Well, hello there, dearie!

Tags have been in my mind a lot recently. Mucking about with Facebook, Amazon, Goodreads and other sites, I have been tagging like mad. I am sure there is an art to it, and I am equally sure that I have yet to be inducted into the ranks of those who know the art.

I get the idea of tagging; I have worked retail for years in order to make ends meet, and tags become a big part of the day-to-day when you work in retail. I have, however, been resisting the trend to tag people. It seemed impolite, after all. Who am I to put a label on you?

But yesterday at my grandfather's funeral, my aunt talked about how he used to call us all 'dearie'. "Dearie," she said. "What a wonderful word to call someone you love." Yes, it is. Wonderful and old-fashioned and reminding me of summers at the cottage and a much-loved voice on the other end of a telephone line.

Then I realized that we do have tags, all of us. We are 'sweetheart' and 'honey' and 'baby'. Perhaps you are 'sweetie pie', maybe you are 'my sweet baboo'. Are you 'muffin'? Are you 'puddin' face'? Here's looking at you, exotic 'schatje'. Lucky you, 'sexy'! Way to go, 'hot lips'!

Yet I think these are not the tags Facebook is asking me for.

Too bad. I am 'dearie', and I will carry it and the memory of a man who lived 95 years, every day of them in fullness of spirit and greatness of heart. He was on top of things until the day he died, and while it saddened him that he wouldn't see his great-grandchildren grow up, his biggest regret was that he wouldn't live to see the completion of the Eglinton Subway.

Good-bye, dearie.

at Westover, July 10, 2012