Youth in Action

🔰The Maze Runner is the latest book in the Young Adult genre of fiction that has become a motion picture.

After seeing The Hunger Games parts 1 and 2 last year, I fell for YA fiction. Reading and watching The Maze Runner have me completely enamoured. What makes it so appealing to 45 year old mother of three nearly young adults of her own?

The characters in a lot of the novels are a different breed from the girls and boys in the books I read. Back in the 80s Judy Bloom cranked out a pile of novels geared toward the pre/teen/late teen crowd. They were great, well written. They spoke of all the ups and downs puberty can put you through. Dating, bras, dreams, hopes fears. My generation was the last generation to be relatively sheltered and innocent in the ways of the world.

This generation, those in their 20s and younger aren’t like that. There’s a boldness I see in my children  and their counterparts that my friends and I didn’t have. A fearlessness, confidence, I CAN DO ANYTHING-ness, that I wish I had 20/25 years ago. This is what comes out in The Hunger Games,  Divergent, The Maze Runner, and other works of this type. When faced with a challenge the main characters may pause for a moment, before making a choice,  taking a path, but it’s evident that just know that they must and will do something. They’ll succeed or die trying.

I find these books refreshing. Adult fiction tends to be predictable, as are the movies they become. Rom-coms, thrillers, mysteries. There is very rarely an ending that surprises. I’m tired of the predictable!

So join in, grab a YA novel or wait for the movie to come out but definitely give it a try! 🙌

     ✴✴✴🆒✴✴✴🎦✴✴✴📚✴✴✴

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Love Lives On

I’m not even sure where to start with this. My mind and my heart are overcome with emotion.

I’m missing my grandfather today. It comes along every now and again; I’ll think of him from time to time, then a day will come where my eyes fill with tears and I cry for him. Openly, unashamed, like a child, freely.

My grandfather, was Herbert Leonard Green. My grandmother called him Herbie, as did I. No one questioned the fact that I didn’t call him Grandpa, or Grandfather. No one stopped me from calling him by his first name. None of my other cousins did this, and if they had tried I would have quickly put a stop to it. My parents tell me that I even went so far as to tell my grandmother that he was MY Herbie. No one argued with me.

I loved him so. With the kind of unconditional adoring love that only children know. Before we grow up and feel the sting of broken hearts and broken promises, this is how love is. My childhood was tumultuous. A lot of moving from place to place. One parent here, one there. A lot of stress from a very young age. When I was about 4, we moved to Jamaica (where my family is from). A lot went on while we were there. I was an only child, shy, quiet. I think my grandfather understood me, in a way no one else did.

In the midst of all the insanity swirling around me, he was a tranquil sea. Sometimes he picked me up from school and we went back to his office for a couple of hours. He’d give me chocolate to eat while I watched him work. At home (we lived in my grandparents house for a while) he told me stories and poems, from memory, from his childhood. He sang me songs while I sat on his lap. At night before bed, he would make me a big cup of Milo, a chocolate mix. I remember kneeling beside my grandparent’s bed, grandma on one side, Herbie on the other, while we said bedtime prayers. And I felt safe, with him there.

After we came back to Canada, I didn’t see him very often. We didn’t get back to Jamaica more than once every couple of years. And I’d go visit my grandparents for a few hours. And I still loved him with that childlike love, even as a teenager. He died in his 80s; Cancer. We knew he was going, and he had said he didn’t want any meds,  no fancy care, just for us to let him go. He’d had a long,  fulfilling life, he didn’t want to prolong the inevitable.

My parents lived out of the country at the time. When he was gone, my mom called my aunt, who came to me and broke the news. I was 21/22, but I bawled like a baby. I went to his funeral, and I was fine, it’s like he was there, just out of reach. We were at my grandparents house after, everyone laughing and sharing stories about him. And I kept looking around, expecting him to come out from his room, to be at the table, to sit with me and sing to me a song in his sweet, smooth voice….

I’ll be 45 in November. My Herbie has been gone over 20 years now. I miss him. Really miss him. He’s gone, but my love for him carries on.

