Marshmallow Gun

Posted on September 22, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

This week I entered a writing challenge. Thought I’d share with you what I wrote.

Here is the challenge: The little choices we make each day create meaningful stories that can change the course of our lives. Seeking best stories about how a little choice had a positive, significant influence on you in 170 words or less.

I met Liam, 13, at my Grandtoys’ school’s Art Harvest on Friday.

Liam sold marshmallow guns at an art show table in the gym.

I bought this one for $20 including two bags of ammunition.

A marshmallow gun has several potential uses like entertaining aforementioned Grandtoys.

Husband can use it in his on-going war with magpies, much safer than his pellet gun plan!

As a speaker, I’m always seeking to add fun to my presentations. Audiences would wake right up if I started pelting them with baby marshmallows.

Making marshmallow guns would be a fun “cottage project”; I now possess a prototype.

I’ll never know if my marshmallow gun purchase will make any difference in Liam’s life.

I like to think it will. By noticing him, taking him seriously, and purchasing his product, I expect Liam will be encouraged to launch other ingenious endeavors, some of which just might change the world, most certainly, Liam’s world.

And I have my marshmallow gun.

100 Books in 2014

Posted on September 9, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

My book club read the book Philomena, by Martin Sixsmith and we met to discuss this week. The book is purported to be about a mother’s search for her adopted son. But the majority of the book is about her son trying to find himself and his birth mother. It should be called Anthony. We chatted about the themes in the book. The consensus was lukewarm.

For me, the book is monumental, not for itself but that it’s the 100^th book I’ve read this year. That seems like a mountain of books, but honestly, since beginning my reading mission in 2007, this has been the easiest year to meet my goals.

(If your eyes glaze over when you see numbers, skip the next two paragraphs).

In 2007 and for the next two years, I read a book a week. Partway through 2010, I realized I was reading two books per week so that became my new goal for 2010 to 2013. At the start of 2014, I had read 579 books since 2007. With a bit more effort I knew I could get to 700 in 2014.

Then I decided, why not strive for 1000 books in ten years? That meant I had to read 421 books in three years, 140 books per year. The hundredth book puts me at 679 so far. 321 books with 28 months to go: 2.5 books per week. Let’s call it three.

It may seem obsessive, but it’s quite exhilarating to be accumulating knowledge on a wide variety of topics, including health, business, politics, marketing, speaking, writing, spirituality, food, gardening, real estate, self-help, history, various other non-fiction, poetry, and even a few novels.

People are shocked to learn of my reading habits. It has become such an integral part of me, I’m not as impressed as I once was. Here are my tips for those who desire to read more.

Make reading a priority. We all waste time every day. If you truly love to read you will find some wasted time. And read!

Carry a book. I always have one in my purse because I realized much of my wasted time is waiting…in line at banks and supermarkets, at appointments, even at restaurants and coffee shops when clients are late. (I sometimes purposely get there really early so I can read a few chapters!) I read about two “purse” books each month.

I also have partly read books throughout my house: one where I sit in the living room, one on my nightstand, sometimes, one in the kitchen. I rarely read two novels simultaneously. The last time I tried, one book had a man who had lost a daughter and the other had a woman who had lost a son; I had a hard time staying on track: which book am I reading?

Trade TV watching for reading. The average North American watches 35 hours of TV each week, a full-time job! Watch one less hour of TV each day and devote that time to reading. At one hour a day, everybody can read one or two books a month. Soon your books will call you away from most TV.

Schedule reading times. My husband likes to sleep in on weekends. I usually can’t sleep past eight. So I read for two hours, keeping the house quiet for my sleepyhead husband. I often read a novel on a Sunday afternoon. On vacations, I plan to read a book each day. Airports are a great place to read books since so much waiting is required. And a four hour flight whizzes by when a mystery is unfolding in your hands. I can usually read a book before I get there and one to get home.

I appreciate e-books when I travel. Before I go, I load up my iPad with books. I always bring a couple real books because airlines won’t let me use electronics on take-off and landing which can last many “chapters”. Sometimes I take books with me I don’t expect to want to keep so can I leave them behind in public places, surprises for strangers.

I naturally read more in winter as I’m not distracted by my garden, golfing and summer socializing! I guess that’s one good thing about living in Calgary: long winters for reading. (As I write this on September 8, it is snowing!)

