Cognomen and Sobriquet

My big Webster’s dictionary, which I bought for $75 many years ago and still like to use tells me the following about cognomen:

Surname, especially the third of the usual three names of a person among the ancient Romans. Compare praenomen (the first name of the usual three), nomen (the second of the three usual names), and agnomen (an additional name given in honour of some achievement).

Cognomen is also defined as a distinguishing nickname or epithet (a characterizing word or phrase).

I did a bit more research, looking at my book, ‘The Roman Emperors’ by Michael Grant. Many of them did have three names. For example, the emperor Hadrian was named Publius Aelius Hadrianus. However, Gaius Octavius seems to have had initially only two names. An on-line site https://www.behindthename.com/glossary/view/roman_names tells us that during the early Roman Republic men had two names, so perhaps that explains Gaius Octavius. Gaius was the great nephew of Gaius Julius Caesar, and later adopted by him as his son. Gaius Octavius changed his name to Gaius Julius Caesar after his great uncle’s (adoptive father’s) death. Gaius Octavius was apparently called Octavian until granted the designation of Augustus (i.e. august), an agnomen. The above web site also states that a nomen was originally a clan name and the cognomen was a family name.

A man’s name might include his patronyms (father’s and grandfather’s names – I wonder if that’s the origin of Russian patronyms?) and a tribal name (I’m not sure if that’s different from a clan name). So the emperor Marcus Aurelius was at his birth given the names Marcus Annius Verus. His paternal grandfather was Annius Verus. The emperor Antoninus eventually adopted Marcus, who became Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. Aurelius was one of Antoninus’ names. Could get very confusing as a Roman could be called by his praenomen, nomen, or cognomen, or a combination of them. (Remember trying to read one of those Russian novels where the names keep changing?)

Roman women were apparently known by a feminine form of their father’s name, plus if there was more than one daughter, by their place in the family. So Antonia Major, Antonia Minor (or perhaps Secunda), Antonia Tertia. Later a feminine form of the father’s cognomen was also given to the daughter, as Antonia Juliana (father Antonius Julian).

I have three names, thus a praenomen and a cognomen, but my middle name is not a clan name so it probably would not be a nomen. Also I don’t have an agnomen.

A sobriquet on the other hand is defined (Webster again) as an assumed name, a fanciful epithet (that again) or appellation (name or title).

A sobriquet can be applied to a person or place.

For example, Saskatoon is affectionately called by some ‘The Paris of the North,’ also ‘The City of Bridges’ as is also Pittsburgh.

One of the queens of England was unaffectionately called ‘Bloody Mary’ for the persecution of Protestants during her reign.  London was known as ‘The Smoke’ because of its terrible periodic smog from coal fires. In early December of 1952 London suffered a ‘Great Smog’ which lasted five days, contained toxic pollutants, and said to have caused thousands of deaths. As a result, in 1956 England passed ‘The Clean Air Act’ in an attempt to reduce pollution. This act is referred to in China Miéville’s alternate city novel Un Lun Dun as the Klinneract, a secret weapon to combat The Smog.

Abraham Lincoln was called ‘Honest Abe’ apparently because when he worked as a store clerk and discovered he had short-changed a customer, he would go out of his way to find and pay that person what was owed.

Calgary, Alberta is sometimes known as ‘Cowtown’ because of all the beef cattle produced in the area, and because of all the cowboys around. Check out this site: https://albertaonrecord.ca/is-glen-cartoon-m-8000-40

One of Canada’s Prime Ministers, John G. Diefenbaker was often called ‘The Chief’ e.g. ‘Dief will be the Chief again.’

‘The Famous Five’ were a group of women who fought for women’s rights in Canada, and from 1927 – 1929 were involved in ‘The Persons Case.’ In 1928 the Canadian Supreme Court had ruled that women were not persons under the law (British North America Act) and thus could not sit in the Canadian Senate. (Most Canadian women got the vote for the Federal Election of 1918). The women (Emily Murphy, Henrietta Muir Edwards, Nellie McClung, Louis Crummy McKinney, Irene Parlby) appealed to the Privy Council of England, which reversed the Supreme Court’s decision in 1929. Cairine MacKay Wilson became the first Canadian woman to take a seat in the Senate on February 20, 1930. Her husband was opposed and had informed the Governor General that she would decline the nomination. Ms. Wilson accepted the Prime Minister’s nomination over her husband’s objections. In her first Senate speech she saluted the work of ‘The Famous Five.’

Enough of sobriquets, except to say that a long time ago a friend used to call me ‘Gretel’ in reference to my last name which is Haensel.

I love the connections words can make.

Identity

On November 14 I listened to an interview on CBC Radio with Tom Power on Q.  He was talking to Heloise Letissier, aka Christine and the Queens aka Chris. Letissier is a French performer who, similarly to other entertainers, has created personas for the stage, and choose a stage moniker.