Thanks for stopping by! 🌸

TV is the New Book

Reading was my thing. Books were my escape, my way of becoming someone else, losing myself in a different world with different friends. People knew me not by my face but by the book IN FRONT of my face. I read on the bus, at lunchtime, even while walking down the street. The way people have their eyes glued to their phones now, that was me and my book.

But marriage, motherhood, and a mortgage (i.e. Full time employment) has kept me from being the avid reader I was. I’ve tried to regain that devotion.I’ve borrowed from the library, I’ve purchased books, and even tried e-reading. I just am not able to concentrate as in days past. And I must confess there is so much on offer on TV it’s hard to turn away and pick up a page turner.

And it’s just hit me: the shows I immerse myself in are, when you think about it, live books. Continuing series are digital stories, and with access to stations like AMC where I can watch Hell On Wheels, and Netflix which offers a mad amount of viewing options, well..

Just as in any book I can lose myself in the storyline of the shows I watch. I can love and hate the characters. I can want to see the next chapter and not want the story to end. I’ll never completely give up on books, I love the feel and the smell and the comfort of them too much to turn my back on them. But there is plenty of room in my life for stories come to life as well.

Thanks for stopping by! 🌸

Around town

I’m a bit of an amateur photo. Unfortunately I don’t have a camera, I just use my cellphone 📱. But that’s perfectly acceptable so I do so freely and with impunity :D

Here are a couple random shots I took this week:

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Necessity, mother of invention

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Bird patrol

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Tea face

Hope you enjoy, and get on out there and get snapping!

Thanks for stopping by! 🌸

Think back or go back?

I’ve just heard about two high school events.  My high school. Where I graduated 26 years ago. Twenty. Six. My youngest brother in law is 26. Yeh.

So, one event is the school’s 50th anniversary. There’ll be an open house, and “social” (who says that in 2014?? 😐). That could be interesting,  seeing a few people from way back, maybe a couple of teachers I liked. The chance, though, of seeing a lot of people I know are pretty slim. 50 years means a lot of kids.

The other event is smaller, put on by a few classmates from our grad class of ’88/89. NO! 1989 not 1889 don’t be cheeky! I admit it’s  loooong time ago but still…
It’s to be at a pub downtown,  smaller, more intimate, word’s being spread via Facebook,  trusty news carrier service.

The thought of attending this one actually makes me nervous. I know we’ve all aged and drooped a bit. Hair slightly less full and shiny. Posture a little less striaght. But I’ve seen pix of some of my colleagues and a couple of them look great. I’m not ashamed to say how intimidating that is.

On Facebook you can post the best picture taken at the best angle in the best light in the best clothes. Live and in person is not always so flattering. One reason for going to these things it to see if the high and mighty have fallen. To see if the cheerleaders have lot a bit of the pep they had in their step. Time is meant to be the leveler of these things. I’m afraid I’ll go and everyone will look better than me, and then I’ll have to face the fact that I’m getting older.

#denialisnotjustariverinegypt

We’ll see how things go.

Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff

I go along day after day, week, year, following the same routine. And I worry. I agonize. I stress. I sweat the small stuff.

Every now and then some event comes along and stops me in the middle of my routine. It’s earth shaking, mind numbing, heart stopping. Yesterday it was the news of the death of Robin Williams. If you haven’t heard by now, your probably live off the grid, and are  blissfully ignorant of the details.

I haven’t seen all of his movies, I saw a few in the 90s. I enjoyed his animation voice overs and his wacky stand up routines. I very much liked the fact that he did good with his celebrity status, unlike so many, who just seek more fame more house more car. He was a good man.

His tragic demise hits close to home. I  won’t go into details, suffice it to say that his distress is not foreign to me. Death is awful. Death by one’s own hand is particularly so.

I’ve been on pause since yesterday, present but not quite. I ponder on how alone he must have felt. How his poor family is trying to grieve and function  in the spotlight of the media. I did the same when Michael Jackson died. I’ll most likely go through it again, the next time someone good dies young. Events like this make you think, about life and trying to find whatever joy you can. And if you suffer from mental issues, seek or accept help, as hard as that may be.

Today, I’m trying to let the small stuff go. It’s just not worth the stress.

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