When my family first arrived in Canada, my mother got a job in a local department store. In those days, there was no food court, just a “lunch counter”, a long counter with a dozen or so padded stools riveted to the floor. Every day, I’d meet my mother for lunch. Once or twice a week, she’d offer (actually, she’d finally give in to my badgering) and let me have a chocolate soda. Only chocolate would do. In fact, I don’t even remember what other flavors were available.

A real chocolate soda started with chocolate syrup, a tall glass filled with ice cream, and carbonated water. It foamed up and over the top of the glass and always came with both a straw and a spoon.

I don’t know when sodas disappeared from the menu, but when my boys were young, root beer and 7-Up floats became popular – a pale imitation. Without chocolate, they just didn’t do it for me.

I suddenly have an urge to play Rock Around the Clock on the CD player and fix myself a chocolate soda. How about you?
Have you ever had a real chocolate ice cream soda?

Hmm…is it even possible to buy carbonated water these days?

The cruise was okay, except for the part where I broke my toe. I have a photo of that, too, but you don’t really want to see it, do you?

Have you been on a cruise? Did you like it?

I’ve decided Wednesdays should now be known as Way-back-when Wednesdays.

I was in a gift shop the other day and noticed a display case filled with silk-lined boxes containing fountain pens! It got me to thinking about way-back-when … when fountain pens were the only choice, when an ink well was a standard feature in a school desk, and when little boys couldn’t resist the temptation to dip little girls’ pigtails in said inkwells.

Does anyone even still use fountain pens? I can’t recall anyone I know ever pulling out a fountain pen to sign something or jot down a phone number. So what is it about a fountain pen that would make someone buy one these days, or give one as a gift? Elegance? Nostalgia?

When I was starting high school, everyone used fountain pens. The best part of using a fountain pen was the ink. You could buy all different colors, but in my opinion, the only color worth using was peacock-blue. It was the color to use. I think I used up about ten bottles on ink that first year of high school because I loved the color.

I loved using a fountain pen. I think using one affected my penmanship, too – something about the flow of the ink on the paper and the way I tended to add curls and loops to my letters. So calligraphic, even though I’d never even heard the word back then.

Still, using a fountain pen was really inconvenient. You had to make sure you had all the necessary supplies with you at all times. First, you needed the pen, which had a tendency to leak at the worst possible time. Because they ran out of ink frequently, you had to carry a bottle of ink with you and fill the pen regularly, which always resulted in ink on your hands. Then, finally, the writing. But wait, what about the blotting paper? Similar to a really good quality paper towel, it soaked up the excess ink, as long as you didn’t smear it in the process. And if you didn’t blot enough, or didn’t wait long enough to pile papers together, all you’d be left with was a mess.

Yep, sometimes progress isn’t such a bad thing. I’ve given up my fountain pens, because it’s a lot easier to just flick your BIC. But there is one problem – it’s really hard to find a ballpoint pen with peacock-blue ink.

What about you? Did you ever own a fountain pen?

To blog or not to blog, that is the question …

Don’t worry, I’m not going to go all Shakespeare on you, but it has taken a long time to weigh the pros and cons of blogging, and to come to the decision to open up my blog again.

A few years ago, I tried blogging. It was the latest trend, and everybody was starting a blog. So naturally, I started one, too. Trouble was, I wasn’t ready for it, and wasn’t even really sure I wanted to be committed to writing every day. The blog lasted for a while, but eventually, it petered out.

Now, I’m ready (I think). So I’m going to try it one more time. I don’t want to get carried away, so I’m planning on posting on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for now. The question is – should I write to a theme or should I just stick with random off-the-top-of-my-head rambling? What do you think? Any preference?

To celebrate the grand re-opening of my blog, I’m giving away an electronic copy of my latest western historical romance, Wild Wyoming Wind. Leave a comment for your chance to win.

Until next time,
Margery

I’m talking about my love of the old west today at Pink Fuzzy Slippers today. Come on over.

It was Rocky and the Rollers instead of Bill Haley and the Comets, but the music was just as loud – and just as much fun.

We’d heard this band was very popular, and that if we didn’t get there early, we wouldn’t get a seat. So, like many other people here, we drove to the square early and reserved a couple of chairs by leaving our hats on them to show possession. Then we found a cute little restaurant and had dinner. True enough, by the time we got back, the square was packed and latecomers arrived carrying their own portable chairs.

As the evening wore on and dusk fell, it became like one huge house party. More than 200 people in the square rocking & rolling, strolling, or line dancing to four hours of live music from the band. Who knew I was the only person on the planet who didn’t know how to do the Electric Slide?

Even RH got into it, and he doesn’t even dance. Of course, he had to be in the middle so he was hidden from spectators, and the dance area had to be completely jammed. But that’s okay. For the first time in all the years we’ve been married, we danced together – outside. A balmy evening, a soft breeze, good music, new friends. What more could I ask for?

Doesn’t every little girl at one time or another dream of being a prima ballerina? Even though 99% of the time I was a cowboy hat and holster-toting die-hard tomboy, there was a moment or two – all because I read a biography of ballerina Margot Fonteyn – that I dreamt of gracefully gliding across the floor, pirouetting on my tippy-toes in my little tutu. The fantasy didn’t last long, the call of a game of handball or a tree to climb pushing it to the back of my brain.

To be honest, the thought of spending hours at a ballet performance makes me yawn. Still, I do enjoy watching it for a few minutes, even though I have no idea what story the dancers are trying to tell.

In my quest to do at least one new thing every year, last week I did something I never thought I’d do. I took a beginner ballet class. Not because I thought I’d ever be able to dance like Pavolva or Barishnykov, but more because I thought it might increase my flexibility, since mine seems to have disappeared. I thought it would be fun, and since it was geared to mature :cough: ladies, I thought, how hard can it be?

Man. Ballet. Is. Hard. The instructors make it look simple. First position. Easy, right? Uh … no. My feet don’t go in opposite directions. And getting to fifth position – do they not realize the legs are not made to twist into a pretzel without dislocating something???

Instead of my toes meeting my opposite heels like this:

The closest I got was a little more than T (as in TIME OUT!!)

Plie, battement, glissade. Words I’d never heard before, and movements that were impossible for my body. I could practically hear
my muscles screaming “I don’t think so.” Grace and elegance – not even a tiny bit. We’re talking baby elephant in the room.

The instructor did say I had great balance, but my rondes de jambe a terre needed a little work. Since I had no idea what he was talking about, I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted

Still, I enjoyed it, and so I’ll go back for more punishment this week, unless my hips are still disjointed from last time.

Have you tried anything new lately?