I really liked what she said about exploring classic masculine theatrics, and about the constructs of masculinity that we create, as well as about choosing her narrative. This made me think about identity and the stories we tell about ourselves.

I’ve had a number of different identities in my life so far. I was a young German girl, then an immigrant – a ‘stranger in a strange land.’ Later I became a university student who found friends and groups to belong with. Then I became a young wife and a teacher. Eventually a mother. Divorce happened and I was a single parent and continued to be a working person. Somewhere in there I took up my dream to be a writer and I began to think and speak of myself as a writer. I changed jobs a few times and each job opened up new ways of being, taught me new things about myself and the world. Now I am single and older, mainly retired, but still writing, learning to cope with the aging process.

Letissier describes herself as pan-sexual. I have thought for a long time that we spend too much time categorizing people as male or female, as actions, feelings, and ways of being as one or the other. Someone said to me some time ago that he admired my femininity. Which puzzled me because I don’t spend every day thinking that I am feminine. To some people I would probably not be seen as feminine because for a long time I have lived alone, been independent, cut my own grass, shovelled snow, fixed things around my house, and so on.  I choose to do the things I want to do, feel the way I want to feel, without thinking about whether these are masculine or feminine. Why can’t we accept each person as they present themselves without having to put labels on, without thinking that any of these are better than others?

I do understand that some people put labels on themselves, and that is a choice. Perhaps to identify with a group or to set themselves apart, or to clarify who they are. I’m glad that there is a lot more dialogue than there used to be about gender, politics, culture, racialization, and identity.

It disturbs me to see an increasing lack of tolerance in various societies. I hope for a future where this changes so that we are more accepting, open and kind to each other.

On Education – Aldous Huxley

I have recently been re-reading one of my favourite books – Island by Aldous Huxley, first published in 1962. The book is many things: philosophy, suggestions for living, and a story of a doomed utopia with engaging characters.

One of the underlying themes is how we educate our children and ourselves, still very relevant to the world today. I’m going to go ahead and quote sections, because Huxley writes so clearly.

‘We begin,’ said Mr. Menon, ‘by assessing the differences. Precisely who or what, anatomically, biochemically and psychologically, is this child? In the organic hierarchy, which takes precedence – his gut, his muscles, or his nervous system? How near does he stand to the three polar extremes? How harmonious or disharmonious is the mixture of his component elements, physical and mental? How great is his inborn wish to dominate, or to be sociable, or to retreat into his inner world? And how does he do his thinking and perceiving and remembering? Is he a visualizer or a non-visualizer? Does his mind work with images or with words, with both at once, or with neither? How close to the surface is his story-telling faculty? Does he see the world as Wordsworth and Traherne saw it when they were children? And if so, what can be done to prevent the glory and the freshness from fading into the light of common day? Or, in more general terms, how can we educate children on the conceptual level without killing their capacity for intense non-verbal experience? How can we reconcile analysis with vision? And there are dozens of other questions that must be asked and answered.’

Huxley was a man of his times and a product of his upbringing and experiences. So although he had an interest in cultures other than his own, he could not necessarily reflect the broadness of the world. So I would add questions such as ‘What cultures does the child come from? How can we nurture, support and encourage diverse backgrounds?’

When this particular school system has answered the questions, it takes action. ‘When we have the answers, we sort out all the shyest, tensest, most over-responsive and introverted children, and assemble them in a single group. Then, little by little, the group is enlarged. First a few children with tendencies towards indiscriminate sociability are introduced. Then one or two little muscle-men and muscle-women – children with tendencies towards aggressiveness and love of power. It’s the best method, we’ve found, for getting little boys and girls at the three polar extremes to understand and tolerate one another. After a few months of carefully controlled mixing, they’re ready to admit that people with a different kind of hereditary make-up have just as good a right to exist as they have. … Talk about it in animal parables, and even very small children can understand the fact of human diversity and the need for mutual forbearance, mutual forgiveness.’

 This is only one example of Huxley’s suggestions for a better education system. He also talks about channeling anger into constructive or at least non harmful activities such as rock climbing, dancing, or five deep breaths. Having been a teacher myself, I know that some of Huxley’s techniques have been and are being used. Still, it seems to me we could be doing so much more. We speak of lifelong learning, but how many of us really open our mind and hearts to alternate ways of thinking, to compassion, to trying to live together on starship earth, instead of trying to annihilate one another other?

Again, Huxley: ‘A trained mind-body learns more quickly and more thoroughly than an untrained one. It’s also more capable of relating facts to ideas and both of them to its ongoing life.’

I had a conversation recently with a friend about how different many young people are today who go into employment. Some want to be catered to, some are not self-aware enough to realize their own strengths and weaknesses, and some don’t seem to understand ways to work with others.

We start learning the moment we are born. In my experience as a parent, grandparent and teacher I’ve found that children can learn much more than we often give them credit for, given the chance, and presented with things when they are open and interested. I remember when it was a generally accepted fact that you shouldn’t teach children to read before they went to school because they might get bored or they might upset the way the rest of the class was taught. My grandson virtually taught himself to read years before going to school by being exposed to and told about letters and words.

