For the annual Q&A, for speech to text writing, it has to be Dragon Naturally speaking. It's expensive - $350 USD for a one-time purchase - but it's leagues ahead of anything else, and I've tried them all. In some ways, I owe my writing career to it, because I couldn't write nearly as much as I do without it.
They have an internet-connected cellphone version, but it's garbage. Get the real one for a proper computer, and it will change your writing life.
I am 10, it is August and we are as always in the brown-stained board and batten main cottage. Normally my mother's sister and her family stay in the cottage in July, but this year they are in the apartment above the boatslip while my uncle works in Edmonton where they live, which is why they didn't use the cottage in July.
July, the best weather, sunny, warm, unlike August chills and rain. "Why can't we use the cottage in July?" I whine to my mother. We live in Western New York State, the Niagara fruitbelt. Our family cottage is in Bobcaygeon, Ontario.
"I need to make jam and chili and mustard pickle when fruits are in season," says my mother.
So this is a rare summer when these cousins are at the lake at the same time as us.
My 12 year old oldest brother and 14 year old oldest cousin, black-haired to our blonde, decide to build a raft. They find old planks of wood, used styrofoam I don't remember what floats, and build a fire on our tiny half-mooned beach rimmed with flat sitting rocks. They get empty coffee cans from my recycling mother and boil pitch in them over the little fire. My mother's 2 youngest brothers saw down a sapling from the sparse woods beside the beach and strip it. This will be the rafting pole.
The rickety brown raft is a success. When my brother and cousin get tired of poling down the lake we, my cousins and siblings and me, push, kicking up bubbles in the green lake, the raft to the neighbours' perfect spot. That summer, and the next, any kid who is around, locals, cottagers, swim out to the raft, climb on, and we all stand in one corner. 7 feet below us are the ribs of an old logging barge. The shore is lined with trees - our property - and the rest with cottages and lawns.
We crowd onto one corner of the raft, slippery in wet swimsuits, laughing, challenging, determined to be the last one standing. More often, the raft flips and we all end up splashing in the water.
16 years later, long after the raft has rotted, my family rips itself apart. Our beloved property is subdivided. Sold off. My family is shunned. For decades.
This year my oldest brother turned 70. I sent out an email to family, including all those cousins with whom we are tentatively back in touch, and the raft memory comes up. It triggers other memories, memories that bind.
This is a piece sent to me--by Jane--to post here for the "games" prompt (Jane who gifted us the red shoes" prompt some months ago!)
~~~~~
I had two, younger brothers and we were often sent outside in our enclosed back yard to play. This gave my mother a much needed smoke break and a chapter from her monthly Readers' Digest.
As the big sister and already going to school,I was expected to watch over these toddlers when I got home. They tended to pick up anything they found and reshape it, taste it ,or try to fingerpaint with it in the garden soil. Our gentle German Shepard,Molly, would let me know if they were trying something audacious. The year before I started school, my mother had to put mosquito netting over my youngest brother's play pen when he was outside. We had several apple trees in our yard that housed tent caterpillars. She'd found some unlucky ones while changing his diaper.
My other brother being more mobile, was much more discerning in his discoveries. He had a fascination with slugs but after my horrific outburst and the dog's incessant barking , he could no longer put them in his mouth.
The sprinkler was the safest of our back yard activities. After we got tired of running through it, I would lift it up and haul it around the yard searching for my brother who wisely found bushes to hide in. When I found him,he got a thorough drenching. I think my mother secretly appreciated this as it washed away the mud and saved her from bath time shenanigans, yet I still got punished for my water torture technique. This skill I 'd learned from experience, playing with the older kids in our neighbourhood.
Front yards were not fenced and I'd run howling along, with the gang through the rows of sprinklers. Those who stayed the driest won but later got spayed with water guns from teens hiding between the houses. The sprinkler drenching was reserved for the driest one left.
Hide and Seek involved any kid allowed to roam out of their yard. The hiding area covered the whole block. Those who could count to 60 or read the second hand on their Mickey Mouse watches got to be the Seekers. I could climb a tree quickly and managed to escape capture and watched while those caught had to frog hop back to the starting area. We younger ones endured the older kids creative punishments just to be part of their gang.
