Beauty and the Beast (AKA: Parenting Gone Wrong That Turns Out All Right. Or Something Similar…)

Once there was a widower of middle age with three daughters.

Two of this man’s daughters were vain and unpleasant.

But the youngest, Belle, was both sweet AND beautiful.

A terrible combination when one has the aforementioned sisters.

Am I right?

Moving on…

Now their father’s job necessitated his leaving his daughters from time to time to attend fairs.

And similar.

So one day, as per usual, off he went.

Then proceeded to get totally turned around in the forest.

Was it a left turn past the third hickory tree after the twin pines?

Or a left turn past the twin hickory trees after the third pine?

Sadly, this story takes place pre-WGS (Wagon Positioning System) but not pre-MWSFD (Men Won’t Stop For Directions)

Good old Dad was hopelessly lost.

Fortunately, he spotted a castle there in the lost part of the woods and quickly made his way to it.

I have a question…Aren’t castles usually built somewhere that people can see them? On a…I don’t know…road, maybe?

But I digress…

Anyway, this castle was built out in the middle of beyond (back was taken) and just in the right place for Dad to stumble upon it.

Yay.

He knocked at the great front door, which mysteriously swung open, inviting entry.

No one was around.

But in one of the many rooms was a well-laden table, set with a plethora (Ooh! Good Word!) of delicious food.

Seeing no one, Dad immediately sat down and began to eat.

Now in the center of the table was a…centerpiece.

A beautiful arrangement of roses, etc.

As Dad got up from his lonely meal, he was suddenly struck by an idea. He had three daughters! If he took just three roses from the arrangement, no one would be able to tell.

Well…he wouldn’t be able to tell.

Sadly, someone else—probably the flower arranger—noticed.

And as Dad was leaving, he was suddenly confronted by a monstrous beast.

Now, in the movies (yes, there are movies) the beast is always pictured as—despite certain…wolflike…features—tall and strong and sort of attractive.

You picture him how you want. I’ll picture him how I want.

Back to my story…

The beast immediately spotted the roses in Dad’s hand and accused him of theft.

The terrified Dad stuttered out a rather incoherent apology in which the words ‘roses’ and ‘three daughters’ stood out distinctly.

Or at least they did to the Beast.

Who immediately made Dad a proposition.

“Send one of your daughters to live here with me and I’ll spare your life.”

Now Dad, being a thoughtful man, proceeded to think.

For .08 seconds.

He said (and this is where the ‘poor parenting’ comes in), “Okeedokee!”

Or words to that effect.

Of course, now, the former hopelessly lost (see above) Dad had no problem finding his way home. Where he immediately spelled out his difficulty to his daughters.

Sweet Belle, seeing how distraught her father was, and because she was—you know—sweet, immediately offered to take his place at the beast’s castle.

Which her sisters protested vehemently. “Oh-dear-Belle-don’t-do-it.”

Well…semi-vehemently.

So, Belle went.

And immediately found the castle.

Which begs the question: How come only Dad got lost?

Now the beast, at first, was truly frightening in appearance. But Belle soon discovered he was inordinately kind and thoughtful and she spent her days wandering about the castle and getting lost in Beast’s library.

And (surprise!) she and Beast started to develop feelings for each other.

Hands up, anyone who did not see that coming!

But after a few weeks, Belle received a message that said her father was very sick and needed her.

Because who else was there in the family who could look after him?

Beast, being the kind guy he was, allowed her to go. But asked that she stay only one week.

Belle quickly agreed and was off like a shot.

And Beast immediately took up a watching and waiting stance.

Wherein he…watched. And waited.

You should probably know that Beast wasn’t born ‘Beast’.

Nope.

He was cursed following some fracas with an enchantress.

Which he lost.

Thus, his ‘beastly’ appearance.

The upshot of it was that Beast had to find true love.

Then the curse would be broken.

But the other side of this ‘cursing’ was that it had a time limit.

I guess curses have a shelf life.

Who knew?

And Beast’s time was almost up.

Now for the first few days, Belle concentrated solely on getting her father well and gave little thought to her promise to return in one week.

During this time, she told her sisters about her stay at the castle and about the kind, enormously rich, albeit rather unusually-featured king of the castle.

The sisters, sensing that Belle had inadvertently snagged the richest guy in their world, were jealous.

They began to invent reasons she needed to stay.