Start with one book. Many despair that they could ever read three books a week! Start with one a month. Then two. You will become a faster reader. That’s what happened to me. I got faster so now I can read more. I can read 100 pages per hour unless the font is miniscule or the language archaic.

I have no idea when this will stop. But I have a list of over 400 books to read, books recommended by somebody I respect, and there’s so much to explore at the library, I expect to keep reading. The number doesn’t really matter. It’s just fun to challenge myself and then reach those goals.

Keep a record. One of the best things I’ve done is to keep a spreadsheet record of my reading. I record the dates I read the book, the title, author, source, who referred it to me, and whether I’d read again, recommend, want in my library or am happy I read it. I also include a description or any quotes that grabbed me. Very valuable. I often forget whether I’ve read a particular book. I simply search my spreadsheet. Also when people ask me to recommend books, I can remind myself of my favourites and choose books I think will be appropriate.

Use your library! If I had bought every book new, I would have spent $20,000 so far! ($30 x 679 books). But I didn’t. I borrowed most books. Bought many used for $2 or less. Got some as gifts. And bought a few new, often at discount at Costco or as e-books. I estimate I’ve spent less than $700, including gift cards I’ve received, in nearly eight years, about $90/yr.

Join or start a book club: Your reading list will expand when others add to it. There is nothing more fun than discussing a great book with others who’ve just feasted on it too. My club has led me to read books I never would have thought to read. Some are among my all-time favourites.

One of the most important gifts you can give yourself is making time to read. Your knowledge will begin to expand immediately. Your vocabulary will grow: I’ve calculated I learn about 20 new words from every book I read. Reading strengthens your writing. I’m convinced I’ve improved.

One of my few regrets in life was not having a degree. One day I discovered a quote to the effect that everything is written down in books. If one can read, one can be educated. That made sense to me and I haven’t looked back.

Most people think I am educated in the traditional sense, often inquiring about my education history. I proudly tell them that my school is Life and my degree is self-directed and on-going. Then I tell them about the number of books I read and/or have read. It impresses. But it doesn’t matter to me. I do this for me, not to impress (unless someone is being elitist and snooty, then I might indulge in some chest beating).

I’m enjoying my book journey. Won’t you join me?

Running with the Bulls

Posted on September 6, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

Black Angus Bull
photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Not Quite Pamplona but Thrilling Enough!

One of my summer adventures was helping my farmer friend remove her bulls from their harems. Naturally, they’d rather not move to months of bachelorhood with the other bulls.

My farmer could sort them herself when she had a good herding dog, but alas, she lost him and she’s alone. So I agreed to come and be her “dog”.

A dog would do much better than I did. I haven’t done jumping jacks for cows for over 40 years! All my farmed–raised friends know exactly what I mean by that. It’s a technique used by cow chasers to divert the herd in the desired direction.

At one point I let a calf squeeze by, out popped its mama from the crowd and the rest mad-dashed for the opening. We had to regroup, technically, re-herd!

Some of the lovely ladies
photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

A dog would not have let that happen.

We were chasing the curly-haired-faced red brute. I was cautious, which again allowed the creature to choose his own direction.

My farmer chastised me. “He won’t hurt you”. My inner alarm sounded. My Grandpa constantly warned us to steer clear of the bulls. Of course that was before I was 11.

Then again, 45 years later, do I really want to take the chance that I can outrun a bull to the nearest fence? A bull that is more than a little agitated at being separated from all his lovely ladies?

Common sense prevailed.

Hereford Bull
photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

A good herd dog is not afraid of a one-ton animal. A herd dog has years of herding history firmly lodged in the strands of his DNA. And the agility to perform the last-second escape from a hoof or horn. Clearly, I am not a dog.

I eventually got the hang of positioning my quad behind and slightly left of Curly, my farmer tucking in on the right. We got the bull to the desired paddock. An old dog like me can still learn new tricks!

I enjoyed running with the bulls in Maple Creek, SK. Not quite as thrilling as Pamplona but more my style. Our bull run had purpose: herd management, ensuring no calves are born later than a reasonable date next spring. Two bulls were sold as they have too many offspring of calf-bearing age: their “wild success” has made them redundant.

“Curly”
photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

In Pamplona they run for the heck of it. To brush with death.

I don’t feel the need to tease death. It will get me soon enough. In the meantime I enjoy everyday I have whether I’m picking beans or running with the bulls.

Seeing the cows enjoying their green pastures, being outdoors, soaking in the sunshine, fresh air, and exercise, and a couple days of good belly laughs with my farmer friend, added to my joy for life.

