And Eggs-citing Story

With apologies to Dr. Seuss…

It was my favourite story when I was growing up.

Let’s face it, my imagination just filled in any troubling (ie. frankly impossible) potholes in the plot.

Still does, in point of fact.

Ahem…

Horton was an elephant who lived in the jungle. Friendly and kind-hearted, he was nearly always the first to offer help when needed—even when said offer may be a little…complicated.

On this particular day, Horton happened to be walking past the nest of Mrs. Mayzie, a bird who lived in the neighbourhood.

Mayzie had laid an egg and the euphoria of anticipating her ‘blessed event’ had, how can we say this judiciously?...erm…worn off.

She was ready for someone else to take over so she could take a well-earned (in her eyes) break.

An unfortunate word when talking about an egg, but let’s just go on from there, shall we?

Now, I will admit that it took a little convincing, but soon, Mrs. Mayzie (that lazy bird) was winging her way to Palm Springs ‘for just a day or two’ and Horton—he of the several lovable tons—was sitting in her tree, gently keeping her egg warm and comfortable.

Let’s think about that for a moment, shall we? Firstly: An elephant. In a tree.

And secondly: Said elephant sitting so gently on a bird’s egg that it wasn’t crushed into an eggy nothingness.

Now, I probably don’t have to tell you that five-year-old Diane swallowed this story whole.

Diane of later years filled in a lot of potholes (see above).

Back to my story…

Now Horton, because he was loving and dependable, or, in his words, "An elephant's faithful, one hundred percent!" stayed on that Lazy Mayzie’s egg for nearly a year.

He suffered through storms, ridicule and finally hunting season and not once did he falter in his task.

I keep wondering what he ate. (Can one order take-out in a jungle?)

The hunters who had discovered him during the aforementioned hunting season, rather than do anything hunter-ish, decided they might make a bit of money off him if they dug up the tree—elephant, egg and all—and hauled the whole kit and kaboodle to a circus.

Which they did.

There followed an arduous trip through the jungle, over mountains and across heaving seas.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m anticipating a ‘blessed event’, the last thing I want to be doing is crossing heaving seas.

Gulp.

Poor Horton could do nothing else but endure. And finally, he, his egg, and his tree reached their new home.

In the middle of a circus.

Where—you’ve probably guessed it—they were instant draws.

People came. They stared. They discussed.

They marvelled.

Now this will probably come as no surprise but coincidentally, Lazy Mayzie’s ‘day or two’ Palm Springs spa was just down the road!

Who would have guessed?

And our sweet little mother-to-be just happened to be in the mood for some big-top entertainment.

Imagine the surprise when she and Horton clapped eyes on each other.

Of course, Mayzie probably would have simply faded happily back into the audience, except that, at that very moment, the egg—that very egg Horton had been sitting on for 51 loooong weeks—started to hatch.

And Mayzie, now that the work was all done, decided she was ready to be a mom.

Words were exchanged–well, mostly screamed—and by Mayzie.

And Horton, he of the perpetually loving nature, backed down the tree and out of his egg’s life.

And that’s when things really went sideways.

Well, for Mayzie, that is.

Because the bird that hatched from that egg…

Well, that bird looked remarkably like Horton!

Yep.

Little trunk and ears and tail.

Of course, it also had wings and bird feet, but one can’t have everything.

And everyone—including the ‘chick’—proclaimed Horton the parent.

And Mayzie had to be content with…nothing.

I found this so satisfying as a child. I mean, she hadn’t done any of the work. Why should she get any of the reward?

And you know what?

I still think that.

Fly on the wall is our chance, once a month, to share what has been happening in our homes, lives and imaginations!

We're so happy you could visit!

Now hurry over and see what my sister writers have been up to this month!

Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother                                 

Of Wits and WITches

Okay, I’ve officially interred this story as Chapter One in “Bad Parenting 101’.

I will explain.

But first a little background...

Hansel and Grethel lived happily in the woods with their parents. A papa who made his living—what else?—cutting wood and a mama who stayed at home and made delicious things to eat and loved her family.

But, sadly, their sweet and gentle mama got sick and died.

A year or so later, their kind papa married again.

Their stepmother was not like the mama they had lost. Oh, she was a ‘sturdy’ individual. Strong and hard working. The house was clean and meals on time.

But she was not what you would call ‘affectionate’.

So Hansel and Grethel, though clean and well-fed, always went to their kind papa for snuggles and stories.

And were nearly as happy as before.