Huxley again (though in this case I think he’s underestimating that age at which a child can begin to learn almost anything): ‘From about five onwards practically any intelligent child can learn practically anything, provided always that you present it to him in the right way. Logic and structure in the form of games and puzzles. … Taught in this way, most children can learn at least three times as much, four times as thoroughly in half the time.’

A true education makes us open to the world, aware and critical, not afraid to question our own and others ways, but also willing to listen carefully to what is being said, and watch what is going on.

Still speaking about education, Mr. Menon, the Under-Secretary of Education in this world Huxley created, says, ‘So you can see it’s very important for any society that values liberty to be able to spot the future somnambulists when they’re young. Once they’ve been spotted, they can be hypnotized and systematically trained not to be hypnotized by the enemies of liberty. And at the same time, of course, you’d be well advised to reorganize your social arrangements so as to make it difficult or impossible for the enemies of liberty to arise or have any influence.’ Hmm. Rather applicable to our world today.

I believe that there are people who do educate their children and themselves in some of these ways. And that they find ‘the road that leads towards happiness from the inside out, through health, through awareness, though a change in one’s attitude toward the world; not towards the mirage of happiness from the outside in, through toys and pills and non-stop distractions.’ 

Companion of Eagles

(© copyright Regine Haensel 201)

I

The last thing I remember is going to bed in my room in Aquila, the house Papa and I share, drifting off to the distant drumming of the Lord’s Militia signalling day’s end. But now my eyes are open wide seeing nothing but dark. No strip of moonlight through the gaps of my window shutters, no winking stars. When I press my eyelids down briefly there’s not even the weird lines of light that usually show up. I turn my head this way and that. It’s like a sandstorm at night hiding moon and stars, except there’s no stinging grit against my skin, no song of sand and wind.
     I stretch out my arms; groping hands touch nothing, no bed covers, no wooden bed frame. A chill breeze lifts the hair from my neck. My naked feet stand on a rough surface. Not a wood floor, maybe rock or cobblestones? I could be sleep walking, standing out in the street in front of our house. It’s unbelievably quiet – no leaves hissing in a breeze, no creaking branches. No squeaky wheels of a late night cart, no footsteps. A speck of brightness off to one side draws my eyes. I squint as it slowly grows larger. Hope by this light to see the outline of my window or the walls of a familiar house, but instead dark shapes stand against an indistinct and slightly clearer background. None of the shapes look like anything I recognize.
     A whispering voice: “Samel.”
     I take a step forward. “Who’s there?”
     A sudden flare obliterates everything and my eyes swim. Quick as a darting fish, my fist knuckles the wet away. I’m just seeing clear again when icy liquid gushes over my feet, making me jump and almost slip. But I spread my legs and get balanced. Fire blazes and steam rises as water meets fire. I flail at the mist, can’t see. Heat presses, wetness drips from my skin. I open and shut my eyes, take deep breaths. What is happening? Where am I?
      When I open my eyes again early morning light fills my bedroom, familiar, ordinary. Just another dream. My fist pounds the mattress. What am I supposed to get from this? It doesn’t make sense.
     Bedding tangles around my waist and legs; my body’s slick with sweat. I push at the scratchy blanket, but it’s twisted into knots and won’t budge. I stretch a leg; my toe rips a hole in the sheet.
     “Talons and beaks!” My voice cracks the way it’s been doing lately. Good thing I’m not wanting to be a singer. Voice going, skin itchy, toenails too long, almost like an eagle’s. Making a mess and not fitting.
     In my head I can hear the other drum apprentices snickering. Yesterday one of them muttered to another, “Clumsy as a new born camel.” Knew they were talking about me. Turned to glare at them. Don’t know what I’d have said or done, but Tamtan, the drum master, walked in just then and we all bent to our work.
      I glare at my knobby knees. They do make me think of camel legs. Except their toes don’t look like mine. I can hear Papa now: “If you’d pay more attention you’d notice your toenails are too long. Cut them!”
      The sheets are old, too thin. That’ll be my excuse when I ask Papa for coin to buy new bedding. Still, he won’t be happy about it. It’s not like we’re poor, though. Papa’s stipend as a Lord’s musician has always been enough to take good care of us. I’m sure Tamtan’s other apprentices resent me partly because of that. None of their fathers are musicians of the calibre of Papa.
      I shove all the bedding away. Too hot. The dry season is usually scorching in Aquila, but this is the worst I remember. Good thing Rowan isn’t here – she’d find it harder to take than me. Sister, where are you now? I should have defied Papal, snuck away and joined the caravan to travel with you.
      Most of my life I’ve done what Papa wanted or argued him round to my side. Man and boy living together, we didn’t always agree, but sorted things out and I was happy enough. That changed after Rowan came. And now she’s gone again, who knows for how long? Life should be easier, but it isn’t.