I wonder if that’s what they get out of it in Pamplona, too! Laughing with their buddies over drinks about their heroic moves and near misses. Running with the bulls might just be medicine!

Back to Bachelorhood until spring!
photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Divot the Dog Celebrates her 14th Birthday in a Big Way!

Posted on August 22, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Health Lessons from an Old Dog

Last week our Golden Retriever, Divot, turned 14 and she had a wild and crazy birthday.

It began with a lunchtime party with the Grandtoys, who simply love to have dog parties. I barbecued chicken legs. The wind blew the aluminum foil cover off the pan and Divot gobbled down a chunk of the chicken-skin-flavoured foil before I could stop her.

Peanut butter on rice cakes is her usual birthday fare but this year it was leftover blueberry pancakes with peanut butter. And my Grandtoy had put so much peanut butter on the pancake it stuck to the roof of Divot’s mouth. So funny as she struggled to suck it off! See video of Divot’s party. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSPwqV3D8V8&feature=youtu.be

Finally, Divot and my husband went to see an old friend, Betty, who fed Divot most of a bag of popcorn. Later while hubby was sitting at the table with Betty he heard a slurping sound from the living room. There he found Divot’s nose in a box of chocolates. He dug some out of her mouth and deduced she may have swallowed one or two. Not the end of the world.

As you can see Divot still behaves like a puppy. She has slowed down in some ways: our walks are often strolls. She can no longer jump into the truck; in fact, she can’t even put her paws up to boost herself. She sleeps most of the day.

But the tiniest sign that we’re ready to walk: I brush my teeth, get my phone, ensure I have my Epi-Pen, put on my shoes, any one of those signs gets her excited about our walk. She bounds off the back porch like a puppy. Divot loves people and is happy to greet others as we walk around our neighbourhood, canines less enthusiastically than humans. Her pace going is faster than coming home, something she’s always done, anything to prolong the walk.

We are privileged to have Divot in our lives for 14 healthy years. Divot is our living experiment. When she was ten weeks old we decided to feed her a diet that was more in keeping with her nature. As a descendent of wolves, we knew she would thrive on a wolf-like diet.

Divot’s Supper – photo belongs to
www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Since then she has eaten almost all raw food. Her typical meal consists of ½ cup raw meat, ½ cup cooked brown rice, ½ cup raw veggies like carrot or cucumber. She gets garlic and parsley; she gets fish, olive and coconut oils and some other supplements. An integral part of her diet is the raw beef soup bones she has two or three times each week. They keep her mouth healthy and her teeth cleaned. She has all her teeth and they’re not black, as is expected by this age.

Despite losing most of her hearing and some of her sight, Divot has had few health issues. Apart from some antibiotics for ear infections from swimming in the Bow River, she has taken no medications. At two years old we removed a large wart from her paw. No diabetes, epilepsy or other modern dog ailments. She is not obese and she has never stunk, like most dogs do.

Divot has lived two years longer, so far, than the long range for her breed. We think it’s her diet and lifestyle. If it works for a dog, it should work for humans.

So here is what I recommend based on Divot’s fine example. Eat whole, real food, suitable to your species as much as possible. Not too much. Drink plenty of water. Exercise everyday. Sleep lots. Play whenever you can. Surround yourself with people you love and choose to be happy.

If Divot were a human she’d be pushing 100. And I’ve just shared the secrets to her longevity!

Yellow

Posted on August 9, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

My grandma’s favourite colour was yellow. (Being Canadian I spell both favourite and colour with “our”).

Her kitchen was yellow.

I loved her kitchen, despite not loving yellow.

She created good things in that kitchen.

The sun always seemed so bright in Grandma’s kitchen.

Perhaps it was the yellow walls. Perhaps it was the sunshine. Perhaps, and this is what I suspect, it was Grandma.

When my grandpa was dying, over 40 years ago, he dreamed that he painted the outside of their farmhouse yellow. He inferred that he defied conventional wisdom because Grandma liked yellow. It was the perfect metaphor for his devotion, devotion that would otherwise remain unspoken in their Germanic, one-must-not-show-emotion home.

She told me that story several times, always with a catch in her voice, so I knew the impact it had on her.

As a child I had yellow hair. Perhaps that’s why Grandma cherished me so lavishly. (Or not!) I still have yellow hair thanks to Brian, with his roll of tin foil and a purple paste down at the Phoenician Salon.