Then ‘hard times’ came.

And that's where our story starts...

As the countryside grew poorer, though everyone still needed firewood, no one could pay. Instead, they sent their sons (and a few daughters) into the woods to cut their own wood.

Thus the official woodcutter—though he was very good at his job—grew very poor indeed. And his family along with him.

Finally, they were looking at their last few crusts of bread.

Now remember when I said their stepmother wasn’t ‘affectionate’? Well, that comes into play here.

One night, after the children had been put to bed without their supper, the SM told her husband, “We are starving. But there will be more for me—and maybe you—if there are fewer mouths to feed.”

Who even thinks like that?!

I’m picturing the look on his face.

I know what my expression would be…

Moving on…

It takes—quite literally—all night, but the woman finally convinces him that they should take the children into the woods and abandon them there. 

I think he gave in just to shut her up.

What are your thoughts?

Now there was one little hiccup in her plan.

It was overheard.

By little ears.

Hansel, unable to sleep, heard every word. And that was a lot of words.

Being a clever boy, he crept out of the hut and gathered the white pebbles shining in the moonlight.

Who’s with me in thinking all would have been well if they’d just fed said pebbles to the SM? I mean...it worked with Red Riding Hood.

Just sayin'.

Sigh.

Back to my story…

The next day, the two parents announced—one brightly, one…erm…not—that they were going for a picnic in the woods.

Things rolled out as the SM had planned: long trek along almost-non-extant trails. Fire built. Children told to wait while parents ‘did something else’.

And, along about nightfall, the children realizing they had been abandoned in the woods.

But clever little Hansel had dropped pebbles beside the trail during their long walk from their hut and, when the moon rose, they were clearly visible.

The two littles easily found their way home by following them.

To their father’s joy.

And their SM’s…erm…not-joy.

But remember when I said this woman was ‘sturdy’. Well, she was also persistent.

Undeterred, the next day, she again enacted her plan.

Second time’s the charm, right?

This time, Hansel, unable to pick up pebbles because his SM had locked the door and was sleeping on the key, used bits of his piece of bread—oh, I forgot, each of the littles had pieces of bread for their ‘picnic—to make a trail home.

Yadda, yadda, yadda…abandoned.

This time, they were unable to find their way home because the birds in the woods had found and devoured their tasty little signposts.

Dratted birds.

The littles simply wandered around until they finally fell asleep.

The next morning, when they awoke, they saw, to their relief, a funny little cottage peeking out between the trees.

They hurried to it and discovered that it was made out of bread and cake and other yummy things. With spun sugar for the windows.

Okay, I don’t know about you, but if I was starving and came upon a little edible house, I’d be munching first and asking questions later.

Which is what they did.

Soon a little old lady came out—yes, someone lived in that little house.

I have one thing to say…rain.

Moving on…

She was quite hospitable at first.

But all that changed after the kids had eaten their fill and were fast asleep in soft beds, dreaming of little edible houses.

I have a question…How would one ‘clean’ such a place? I mean, I’ve tried to brush the dirt off of a piece of bread with little to no success.

And what would the dust-bunnies be? Cotton Candy? (Let me just say that this would the answer to all my childhood dreams.)

Back to our story…

While they slept, the old woman—actually a nasty, child devouring witch—carried poor, unsuspecting Hansel to her dungeon. With the intent to fatten him up and…you know…devour.

And Grethel was forced to do the feeding.

This went on for some time.

The meals were good.

And plentiful.

Which begs the whole question: if the witch had so much food to stuff into Hansel, why didn’t she just eat that? Why capture a child at all? Hmmm…?

Oh, well, if we’d wanted reality we’d simply watch the news.

Every day the witch would ask Hansel to stick a finger out of his cage so she could see how fat he was getting.

Subtle, she wasn’t.

He simply stuck out a bone from a past meal.

The witch, unable to see very well, accepted said bone at face value. So to speak.

And kept feeding him.

Finally, as he didn’t seem to be gaining weight, she ran out of patience.

Lighting the fire under the ‘big’ oven, she asked Grethel to check the heat.

But Grethel, though she doesn’t get much of the spotlight, was as clever as her brother. Standing back, she simply said, “Please show me how to do that?”

I have to tell you that I got away with something similar whenever my mom would ask me to any household chores.

True story.

Ahem...

The witch—hopelessly outmatched in this game of wits, showed Grethel how to climb into the oven to check it for heat.

At which time, Grethel simply…shut the door.