      The dream. Was it about Rowan? Maybe she’s in danger. I scramble out of bed, dragging the bedding to the floor and leaving it. Rummage in the wooden chest at the foot of my bed and pull out the silver circlet of linked ivy leaves, slip it onto my wrist. Mysterious, magical bracelets that came from our parents, one each. I thump to the floor, struggle with my unruly legs, then settle. Close my eyes and think of my sister; picture her long hair, dark like Papa’s, her grey eyes that I’ve been told are like our mother’s. My concentration slips.
      I’ll never see Mother again, can’t even remember her. Did I call her Mama? Did she ever sing to me? Maybe I got my musical abilities from her as well as Papa. I was too young when Papa and I left her and Rowan. And Mother’s been dead for over a year now.
      I scratch an itchy toe. Tailfeathers! Better cut my toe nails before they do more damage. Get clothes on. The house is quiet though I can tell by the angle of the sun shining through my window that it’s still early. Papa’s either asleep or gone already to the river bank, to the old barracks of the Lord’s Militia. They’ve been mostly empty for years, the grounds allowed to grow wild, but Papa and his musician friends along with other artists of Aquila are changing that. They’ve joined designers, stone masons, carpenters and labourers to turn the dilapidated buildings into an arts school.
      I sneak across the landing and peek into his room. No Papa, bed made neatly, bedding stretched tight as a drum head. It was under that bed I found my bracelet. Papa’s really, but it had abandoned him. He wasn’t happy about that.
      I rattle down the stairs. No Papa anywhere. Why didn’t he wake me this morning as he’s been doing ever since Rowan left? Drag me along as usual with him to the school when I don’t have other duties. Not that I’m sorry to be left at home. At the building site I’d just be hanging around waiting for someone to find tasks for me: carrying tools, cutting grass, cutting brush. Scut work is no fun and not that good for a musician’s hands.
      I search for a note. Today is supposed to be my day for working with Papa – composing, playing the flutes, cleaning and repairing them if necessary. If he doesn’t come back for that’ll be the third lesson we’ve missed since Rowan went. The arts school is important, but so am I! 
      The food cupboards hold bread, honey, butter, a bit of cheese, figs. I’m not really hungry yet. Why didn’t he leave me a note? Even to say, practise the flute or go get more food. “You’re old enough to figure that out for yourself.” That’s what he’d say, and it’s true. I’m not stupid and he’s never said that I am. But we used to talk more, spend more time together. 
      I wander into the living room. One of the big woven baskets the women from the Grasslands People brought sits there, full of sheet music. Papa copied some, but I did most of it. I leaf through a few sheets, put them back, finger the basket. It’s really well made. They could sell these for a good price in the market here.
      The Grasslands People wanted help to find some missing children. That’s what Rowan’s gone to do, and I know they helped her when she was trying to find Papa and me so I guess she felt she owed them. Still, it seems odd that they couldn’t look for the children themselves. Would Rowan have gone if she’d been happier with us? Maybe my fault.
      I’ll try again to talk to my sister. Sit, breathe deeply, touch the bracelet, close my eyes and concentrate. Sometimes that will work and I get some kind of picture, but today I wait until my knees start to cramp and my arms itch. No visions. Weird that I had that dream and now nothing. Still so much to learn about how and why the bracelets work and why they don’t. Was my dream influenced by the bracelet even though I wasn’t touching it or was it just an ordinary strange dream? No answers just sitting here and now my belly’s rumbling.
      I’m munching bread and cheese when there’s a rat-tat at the door. Hope its Ali from across the street. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days and she’s always working on something interesting; I could help her, though I should practise the flute. A boy stands outside, a messenger from Papa: he does want me at the river bank.

Grateful

I usually try to post a blog one Sunday a month. This month things got away from me so I’m posting on a different day – the month is almost over and there’s no Sundays left.

It’s been an up and down summer – very hot for long periods of time, lots of smoke from British Columbia wildfires in the air. I am grateful for cooler days, rain, and clearer skies.

More recently my right wrist became swollen and very painful. Over the counter pain meds helped, and I had it checked by a doctor. It seems fine now, but it brought home to me how exhausting pain can be and how difficult life can be when a right arm, which is my main one, is virtually useless. One can adapt of course, but it’s not easy. I am grateful for the pain meds and our medical system.

My car died and thankfully I have CAA and they came through for me, and my regular garage when phoned, said they’d take my car whenever I got it there. It’s due to be fixed and back to me today. I am grateful for services like these, friendly and helpful people.

Getting older has its challenges, though I’ve been pretty healthy and able to be active for the most part. As house and car get older, they too need attention and that takes money, but luckily I’ve managed to squeeze out what I need.  I want to continue to find the positives, be grateful for what I have and the benefits of living in this country.

Fall is coming – a season of colour, cooler weather, fewer insects, a time of harvest, and time for reconnecting with friends.