My grandma had yellow flecks in her eyes. Officially, she called her eyes green, but they were actually yellow. That trait popped up in one of my daughters and one of my granddaughters; they have yellow undertones in their irises. The effect is that their eyes look like they’re the same colour as their strawberry blond hair. It’s weird. Beautiful, exotic, but strange.

photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Mustard is yellow. It is my favourite condiment, in my opinion, a must-have for the complete enjoyment of a burger. Perhaps that’s where they got the name. I like the plain stuff. No Dijon, Honey or Horseradish; just plain mustard.

There are other good yellow foods. Nobody exposed me to squash as a child but my yellow-irised daughter shared the secret about the great flavour of butternut squash. I saute it in butter and maple syrup. Mmm!

I used to love Grandma’s pickled yellow beans. Yellow beans are very tasty, fresh from the garden too. Canned yellow beans are gross; they certainly don’t deserve the title “vegetables”.

There is nothing more heavenly than a homemade lemon pie. Grandma used to make them. A crust made of real lard, not hydrogenated vegetable oil, a sweet and sour sunshine filling, topped with a cloud of meringue, delicately kissed golden in the oven. Mmm again!

When I was young I thought it was weird to declare yellow as one’s favourite colour. I preferred purple (my dad’s chosen hue, also unconventional) and blue. Even pink, red, and certain shades of green but not yellow!

I don’t know that I ever saw Grandma wearing yellow. It’s not a flattering colour for many people. Some shades of it make ME look green.

Grandpa always said Grandma looked best in white (good thing she was a nurse) and blue, but that was HIS favourite colour, so he was biased there, don’t you think?

Why would someone select a colour that one cannot wear?

I know blue makes my eyes look bluer than they are (actually they’re a blue-grey-green, depending on the weather and what I’m wearing). I guess I got some of Grandma’s yellow iris DNA too.

Most of the clothing in which I feel most comfortable is blue, like jeans and faded denim shirts, and the fabulous turquoise dress I got for $13 at a dress shop in Phoenix.

See. I know the fun of wearing MY favourite colour!

I wore yellow to Grandma’s funeral. In fact my declaration that I intended to do so inspired other family members to dig out or borrow or buy yellow articles of clothing to wear.

One of the most touching things my husband ever did was show up at my sister’s before Grandma’s funeral, wearing a crisp new yellow dress shirt. He proved he actually listens!

He looked great in that shirt with his dark hair and brown eyes, and miraculously it was exactly the same shade as my yellow jacket. We looked like we had actually coordinated our wardrobe. Quite the feat! Do you have any idea how many shades of yellow there are?

My brother in law’s tie was the same yellow as my sister’s blouse, both of which were totally different from and clashed with our yellow.

In the weeks after Grandma’s funeral I would find myself weeping, often while walking our Golden Retriever, Divot, (our yellow dog), in our local dog park.

One day I felt like I was tapped on the shoulder.

There before me was a meadow of mostly yellow wildflowers, waving at me. My eye was drawn to the buffalo beans. Grandma taught me the name of buffalo beans. As a child, I picked them in the meadow immediately behind her farmhouse.

And there were some Brown-eyed Susans and others whose names I don’t yet know.

The flowers danced while the breeze whispered in my ear, something I didn’t quite catch. It felt like “I’m okay”. Or maybe, “I’m here”. Or, “I was here; now it’s your turn!”

At the very least, the message that comforted me was that whenever I see a yellow wildflower I can think of Grandma. And I do.

I think of the many things she taught me.

I remember of the warmth of her unconditional love.

Before her decline in the last few years, we would compare stories about the wonder of being a grandma. I remember laughing with her about the cute things my grandkids would say. And she would repeat the cute things I said when I was her little Grandtoy.

Come to think of it, that was one of the “yellow” moments of my life.

Thanks, again, Grandma!

Happy Birthday, Betty!

Posted on June 24, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

Betty’s 90th Birthday

A new old friend, Betty recently celebrated her 90^th Birthday by inviting 20 people to a buffet dinner in a local hotel. There were representatives from almost every decade in the last century, literally from 9 to 90!

Betty has endured so many hip surgeries over the years that she has only one hip. As a result she is unable to walk or do much for herself. Caregivers come to her home three times a day to get her meals and help her in and out of bed.