I drew the line at any kind of cowboy or cops 'n robbers ,shooting games. Those like me ,retreated to the far end of the street to play jump rope games. We tried to out do each other in our knowledge of jumping rhymes. Sometimes a few older girls would show up and teach us how to skip through the long rope. A clique of fifth grade girls played 'Double Dutch' which I dreamed of joining but only a very few more agile elementary kids got invited to join this game. I tried and tried but never quite got the hang of this so stuck it out with long rope games and worked at learning all the chanting rhymes. I was better with the group who had their own ropes which they brought to school. We'd gather in a corner of the playground after lunch. I glued glitter to strips of masking tape and wound them around my rope, hoping this extravagance would improve my performance.
By grade four, I had an 'in' with the boys who played with baseball cards.They would pitch them against the school wall. The one who got the most cards leaning up against the wall, won and could choose cards from the other players' packs.
I took some of my weekly allowance and bought baseball cards, at the general store, whenever our family stayed at our cottage which was just across the border. These kinds of cards were not available in Canada. The fourth and fifth grade boys were eagerly to trade me stacks of their bent, dog-eared cards for a few of the new ones I got from the 25cent bubble gum pack. I was a hard bargainer and they could only trade for one or two of my cards at a time. I really had no interest in baseball games but I craved that moment in the limelight when rushed over to see what cards I'd got with my gum. I used their stacks of old cards to bribe my brothers into following my 'big sister' rules when they got annoying.
In the fifties, life was a gas, a real cool blast
We played outside from dawn to dusk, the days went by so fast
Hopscotch on the sidewalk, drawn with chunky chalk
Jumping, hopping, skipping, we never liked to walk
Hula hoops around our hips, spinning round and round
Trying to keep them twirling, not falling to the ground
Marbles in the dirt, we'd flick and aim with skill
Collecting cat's eyes, agates, our pockets we would fill
Jump rope chants and hand-clap games, we sang with glee
"Miss Mary Mack," "A Tisket, A Tasket," "Cinderella, Dressed in Yella"
In the streets, we played kickball and Red Rover
Racing on our bikes, pretending we had four-leaf clover
After school, we rushed home to catch our favorite shows
"Howdy Doody," "The Lone Ranger," "The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet" in neat little rows
We read "The Hardy Boys," "Nancy Drew," and "Curious George" too
Our imaginations soared, each page bringing something new
Dick and Jane taught us to read, with Sally, Spot, and Puff
We learned our lessons well, though sometimes school was tough
At the drugstore counter, we'd spin and sip ice cream floats
Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry - each sip a heavenly note
On hot summer days, we'd cool off in the sprinkler's spray
Running through the water, laughing all the way
Life was simple then, filled with innocent delight
Playing till the streetlights came on, then saying goodnight
Those were the days, the fabulous fifties, oh what a time
Carefree and joyful, a reason and a rhyme
Though decades have passed, the memories still remain
Of a childhood filled with laughter, sunshine, and no rain
So here's to the fifties, a time of fun and play
When life was a game, and we cherished every day!
For the annual Q&A, for speech to text writing, it has to be Dragon Naturally speaking. It's expensive - $350 USD for a one-time purchase - but it's leagues ahead of anything else, and I've tried them all. In some ways, I owe my writing career to it, because I couldn't write nearly as much as I do without it.
They have an internet-connected cellphone version, but it's garbage. Get the real one for a proper computer, and it will change your writing life.
I am 10, it is August and we are as always in the brown-stained board and batten main cottage. Normally my mother's sister and her family stay in the cottage in July, but this year they are in the apartment above the boatslip while my uncle works in Edmonton where they live, which is why they didn't use the cottage in July.
July, the best weather, sunny, warm, unlike August chills and rain. "Why can't we use the cottage in July?" I whine to my mother. We live in Western New York State, the Niagara fruitbelt. Our family cottage is in Bobcaygeon, Ontario.
"I need to make jam and chili and mustard pickle when fruits are in season," says my mother.
So this is a rare summer when these cousins are at the lake at the same time as us.
My 12 year old oldest brother and 14 year old oldest cousin, black-haired to our blonde, decide to build a raft. They find old planks of wood, used styrofoam I don't remember what floats, and build a fire on our tiny half-mooned beach rimmed with flat sitting rocks. They get empty coffee cans from my recycling mother and boil pitch in them over the little fire. My mother's 2 youngest brothers saw down a sapling from the sparse woods beside the beach and strip it. This will be the rafting pole.
