Sunday, December 23, 2018

No Place Like Home for the Holidays

December 22, 2018 

Nothing says, "You're back in Canada, kid!" like Saturday night at home watching hockey on the CBC. Winnipeg Jets vs Vancouver Canucks tonight — our two teams. Winnipeg for the hometown loyalty; Vancouver for the local allegiance. If there were curling to watch between periods, it would pretty much be a perfect evening.

We truly are "home for the holidays" — our Home and Native Land, that is, the True North, Strong and Free. After such a long time away, it feels so familiar — like we never left. I can't dismiss the 19 year adventure living in the USA: all the lovely friends we met, all the amazing career opportunities we had, all the places we traveled, the wonderful homes we made. It's just that the ease with which we slipped back into Canadian life surprises me. Except metric measurements for recipes. I will be consulting an online convertor to figure out ounces to grams for years to come. And getting our driver's licenses — that was truly a trial — for a short time they had Ken registered as Female — their mistake of course, but it was fodder for a bunch of jokes. They asked him to confirm that he's a Male. "Last time I looked," he replied — to an Insurance Corporation of British Columbia employee. 

Everything else is just how I remember it, with the added bonus of being "Retired." The first Tuesday of every month is "Seniors Day" at The Bay — extra discount, just for being over 65. Gotta love that. And without a work schedule to mess us up, we can walk on a beach any old time we want. Ken walks to a beach nearby every day. He has no issue with the 105 steps down a steep stair case to get there, nor the climb back up, but I opt for level beaches only 10-15 minutes drive from home to save the jarring on my knees. We watch Bald Eagles soaring, listen  for seals barking, get reacquainted with the salty fragrance of the shore. 

Our house is close to the ocean, if you haven't guessed. On Vancouver Island, a two hour ferry ride from the mainland. We like to tell people that we have a view of the people who have the view. In other words, we are across the street from the houses that are on the shoreline, but we get pretty swell vistas across to the North Shore Mountains only a block away. Nanaimo is a city of about 100,000; historically a mining/logging/fishing town, but is changing into a retirement haven for escapees from Vancouver's high real estate prices and miserable traffic. That influx is driving a surge in the arts and food scene, but the agricultural aspect of the Island was already well-established and we have found wonderful farm produce in abundance. We already have a favourite pub. 


We miss Dayton, our home in Oakwood, and especially Ken's tenure at the Victoria Theatre Association, as well as my volunteer gigs with Dayton Visual Arts Center and reading with kids at school with my fabulous canine partner, Riley. Mostly we miss Riley, our poor sweet pup. He would have loved it here. He would have gone absolutely bonkers running on the beaches and splashing in the surf. He should have had a chance to retire and grow old alongside us. It wasn't to be.

A couple of days ago we watched the "Bruce Springsteen on Broadway" special on TV. We have listened to Bruce in the car on every road trip we've ever taken. "Thunder Road" was certainly on our play list when we drove from Ohio to British Columbia in late August. His slow, soulful rendition in the Broadway show resonated right back to our young hearts forty years ago when we left our hometown with all of life lying ahead. Hearing it now gives me the same feeling — those two kids are still inside, even at 66 — adventures ahead, new chapters to discover, life to live. Except, this time, we are more at ease, more confident in who we have become, more sure of where we belong: at home, on the couch, in front of the TV watching Hockey Night in Canada. 

May you find your place, cosy, among loved ones, safe, at home or on the road, this holiday season. Peace and joy come to you.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 

Drop us a line: lesleyneufeld0117@gmail.com OR kenneufeld310@gmail.com

Lesley and Ken 
















Thursday, December 6, 2018

A She Shed of One's Own

First it was Tiny Houses. Then the Man Cave. And now it's the She Shed. 

It's the latest trend in real estate and the biggest thing since Virginia Woolf declared the joys of "A Room of One's Own." Of course, she was using the term as a metaphor to argue that women needed space in a male-dominated literary world. But still, taken literally, it's a pretty neat idea. A room, a home office, an attic, a corner, and, yes, maybe even a shed. 

Go ahead and google "She Shed." Prepare to fall in love. Close your eyes and dream. What would your very own space look like? A paint-splattered atelier with north-facing skylight? A comfy reading nook with frilly curtains and chintz slip covers? A craft workshop with kiln and potter's wheel? An under-the-rafters sewing station with an eyebrow window that looks out at treetops? A basement renovation for setting up your band saw and drill press? A sound-proof chamber for writing your symphonic magnum opus? A serene meditative space for yoga and herbal tea-drinking? Or a modernist cube of reason where you write your memoirs? 