You might think Betty is sad or depressed. You might think she would feel sorry for herself. But not Betty! She may not be able to walk but she is a walking example of how to enjoy life.

Betty has lived in her inner city home for 50 years. Her oldest neighbour, Mary was taken to a nursing home on the day of the party. That was sad for Betty. Part of her purpose lately has been watching out for Mary, who has steadily deteriorated over the past few years. First her hearing; now her, mind. She’s been showing up at Betty’s at 10:30 at night, thinking it’s morning and scaring the Dickens out of Betty.

After five decades as neighbours, Betty and Mary are more like sisters than friends. Sadly Mary’s mental decline is ending their relationship. When Betty and Mary are both gone, their old homes will be dozed to make way for duplexes or mansions. Their decades of memories will be wiped out.

Betty’s kitchen is like Grand Central Station. I pop in to water her flowers or bring Divot, our 14-yr-old Golden Retriever, whom Betty loves, for a visit. Invariably I meet a different person every time, having tea with Betty!

Betty is determined to stay in her home until she dies. I hope she makes it. No matter how well meaning the “homes” are, they’re not the same as Home. The parade of visitors will slow to a trickle and eventually dry up. The staff is so harried and thinly spread, they have little time to interact on a human level. And the food is dreadful, almost completely void of nutrition and therefore, taste. No wonder people are dying to get out of there!

At her party the guests inquire with each other about our connection to Betty. One woman said her parents lived two doors down the street. For years Betty drove them to the grocery store. “Knowing my parents,” she laughed, “they didn’t buy one drop of Betty’s gas, so this is payback for me!” In her tone, shone love for Betty and the honour she has in paying back Betty’s kindnesses.

I know why Betty came into my life a few years ago: since my grandma’s been gone, I need old ladies in my life. They help connect me to “the good old days”, when I was eight and Grandma was my best friend. Much of what I learned from Grandma, I see again in Betty. They’re both tenacious old birds with a love for their people. I continue learning from Betty:

Have friends of all ages. And celebrate with them. Friendships take effort. It isn’t called “cultivating” friendships for nothing! I doubt Betty was thinking about being 90 when she was driving her old neighbours to the grocery store. Pay it forward is not just a cute slogan. It really works. One day when I’m old I hope to have younger friends who are willing to lend me a hand or an ear from time to time. I’m counting on good deeds being like stocks, paying me dividends in the future.

Happy Birthday, and thank you, Betty, for your friendship, for your never-give-in spirit and for reminding me that longevity depends on friends.

Birthday Present

Posted on May 26, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

Shelley’s 4th Birthday www.shelleygoldbeck.com

Throughout my life I have confided that I never had a traditional kid-centered birthday party when I was a child. My birthday was always acknowledged, usually with a dinner and cake at Grandma’s but it was always just family.

Now that I’m at the stage of life where most women are happy to forget about birthdays altogether, my birthday activities have mushroomed. This year, I’ve been celebrating for nearly two weeks and I’m still not done!

The celebrations actually began a few days before my birthday. Over the years, I seem to have collected many friends whose birthdays are near mine. May 13 is the date for four of my friends. One is in Italy, one was too busy that week, one is out of touch, but the fourth and I had a lovely lunch that day.

A new friend treated me to lunch the day before my birthday. She blew me away with her thoughtful gifts and the efforts she took to present them perfectly.

With my big day falling on a long weekend, the May 17 Club decided to celebrate after the weekend. (Yes, there is a club, a group of people I’ve met over the years who share my birthday. See below.) As we all have busy lives, we’re not meeting until Tuesday, a full ten days past our day. But we don’t care. We are happy to catch up with each other once a year.

My birthday began with piles of Facebook and email wishes. Say what you will about the intrusion of internet in our lives but when it’s my birthday and 50 people take the time to send a greeting, it makes me feel pretty special! Those greetings poured in all day and spilled over into the rest of the weekend!

A friend sang “Happy Birthday” on my voicemail and she tracked me down and wished me a happy day. Very good effort!

For the first time in probably 20 years, I celebrated my birthday with my parents, the people responsible for my existence on this planet. My mom cooked a turkey dinner, one of my favourite meals. My sister joined us and brought me a bouquet of flowers. I don’t know that I’ve ever gotten flowers from her.

My daughters and granddaughters took me out for sushi in the evening. One of my favourite activities is to watch my grandtoys eat sushi. Most kids won’t go near it. With my little ones, you have to be rather aggressive with your chopsticks or you might not get any sushi for yourself!