Variations on Pizza

Homemade pizza is best in my opinion. I had my first experience with pizza in Toronto while visiting relatives of a high school friend. It was made from scratch – pepperoni, cheese, mushrooms, and other vegetables I can’t remember now.

Back home in Saskatchewan we’d been seeing those pizza ads where the guy whirls and tosses the dough on his fists. I never had the guts to try this! Not long after coming home from Toronto I got a pizza recipe and began to make it myself, using my mother’s torte pans, which was the closest I could get at that time to a pizza pan. It made for nice thick crust edges. My pizzas continued pretty traditional with the pepperoni, etc.

During university in Saskatoon we began to go out for pizza. I remember there was a pizza place on Broadway. And I learned that I hated anchovies on pizza, and didn’t really care for pineapple on it either. But most other toppings were fine with me.

Years later I found a quick pizza dough recipe using baking powder.

And then I bought a cook book by Joie Warner called ‘All the Best Pizza’ which contains my staple and favourite yeast dough recipe. It also contains marvelous pizza toppings such as apple and brie, garlic and oil, Tex-Mex, pesto, and so many more.

Now during these hot summer days homemade pizza is difficult – who wants to heat up their house with a 500 degree oven? Some of you may have experimented with pizza on the barbecue, though I haven’t. However, pizza on a frying pan on top of the stove works. The key is to have a lid that fits your pan and not to use too large a pan. Oil the pan liberally (I use olive oil) and put the dough in as you would in a regular pan, but don’t put any toppings on just yet. Put the lid on and cook at moderate heat, checking the bottom of the crust. When it looks done, flip it over, add your toppings, put the lid back on and cook until done.

Here is my ‘quick’ pizza dough recipe; makes 3 or 4 small pizzas (add your own favourite toppings):

2 cups flour (I always like to add some whole wheat, and use unbleached white)

2 teaspoons baking powder; ½ teaspoon salt

¼ cup olive oil;                       ¼ cup milk;     2 eggs

Mix flour, baking powder, and salt. In another bowl mix olive oil milk and eggs. Add wet ingredients to dry and stir until too stiff to mix. Then mix by hand, adding a little more flour if it is sticky. Roll out about ¼ inch thick. If baking in an oven, bake at 375° F or 190° C.

My all-time favourite yeast pizza dough recipe:

1 envelope (or 1 tablespoon) dry yeast;      ½ teaspoon sugar or honey; ½ to ¾ cups lukewarm water

3½ cups bread flour (again I use unbleached white and some whole wheat, up to a cup depending on preference)

½ to 1 teaspoon salt; olive oil for the pan

Stir sugar and yeast into lukewarm water; set aside for 10 minutes or until foamy.

Mix flour and salt, then add yeast mixture (you can use a food processor; I do it by hand, mixing and then kneading). Turn dough onto lightly floured surface. Knead, then throw down hard 8 or 9 times. Continue until dough is smooth and no longer sticky (you can add a bit more flour if needed, but not a lot. Lightly oil dough and place in an oiled bowl large enough to allow dough to triple in volume. Cover tightly with plastic wrap. Let stand (and this is KEY) at least 4 hours, but preferably 6 to 8. (So make the dough in the morning and it’s ready to use at supper.) When ready to use, gently pull dough from sides of bowl and slice into 4 sections for thin and chewy or 5 sections for a very thin crisp crust. Of course, this depends on the size of your pan. When I’m baking it in the oven I make 2 large pizzas from this, and preheat the oven to 500 degrees F. Use the dough immediately or wrap in plastic and keep in the refrigerator for up to 4 days. Friends to whom I gave this recipe told me they stretched out the dough on pans and froze it, then used it later.

I hope you have fun with these recipes!

Time, a Human Construct

Not long ago, I set my bedside clock incorrectly and later, by checking other clocks around the house discovered and rectified my mistake. I no longer go out to a job, so why do I have so many clocks? They just haven’t worn out. I no longer live my life strictly by the clock, but rather, more organically, personally, doing what feels right at a particular time. Sometimes I get up really early, other times I spend a lazy day.

Then, one day a couple of days on I was working at my computer, thinking about an appointment I had later. I noticed that my computer showed a time several hours past what I thought it was. Yikes! I would be late. How did that happen? Here in this part of the world during summer the sun shines long into the evening, so I couldn’t tell time by that. For a little while I was actually confused. My other clocks showed a much earlier time. Had there been a power outage? I checked my settings and my time display was set on auto, but the time zone was Brasilia!? I ended up having to set my time zone manually.

This all got me thinking about what a human construct time is. If we didn’t have clocks we’d be telling time by the sun or by our stomachs. Or maybe not even thinking of time at all.

Not all cultures think of time as linear, an entity that exists in the abstract.

Around the same time that I was battling with clocks, I had a few memory incidents where I suddenly found myself not only thinking of past events, but feeling them. Now this has happened to me before and probably happens to most people. Something triggers it and there we are in the past, reliving it. At times it’s easy to identify the trigger, a sight, a sound, a smell. Other times the brain throws up particular visions, pictures, or voices seemingly at random. And we are living in the past, present, and possibly future (making plans for winning the lottery) simultaneously.

