DIY masks to the rescue

Well, it’s official. Evidence has mounted that people with no symptoms can unknowingly spread COVID-19. This week, the folks at the top shared that wearing a mask in public could reduce the risk that someone who is carrying the nasty bug will infect others in places where social distancing is difficult. Ah yes, the barrier method to counter infection.

I feel fine, but one never knows. My next grocery run is due. I’d better get with the program and equip myself to practice safe shopping.

Don’t tell anyone, but I have two surgical masks left from a package I bought before a friend who is immunocompromised came to visit a while ago. We’re supposed to leave the professional grade masks for health care workers. Best I don’t appear in public wearing contraband.

This means I need to make my own mask.

The internet has lots of patterns for home-made masks and I know how to sew. Excuses will be hard to find.

What to use? I purged my odds and ends of fabric before I moved to Vancouver. With the prohibition on non-essential trips, this means I need to make it with materials I have on hand if at all possible.

A hunt through my closets produced a torn white cotton bed sheet from the bygone era when all bed sheets, at least for simple folk like me, were white and cotton. It occasionally serves as a dust cover or drop cloth. Lots of washes have softened it. A few inches from the good side will provide enough fabric to create several multi-layer, washable, boring face masks.

I have a plan. I must stop watching every news conference and reading every post on social media so that will have time to follow through before my cupboard is completely bare.

Post script. If you, like me, have found diversion in the humour on social media, you’ve likely seen the videos of how to turn a lady’s thong…not the flip flop kind… into a face mask. Or a photo of a fetching woman modelling how one bra cup will do the job.

I had a moment of regret that I purged the psychedelic print bikini I wore for sunbathing in the early seventies. Three potential masks…gone.

I could have turned heads at the grocery store.

Post post script. I’ll leave the visual for this entry to your vivid imagination.  


More things that made me smile

I am happy that officials are starting to use the term “physical distancing” to tame the COVID-19 pandemic. “Social distancing” was a misnomer from the start.

Social closeness has never been more important to me. Two people with whom I connect by text and phone more often than usual these days amused me recently. With their blessing, I pass along their levity.

Well over a year ago, I started to text with my friend and neighbour, whom I’ll call Debbie, every morning by 8:00 a.m. In the remote chance that either of us has fallen or expired during the night, we know that the other will investigate our lack of response and get the right people on the job. So far, one of us has remembered to start the interchange on time virtually every morning. The texts often led to spontaneous decisions to meet for a walk or coffee later in the day in the pre-COVID-19 world.

Recently, I woke about around 7:15 a.m. – too early to text Debbie. I started scrolling through my phone to see the latest developments around the only subject there’s any news about these days. Before I knew it, 8:00 a.m. had come and gone.

“Got distracted scrolling. How are you this morning?” I keyed in at 8:10.

“Infected by the scrolling virus, too!! Other than that, I’m fine,” she responded a minute later.

Debbie gets it.

Meanwhile, my vigorous attempts to stay safe continue unabated. My hands have never been cleaner. I’m tired of “Happy Birthday” as a handwashing song.

Man, if I get COVID-19, it will be a phenomenon akin to the virgin birth. When I shared that thought in separate phone conversations with Debbie, my sister, and another friend, each of them roared.

I tried it on my son. Silence at the other end.

“Are you there?”

I quietly wondered if I had offended his virgin ears.

“Mom, I think it needs a little work.”

The next morning, the following text from him arrived:

“For your joke, I wonder if you could describe it as an “immaculate infection”.

I wonder if he’s missed his calling in standup comedy.


One thing that made me smile this week

Okay, so I heard the Prime Minister of Canada this week. “Go home and stay home.”

Like many of you, I’m sure, I’ve become a junkie for ways to keep myself and others safe in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. I had already limited my trips to grocery shop to once a week. With stronger resolve, I made a list so that my next foray would set me up for two weeks.

Luckily, a grocery store and drug store near each other and near me have instituted “senior’s hours” prior to opening to the general public. On Thursday morning, I made a run for it.

The grocery store had canned diced tomatoes and a good supply of fresh greens. Check. Check. When I got to the cereal aisle, I was dismayed that all the rolled oats at eye level were gone.