Lunches continued to be lavished upon me all week. I even bought a couple as I celebrated with friends with birthdays after mine. I discovered that another friend’s birthday is the day before mine: we resolved to celebrate together next year.

A close friend surprised me with a handmade, heartfelt gift recognizing my recent accomplishments. I even received a number of old-fashioned, mailed cards, most of which made me laugh. (I’m glad people think of funny when they buy me a card!)

Ideally, I would simply take off two weeks to fit in all the celebrations. But the real world requires that I accomplish tasks despite the parties. Alas! I have neglected thanking everyone for their greetings. Until now, it has seemed premature.

So today, I reflect on the many blessings I have received these past two weeks. I am rich with contacts that take their valuable time to acknowledge me. I have close friends and family eager to spend time with me.

The timing of all this is perfect. Now is the best stage of my life to collect birthday memories. Children inevitably forget the parties, lose touch with friends, and it all ends up a blur.

As an adult, I am aware of the importance of these “touch points”. I am wise enough to ponder them in my heart, revere them, and hold them as precious. Thankfully, my mind is still clear enough to remember them for some time.

Have you ever seen a young child with a mountain of birthday presents? Opening them becomes a chore. Wrapping paper falls away, revealing a carefully chosen gift, only to be glanced at and discarded on the pile to make room for the next present.

As an adult, I open each “gift” with care, examining the wrapping and appreciating the art that went into it. I focus on the spirit of the giver. I hold the gift in my heart and carry it with me forever.

How can I regret birthdays past when birthday present is so rewarding?

Though I may have been short-changed on parties as a child, I’m more than making up for it now.

Isn’t life wonderful?

May 17 Birthday Club (originally published May 17, 2009)

This week the May 17 Birthday Club conducted its 20^th annual meeting. It was festive as usual as we all got to soak up an hour or so hanging out with four other people who share little but having been born on the same day.

I first became aware of the club ten years ago when I hired a new assistant. I was telling my colleague, Paul how amazing it was that the new hire had the same birthday as I do. I rambled on about how I had never met anyone who shared my birthday.

Paul asked me when my birthday is and when I told him May 17, he said, “Mine too”. I called “BS” and demanded he produce his driver’s license. Sure enough; it is May 17.

He then proceeded to tell me that he and two other guys he had met through business get together for lunch on or near their birthday each year. He immediately invited my new assistant and me to come to the next lunch and we have never looked back.

The first time we talked at length about our similarities and differences and wondered aloud whether there was any truth to our horoscope. We discussed the various celebrities that share our day, among them Bob Saget and Dennis Hopper. As the years passed we learned about each other’s passions and families.

Some years we met in November too for our half birthday just to catch up with each other. Last year our spouses joined us for dinner to honour the 65^th of one member and the 50^th of another.

We have representation from four decades and we always discuss our ages and how time marches on. (For years one member has stated his age as X “US” (generally giving him at least a 20% advantage!)) This year I told the group that I’m 17 for the third time!

We’ve witnessed many life changes. One year a member lost his mother just before our meeting. The following year he lost his father. I remember him calling himself an orphan that year. The next year we celebrated the birth of his first grandchild.

There have been graduations from Kindergarten , high school, and university. We have witnessed career changes, once-in-a-lifetime vacations and acquisitions of businesses and property. We have had births, deaths and weddings to discuss. Next year a new baby will be coming to the lunch.

This week we marveled at how our lives have evolved, all the fun we’ve had meeting with each other, and how quickly the years have passed.

Happy Birthday to my fellow May 17ers. You have greatly enriched my life. I am privileged to have lunched with you all these years. I feel like I have found a family. I sure hope we’re still meeting in 20 years.

And if your birthday is also May 17, you are automatically a member. Drop me a line and we will gladly include you in the festivities next year. It’s bunches of fun, but that’s just One Woman’s Opinion.

Announcing the Death of sgold@leyco.ca

Posted on May 13, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

Photo belongs to www.ShelleyGoldbeck.com

Last week I killed my old email address, after 16 years of faithful service.

It was diseased with SPAM. No email filters, no rules, nothing could stem the tide of unsolicited messages interrupting my days, every five minutes.

On my home computer it wasn’t so problematic. Besides the 100 or so messages I screened out each day, the junk mail folder would silently fill to three hundred in a couple days. I might glance through it to ensure a real message hadn’t been misidentified or I might simply “select all” and delete.