Heck, you could even have a Martha Stewart gift-wrapping station. Be still my heart.

The very idea conjures images of creative activity. Private musing. Reading a good book and forgetting all about time passing. Safe. Secure. Cozy. Giving your inner designer a chance to come out and play.

I had imagined a garage re-do for our new house. In my mind it looked like a Manhattan loft. In reality it is a two-car unheated storage locker that needs mold remediation.

Instead, I situated a desk facing the living room window and parked my lap top, along with a few decorative items that might have inspired Shakespeare. Wouldn't writing be so lovely with that view? Sure, maybe. But I'd need a space heater, Bob Cratchett gloves, and a lap blanket. Geez, we really need to weather strip that window. 

So, I'm back to the dining room table. It's warm next to the heat vent. It's close to the kitchen for making a cup of tea. Not far from the laundry room for throwing in a load. And I imagine my very own shed in the backyard — a tiny retreat. A haven for art-making, gift-wrapping, and blog-writing. Except in winter months. Or July. 

Apparently even Virginia Woolf fled to a garden outbuilding to write. I think it might have been her who invented the term, "She Shed." But I bet she changed it to "A Room of One's Own" because she was freezing to death out there. 


Friday, November 16, 2018

Doe, a Deer -- and Other Nature Notes from Nanaimo

Nobody is ever going to mistake me for the "Outdoorsy Type." I will never be coaxed to go camping (don't campers understand there are BUGS!?!) Or, among a hundred examples, I wouldn't be caught dead sea kayaking, or zip-lining, or whitewater rafting, or mountain climbing — because, you know, I could wind up that way — dead. 

But, here we are, in Beautiful BC, "Spectacular by Nature", the Wet Coast of Canada, on the
edge of the Pacific Ocean, in the rainforest, at the foot of the mountains — a wild, soggy, rugged place. Yup, it's pretty natural out our way — at least it is just past Woodgrove Mall, from what I hear. 

Seriously, there have been cougar sightings reported nearby — and I don't mean one of those "older female seeking younger male" variety, that you might find at the mall. But out in the woods. A mountain lion? A bear? A wolf? A Real Housewife? Oh, my!

Sometimes, nature comes to our doorstep. The neighborhood deer seem pretty friendly. Our garden is a popular all-you-can-eater buffet. Deer faces with their doe-eyes peek in our windows at us. They lounge on our lawn camouflaging themselves as boulders. We get to nature-watch without ever having to leave the house!

Still, one does feel compelled to go outside. This region is blessed with a temperate climate, beautiful beaches, fragrant evergreens. Locals like to brag that they can be active outdoors every day of the year. So, the Mr and I bought some gear — fleeces, rain jackets, Goretex hiking boots, water repellent pants, rain-proof Tilley hats. It's the west coast dress code. I even bought a pair of high performance gloves. They have their own little raincoats. No, really, they come with outer shells that fold up and can be tucked into a pocket on the back of the glove. Real "skookum," as they say out here. 

We suit up in our Adventure Outfits and head out for walks or excursions in our Subaru, the archetypal BC vehicle, or go into town looking like locals. If we plan to go out somewhere nice for dinner, I'll insist that the Mr, "For gosh sake! Wear your dress fleece! We aren't barbarians!" 

I saw a seal glide by in the tide today while we strolled the beach. A bald eagle soared above us, watching for salmon. Bufflehead ducks and Mergansers bobbed in the water, diving and resurfacing like synchronized swim teams. Ravens cawed and chortled to one another. Bucks can be seen wandering in their rutting-season dopiness, following female deer like their love-sick high schoolers.

It's all so enchanting. We wonder aloud if it's only us newbies who are charmed by these nature sightings. Maybe, but I hope our excitement never wears off. 


















Thursday, October 18, 2018

How's Retirement So Far?


A good friend who stepped into the retirement abyss way earlier than the rest of us, was once asked, "What's retirement like?" and he famously replied, "Six Saturdays and a Sunday!"  

Open to your own interpretation of course, but when I quit work back in 2009, my spin on it was this: Six days to linger over the crossword in the morning, sip a second cup of tea, go to exercise class, followed by coffee with the ladies, shower late, walk the dog, wash last night's dishes, tidy up, go on a lunch date, run errands, volunteer somewhere, write, walk the dog again, buy groceries, cook dinner, sip some wine, watch TV, go to bed. That left one day for other wild recreational things, like walking with the Mr. AND the dog, going to church occasionally, doing the Sunday crossword, and watching Masterpiece on PBS.