On a high shelf, I noticed a premium product, “Original Porridge Oats and Healthy Grains”. I’m a sucker for anything that purports to be healthy and grabbed a package so I could read the ingredient list on the back in fine print.

“Rolled oats, oat bran, wheat bran, flax seed.”

I already get a good dose of fiber by eating beans regularly. Even more regularly now. Was this additional fiber good idea? But I knew the rule: If you’ve touched it, buy it. Sigh.

After exhausting the possibilities at the grocery store, I headed to the drug store.

It had a fresh shipment of toilet paper.

Sheer providence!   


I don’t know it all

Two weeks ago, I posted an analogy between a vacuum malfunction at a bad time to abandonment by a partner. It was tongue-in-cheek, of course. But with the news that’s unfolded since about COVID-19 and the mind-boggling implications, a clogged vacuum seems like pretty small potatoes.

In the interests of lifting spirits, I’d like to give you the dirt on what happened after my sister arrived.

For the first few days, we focused on catching up our conversations on many fronts and organizing old family photos. We had an appointment to use a scanner free of charge for three hours at a public library on March 6.

With the scanning behind us on Friday evening, I felt ready to tackle the floor attachment again. As I poked around the brush bar on the bottom in a vain attempt to access the offending clog, my sister looked over my shoulder.

“When we had a similar problem with our vacuum, we were able to remove the bar. Is there a way to get this one out?”

There on the end, was a “lock” and “unlock” symbol, and a slot for a coin to unscrew the cap to release the bar. My sister lent me a quarter.

Once the brush bar was out of the way, the clog’s minutes were numbered. After removing a few clumps of debris, I discovered a small plastic sack that appeared to have gotten it all started.

Suddenly a new tune was one my mind, “The cat came back,” but altered as “The vac came back.”

“Gee, taking off that bar was really smart. How did you and your husband figure that one out?”  

“We probably looked at the manual,” she said with as straight a face as she could muster.

Sure enough, the first item in my manual after the safety warnings was “Clearing brush bar obstructions,” with a diagram showing how to remove it.

I think I’ll use some of my time in retreat mode to create an operating manual for me. The idea of being open to and reaching out for help from others will rank fairly high. As will remembering that there may be a manual to help with the exact situation I am facing.

I don’t have to figure it all out by myself. None of us does.  


A fine time to leave me

A country song from the 70s came to mind recently.

“You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille,

With four hungry children and crop in the field…”

The trusty vacuum cleaner I’ve used for five years started to labour. It’s one of those transparent models that lets you watch the buildup of debris like hair, rug lint, crumbs, dandruff… I’ll stop there because you may have just eaten your lunch.

Several minutes of “vacuuming” and the canister still sparkled. It’s not possible my floors were that clean.

As usual, I have a good excuse. I’m applying for a program to use some of the skills I’m dying to exercise before I die. The challenging questions on the application form have diverted my attention for weeks. When cleaning is the subject, I’m a pushover for distraction.

Back to the vacuum story. The motor in the hand wand was producing suction. The tube between the motor and the floor was clear. I deduced that the floor attachment was clogged.

I was able to free gobs of hair, etc from the underside and from the top where the tube attaches to it. Still no action. I shoved the tool I use to unclog my bathroom sink drain in as far as it would go in both directions. Nada. Meanwhile, time was ticking.

The timing sucked.

My sister was due. My one and only sister. My one and only sibling. The one I hadn’t seen since last August! I mentioned my plight to a friend. She assured me my sister would likely be too tired to notice the dust with the little bit of sleep she would have had before arriving.

So I focused on getting her bed ready.

Further assaults on the floor attachment and the dirty floor might be noisy. It would be a shame to disturb her sleep, don’t you think?

If I needed an excuse to procrastinate around cleaning, maybe the timing was right after all.


Confessions of a Creative Chorister

Last winter, I lost enthusiasm for my church choir. Singing lyrics someone else wrote to a tune someone else composed in the precise manner our director wanted didn’t seem like a good fit for a free spirit like me. By June of last year, I knew I was done.

To fill the void, I joined a weekly community singalong group. The relaxed atmosphere invited me to open my throat and let ‘er rip.

