It’s 9:30 a.m. on Monday, Thanksgiving morning.
I’ve moved my battle with the forces of writer’s block into the bedroom, where I’ve shut the door and set up my stab at quality word soup for the “View from Here” on my bed; pillows at my back.
I surround myself with the usual inspirations; trusty philosophical quote collection, my daily journal of word ditties and funnies, Oprah’s magazine of the month—and food.
Gotta have food for thought.

Of late, I am reminded of the Irish motto, “You have to do your own growing no matter how tall your grandfather was.”
Grandpa Drennan wasn’t known for his height, but he did have a mighty soul stocked with discipline and work ethics that measured hands above any draft horse of his day.

For weeks now, I’ve been battling with the forces of writer’s block and going blue in the face trying to unload some sort of quality word soup into the form of a newspaper column.
My neck of the woods continues to brim with “believe it or not” episodes that make for great literary fodder, but for whatever reason, my ability to translate to text has met head-on with “blah, blah, blah.”
No doubt part of the reason for this is the fact that I don’t work in the newspaper office anymore.

FORT FRANCES—After work last Thursday, Lawrence Gushulak closed up his barber shop on Scott Street just as he’d done on thousands of other afternoons.
But when he locked the door that day to “Lawrence’s Barber Shop,” he also marked the end of an era—hanging up his barber scissors in favour of retirement after 45 years in the business of cutting hair.

There are two more things I now know for sure.
The next time I forget to buy groceries and then leave my husband home alone in the country without a vehicle for the weekend, I can rest assured that Cohort #1 will come to the rescue with rations.
I also know for sure that I never expected excerpts of Pete’s rusty bachelor weekend, documented in my laptop while I was away, would rival the comic strip of my annual trip to the big city with a teenager for school clothes shopping.

Dare I assume a double, super-dog-day spent fetching sticks and running in circles after each other, would leave “Dot” and “Cash” sapped of energy and prone to the “sleeping like a log” syndrome.

    First of all, I have to set the information straight from last week’s column.
    My laugh lines are not funny, the bags under my eyes aren’t welcome, and double chins should have been left OFF the list of things that happen to women as we age (not to mention the host of dark hairs that sprout there after the age of 40).
    And while we’re back on that score again, I’d like to add hot flushes to the series of unfortunate events that I’d like to see gone from this menopausal galaxy.

    My flat stare has come full circle and squarely back at me.
    At 46, I already should have learned the following lessons: makeup doesn’t work in 33 degrees Celsius weather, gin on the rocks doesn’t mix, and that even though I am a multi-tasking, female entity, I should wave a white flag sometimes.
    I also should have come to know that even though the humid weather makes my fingers swell to the size of small sausages, it is not the culprit behind my “Buddha.”
    But let’s get back to the makeup thing.

    When I go to bed at night, there’s at least one thing that I’m very good at.
The other is being able to empty my mind of the woebegone happenings of the day.
    A long time ago I learned how, at shut-eye time, to pack a mental suitcase with any worries, fretting, and negative thoughts I might have and give them up to God for safe-keeping until the next day.
    I’m a firm believer that on any given night, we all deserve a restful sleep free of the dark, regurgitated materials that might have crossed our daily path.

    The anonymous author who penned “Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-O to a tree” also should have added dogs to that discipline philosophy.
    In my neck of the woods, I’m quite sure the few smart brain cells my canines did have fell out and into the hole where they buried the last meaty beef rib bones I doled out to them.
    That deduction would at least explain why “Dot” and “Cash” seemingly never can find their secret stashes again.