It was a sensible plan. But subject to change. When the Mr. retired in August, we moved, and that event occupied a lot of time and energy. Now that we have unpacked boxes, applied for free health care, and found a good local pub, we are approaching some semblance of a normal schedule. But I'm not sure what that's going to look like going forward. 

Some retirees satisfy their thirst for travel. Others devote their time to hobbies. I admire such forethought and purpose. These folks clearly have a mission for their golden years.

The Mr. and I are more, let's say, "spontaneous." We're more of the, "What do you want to do today?" "Oh, I don't know. What do you want to do today?" ilk. It's a lot like date night. Or walking hand-in-hand off a cliff. (Which we can do, by the way, because there is a 106-step staircase next to our house down a steep escarpment to the ocean shoreline below.)

The Mr. goes to Home Depot on an average weekday and runs into a lot of other 65ish, balding guys taking their time, browsing the drill bits aisle, and having conversations about wrenches with other old guys. One trip to Home Depot always leads to three. 

He is also dedicating some energy to developing a consulting business. He set up an office in the spare bedroom and goes there after breakfast. I show up at the door and he asks, "Yes? Do you have an appointment?" 

"No. I just thought I'd hang out with you for awhile. I'll sit quietly. Like Yoko."

Everyone seemed so concerned that the Mr. would be getting in my way once he was home all the time. Apparently we've reversed roles. 

We do stuff together, though. We walk on the beach, go to the above mentioned pub, shop for shelving, have lunch with friends. 

We consider it a victory if our destinations are within a 15 minute drive from home. "And it only took 15 minutes to get here! How great is that!" This is a big win for seniors. 

We're surprised to learn that restaurants are less crowded on weeknights.

Saturdays we join a bunch of other grey-haired couples in Subarus taking our wine bottles to the recycle depot.  

Somehow my days seem to fill up. I exercise at the Rec Centre, walk, do laundry, grocery shop, cook dinner. And I haven't even started to sort photos and put them in albums. 

Who's got time?







Saturday, August 18, 2018

MY LOVE LETTER TO DAYTON

Dear Dayton,

It's not you. It's me. 

Try not to think of it as breaking up. We'll always be friends.

Seriously. It really IS me. I need to go home. To Canada. My first true love. 

But you and I will always have the good times and I will cherish our nine years together. So many happy memories. 

Remember the first time I saw you? It was love at first sight: Green hills. Urban forests. I recall coming around a corner and there was Orville Wright's neoclassical mansion on its commanding hillside site. I believe my exact words were, "Holy Shit!" My tour guide took it as a compliment. 

And, Dayton, you had me at "Oakwood!" So thoroughly charming! I vowed to never take it for granted. It was like living in a Frank Capra movie set. Small town America. Leafy avenues. Band practice at the high school in football season. The adorable That Day in May community parade. 300 trick-or-treaters on Hallowe'en — some of them kids imported from other neighborhoods just because it was safer on Oakwood streets. Great neighbors and friends. People calling out "Hello!" as they passed by. All of this made our relationship that much richer. 

I loved every minute living in the 1925 Sears Kit house with the sloping floors and steam radiators that pinged and knocked — noises that in time I found comforting. The screened in porch for sipping morning tea or happy hour wine — on summer nights staying out until after dark to watch fireflies dance up out of the grass. The corner lot midway between the high school and the elementary school with the constant foot traffic all day long: kids trudging back and forth to school. Folks walking their dogs. Joggers. Bikers. Teens on skateboards. Our dear Riley barked at every one of the passers by. It was his life's work. 

I will miss the favorite places we enjoyed together: Dayton Visual Arts Center. Carillon Historical Park. Hills and Dales Metro Park. Corner Kitchen. 

And Dorothy Lane Market. The best little grocery store in the USofA! Honestly, I burst into tears the first time I walked in. Such an array of beautiful food — and even local farm produce in season — walkable or a bike ride away from home? What a special treat you gave me.

Of course there's the reason I came: The Mr.'s work at the magnificent Schuster Performing Arts Center and the glorious old Victoria Theatre. Spectacular buildings, for sure, and truly the heart and soul of our life here: Broadway shows. Performances of all sorts. Culinary adventures. The locus of our social life. The art that nourished us. The wellspring of so many friendships.