1.    Father needed more care.

2.    Things needed doing that only Belle—with her inimitable taste and style—could do.

3.    Other stuff.

Belle, initially willing, began to chafe at the obviously invented deeds, and finally—her week long past—she managed to slip away.

But all was not well in Castle-land.

She found Beast on the edge of death.

Weeping copiously (is there any other kind?) she wrapped him in her arms and confessed her love for him.

At which point, the curse was broken and Beast immediately returned to his former form.

Mmmm…

And, as a little side-bonus, he was instantly healed.

The two of them married and lived happily ever after.

One more thought: I like to imagine that, perhaps, Belle and Beast were able to find beasts for her sisters as well. 

Who’s with me? 

Today is Fly on the Wall Day! 

When my sister-bloggers and myself share what's been happening in our homes, hearts and minds this month.

You've seen where my mind has been.

Now go and read what they've been up to!

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado       

Marcia at Menopausal Mother   

Santa Season...Sorta

By request, I'm re-posting my Mrs. Santa story.

Apparently, to quote someone, it's 'beloved'!

Who knew?

So, for your Christmas season pleasure...

Mrs. Santa's Morning After

HE GETS IT DONE, YOU KNOW HE DOES,

CAUSE HE’S...WELL, HE’S THE CLAUS. 

BUT SOMETIMES, through nobody's fault,

He has to take a pause...

It’s happened once or twice in ev’ry hundred years or so

When, for whatever reason, Santa simply cannot go,

And cause there’s no one willing, (and there are not any planes!)

Then Mrs. Santa, she steps up and takes those Christmas reins.

The reindeer seem to know that something's different in the air,

And get excited when they hear her step upon the stair.

And does she dress in red and white? In fur and velvet? No!

She’s dressed in leather for her chase o’er lands of heat or snow.

In a worn ol’ buckskin jacket and some goggles—Santa’s spares,

A pair of leather ‘racing’ gloves, a helmet o’er her hair,

Some ‘biker’ chaps and Uggs for boots, a scarf that’s warm and soft,

One that covers mouth and nose when she’s up there. Aloft.

She steps into the loaded sleigh, the reindeer snort and stamp,

She smiles and says, “My children, it is time that we decamp!”

“And be more careful this year as we streak ‘cross swamp and heath,

I’d like to try-this time-to keep the bugs out of my teeth!”

And with a cry of “Wagons, ho!”, she, sleigh and deer are gone,

Leaving Santa and the elves at home to carry on,

And as they clean and tidy, plan for next year’s girls and boys,

Mrs. Santa does the work:  delivering the toys.

You have to know she sets speed records everywhere she goes,

They’re still unsure just what flew through in Rome 10 years ago,

Those Salt Flats guys have not recovered—likely never will,

From the blur that passed them both like they were standing still.

And she and all the reindeer have a huge sleighload of fun.

Deliveries in record time. This woman gets ‘er done!

And as she very nimbly hops out of the sleigh. And in,

She’s never lost for laughs. Or found without her happy grin.

And with the rising of the sun, she’s back. She parks the sleigh,

Then checks it to be sure it’s safe to drive another day.

She gives each deer a great big hug and praises all of them,

And tells them, each and everyone, they are her brightest gems.

Then hurries in to Santa and the breakfast he’s prepared,

Expresses hope that what was troubling him has been repaired,

Then with a sparkle in her eye, she tells him of her night,

And all the records she has broken during this year’s flight!

Then Santa simply shakes his head and serves her scones and cream,

And teases her that her new name will be Madam Jet Stream,

And when she’s full. And drowsy from her chase up through the clouds,

He tucks her in and kisses her and tells her he is proud.

So on this Christmas Eve as you anticipate the morn,
Waiting for sleighbells to tell you someone is airborne,
It may not be old Santa who is pulling on the reins...
It might be Mrs. Santa, setting records once again!

It's time for Fly on the Wall!

The best part of the month!

When Karen, Marcia and I get to share our hearths, homes and hearts with you.

You've read mine...now go and see what my sister-bloggers have been doing this month.

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother 

Getting Pea'd Off

Who does that?

I mean, seriously, who?

Maybe I should explain…

Jared was a prince. A real, bonafide prince.

The ‘son of a real king and queen’ sort of prince.

I know it probably sounds awesome, and for many years, for Jared, it was.

Friends. Tutors. Travel.

But recently, it had become, well, a pain.

Stay with me, children, I shall tell all…

Jared had ‘come of age’, which, in normal you-and-me speak means he was old enough to get serious about finding The One.

