.dropcap {float:left; color:#4791d2; font-size:75px; line-height:60px; padding-top:4px; padding-right:8px; padding-left:3px; font-family:Georgia}

Google+ Followers

Endless

Saturday, July 15, 2017

The Many Health Benefits of Cherries

My younger brother did well last evening after he was home from the bar at some point after 9:00 p.m. He watched the entirety of the BBC pilot movie Our Girl that I had wanted to see before soon starting on its follow-up T.V. series (also called Our Girl).

And then he watched an episode of The Ranch that I next tuned in.

By then it was nigh on midnight, and he said that he was ready to call it a night. I was, too, so I turned the T.V. over to a news station.

I got hooked into waiting for a promised story involving football that had something to do with a woman losing out on a million dollars. It soon enough came on, and I watched a couple of other items; and then I noticed that Mark was passed out.

So I left him there with the news station and went on up to my bed. It may not have yet been 12:10 a.m.

I tend not to fare at all well overnight if I get to bed late. Thus, although I remained in bed overnight ─ i.e., no bathroom breaks ─ it was 5:52 a.m. when I checked the time and decided to get up to start work on the post I am compiling at my hosted website Thai-Iceland.

I wanted the early start because I also wanted to get in some exercise out in the backyard tool shed before Mark was up ─ exercise is a very private thing for me.

However, my eyes were burning from want of adequate sleep, and I was not feeling at all founded upon the reserves essential for working out.

I took a break from the post around 7:30 a.m. or soon after, and lied down in my bed to cover over and rest my eyes, and also ease the stiffness that sets in whenever I spend time here at my computer.

It didn't take too long to recognize that there would be a problem if I lied there for too long ─ it would be easy to sink into a nap. In fact, I was losing drive rather than building upon it.

A conscious effort of rallying had to be employed, and ultimately I rose to change into shorts for the engagement outside.

A full session out there must take me nearly a half-hour, but I didn't feel I had all that much time. And so I settled upon the first ⅗ of a session.

Then I got back to work upon the Thai-Iceland post until I could hear Mark stirring about in his bedroom. It was then that I decided to take another break, and actually seek a nap. Perhaps this was around 10:00 a.m.

I think that I was in bed for over an hour, but I don't believe that too much of it involved a true nap. I rose to complete the post work.

The day was clearly going to be a sunny one, and I had a bill payment to mail that is due on Tuesday. It was negligence that stayed me from mailing it away sooner.

With the imminence of its due date, I felt that I had no option but to bear the payment directly to the nearest post office ─ Pearl Photo / Canada Post over at Surrey Place (Central City) about a mile away.

Fortunately for me, Mark said that he had to do some work on his work truck ─ a 3 ton cube van that he keeps parked in a compound far from here. He left at just about noon, and that freed me up to ready myself for my errand.

I took my time preparing, and so it was not until 12:47 p.m. that I set off on that leisurely walk. I dropped off the payment as intended, and then turned about and set off on my return.

Just outside Surrey Place (Central City), I was to coincide with Spud on the crosswalk where University Drive ends at Old Yale Road. We met midway on the crosswalk, so we had no opportunity to chat beyond greeting one another.

I don't know Spud's real name. He was a friend of my maternal relatives the Halversons from  possibly as far back as the late 1970s, so I have known him quite some time.

I cannot recall if I last saw him after my cousin Jock (John) Halverson died last year, or if it was prior to Jocks death. I would have liked to have asked him if he knew about Jock's passing.

Anyway, I was back home and in the house by 1:35 p.m. at latest.

And that essentially catches me up on my day thus far at 2:40 p.m.

My youngest stepson Poté seems not to be working today, so I have both of the brothers more or less hanging about the place.

I want to post the following old scanned photo ─ the description beneath is from the Google album where I have the scan filed:

A photo from my younger brother Mark's collection that had to have been taken sometime from 1974 to 1976.