Many surprises ensued. I relished belting out the tune. I hit higher notes than I thought possible. Others complimented my voice. I couldn’t believe it was mine.

I had always sung alto — in my school glee club, in family sing-songs, and more recently, in church choirs. I began to wonder if I am more naturally a soprano.

Over time, I started to miss my church choir. The social contact was one reason. And the practice it offers to shut off my monkey mind was another. I need all the help I can get in the focusing department.

After a rich conversation with the director, I decided to return, join the sopranos, and work on my ability to pay attention. I will also continue in the singalong group so my spontaneous side knows it will have its turn to play.

“Coming out” as a soprano unnerved me. I had underestimated how attached I was to my alto ego.  

Among the sopranos, the front row is for the shortest folks. People like me. I didn’t feel ready for that much limelight but complied to fit in with my new colleagues.

The first Sunday in February, my self-consciousness about singing soprano and standing in front caused me to hesitate about music I thought I knew. Ironically, the song was, “Keep your eyes on the prize.”

Two of the words we repeated many times are “hold on.” My mind wanted to sing “roll on.” Maybe there’s a reason for that. If I hadn’t rolled on to that other singing group, I don’t think I would have discovered the sweet spot in my vocal range or my true desire for concentration practice.

I’m settling into my role as a soprano. When we do “Eyes on the Prize” again, I think I’ll be able sing it correctly with gusto.

But the lyric twist I almost made may cause a twinkle in my eye.


My Spirit Animal

After protesting vehemently that I wasn’t ready for it, I recently made a snap decision to attend a workshop on aging. The leader invited us to bring a picture or stuffy of our spirit animal.

And how would I know what that would be? I turned to Google for wisdom.

One site suggested I should watch which wild animals seem attracted to me. I live in a large city. I see the occasional squirrel. They don’t pay the least bit of attention to me. That’s a relief. I don’t have much rapport with rodents.

I smell skunk once in a while. I’ve been told that smell is actually marijuana. Another relief.

Another site gave the native American spirit animal based on birth date. According to that, mine is the bear. “Bear people think deeply about life and observe it with equal care.” Interesting, but the idea of the bear created no buzz.

The quiz on another site identified my spirit animal to be the tiger. “By affinity with this spirit animal, you may enjoy dealing with life matters spontaneously, trusting your intuition and acting fast when needed.”

My breathing quickened. My last-minute decision to take the workshop on aging was a case in point. The barn cats used to like me when I was growing up on a farm. Cats are related to tigers, right?

“Do either of you have a stuffed tiger I could borrow?” I asked the next time I visited my grandchildren.

“Yes, we’ve got Tony, the Tiger,” they blurted almost in unison. Nathan clamoured to the holy of holies in his cupboard to retrieve him.

Avery wrinkled her nose.

“You don’t seem like a tiger, Grandma B.”

“What animal would you say I am like?”

“A bee.”

We’ve joked before that their name for me, Grandma B, is fitting because I like to take ideas from one place to another.

“What do you think, Nathan?”

“A butterfly, maybe? You like to garden. I think about butterflies in gardens.”

I have been through a few transformations in my life. Maybe he’s onto something.

Move over, Google. My grandchildren are a great source of wisdom, too.  


Worm Learning

Original bin

In June of 2019, I became the confident caregiver of a worm composting system. As I wrote in my blog, More new pets, I had learned all I needed to know to care for my new charges in a hour.

What could go wrong?

By the end of July, I noticed water collecting on the underside of the lid, a sign that moisture was building up inside the bin. I also noticed the remnants of a couple of worms who had wriggled out and perished in the arid environment of my balcony. A quick internet search told me that worms will try to escape if the environment is too moist.

Logic told the tale. The underside of the bin had only six small holes for drainage. The upper sides had only eight for ventilation. With the bin inhabited by worms, bedding, food, and worm castings, I couldn’t see how to drill more holes without mucking up my drill or contaminating the contents with bits of plastic.

When my son asked whether I had any wishes for Christmas, I jumped at the chance to suggest a slick worm composter I’d seen online. With the weather getting colder, I had brought the bin into my living space. The blue colour clashed with everything. An earthy aroma wafted about. A commercial version with an emphasis on design – and with lots of drainage – would be just the ticket for my struggling worm family.