Dear Dayton! You extend such a warm welcome. You nurture such friendly folks. You are such a treasure. Let's not say good bye. Let's keep in touch. I will love you always. 

But Canada is calling and I am on my way home. Until me meet again, dear friend.

With abiding fondness and true affection,

Lesley 













Monday, July 23, 2018

If you Can't Stand the Heat.....Fix a Cold Plate

Once upon a time, long before a certain family home had air conditioning, in a land far far away, a mother prepared cold suppers on hot summer days.

Her children would gather at the table in the sweltering kitchen and sit down, at exactly 5:45 pm Daylight Saving Time, to nibble at chunks of cold ham splorted out of a can, limey-green Jell-o speckled with suspicious-looking vegetable bits suspended in wiggling viscosity, and a potato salad tossed with celery and hard boiled eggs, lightly dusted with paprika to make it look fancy.

Next night, the mother would scoop out the meat of giant Beefsteak tomatoes fresh from the market, and fill the hollows with canned shrimp, chopped up and mixed with tomato, green onions, celery and cucumber, all dressed in jarred mayonnaise. 

This particular mother lifted her summer repertoire directly from the church ladies' luncheon cookbook. Her "Cold Plates" were refreshing, but not exactly filling, though the motivation was iron clad, "It's too darn hot to cook!" 

That was in the olden days. Cooking and baking, if any were to be done at all on a hot day, were completed in the cool of the morning, preferably before noon. Pre-cooked items popped into the fridge to be eaten, chilled, later on. Popular wisdom had it that cold food was healthier for consumption in hot weather. So maybe mother was on to something with the refrigerated fare. "We'll just have a cold plate for supper. It will cool us down. And nobody needs to be heating up the kitchen making dinner anyway."

In 40 years of preparing food, I don't think I have ever fixed a "cold plate" and called it dinner. Does anyone do this anymore? I know what you're thinking — but you can't count salads. Everybody eats salads, but a salad alone, no matter how big, does not qualify as a true,1950s honest-to-goodness cold plate supper. You need to think more along the lines of what you scoop onto your plate at an all-you-can-eater buffet at the King's Plate diner out on Rte 75. Or a community hall pot-luck where there are small mountains of sliced turkey and ham and olive loaf, macaroni salad, sliced cucumbers in oil and vinegar dressing, three-bean salad, and watermelon. 

Most analogous in the contemporary idiom is the ultra-cool "Charcuterie" board. This is a feature on every hipster menu in town. Imported cold meats, hand made rillettes and pâtés served in darling tiny Mason jars, honey from local apiaries to drizzle on artisanal cheese, nuts roasted in Sriracha, those teensy-tiny sweet red peppers, and parmesan-herb-crusted crisp breads, all arranged so artistically that you hate to disturb the composition. Delicious, but where's the celery sticks with Velveeta?

My personal favorite approach to hot-weather meals is to carry on pretending it isn't really 90 degrees outside. I blithely boil potatoes, and steam lovely summer farm-fresh produce, all in the comfort of an air-conditioned kitchen. Get a good hot meal on the table, in other words. And send the Mr outdoors to grill. I wave at him from the window as sweat pours off his forehead. 

"Hot enough for you, sweetheart? Good thing you got out of the kitchen." 










Thursday, May 24, 2018

How Many Senior Citizens Does it Take to Screw in a Lightbulb?

Act I

Setting:

Monday: Me and the Mr. getting comfy for the evening at either end of the couch. Me reaching up to turn on the tri-light lamp as dusk gathers and the TV glows.


Me: Huh. Only the middle light is working. 

Mr.: That's because the bulb's burning out.

Me: Thanks for explaining that, dear. 

Mr.: Do we have another bulb?

Me: I don't think so. I'll get one tomorrow.

Mr: Or we could switch it with the other lamp. 

Me: Ah! Smart. Very bright of you!

Neither the Mr. nor I move a muscle. Once we're down, we're not getting up again until it's milk and cookies time. Bed to follow shortly thereafter, and then, well, it's lights out.


Act II

Setting:

Tuesday: Me once again heading for the couch as dusk descends. The Mr. reading out on the porch. I take the opportunity while it's still light out to unscrew the tri-light bulb next to the couch and walk it over to the other tri-light lamp near the fireplace — the one that sits in a corner where we rarely turn it on. I unscrew that bulb and replace it with the one from the burning-out bulb. I walk the apparently fully-functional three-way bulb back to the couch and screw it into the lamp socket. Mission accomplished. I turn the toggle switch. 