Unfortunately, the identity of the young lady is uncertain to me. I have but two guesses:

She may be Angela, a girlfriend of sorts that Mark's best friend of his early years ─ Garry Porteous ─ had sported for many months.

Or she may be Cathy or Kathy, a friend of Mark's girlfriend of the time, Catherine Jeanette Gunther.
Very shortly I will speak specifically of 1976, but I want to bring up the topic of cherries. I have yet to enjoy any this year ─ what of you?

There are much more to cherries than you might suspect where their health benefits are concerned:

LifeSpa.com

Cherries were such a commonplace during the Summers in my youth. I miss that.

And it is yet another reason that I would that I lived far from the confinement that is mine here in the part of the City of Surrey that I find myself.

Without doubt, there are still sections of Surrey that I would assuredly enjoy living, but they are disappearing. But where I live, with no personal transportation other than my feet, I am far removed from such fading sanctuaries.

I cannot tell what is to come within the next year where my household and my marriage are concerned.

But I see that I am drifting in an area of discussion that I wish not to find myself, so I shall excuse myself from any further mention thereof.

My brother Mark returned home for no more than 10 minutes ─ he showed up approximately 3:45 p.m. or soon afterwards, and then was gone. Since he usually spends Saturday nights at the home of his girlfriend Bev, I am not expecting to see him again until the morrow.

I am going to close out now with a journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

For something over a month, I had been working full-time on a three-month contract with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

I had worked infrequently as a part-timer with S.A.N.E. perhaps as far back as into 1974, and usually doing what I was doing on this contract ─ swamping on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck, a vehicle that was generally driven by Esther St. Jean, a dear lady in her early 40s.

S.A.N.E.'s home back then no longer exists ─ the old building was torn down years ago, probably to make space for where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now opens up onto Carnarvon Street.
THURSDAY, July 15, 1976

I didn't rouse till about 6:45 a.m.

My screwball landlady, to my great ire, had to begin her laundry while I was still drying off from my shower.

It's going to be another sun-drenched day.

Yesterday Esther said Took ─ still in the hospital ─ isn't on a medical plan; I've already kissed away the twenty he got from me a month back. (As it was, Took showed up during the noon hour and told me he was discharged.)

I had to work late tonight, getting off at 7:00 p.m. A moving job. 

All I had time to do was buy a T-shirt I didn't need, and one that was too small; but I did pick up a good jacket for a bit over $7. But I'm sure mad about wasting any of my $150 cheque on those tank tops! 

Maybe I'll  just stick with black T-shirts.

Bed at 9:30 p.m.
I expect that what so annoyed me about my landlady doing her laundry was that she did so there in the basement. My suite was separate from it in that I had my own door to the outside; but my shower and toilet were in a cubicle within the basement proper.

If I was having an early shower, I generally did not bother dressing up for it ─ I would of course have on very little. I was the only tenant in the basement, after all.  

But if she came down to it as she did, then I would have been trapped ─ I was exceptionally modest and socially disinclined, and thus would have waited until I believed her to have gone back upstairs. 

"Took" often co-swamped with me. He was an Indigenous Canadian ─ a very likable guy who was at least into his 30s, but maybe even his 40s. 

A couple of days earlier, he had come in to work complaining of a sore foot that he had been plagued with since at least the day before that, but apparently suspicion arose that he might be experiencing a stroke symptom. The women persuaded him to be driven to see a doctor to check out the possibility.

The S.A.N.E. truck was often fitted with fence-like wooden sidings on the box that greatly elevated the loading capacity. Quite often, the truck was used to move a reasonably sized household ─ that is, a job that we figured could be done in a day or less, and with no more than maybe three or so loads. 

I have no idea now if we did the work for free, or if a nominal fee was charged. Perhaps we even left it up to the person(s) being moved to offer something by way of a donation of an amount that could be afforded. 

As I say, I no longer remember ─ if I even did know back then. 
Post a Comment