Martha Mondays: Elevators

I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about elevators, but the last time I rode in one it suddenly occurred to me that nobody under the age of 50 would be likely to remember when they were not automatic but were run by real, live people. My daughter thinks she probably saw one of the last of those, with a metal grillwork door and a white-gloved operator at the controls, at the Banff Springs Hotel when she worked summers in Banff in the late 1960s.

Those doors were scary. As you stood waiting for the elevator to come, you could see through them to the empty shaft with cables dangling into the void below, and you hoped they would support the elevator while you were on it. An arrow on an overhead dial indicated its slow ascent as it rose with grunts and groans and metallic clangs of gates opening and closing at every floor. You could peer down and see the roof rising up, but arrival on your floor did not necessarily mean you could step aboard. First, the elevator had to be manoeuvred into position so that it would be level with the floor, a procedure that often required several jerky attempts, and if these were not quite successful the operator would caution: “Watch your step, please.”

In hotels and office buildings the operator was usually an old man, and in department stores a young woman who would sing out: “Second floor: housewares, bedding, towels, curtains, and yardgoods,” while manipulating levers sticking up here and there and turning a kind of wheel with a knob on it that was attached to the wall. It all looked terribly complicated to the unenlightened. I thought they must have to take an intensive training course–at least I hoped they did.

Remember the piped-in music when automatic elevators first came into use? Perhaps it was felt that we would be lonely in there without an operator. My daughter claimed she could tell elevator music from dentist office music, and elevator music was worse. Be that as it may, I’m glad I can now ride up and down in silence. Probably nobody under age 20 remembers that music either.

~ Notes from Over the Hill, pages 16-17

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Martha Mondays are feature at the Siretona blog. Siretona Creative is a publishing and production company that empowers women in the arts to build community among generations and nations. Martha’s book was one of our first major projects: a collection of Martha’s articles that “offer a dose of humour and insights to ease doubts as the golden years approach” (Dr. Lynda Haverstock). Sounds pretty intergenerational to us. So we crafted it carefully, including a specially commissioned and researched typeface that would both beautiful and easy to read.

For more information about Martha’s book, visit www.marthamorgan.ca.

Order with Credit Card or PayPal

Notes from Over the Hill $16.99 Notes from Over the Hill - with shipping $21.99

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Martha Mondays: Life Before Medicare

Do you remember life before Medicare? We didn’t call a doctor until we’d exhausted our own home remedies. There were exceptions, of course. We couldn’t cope with broken bones or kidney stones, but for many ailments which now send us to a clinic for antibiotics we relied on mustard plasters, hot compresses and various other odoriferous and unpleasant concoctions.

We practised preventive medicine. Cod liver oil and Scott’s Emulsion were our defence against colds and flu. Both are still available today, but now they’re in capsule form or orange flavoured. No such amenities for us. We firmly believed that the worse medicine tasted, the better it was for us. A notable exception was a kid I used to babysit. His mother brainwashed him to think cod liver oil tasted good by calling it candy.

Sometimes we miraculously recovered without knowing why. This happened to me when I was playing in the woods and accidentally ran through a spider web spun between two trees. The spider resented the intrusion and bit me on the arm. By the time I got home my arm was swollen to twice its size all the way up to my shoulder and my mother decided I must see the doctor in case it was a black widow spider. She did not have any home remedies for bites from poisonous snakes or insects. But I was dirty from running around in the woods, and it was unthinkable to present oneself at the doctor’s office in less than pristine condition. First I must have a bath and put on clean underwear. I did not think the doctor would ask me to take off my clothes in order the look at my arm, but there was no point in arguing. All mothers had this thing about clean underwear. By the time I finished scrubbing my knees and soaking in the hot tub my arm was back to normal. Even without knowing it, it seemed, mothers were always right.

~ Notes from Over the Hill, pages 14-15

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Martha Mondays are a weekly feature at the Siretona blog. Siretona Creative is a publishing and production company that empowers women in the arts to build community among generations and nations. Martha’s book was one of our first major projects: a collection of Martha’s articles that “offer a dose of humour and insights to ease doubts as the golden years approach” (Dr. Lynda Haverstock). Sounds pretty intergenerational to us. So we crafted it carefully, including a specially commissioned and researched typeface that would both beautiful and easy to read.