Me: Huh. Hey, Hon! This bulb doesn't work either! Only the middle light comes on. 

I walk back to the seldom-used corner lamp and switch it on. One. Two. Three. All three settings work in exponential brightness. 

Me: What the what? (calling to the Mr.) I just switched the tri-light bulbs. The one from the couch lamp works fine over here. It must be the lamp that's broken.

Mr.: I switched them earlier.

Me: Oh. Might have told somebody.

I walk back to the couch lamp and turn the switch. One. Two. Three. The "old" bulb shines with tripartite brilliance. 

Me: Wait a sec. Now the burned-out bulb is working fine! I was right! There must be a short in the lamp socket. It must have been shorting out before! (I say in a louder, more urgent voice because a "short" in my mind is an emergency worthy of an overtime-hours call to an electrician.) It's an ELECTRICAL SHORT!

Mr.: There's no short. You always think electrical things are shorting out.

Me: Well, then why did it do three settings?

Mr.: Don't know, dear. Electricity is mysterious that way. 

I exchange bulbs once again, you know, just to test my theory. This time, I turn on the couch lamp and… One. Two. Three. A trinity of lights! 

I walk over to the infrequently-on corner lamp where the burning-out bulb is now screwed in tight. Switch once: Nothing. Switch twice: Illumination! Switch a third time: "POP" and a flash of light, then darkness. 

Me: Okay, I think I have the bulbs sorted out now. 

Mr.: You're the light of my life, sweetheart.

Me: Oh, stop.


Epilogue

Setting:

Wednesday: In the clear light of day, we are able to shed some light on the problem. 

Me: You know, I bet the way a tri-light works, the lamp doesn't like it when we put a timer on it. Like last weekend when we went out of town.

Mr.: It probably shorts out.

Me: Oh, stop.

Mr.: Just a trick of the light, dear. Just a trick of the light. 


Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Our Olympic Event

The Mr and I have been Olympics addicts since the games began. Glued to the TV. Loving every minute.

We developed a running gag that should take us through the next two weeks. It got started the first day of competition. We watched a skier launch himself off the "normal" ski jump, which is almost 300 feet off the ground, become airborne like he was some kind of sleek, micro-fibre-clad flying squirrel, and then nail his landing, (upright, mind you) which is apparently almost 820 feet out. 

The Mr turned to me and said, "I could have attempted that."

"Yeah? You could have ATTEMPTED that?" 

"I'm not saying I could DO that. I'd fall on my keister, but I could attempt it."

"Way, to keep your dreams alive, dear," I said. 

We crack each other up. 

But, isn't it the truth? Not everybody can do these things. That's why it's so special to watch Olympic athletes. These kids are exceptional beings with amazing talents and fearless ambitions. They can do things that other humans can't. They've got that drive to excel. Competitive spirit to go for the gold. It's important that the inert among us get to sit back and marvel, "Wow! That's amazing! How does anybody DO that?!?"

Speed skaters defy gravity at 50 miles an hour. 

Snowboarders hurl themselves off cliffs and skim across pipes.

Figure skaters twirl airborne in quadruple axels.

Madmen in skimpy sleds shoot through sloped icy tunnels.

Curlers skid along sheer ice sweeping granite rocks for all they're worth.

Okay, we actually could do that last one, but we'd need BenGay in the morning.

But a triple Lutz? Sure, I could ATTEMPT it, but……exactly. Klutz on the Lutz.

So, you'll know where to find us for the next two weeks. On the couch. That's our Olympic event. The Pairs Sitting Event. We are AMAZING at it. Been training for years. We are gold medal couch-sitting material, the Mr and I. 

Do I hear cheering? Is the national anthem playing? 










Monday, January 8, 2018

Things My Mama Done Told Me

My mother would have had something to say about the recent cold snaps and snow storms. She was obsessed with the forecast. Her TV was perpetually tuned to that station with the 24/7 weather crawl and easy-listening tunes. "Mom, why do you have that station on all the time?" "I like the music." Nah. She liked to see the temps from Cape Breton to Yukon. "Look at that! It's -35 in Flin Flon today!"

She'd phone me with long reports on expected highs and lows. Wind chills. Precipitation chances. Humidity values. And then she'd sum it all up with her standard phrase, "Oh, well. There's nothing you can do about the weather." 

"Nope," I'd say. I had no follow-up.  