*cue romantic music…

Now if it was us, we’d probably design a heart-stopping page in the ‘Swinging Singles’ or, depending on our age, maybe the ‘Sagging Singles’.

Or get a cute puppy and appear at the park.

Jared didn’t have those options.

I mean, there really isn’t a dating site for the ‘Stately Singles’ or ‘Stuffy Singles’ whatever it would be called.

Nope.

Jared was stuck with the girls his parents managed to find among their Rolodex (Google it) of royal friends.

Most of whom he’d known since childhood.

Can we just say none appealed and leave it at that?

He searched.

Oh, my yes, he searched. Austria, Italy, France and the many and varied countries of continental Africa elicited no one who even remotely appealed.

He even put on his galoshes and winter coat and huffed and puffed his way across Canada.

And we all know just how attractive those Canadian girls can be!

Ahem...

But still no one seemed to strike that spark. Or if they did, they couldn’t prove they were ‘royal’.

(Or at least ‘royal’ enough to suit his parents…)

Yep. Jared was in a pickle.

One evening, as he and his parents stood on one of the myriad balconies bedeck-ing their palace, enjoying the awesome lightning display accompanying a Hollywoodish rainstorm, there was a knock at their royal door.

Jared and his parents frowned.

“Maybe it’s a princess come to look for me for a change!” Jared said.

They all laughed.

Just then their Major Domo, Domo, came to the balcony entrance.

“A young lady has been caught in the storm,” he said. “She says she’s a princess and seeks shelter.”

“But of course!” the queen said quickly.

“Bring her in!” the king added as he ushered his family inside.

Domo disappeared.

“Wouldn’t it be amazing if she turned out to be…erm…amazing?” Jared asked.

“And a real bonafide princess,” his mother added.

“Yeah. That.”

Just then a young lady appeared in the doorway, with Domo behind her.

“Here she is, your majesties,” he said, bowing.

She was a rather sodden young lady, whose long, red hair hung in dripping hanks down what looked to be a formerly-pristine, decidedly expensive crystal-beaded dress.

She sank into a deep (and shivering) curtsey. “Your Majesties,” she said in a very polite, decidedly royal way.

No, I don’t know, either. It just sounds good.

Then she gave a massive sneeze.

“Oh, excuse me!” She dabbed delicately at her nose with the back of one dripping wrist.

“Oh, my dear, you must be frozen!” the queen declared, rushing forward. “Domo!” she waved a hand. “Prepare a bath in the Red Room and fetch some dry garments!”

The man bowed and left.

“Come, dear,” the queen went on. “Let us get you clean and warm!”

The girl stretched quivering, blue lips in a semblance of a smile. “I am so sorry to come here alone and unannounced. But my carriage shed a wheel at the bottom of your drive and my driver sent me on to keep me warm and safe.” She looked down and smiled a little half-smile. “It wasn’t raining then.”

“Well, never you mind,” the queen said. “Let’s get you warm and comfy!”

She put her arm about the shivering girl and steered her toward the doorway.

“Now, tell me, my dear,” the queen said as they stepped out into the hall. “Domo was saying something about you being a…”

Their voices faded.

“…princess?” the king finished the queen’s sentence. He looked at his son a moment. Then grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

Jared was staring at the doorway where the girl (and his mother) had disappeared.

“Son?” his father said.

Jared blinked. “Is there really a silly rule that says I have to marry a princess?” he asked.

The king laughed. “I’m afraid so. Why else would you have been charging all over the globe these past few months?”

“Why, indeed.”

I don’t know about you, but I think I’m seeing a whole love-at-first-sight sort of…thing.

Who’s with me?

Meanwhile, down in the Red Room’s dressing room… (The dressing room of the Red Room? The big room’s little room? Oh, never mind.) …the girl was happily (and modestly) soaking in a tub of hot, soapy water.

At the same time, the queen was directing a vast army of servants in the placement of 40 mattresses atop the Red Room’s bed. The bed in the Red Room? Belonging to the Red Room?

Why am I having so much trouble with this?

Did Twain have this kind of distress? Or Dr. Seuss? I think not.

Moving on...

Unbeknownst (Oooh! Good word!) to the pile-ers, the queen had first placed a small, ordinary pea under the bottom mattress before the ‘pile-ing’ began. A pea that was now covered by, not 1, but 41 mattresses!

I know. Weird, right.

I guess she had her reasons.