For more information about Martha’s book, visit www.marthamorgan.ca.

Order with Credit Card or PayPal

Notes from Over the Hill $16.99 Notes from Over the Hill - with shipping $21.99

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Bigger Story

Do you ever buy something then leave it in the package for who-knows-how-long? I did that with Christine Dente’s CD Becoming. Bought it in a bargain bin at Scott’s Parable in Saskatoon, but didn’t open it until this week. Providential timing, perhaps, because the second song speaks directly to things Kathleen and I are wrestling with as we edit Samantha’s First Story for release in the near future. I’ll be adding this song to my repertoire.

Bigger Story

by Christine Dente, Charlie Peacock, & Scott Dente

In a little town, in a little world
I wrote the memories of a little girl
Little did I know, as the story was unfolding
It would take me down the narrow way
Throw the gate wide open

All my life, I was waiting for an invitation
To be a part of the conversation
Living in a bigger story
All this time was a history-in-the-making
I was headed for a destination
To take my place in the bigger story

So I listen in and I hear the song
From another country and I sing along
And I play my part as the story goes
And the difference that it will make
Is a tale yet to be told

All my life is an answer to the invitation
To be a part of the conversation
Living in a bigger story
All this time is history-in-the-making
Always headed for a destination
To take my place in the bigger story
I'm taking my place in the bigger story

All my life, all my life is an answer to the invitation
Living in a bigger story
All this time, all this time I was headed for a destination
Taking my place in the bigger story
All my life living in the bigger story
All this time, bigger story
All my life living in the bigger story

Christine’s latest project (with producer husband Scott Dente) is Voyage.

What have you left unwrapped, only to discover it gladly later?

Martha Monday: Next Time I’d be Tougher

Have you ever been asked what you would do differently if you could live your life over again? It’s something we like to ponder, even if only to reassure ourselves that we made the right choices. People generally feel that they would live their life the same way.

There are probably exceptions. With the benefit of hindsight, quite a few prison inmates might do things differently: either stick to the straight and narrow or figure out a way to avoid being caught. As for the rest of us, there may be regrets for opportunities missed, but for the most part I think it is only minor things we would change.

I would certainly want to marry the same man. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have the same children, and that wouldn’t do at all. I’ve become quite fond of them. I would be firmer though. I would have made them pick up their toys when they were little so I wouldn’t have to use a rake to get all the debris out from under their beds when they were teenagers. I shouldn’t have been doing that anyway. They should have done their own raking.

Above all, I would never be a martyr. It’s easy for mothers to fall into the martyr trap, to suffer in silence, thinking: “If they really cared about me they would be more considerate.” I would not wash dishes when it was someone else’s turn to wash, while seething with resentment inside. I would simply let them pile up. When there were no clean dishes left, they’d get the message.

Another stupid thing I used to do was fill the freezer if I had to be away for a few days. All the casseroles and other hearty meals I’d lovingly prepared for my teenaged sons were still there when I returned. They hadn’t even opened the freezer; they just sent out for pizzas or picked up fried chicken.

I’d be less obliging, too, when asked to serve on yet another executive or committee. It’s always the same people who are willing to donate their time. Enough is enough–let someone else take a turn. Yes, I’d be a lot tougher if I could live my life over again.

~ Notes from Over the Hill, pages 12-13

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Martha Mondays are a weekly feature at the Siretona blog. Siretona Creative is a publishing and production company that empowers women in the arts to build community among generations and nations. Martha’s book was one of our first major projects: a collection of Martha’s articles that “offer a dose of humour and insights to ease doubts as the golden years approach” (Dr. Lynda Haverstock). Sounds pretty intergenerational to us. So we crafted it carefully, including a specially commissioned and researched typeface that would both beautiful and easy to read.

For more information about Martha’s book, visit www.marthamorgan.ca.

Order with Credit Card or PayPal

Notes from Over the Hill $16.99 Notes from Over the Hill - with shipping $21.99

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