But when I travelled email was a royal pain. The same junk mail filters don’t apply to webmail. I had to physically remove each and every message. A click or two is no big deal until multiplied by 300!

The really tricky part is if you have to pay for every bit of data. When I have no access to internet I use my iPhone as a hotspot. It’s wonderful technology but make no mistake: I pay!

(Telecommunication companies have us in their death grip. We rely on our devices for business and pleasure. Our provider choices are limited and they seem to be in cahoots, offering little that’s different from each other. But that rant will wait for another day).

Every minute I spend trashing my emails costs me money. Wasting money irks me.

I was compelled to take action on my email situation. My email address had to die.

It was a perfect time to better organize my email life. I subscribe to many online newsletters, groups and services, mostly nice to know but not crucial. I decided to send the non-urgent to my new g-mail address, accessible from anywhere, but not in my face on my computer.

My main email is for my friends, family and acquaintances and my favourite newsletters. Anyone can always contact me through my websites so any worry about losing touch has dissipated.

But here’s something weird: I somehow miss all that spam. Not that I ever read or responded to any of it, but the recurring appearance of red numbers indicating the messages waiting in my inbox was part of my daily routine. I was always on a mission to get my inbox free of the unnecessary, which, now that I reflect on it, likely contributed to my tendency to procrastinate: a distraction, a diversion, a non-task to take focus from my real tasks.

It just occurred to me: I’m no more advanced than Pavlov’s dog, responding to the bell of my inbox!

As stupid as it sounds, now that SPAM is gone, I have a sense of loss. Is it that I’m suddenly not nearly as popular as I thought I was? Or maybe it’s because clearing my inbox was woven into the fabric of my life. The human brain is astounding. We often miss the terrible, even the annoying. I suppose that explains how victims of abuse can be so conflicted about their aggressors (love/hate) and actually miss them when they’re apart. Stockholm Syndrome is another example.

Now what to do with all that found time?

That’s no problem. I constantly bemoan my limited time, no doubt, inextricably linked to my overly ambitious to-do list. I have a new project overview pasted to my office wall which I expect will help me focus on necessary tasks. I think of it as a junk filter for my tasks list.

I have one less excuse for not working towards completing my projects.

Wait! There are two new messages in my inbox! Later!

Where are the Real Mother’s Day Cards?

Posted on May 7, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

With Mother’s Day just around the corner you may not realize that some of us dread shopping for the perfect Mother’s Day card. It’s not that we don’t love or at least respect our mothers; we do, but not in the Hallmark tradition.

My friend Greg once confided in me the difficulty of finding an appropriate card. His mother was an abusive alcoholic when he was growing up so the “mother and apple pie” relationship never blossomed. She has been off the bottle for twenty or more years but she remains, what he calls, a “dry drunk.” She constantly demands his attention yet she is quick to criticize him at every turn. She wields the sword of guilt if she thinks he doesn’t visit often enough, despite the hazards of a six-hour plus mountainous journey to her home.

Naturally he finds it difficult to relate to her with any genuine sentiment, despite his obligatory feelings as the eldest son and a responsible adult. Buying a suitable card is nearly impossible yet he wouldn’t dare risk not sending one.

Each year I find myself agonizing in front of the department store Mother’s Day Card displays, searching in vain for that perfect card that conveys my appreciation but without the over-the-top mush and gush. Statements like, “you’re my best friend” or “you were always there for me” simply don’t apply.

That’s not to say we are lacking respect for our mothers. We’re cognizant of the importance of having been given life. We realize they made sacrifices and they managed to raise us in some fashion despite the challenges they had in their lives. We don’t necessarily blame them for the way things happened.

Greg and I are not alone. Several of my friends’ mothers have lied, cheated, and stolen from them and committed other un-motherly acts towards them and some still do. Some mothers insist on repeating the same awful sins their mothers imposed on them.

One friend’s mother ran off with another man when she was twelve years old. She basically raised herself from that moment as her devastated father was emasculated. Mother and daughter have managed to heal their relationship in the past decade, after a decade of estrangement, and they are still working through it. Obviously, a card that declares “you were always there for me” is totally inappropriate.

Another friend and her mother and siblings endured substantial physical abuse from her father for thirty years. Almost two decades after the abuse stopped her mother pretends it never happened; “father was a saint”, she declares. The rewriting of this tragic history trivializes the trauma her children endured. You can understand the near impossibility of finding a suitable card among the flowery, “I could always count on you in times of trouble” and “Mother, you mean the world to me”.

