At 13 I was a diva in the making. That was 1974.

This is all I do: think about writing, the message to convey.

While wandering around and taking photos, our faithful companion, a dog named Buddy poses in the most telling stance.

Most people think of Border Collies as the newest version of Lassie. A television show we first watched in 1974 when we had returned from Germany. My dad was in the Air Force, CSIS, part of the crew of specialists charged with the purchase of the F18. (fact check: purchase date link). He left a larger impression on me than I ever realized, never mind appreciated around the time Lassie was on TV [ fact check: WIKIPEDIA on Lassie ]. I would have been 13.

They say that any big change is not to coincide with a child’s pinnacle hormonal period when they hit 13.

I arrived on Vancouver Island, pretty self-important.

I had to be.

Think about moving from one end of the world towards another when you’re turning 13.

At the same time, graduating from Elementary School, being treated like a Princess. My mom was really REALLY SMART.

My mom stubbornly insisted that since we were going to live in a foreign country, we were going TO LIVE IN a foreign company. So, yes, we moved into a German village in the heart of the country. One of the most beautifully serene places on earth.

It was a wonderful experience.

I was always different from my siblings.

In more ways of their matching blonde hair, blue eyes, freckled faced fair skin to my brunette green eyes, tanned diva in the making.

It’s not my fault. I WAS treated like a Princess the moment I arrived.

At 8, I was a celebrity of sorts.

An isolated upbringing based on what family was meant to be. My mom has a strong spirit and you don’t want to mess with her. Ironically, most people who know me would describe me the same. I had a Xerox colleague who’ll I will call Chicken Man or CM for short. After a day of pounding the payment, he’d tossed his beaten up saddle bag briefcase onto the table made to look like a desk, where we were not allowed to personalize it, with frequent impromptu inspections. Nobody got fired for this infraction. A stern talking to in a stuffy meeting room, pinched into a clostaphobic (poor spell check Apple) corner.

On my eighth birthday, it was magical. All day long that April, which usually coincides with Easter, among a very close Catholicity people in small settings.

I barely knew much about what went on overseas 30 years prior. Yes, my brilliant mother got a job working in the snack bar at the ice arena, after calling a family meeting, we gave her “permission” to work.

Smart as a fox, we thought we gave her permission, when under the guise of asking us, and imagineering us into believing we’d move into this mystical magical fairy land. She had managed a meagre income with four children and a husband who liked to party.

True to her word, new experiences were to unfold. The logic of living among the people of the country we were living in, had been so successful. We kids were cherished as their own quirky members of their family ~ behind hands muttering how strange Canadians were to eat corn (which was only used to feed livestock), and why would we crave red liquorice when there was an abundance of varieties of black liquorice.

After Eight

Not the chocolate mints. The kind that I adopted as my own tradition for a long time and could always count on my first mother-in-law to give every Christmas.

When I celebrated my 9th Birthday, it WAS after I was 8!

It’s not my fault I think a box of mint chocolates were named after me.


a blog about life in your fifties

by a former Yuppy


Back in the day, when Fridays were spent with your friends: they came from far and wide. They could be sports buddies or competitive foes. It meant the same thing.

a blog about life in your fifties

by a former Yuppy



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