I know the witch's death was distinctly unpleasant, but, let’s face it…she was sort of asking for it.

Grethel wasted no time in freeing Hansel and the two of them—justifiably, I think—ransacked the house to see if there was anything worth taking.

And discovered chests of jewels, etc.

Which they lightened considerably into capacious pockets.

Then they skedaddled, finally finding their way home.

(Oh, there is a little side story about a kindly duck who sails them across a great pond, but we'll discuss that another time.)

Where their father, now a sad and broken—and single—man sat, grieving.

There are several opinions on what happened to his second wife. Some say she died. 

Some say she left because:

A. Even with the children gone, there wasn’t enough to eat.

Or B. She had to go find herself.

Or C. Let’s just face it…the ending is better without her…

The children and their father had a grand reunion and an almost-immediate trip to the grocery store because—a-fortune-in-jewels.

And the three of them lived satiated-ly ever after.

The End.

Lamb Dreaming

Sooo cute!

Mary had a little lamb, 

Whose fleece was white as snow,

And everywhere that Mary went,

the lamb was sure to go.

 

It followed her to school one day
which was against the rules.

It made the children laugh and play,
to see a lamb at school.

And so the teacher turned it out,

but still it lingered near,

And waited patiently about,
till Mary did appear.    

 

“Why does the lamb love Mary so?”
the eager children cry.

“Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know.”

the teacher did reply.

Okay, so…first off, as a child, I always wanted a lamb for a pet.

True story.

I just wanted to get that out there.

On with our poem…

The first lines say that Mary’s lamb had a fleece as white as snow.

Now I’ve seen lambs. And their fleeces are never that white. In point of fact, they are usually rather gray. Or downright mud-coloured.

Moving on…

The next part talks about that lamb following Mary everywhere.

I reiterate. I wanted a little lamb with soft fleece who would follow me everywhere.

Just sayin’.

Then we are to the part where that sparkling, clean lamb followed Mary to school. Now I could totally get behind this.

Lambs at school would definitely have made the days a little less…I don’t know…scholastic? And a lot more fun.

But, let’s face it, me having a lamb follow me to school would be no small feat as we lived 20 miles from town and rode the bus! He would either have to be a superbly nimble little creature or I would have to get a lot better at hiding things that weren’t supposed to be on a bus with 20 or so children aged 5 to 17.

I did make it all the way with a snake in my pocket once, but that is another story.

And I digress…

So this teacher, whoever she was, got tired of the chaos and turned that little lamb out.

Now what does she have against laughing, playing children?

Kill joy.

But that little lamb was not only sparkling clean, it was also smart. (We are talking fiction, here.) It hung around patiently until it was time for Mary to go home.

I’m picturing the joyous ramble as the two headed off to familiar pastures for the day.

Happy girl. Happy lamb.

Now the laughing, playing (see above) kids, witnessing this, had a question for their teacher. “Why does the lamb love Mary so?”

And the teacher had a ready response, “Because Mary loves the lamb, you know.”

Now, I probably don’t have to tell you that all of this was in my (Please, May I Have a Lamb?) presentation to my father.

But I’m quite sure you’ve heard of the sometimes animosity between the sheepherders and the cattle ranchers of the great prairies of the ‘west’.

And I don’t have to tell you which side my Daddy was on…

My chances of getting lamb for a pet were slim to nil.

But that didn’t stop me dreaming…

Diane's Dad gave her a lamb, 

She kept his fleece so clean,

That he was welcome everywhere,

He even met the Queen!

 

She took him when she went to school
He sat there on the bus.

The children would politely play,
And never made a fuss.

The teacher understood that Di

Needed 'Lambie' near,

To help her with her algebra,

And chemistry. (The dear!)

 

The lambie loved Diane, you know,

The children saw that she
Also loved the little lamb

Up to the nth degree!

Yeah. Daddy didn't buy it, either.
Sigh.    

Fly on the Wall is an opportunity, once a month, for my blogging sisters and me to let you into our hearts and/or minds.

For better or worse...

How did I do this month?

Now keep the fun going! Check out my sisters' posts!

Baking In A Tornado 

Menopausal Mother 

Wee Willy's Parenting Pointers

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,

Upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown;

Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,

“Are the children in their beds?

Now it’s eight o’clock.”

 

Okay. First off, who is this ‘Willie Winkie’ guy?

With his only two descriptors: wee and in his nightgown, much is left to the imagination.