What could go wrong?

The day I set aside to set up the new worm composter, I admired the charcoal colour that would blend with my balcony décor for three seasons and my living room in the winter. I attached the tap at the bottom that would drain away excess moisture. I looked for ventilation holes in the upper tiers and found none.

Upon checking reviews of the product online, I discovered that a buildup of excess moisture is a typical issue with this model. One woman posted a picture of hers wrapped in screening to prevent worms from escaping. It looked dreadful.

Before populating the new system, I decided to drill ventilation holes in the upper tiers and cover the holes with screening on the inside.

Ventilation holes
New composter

I haven’t spotted any fugitive worms in my living room. But I don’t want to speak too soon.

I am learning something from my worms.



The evolution of my Christmas tree star

On October 25, I got an unwelcome e-mail with the subject line: Hi Threadies, Felting Art Sessions on Oct 26th and Nov 30th are cancelled.

I’ve been a “Threadie” for a couple of years – we’re a sewing circle at my local neighbourhood house that’s intended to build community. All the materials to make felt toys and ornaments are supplied. Women and girls from eight to eighty and from various countries gather to sew. We help each other with our projects and enjoy each others’ company.  

In the summer, I found a pattern for a new star for my Christmas tree.

The ornaments I treasure most are made by hand by myself or family members – crocheted candy canes and Sesame Street characters my mother made when my children were the age my grandchildren are now, a set of salt-and-flour dough crèche characters I sculpted when my children were preschoolers, and some snowflakes my niece crocheted. The plastic, glittery star from my snowflake themed tree days had to go.

In the first couple of sessions, I cut out three felt stars – a small dark red, a medium white, and a large light red. By the end of September, I had accentuated the smallest star with beads of various shades of red and the white star with white and clear beads. In October and November, I had planned to decorate the outer star with red beads, sew on a backing, and stuff the whole thing with wool.

This cancellation created a dilemma because I no longer had access to the supplies. I hadn’t brought home embroidery cotton or red beads to finish the project.

I remembered I had inherited from Auntie Frances a box of embroidery floss that I haven’t opened in decades. Luckily, it had both white and red floss.

I didn’t have any small red beads on hand, but maybe there were some red buttons in my stash from my and my female ancestors’ past projects. I had a few, but not nearly enough to decorate the outer star.

However, I had lots of white buttons and some small white beads. I decided to integrate the white and red colours into a lively combo.

The star didn’t turn out the way I imagined it would if things had gone according to plan.

In my mind, it turned out much better.



Jim Taylor’s blog* about weeds prompted this week’s posting. He likes to get a dialogue going, and I took the bait. Here’s what I sent him.

“Hi Jim,

I enjoyed your “man-against-nature” depiction of the war in your yard, where the weeds may not be winning but yield a lot of power. As a lifetime gardener, I can relate. I recently took a course from the “Master Gardener” organization and have developed a fresh perspective that I’d love to share with you.

First, some science. Weeds are messengers. They are a symptom of disturbed soil. The more you disturb the ground by digging the weeds up by the roots, the more that the seeds of their cousins get a chance to germinate. The cycle continues, as you’ve observed, to your chagrin.

I suggest a cut-and-cover strategy instead. Cut the weed off at its base and cover the ground with mulch – straw, dried grass clippings, compost – whatever organic matter is handy. You can even add the carcass of the weed if it hasn’t already gone to seed.

When the weed’s root sends up a new shoot through the mulch, as it probably will, cut it off before it develops many leaves to feed the root. After two or three attempts, the root will die of starvation, and its remains will feed the soil for the plants you want to nurture.

Add lots of dried leaves to the mulch in the fall. Leave them on in the spring, and keep adding to the layer of mulch. The earthworms will integrate the tasty bits it into the soil, so adding mulch will become the new ongoing cycle. And your soil, and therefore your plants, will be much healthier.

Next spring, you can cut off the odd weed that has the gall to breach your mulch barrier and busy yourself with environmentally-friendly pursuits like watching the beautiful blossoms and continuing your delightful blog.

That would be a win all around, I’d say.

* Jim is a prolific writer with a theological bent. If you are looking for an interesting perspective, you can request a subscription to his blog, Softedges, by emailing