Some people believe in cycles of time, repeating lives.

If a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear? (Bruce Cockburn)

Does time and space really exist apart from the human mind?

Am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man, or a man dreaming that I am a butterfly? (Chuang Chou)

As writer and reader I live not only in dreams, but in books and stories of many kinds – my own as well as others. I reread books and think of some of the characters as old friends. And yet I still do believe in a kind of reality that I share in the here and now with other people at times, on my own at other moments.

What is the nature of reality? Does it exist in space and time?

Or perhaps we are travelling in our own personal TARDIS.

Curiosity Didn’t Kill the Cat …

In fact, it kept her going well into old age, helping her to maintain a positive attitude. And of course, she ate well and kept active. Oh, and she took the occasional bit of alcohol

By now most of us know the things we need to do to grow old gracefully and positively. Still, it’s not so easy.

Your body changes; you have more aches and pains. You may develop a chronic illness. Your brain changes – it shrinks, has memory problems. Maybe you find that you have less patience than you used to, or worry more. You might be more vulnerable to illnesses such as the flu.

Then along comes a winter like this last one. It’s cold with ongoing severe wind-chill. And it seems to go on and on. Everyone finds this difficult, but it seems worse when you’re older.

We all have coping strategies. Whether it’s listening to music, reading a good book, getting together with friends, and so on.

This winter, however, was the most difficult I can remember. What was it all for? Where was the joy? Had I done anything useful in my life? Was the world really going to hell in a handbasket?

In the depths of it I happened upon a new piece of information: the beaks of puffins are fluorescent under ultraviolet light. And on doing a bit more research, I also discovered that birds see more colours than people, and they are able to distinguish subtle gradations in shades. And they can see ultraviolet light. Amazing.

How does this relate to aging? It goes back to that curious cat. She found things in life that interested and intrigued her, that kept her going even in the depths of a long cold winter. Perhaps that seems simple, but for me it was a light to follow. The world still has marvels, can still surprise us, can give us hope that spring will come, joy will return.

And now it is spring and I love to be out in the garden or walking along the riverbank, seeing wild creatures, enjoying the water. And then comes a heat wave! Life doesn’t stop throwing us challenges no matter what age we are. The key for me is to find the moments of joy, of fascination, of hope.

Raising Children

I’ve been a child, a parent and a grandmother. Early on in my life I started developing a philosophy of childrearing, though I didn’t initially call it that.

I observed the things my parents did and decided what I liked and what I didn’t. I thought that if I ever had children there were certain things I wouldn’t do – e.g. corporal punishment.

As I grew older, I watched other people with children and made some judgements again. A friend’s hassles with getting her children up for school in the morning made me determined to find other ways than nagging. Parents scolding their children in grocery stores and other public places suggested to me that kids needed fun things to occupy them when they were dragged along with adults.

When I had my own child, one of the things I decided was to treat him with respect from the start so that he would treat others that way. That involved knocking before entering his room and giving him opportunities to make decisions. I also read a lot about child rearing, took some workshops, and continued to observe others.

I didn’t like seeing hassles over food. It seems to me that if a child says he or she is full that should be respected. How else will they learn to trust themselves and their own decisions if they aren’t given the opportunity? If there are certain foods we don’t want children to indulge or over indulge in why have them in the house? Make desserts healthy and good so that a child can eat either the dessert or the main course and still get nutrition.

I learned that actions with children are more effective than words - constant nagging is useless. I also liked the idea of logical consequences – if a child doesn’t want to wear mittens on a cold day, let him or her feel the cold. Let a child dress him or herself if they like and what does it matter if a shirt is inside out?

The fewer rules the better is what I came to believe. Children can’t remember a lot of rules, neither can adults, and then it’s hard to be consistent. It there’s behaviour you don’t like, try to determine why it’s happening and be consistent in dealing with it. Children act the way we expect and allow them to act.

Allow children responsibility – if they want to butter their own bread or pour their own milk, let them, even if it means a spill or a bit of mess. Give them a smaller container to start. Nurture them rather than control them. And expose them to lots of creative experiences. Too much television or computer time is not particularly helpful to creativity, though it’s an easy way to keep kids quiet. Do you want a quiet, zombie-like child or a thinking, creative one?

It takes a village to raise a child, says a proverb common in many African cultures. Use the resources around you, observe, read, learn – rearing a child takes commitment, thought and creativity.

And then they grow up and move out and make their own decisions that may or may not be ones you would have made. That’s when you really have to let go no matter what.