But isn't that what mom-isms are all about? They shut you down. You're stuck. There's no room for a comeback. Who hasn't heard this one, "I don't care what the other kids are doing. If they all jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too?"  

What do you do with that question? Do they actually expect you to sass back, "YES, MOM, I WOULD! I WOULD TOTALLY JUMP OFF THE BRIDGE, BECAUSE EVERYONE IS DOING IT!"  No, of course not.

And obviously you weren't about to cave and admit that you WOULDN'T really jump off the bridge because then she HAD you, even though you weren't asking about jumping off a bridge, were you, you were asking if you could go to the concert that EVERYBODY else was going to. Except you, apparently.

Someone posted an invitation on Facebook recently asking readers to share things their mothers always said. I read a handful of submissions. This one was popular, "If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about." Yes, my mom lobbed that one at me. But I have to give my mother credit for creativity. She had some adages in her arsenal that I believe were uniquely her own.

Her winterized version of, "If you don't stop crying…." in our frigid Manitoba climate was, "…your eyelids will freeze shut." For all I knew, she might have been right. I wasn't going to test the theory. And with good reason — they told us what would happen if you stuck your tongue to a metal pole in sub-zero temps. And it was true. So, I wasn't chancing my eyelids.

Winter also gave her the opportunity to cast me outdoors in my snowsuit, "Go outside and play. It'll put roses in your cheeks." My play time would be ruined by anxiety watching for some kind of mutant floral growth to start blooming on my face. 

All morning in school, I'd imagine my breakfast porridge sticking to my ribs like wallpaper paste. It was horrifying.

Okay, those last two weren't exclusive to my mom. You're probably familiar with these gems from the vernacular. I've put them in convenient categories for you. 

The "Make Me Proud of You" Category:

"If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

"Children should be seen and not heard."

"Because I said so, that's why."

"Keep your mouth shut when you chew your food."

The "Smarten Up" Group:

"Wipe that smile off your face, or I'll wipe it off for you."

"Quit moping. Get outside and shovel the sidewalk. That will cheer you up."

"If you behave that way in school it's going to reflect badly on me."

"I'm not your maid."

The "Just You Wait" Group:

"Just wait until I tell your father. OR: Just wait until your father gets home!"

"Just wait until you have kids of your own, THEN you'll understand."

"Wait until you're older. I'll tell you about it someday."

"I'm waiting….!" (spoken with sing-song voice.)

The "Play Nice" Category:

"It's all fun and games until somebody comes home crying."

"If they tease you, it means they like you." (Huh?)

"Those kids are more to be pitied than laughed at."

The "Who Do You Think You Are?" Sub-Group:

"Don't you get too big for your boots, Little Mrs." (I knew she meant business when she called me Little Mrs.)

The "We're a Decent Family" Category:

"Of course you have to wear clean underwear. What if you got in an accident and had to go to the hospital? I'd die of shame. They'd think your mother doesn't take care of you."

The "You're Embarrassing Me in Public" Sub-Group:

In the 1950s, Kotex was disguised at the store in plain brown paper wrappers. Mystery packages. I asked, loudly, only once, "Mommy! WHAT'S IN THAT?" Her reply, "Hush. You ask too many questions." 

The "You'll Ruin Your Life if You Keep That Up" Category:

"Don't you make that face! Do you want it to stay that way?"

"Quit walking like that! Someday you'll end up that way." (I did a pretty good Igor routine) 

"Don't crack your knuckles, they'll end up like tree stumps."

Or my favorite: "You don't want to start shaving your legs — you'll have to keep it up for a lifetime." "But, MOM! EVERYBODY shaves their legs!" (You know where that's going.)

My teen years were an interesting test for passive-aggressive parenting. A pair of turquoise denim bell-bottom pants I bought with my clothing allowance and paired with an orange ribbed sweater gave her a new motto, "Well, okay — if that's what YOU think is nice to wear." The implication was that she didn't. I heard that one many more times before I left home.

I know better than to go out in March or April without a sweater because, "You don't want to push the season." 

Tripping hazards are tidied up in my own house because of this warning shot, "If you kids don't pick all of this stuff up, somebody around here is going to fall and break their neck."

"You haven't looked hard enough," is guaranteed to reveal the location of a lost item.

I never ever run with scissors. I always wait an hour after eating before going in the water. 

Mom Maxims rattle around in my brain like pennies in a jar. They come in handy from time to time. And they make me think of her. She did a fairly decent job being a mom.