Maybe she wanted to pre-pea the bed? *snort*

Sorry about that.

I digress…

When the girl emerged from her bath all warm, glowing and with her hair newly cleaned and arranged, the queen gasped.

Even in borrowed nightclothes, she truly was beautiful.

Some people are like that.

“Daphne, your bed is ready,” the queen said, patting the pile of mattresses.

Oh, right. I forgot. The girl had told the queen her name.

Daphne.

Daphne blinked, but obligingly climbed the ladder to the top, then snuggled down into the soft blankets.

“Have a good sleep, Dear,” the queen whispered.

But Daphne was already there.

The next morning, a smiling (and totally rested and happy) young face appeared at the breakfast table.

“Good morning, everyone!” Daphne sang out cheerfully.

People do that…in stories.

The king, queen and Jared looked up and smiled. The king and Jared rose to their feet and Jared reached for her arm in a gentleman-ly ‘let-me-be-attentive’ fashion.

“Oh Daphne, my sweet girl, it’s so nice to see your bright smiling face at our breakfast table!” the queen said graciously. She patted the chair beside her. “Please, dear. Come and sit next to me!”

Jared led her over and released her arm.

Daphne sank into the proffered chair.

The queen smiled and pressed Daphne’s hand. “Now my dear, tell us how you slept. Every detail!”

Daphne smiled back. “Like a dream,” she said happily. “I can’t remember when I’ve slept so well.”

The queen blinked and frowned slightly. “Oh. Really? Well that is…wonderful.”

A sudden chill seemed to fill the room.

Ignoring it, Daphne chirped happily on. “Yes. I think I could happily sleep on a stack of mattresses for the rest of my life!” she said.

“Oh. Well, I’m not quite sure…” began the queen.

“How we’ve missed meeting you all this time,” Jared broke in. He smiled warmly at the girl. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship!”

Okay, yes you’ve heard something like that before.

Go with me on this…

Well what did you think? That placing a pea under 40+ mattresses was going to make a bit of difference? I mean, I’ve slept like a baby (or like a teenager because we all know babies don’t sleep) with a tree root under my camping mattress.

Jared and Daphne were soon an ‘item’.

Then quickly moved from there to ‘affianced’.

The queen confided to Jared the whole ‘41 mattresses and one pea’ story the evening before his wedding day.

When he asked her why she merely shrugged. “Mother always told me that a true princess should be as delicate—and bruise-able—as a rose petal.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Jared said. “How could she withstand the rigours of life?”

You’re probably wondering what rigours a princess/future queen would have to withstand?

All I have to say is: childbirth...

And you know what? It wasn’t important if she was a ‘real’ princess or not because to Jared, she was his princess.

And that’s all that mattered.

It's Fly on the Wall Day!!!

My favourite Friday of the Month, where my blogging sisters and I treat the rest of you to a glimpse into hearts, lives and minds.

You've visited mine.

Now go and visit theirs!

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

 

Of Bread. And Patience

I have to say I totally understand her position.

I mean…she did the work, shouldn’t she get the paycheck?

Ahem…

Miss Betsy, heretofore known merely by her description, ‘Little Red Hen’ was a sturdy, dependable sort of being. Hard-working. Honest.

Creative.

Now our Miss Betsy was tired of her usual farm diet (ie. Bugs. Worms. And good grief, who can blame her?!) and decided what she’d really like was a nice, fresh loaf of bread—or something similar.

But, living in a farmyard as she did, the opportunities for the sale or procurement of such things as baking stuffs was pretty nigh impossible.

Privacy was also at a premium. Just FYI.

Moving on…

Then one day, our Miss Betsy found several grains of…grain that had fallen out of the farmer’s wagon.

And she was struck by an idea.

She could grind up this grain and make that lovely loaf of bread—or something similar—that she’d been dreaming of?

Between you and I, a truly lovely idea!

Sadly, she knew that the few grains she held would be woefully inadequate for such an undertaking. Taken to the mill and ground, they would produce…maybe a tablespoon, at best.

But what if she planted them?!

One grain of wheat, properly planted and nurtured could reproduce itself a hundred times over, right?

All one needed was a patch of ground.

Some water.

Sunlight.

100 to 130 days of frost-free weather.

And patience.

Okay, let’s face it—making a loaf of bread in this manner isn’t something one does in a hurry.

But there were no other options and Miss Betsy, not one to be easily discouraged, decided to go for it.