The Lebanese writer and artist Khalil Gibran wrote:

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

Companion of Eagles (excerpt, draft)

(Book 3 in The Leather Book Tales Series)
©Copyright Regine Haensel

I

The last thing I remember is going to bed in my room in Aquila, the house Papa and I share, drifting off to the distant drumming of the Lord’s Militia signalling day’s end. And now my eyes are open wide seeing nothing but dark. No strip of moonlight through the gaps of my window shutters, no sliver of stars. When I press my eyelids down briefly there’s not even the weird lines of light that usually show up. I turn my head this way and that. It’s like a sandstorm at night hiding moon and stars, except there’s no stinging grit against my skin, no song of sand and wind.

I stretch out my arms; groping hands touch nothing, no bed covers, no wooden bed frame. A chill breeze lifts the hair from my neck. My naked feet stand on a rough surface. Not a wood floor, maybe rock or cobblestones? I could be sleep walking, standing out in the street in front of our house. It’s unbelievably quiet – no trees hissing in a breeze, no creaking branches or the squeaky wheels of a late night cart, no footsteps. I squint at a speck of brightness off to one side that slowly grows larger. Hope to see the outline of my window or the walls of a familiar house, but instead, dark shapes stand against an indistinct and slightly lighter background. None of the shapes look like anything I recognize.

A whispering voice: “Samel.”

I take a step forward. “Who’s there?”

A sudden flare obliterates everything and my eyes swim. Quick as a darting fish, my fist knuckles the wet away. I’m just seeing clear again when icy liquid gushes over my feet, making me jump and almost slip, but I spread my legs and get balanced. Fire blazes and steam rises as water meets fire. I flail at the mist, can’t see, heat presses, wetness drips from my skin. Open and shut my eyes, take deep breaths. What is happening? Where am I?

          When I open my eyes again early morning light fills my bedroom, familiar, ordinary. Another dream, but not about my sister this time. My fist pounds the mattress. What am I supposed to get from this? It doesn’t make sense.

Bedding tangles around my waist and legs; my body’s slick with sweat. I push at the scratchy blanket but it’s twisted into knots, won’t budge. I stretch a leg, my toe rips a hole in the sheet.

          “Arrgh! Talons and beaks!” My voice cracks the way it’s been doing lately. Good thing I’m not wanting to be a singer. Voice going, skin itchy, toenails too long, almost like an eagle’s. Making a mess and not fitting.

In my head I can hear the other drum apprentices snickering. Yesterday one of them muttered to another, “Clumsy as a new born camel.” Knew they were talking about me. Turned to glare at them, don’t know what I’d have said or done, but Tamtan, the drum master, walked in just then and we all bent to our work.

          I glare at my knobby-kneed legs. They do make me think of camel legs. Except their toes don’t look like mine. I can hear Papa now: “If you’d pay more attention you’d notice your toenails are too long. Cut them!”

          The sheets are old, though, too thin. That’ll be my excuse when I ask Papa for coin to buy new bedding. Still, he won’t be happy about it. It’s not like we’re poor, though. Papa’s stipend as a Lord’s musician has always been enough to take good care of us. I’m sure Tamtan apprentices resent me partly because of that. None of their fathers are musicians.

I shove all the bedding away. Too hot. The dry season is usually scorching in Aquila, but this is the worst I remember. Good thing Rowan isn’t here – she’d find it harder to take than me. Sister, where are you now? I should have defied Papal, snuck away and joined the caravan with you.

Most of my life I’ve done what Papa wanted or argued him round to my side. We didn’t always agree, but worked things out and I was happy enough. That changed after Rowan came. And now she’s gone again, who knows for how long? Life should be easier, but it isn’t.

The dream. Was it about Rowan after all? Maybe she’s in danger. I scramble out of bed, dragging the bedding to the floor and leaving it. Rummage in the wooden chest at the foot of my bed and pull out the silver bracelet of linked ivy leaves, slip it onto my wrist. Mysterious, magical bracelets that came from our parents, one each. I thump to the floor, struggle like a new born camel with my unruly legs, then settle. Close my eyes and think of my sister; picture her long hair, dark like Papa’s, her grey eyes that I’ve been told are like our mother’s. My concentration slips.

I’ll never see Mother again, can’t even remember her. Did I call her Mama? Did she ever sing to me? Maybe I got my musical abilities from her as well as Papa. I was too young when Papa and I left her and Rowan. And Mother’s been dead for over a year now.

Tailfeathers! Better cut my toe nails before they do more damage, and get dressed. The house is quiet though I can tell by the angle of the sun shining through my window that it’s still early. Papa’s either asleep or gone already to the river bank. The old barracks there of the Lord’s Militia have been mostly empty for years, the grounds allowed to grow wild. Papa and his musician friends along with other artists of Aquila are changing that. They’ve joined designers, stone masons, carpenters and labourers to turn the dilapidated buildings into an arts school.

I sneak across the landing and peek into his room. No Papa, bed made neatly, bedding stretched tight as a drum head. It was under that bed I found my bracelet. Papa’s really, but it had abandoned him. He wasn’t happy about that.