For those of us whose maternal relationships could be called strained at best, we need cards that wish them a good day, because we can say that with sincerity, but they must not include “everything you mean to me”, “you are my best”, and “I couldn’t have done it with out you” sentiments.

Perhaps we need some cards like these:

“You really messed up my childhood and consequently my adulthood but you’re still my mother and I honour that”.

“If you hadn’t been blotto throughout my childhood I could buy you a mushy card”.

How about, “Times have changed. Thank God nobody HAS to get married anymore.”

Or “Too bad you didn’t consider adoption instead of the shotgun wedding; we could both have had happy lives.”

Perhaps, “Lucky for me abortion was illegal then”. A variation could be “Too bad abortion wasn’t legal then!”

“I’ve come to accept your lack of mothering skills and chosen to be a better mother myself.”

Where are the cards that say, “It would have been nice if you had made me a Halloween costume or come to one parent-teacher interview”?

The simple, “Sorry I ruined your life”.

This one could be popular: “I wouldn’t have worked so hard to be born if I had known you would remind me how you had to endure 36 hours of labour every damned day of my sorry life”.

“Too bad you got short-changed on the oxytocin” (mother-love hormone). Or maybe, “Instead of a day at the spa your gift is a shot of oxytocin.”

“I take full responsibility for all those stretch marks and your saggy breasts since you blame me for them anyway”.

How about, “Thanks for all the times you sent me to bed without supper; otherwise I would be fat”.

Then there’s, “I wish _____ was my mother; I suspect you do too”.

The ever popular, “Let’s face it; not everyone is cut out to be a mother.”

Even for those who weren’t traumatized, a basic “have a good day because I can wish that for strangers and even my enemies, however grudgingly.”

Sorry, I’ve gotten a little carried away. I found some morbid satisfaction in expressing these ugly truths on behalf of children everywhere with less-than-ideal mothers.

I am a grown-up and like many adults I have risen above the shortcomings of my parents. I understand their paths weren’t at all what they had dreamed they would be. I, long ago, forgave my parents and told myself they did they best they knew how; I truly believe they did.

I sincerely doubt there are many parents who purposely ruin their children. I made some stupid mistakes myself when I raised my own.

Let’s just have some cards that reflect the reality that every mother-child relationship isn’t necessarily something to celebrate. That doesn’t mean it can’t be acknowledged as nicely and vaguely as possible.

Happy Mother’s Day!

The Easter Bunny Has Been Outed! (Santa too.)

Posted on April 23, 2014 by Shelley Goldbeck

This Easter my Grandtoys (grandchildren) reached a milestone.

A bit of sleuthing by my eight-year-old granddaughter, J____ revealed Mommy is the Easter Bunny.

It seems the receipt for the candy Mommy bought caused some curiosity, especially when she snatched it from J____’s hand and forbade her to read it.

The night before Easter my daughter had wondered out loud to her friends how long she must keep up the pretense of the Easter Bunny, since her kids are eight and eleven, long past when most kids’ faith has been altered.

When the bunny was out of the bag, she was worried about the repercussions on the fragile psyche of her kids. J___ simply said, “You’ve been going to all this trouble for us? Thank you, Mommy!” Hug.

No tears. No anguish. Just raw appreciation for the efforts Mommy made to bring fun and joy to her children.

“I guess this means you’re Santa too.”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

No drama there, either.

My nephew was seven when his sister was born. My sister, his mom warned him when he figured out the truth. “You will not spoil your sister’s fun. As long as you comply, Santa will leave you gifts too.” Worked like a charm!

Magic and make-believe are vital components of a great childhood. But things change. We grow up. We must face the realities of life. We have to put away childish games and thoughts.

Does that mean we abandon magic? Absolutely not!

As adults we get to MAKE magic. We stretch our budgets to give gifts, which we often give anonymously or on behalf of a make-believe being. We pretend to be someone else simply to bring a smile to a child’s face. As adults we have the power to bring magic into the lives of people around us. We get to be angels.

If you’ve ever seen the shining eyes of a child who has been touched by magic, you know how precious it is.

While receiving magic is wonderful, the true joy is in giving magic. Ask any grandparent.

PS: What do you call a rabbit whose field is anesthesiology?

The Ether Bunny!

One Woman's Opinion | By Shelley Goldbeck

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