The rickety brown raft is a success. When my brother and cousin get tired of poling down the lake we, my cousins and siblings and me, push, kicking up bubbles in the green lake, the raft to the neighbours' perfect spot. That summer, and the next, any kid who is around, locals, cottagers, swim out to the raft, climb on, and we all stand in one corner. 7 feet below us are the ribs of an old logging barge. The shore is lined with trees - our property - and the rest with cottages and lawns.
We crowd onto one corner of the raft, slippery in wet swimsuits, laughing, challenging, determined to be the last one standing. More often, the raft flips and we all end up splashing in the water.
16 years later, long after the raft has rotted, my family rips itself apart. Our beloved property is subdivided. Sold off. My family is shunned. For decades.
This year my oldest brother turned 70. I sent out an email to family, including all those cousins with whom we are tentatively back in touch, and the raft memory comes up. It triggers other memories, memories that bind.
This is a piece sent to me--by Jane--to post here for the "games" prompt (Jane who gifted us the red shoes" prompt some months ago!)
~~~~~
I had two, younger brothers and we were often sent outside in our enclosed back yard to play. This gave my mother a much needed smoke break and a chapter from her monthly Readers' Digest.
As the big sister and already going to school,I was expected to watch over these toddlers when I got home. They tended to pick up anything they found and reshape it, taste it ,or try to fingerpaint with it in the garden soil. Our gentle German Shepard,Molly, would let me know if they were trying something audacious. The year before I started school, my mother had to put mosquito netting over my youngest brother's play pen when he was outside. We had several apple trees in our yard that housed tent caterpillars. She'd found some unlucky ones while changing his diaper.
My other brother being more mobile, was much more discerning in his discoveries. He had a fascination with slugs but after my horrific outburst and the dog's incessant barking , he could no longer put them in his mouth.
The sprinkler was the safest of our back yard activities. After we got tired of running through it, I would lift it up and haul it around the yard searching for my brother who wisely found bushes to hide in. When I found him,he got a thorough drenching. I think my mother secretly appreciated this as it washed away the mud and saved her from bath time shenanigans, yet I still got punished for my water torture technique. This skill I 'd learned from experience, playing with the older kids in our neighbourhood.
Front yards were not fenced and I'd run howling along, with the gang through the rows of sprinklers. Those who stayed the driest won but later got spayed with water guns from teens hiding between the houses. The sprinkler drenching was reserved for the driest one left.
Hide and Seek involved any kid allowed to roam out of their yard. The hiding area covered the whole block. Those who could count to 60 or read the second hand on their Mickey Mouse watches got to be the Seekers. I could climb a tree quickly and managed to escape capture and watched while those caught had to frog hop back to the starting area. We younger ones endured the older kids creative punishments just to be part of their gang.
I drew the line at any kind of cowboy or cops 'n robbers ,shooting games. Those like me ,retreated to the far end of the street to play jump rope games. We tried to out do each other in our knowledge of jumping rhymes. Sometimes a few older girls would show up and teach us how to skip through the long rope. A clique of fifth grade girls played 'Double Dutch' which I dreamed of joining but only a very few more agile elementary kids got invited to join this game. I tried and tried but never quite got the hang of this so stuck it out with long rope games and worked at learning all the chanting rhymes. I was better with the group who had their own ropes which they brought to school. We'd gather in a corner of the playground after lunch. I glued glitter to strips of masking tape and wound them around my rope, hoping this extravagance would improve my performance.
By grade four, I had an 'in' with the boys who played with baseball cards.They would pitch them against the school wall. The one who got the most cards leaning up against the wall, won and could choose cards from the other players' packs.
I took some of my weekly allowance and bought baseball cards, at the general store, whenever our family stayed at our cottage which was just across the border. These kinds of cards were not available in Canada. The fourth and fifth grade boys were eagerly to trade me stacks of their bent, dog-eared cards for a few of the new ones I got from the 25cent bubble gum pack. I was a hard bargainer and they could only trade for one or two of my cards at a time. I really had no interest in baseball games but I craved that moment in the limelight when rushed over to see what cards I'd got with my gum. I used their stacks of old cards to bribe my brothers into following my 'big sister' rules when they got annoying.