I rattle down the stairs. No Papa anywhere. Why didn’t he wake me this morning as he’s been doing ever since Rowan left? Drag me along as usual with him to the school. Not that I’m sorry to be left at home. At the building site I’d just be hanging around waiting for someone to find work for me: carrying tools, cutting grass, cutting brush. Scut work is no fun and not that good for my hands.

I search for a note. Today is supposed to be my day for working with him – composing, playing the flutes, cleaning and repairing them if necessary. If he doesn’t come back for that’ll be the third lesson we’ve missed since Rowan went. The arts school is important, but so am I!

The food cupboards hold bread, honey, butter, a bit of cheese, figs. I’m not really hungry yet. Why didn’t he leave me a note? Even to say, practise the flute or go get more food. “You’re old enough to figure that out for yourself.” That’s what he’d say, and it’s true. I’m not stupid and he’s never said that I am. But we used to talk more, spend more time together.

I wander into the living room. One of the big woven baskets the women from the Grasslands people brought sits there, full of sheet music. Papa copied some, but I did most of it. I leaf through a few sheets, put them back, finger the basket. It’s really well made. They could sell these in the market here.

The Grasslands People wanted help to find some missing children. That’s what Rowan’s gone to do, and I know they helped her when she was trying to find Papa and me so I guess she felt she owed them. Still, it seems odd that they couldn’t look for the children themselves. Would Rowan have gone if she’d been happier with us? Maybe its my fault.

I’ll try again to talk to my sister. Sit, breathe deeply, touch the bracelet, close my eyes and concentrate. Sometimes that will work and I get some kind of picture, but today I wait until my knees start to cramp and my arms itch. No visions. Weird that I had that dream and now nothing. Still so much to learn about how and why the bracelets work and why they don’t. Was my dream influenced by the bracelet even though I wasn’t touching it or was it just an ordinary strange dream? No answers just sitting here and now my belly’s rumbling.

I’m munching bread and cheese when there’s a rat-tat at the door. Hope its Ali from across the street. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days and she’s always working on something interesting; I could help, though I should practise the flute. But a boy stands outside, a messenger from Papa: he does want me at the river bank.

25,553 Days Plus

I recently had a birthday, have lived through a lot of changes in my life, from just after the Second World War in Germany to the current year in Canada.

My young father had been a prisoner of war in Canada before he married my mother. I was born the year of the Berlin Airlift; my father grew up in that city, and although his mother wanted him to move back there, he declined. Both my parents feared another war in Europe, so when Canada began accepting German immigrants again, they chose to leave, partly because my father had good memories of Canada.

We left a small, modern city and moved to a not very modern farm where my father worked. Low pay and not very good housing, but milk and eggs for the children. Years later I wrote a fictionalized book of short stories about some of our experiences. My father found work at a better farm.

Our lives gradually improved to the point where, with help from locals, we bought our own house in a small town and both my parents worked. We never had a lot of money, but enough eventually for a second hand car and later a few return trips to Germany to visit relatives. During that time the world continued to change. The Canadian flag debate resulted in the red maple leaf flying over our public buildings. US president John Kennedy was assassinated while I was still in high school, and Martin Luther King when I was in university. The Vietnam War was on, students and other protested, hippies proliferated, and some of us talked about living in communes.

I married and taught school. We lived in southern Saskatchewan and in northern Saskatchewan. I had a child and we moved to the west coast for a while, then back to Saskatoon. The women’s movement was on (1970 a Royal Commission on the Status of Women tabled a report to eliminate sexual discrimination) and the War Measures Act was enforced in October 1970 with the FLQ crisis in Quebec. In August 1972 Rosemary Brown became the first black woman to be elected to a provincial legislature, in B.C.  She later (1975) ran for the leadership of the federal NDP and lost to Ed Broadbent. I wonder what would have happened if she’d won? In June 1976 MP’s voted not to reinstate the death penalty. In 1977 the Canadian Citizenship Act was amended to allow women to confer citizenship on their children. In 1979 Nellie Cournoyea became the first native/First Nations woman to lead a provincial territorial government.

I’ve had many different jobs in my life, from babysitting and waitressing, to teaching, working in advertising, arts administration, consulting, and writing. I’ve been enriched by working with and getting to know people from many different backgrounds and cultures.

In the 1980’s my marriage broke and I learned to live and prosper on my own. I’m lucky to have a wonderful son and grandson and their families. My brothers and their families are important to me as well, and my parents are still alive, in their nineties. I have great friends.

I continue to learn and grow through the ups and downs of life, and hope for a few more thousand days!

Hope

white sky, white ground

she walks in a bubble

muffled in down, fur and denim

only a bit of face bare

frozen breath puffing out

black tree skeletons rise along the river

she remembers colours –

red lilies, blue iris, so many shades of green

far beyond the stratosphere hangs the blazing sun

a star that warms this pallid world

Note: I mostly write prose, but do dabble in poetry now and then. It's been a long, cold winter already. This came to me on a not so cold, but drab day. Comments and suggestions welcome.