stop judging. Dog owner overdressed for the job: must be going off to work as soon as doggie poops.

 

Uneven sidewalk. Navigated it well even though ankle twisted a bit. Coulda been worse (our family motto). Delivery van coming. Will it stop at our house? More likely it's for the neighbours because deliveries are usually for them, not us.

 

Crowd of young people around the subway steps. Do they not have mothers? Do mothers no longer teach courtesy? Stop standing right beside the hand-rail, you idiots! Some of us have to use the rails. And may fall if we don't. I don't say such things aloud, of course, but my inner self screams quite loudly. If any of these louts has good ESP they'll hear it and wonder why the old lady is mutely yelling at them.

 

Probably no ESP in this group. Is the midriff really an attractive body part? Well, I guess if you want to show off your navel ring you have to bare the midriff. But still...

 

Lady with stroller at the top of the steps. I used to offer to help carry strollers down the subway stairs. I'd take the front end and the mommy could hold the handle. Now I don't even offer since I'd end up missing a step and we'd all tumble down like Humpty Dumpty, landing with stroller and baby on top of me. Broken bones all around. I feel like an insensitive brute when I walk right past but who wants a dumb conversation like "I'd help you if I were younger but just look at this decrepit self. Hope someone stronger comes along soon..."

 

Subway train arrives. Find a seat. Everyone's masked, thank goodness—and whip out the TLS that will last for this trip. Three seat-units away is a pair of middle-aged men, one of whom has a not unattractive but very loud bass voice. Mansplaining occurs. I thought that was man-to-woman, but apparently there's a version that's man-to-subordinate-man. He never stops talking, giving obvious and marginally offensive opinions on every topic of the day. Can I compete with this by reading an article on classic Greek architecture?

 

Shut him out. Reach the stop and—watch out, lady—don't cut in front of me—are you really in such a hurry?

 

As I walk south, a couple overtakes me, both wearing Sunday best. She's a fashionista, in her knee-length taupe wool coat, cocoon-shaped. Until she's walking ahead of me and I see the kick-pleat in the centre back. She's failed to remove the tacking at the bottom of the kickpleat and now I no longer see her as a fashionista. Or perhaps I'm so out of date that I don't recognize this as the latest thing—to leave in that tacking at the bottom and probably also to leave in the pocket-basting designed to keep the pocket from gaping as it travels from sweatshop to your back. Oh, I'm so out of the loop!

 

Wait. Where am I? I didn't know there was a curve here. Am I lost? Will I have to walk three blocks out of my way? Will I be late? Am I lost? No, there it is, beyond the curve. A familiar sight. I just keep going south. Am I late, though? Will I have time to pee before the opera starts? Anxiety, my faithful companion, enlivens every trip.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Baby, It's Cold Outside

I could talk about how depressed the weather is making me this year. It isn't the lack of light; that is not my issue. My problem is the cold. One year I promised myself that I wouldn't complain about the winter weather—and I pretty much kept that promise. But I promised no such thing this year, and I've been making the most of this opportunity to kvetch.

 

Briefly, not to dwell on it ad nauseam, can I just say this? I've figured out how to be warm when I go outside. The problem arises when I reach my destination—say, a restaurant (remember going to restaurants?) or a concert. The maitre d' says, "May I take your coat?" He has no idea! He twiddles his thumbs and smiles fakely while I disrobe: remove the gloves. Set the purse on the floor. Unwrap my big outer scarf and move the hood from my head. Take off the hat and then the neck-warmer (over the head, being sure not to dislodge earrings or hearing aids). Set these aside for the moment. (Where?) Now unzip the coat and slip it off. Insert the hat and neck-warmer into the coat-sleeve, with the gloves in the other sleeve. Give the fully loaded coat to the bored, waiting man, who certainly has things he'd rather be doing.

 

Now I straighten my hair. Tug at my fancy jacket. And voila! I'm ready for my close-up. And then, at the end of the meal/concert I have to load these fifteen pounds back onto my frame.  But it isn't finished yet. Once I've braved the sidewalk and the transit system (please, TTC, let me make it all the way to High Park before you call another system-wide emergency), I reach my own sweet home, where I have to remove again every item of clothing. And put each in its proper place. PLUS boots! No wonder I can handle only one outing a day.

 

I have a dim memory of summer. Of walking out the door in sandals and whatever indoor clothing I'm wearing. I will revel in the summer, should it arrive. Delight in it, even. I promise not to complain about the humidity.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

ListenandLive: https://listenandlive.com/index.php?route=product/search&search=Ann%20Tudor

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Remember Me

Say no prayers for me when I am gone

but don't you dare forget me.

Even if all you can remember are

the less flattering moments of our time together--

even then, don't you dare forget me.

They say there's no such thing as bad publicity

and that's what I'm going for here: just remember.

It's little enough to ask.

 

We never, here on earth, fully know another,

so what you will recall of me—

whether good or bad—

is likely to be half true

and just an imagining of your mind.

You'll never be remembering the real me,

but always just a simulacrum, my stunt double.

But I don't care.

Right or wrong, hero or villain

or just plain ordinary schmuck,

I want to linger in your heart

and lie in the depths of your being.

Remember me.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

ListenandLive: https://listenandlive.com/index.php?route=product/search&search=Ann%20Tudor

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