Being the happy little community member that she was, she decided to offer her idea to the…erm…community.

“I found some grains of wheat!” she said, as excited-ly as she could.

Let’s face it—with the indolent crew that ‘peopled’ the barn yard, she would need to sell the idea to get anyone up off their…indolence.

“Yay,” said the cat. Who then yawned.

“Yay,” said the duck. Who flapped his wings idly and settled in for another nap.

“Bring them here. I’ll take care of them,” said the pig. Who then rolled over.

Not one to be so quickly discouraged, Miss Betsy tried again. “I’m going to plant them and then they’ll grow and mature and produce enough grain that I’ll be able to grind them and make a lovely loaf of bread!” She paused, a big, hopeful grin on her face.

Okay, yes, she’s a bird…with a beak. Go with me on this…

The cat stared at her. “That sounds like a lot of work for a very little reward.”

“Trust me on this,” said Miss Betsy. “It’ll be totally worth it! Who wants to help plant it?”

The cat fluffed up his fur. “Not I,” he said. Then he began to lick his left leg.

“I have to agree with my feline friend,” said the duck. “Not I.” He tucked his head under his wing.

“Call me when you have real food and not this imaginary stuff,” said the pig. And slid happily back into his dream world.

“Huh. Well. I guess I’ll just have to plant it myself!” said Miss Betsy.

And she did.

A few days later, several little, green shoots appeared in the rows where Miss Betsy had planted her precious grains.

“Oooh!” she said excitedly. “Look! Everyone look! My little seed-lies are sprout-ling!”

“Uh-huh,” said the cat, duck and pig together.

“Who wants to help me water it and weed it?”

“Your joking, right?” said the cat.

“Nope. Who would like to help? It’ll be a lot of fun!”

Just a side note here. I’ve tried this with my grandkids. But it seems that infusing your words with a lot of enthusiasm only works if there is an obvious—and visible—reward.

Sigh.

Back to our story…

“Not I,” said the cat.

“Not I,” said the duck.

“Not I,” said the pig.

“Fine. Then I’ll do it myself!”

And she did.

The grain grew tall and healthy and multiplied ‘exceedingly’.

And in all that time, Miss Betsy tended it faithfully.

And, after 130 days, as spring turned to summer and then to fall, the tall, heavily-laden stalks were ready to harvest.

“Oh, yow! Look at those!” Miss Betsy said. “Did you ever see any wheat stalks as tall and straight and full?!”

“Can’t say that I have,” said the cat. “Of course, I have to admit I’ve never really taken notice before.”

“You’re doing good work, Bets,” said the duck. “Keep it up. You’ll have your loaf of bread in next to no time!”

“Zzzzz,” said the pig.

“So who wants to help me harvest it?” Miss Betsy (ever the optimist) asked.

“Not I,” said the cat, stretching out in the autumn sun.

“Not I,” said the duck, preening his feathers.

“Zzzzz,” said the pig.

So she did it herself.

You should have seen the yield! Yow-zas!

But then, the next step in the interminable (this is really taking a long time!) process.

“Who wants to help me haul this haul to the mill to be ground into flour?”

“Are you kidding me?” said the cat, duck and pig together. Translation: Not I!

‘Sigh,” said Miss Betsy. Translation: Sigh.

“Then I’ll do it myself.”

And she did.

Now she had a sack of flour, perfect for that perfect loaf of bread.

Things were starting to heat up at last.

“Who wants to help me make the loaf of bread?” Miss Betsy asked.

She was nothing if not eternally positive.

“Call me when it comes out of the oven,” yawned the cat.

“Ditto,” said the duck.

“Achoo!” said the pig. Translation: I say we just eat the flour like it is!

So Miss Betsy made it herself.

Finally, after the months and months of work and waiting, a big, golden loaf emerged from the oven, proudly carried by Miss Betsy in her brand new oven mitts. “Now, who will help me eat this bread?” she asked.

“I will!” said the cat.

“I will,” said the duck.

“I will!” said the pig.

“You won’t!” said Miss Betsy.

And they didn’t.

But she did.

Then she also went and got some better friends.

Moral: One-way friendships can work for a while, but eventually, they just grind you down to nothing.

The end. 

It's Fly on the Wall Day! The best day of the month!

When my sister-bloggers and I share what's been happening in our homes and minds and hearts for the past month.

You've read mine.

Now go and see what my sisters are up to!

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia of Menopausal Mother