Allowing those of us with a large store of it to come up with countless possibilities…

Let’s go with the obvious. Wee and nightgown suggest to me that he is really small—perhaps a child?

And if so, how come he’s not in bed. Hmmm?

That is like the person who hands the priest a list of people who didn’t close their eyes or fold their hands reverently during a prayer at church. This always begs the question: How did he make the list?

But I digress…

We may also surmise by the whole ‘upstairs and downstairs’ scenario that Willie is very mobile, which also suggests youth.

I know if it were up to me to run upstairs and downstairs in my nightgown, exactly one household may be alerted. The rest are on their own.

And, just for the record, I don’t even appear out of my own bedroom in my nightgown. Also: as a senior, I’m probably in bed long before the children.

So there’s that.

Now, the whole ‘rapping at the window’ part.

If anyone rapped at my window, it would wake me from a coma.

So what window is Willie knocking at? If it’s the children’s, I’m coming out with a baseball bat.

Just sayin’.

And the whole ‘calling through the lock’? Okay, yes, the old locks were basically holes in the door. The modern day lock is not in the least conducive to being called through. Or even shouted.

Ever tried it?

You can take my word.

And if anyone is calling through the hole in my door, I’m calling the cops.

And who does he think he is? Demanding that the children be in their beds by 8 o’clock?

Isn’t that a rather negative commentary on people’s parenting skills?

I mean, even a truant officer can only pick on children during the daylight hours.

True story.

So, Wee Willie Winkie, if you’re thinking of trying these games in the modern world, I can just see the outrage!

And the comments on whatever Facebook ‘discussion’ page you currently peruse.

“Did anyone else record some small dude in a dress running through your yard? My alarm system went off right around 8 PM last night right in the middle of Desperate Housewives and this is what it caught:

[Follows: grainy and creepy night video of someone flitting across the yard]

He was knocking on the windows and shouting something unintelligible at the front door. Scared both my cat and my kids so badly that I couldn’t get any back into bed. My camera didn’t get a clear view of his face. Did anyone else have something similar happen?

Comments?”

Yep. I can picture it well.

I think poor Wee Willie needs a modern-day do-over…

 

W. William Winkie [Ph.D/Psy.D/MFT/MFCC] works in the town,

Here on Nightgown Avenue; upstairs or down

You needn’t try the window, his door is never locked,

"Are there troubles in your home? Come in—you’re on the clock.”

Fly on the Wall is an opportunity, once a month, for my blogging sisters and me to let you into our hearts and/or minds.

For better or worse...

How did I do this month?

Now keep the fun going! Check out my sisters' posts!

Baking In A Tornado

Menopausal Mother

Travels and Stories

It's been another busy month for the flies in the Tolley Household.

First: A Recap

With health and age concerns, the powers-that-be (Husby) have decided 2024 and 2025 will be 'The Years of the Travel' and so far they've delivered.

First, February in Hawaii:

Husby and a friend

March and April in Europe:

A little bit of Florence

Husby doing what he likes best!

May: at home welcoming a new Great Grand-Baby!

Auntie Q holding her nephew!

June exploring Saskatchewan and crying over graduates:

Eldest Grandson

Third Granddaughter--my writer!

Hanging Hearts Lake, Saskatchewan

And then July. Home with family, then off to visit extended family in Nova Scotia:

Annual Family Medieval Feast

A little pilgrim girl...

Peggy's Cove with my sister!!!

Did I mention that her youngest son, my nephew, is a chef? Well, he is and this is what he made for us:

You can check out his other videos at Redsfeast on Youtube. Bring your appetite!

Thank you for taking this whirlwind trip with me!

And now...a story... (Warning: Nudity!)

First, a little background (*snort*)

I get to have Q, Granddaughter #11 with me whenever her mama works. Which isn't often enough for me!

Recently, Son # 2 and his wife went to Scotland for a little rain-soaked and wonderful holiday. This is what they brought me:

Which is a huge joke here because Gramma (me) goes every year to see the Highland Games and every single one of those stone throwers is wearing underwear. Just ask all of us senior women who line up every year to watch the event!

Ahem...

Also: Grampa, whilst all of this is going on inside, is out in the garden, shirtless to try and get some sun.

Now on to my story...

This magnet sits at the very top of my fridge where I thought none of the youngers would see it. But little Miss Bright Eyes did.

Q: Gramma? Why isn't that girl wearing any underwear?

Me: That's not a girl, sweetie. That's a guy and it's kind of a joke. You see, the men in this country called Scotland have special cloth that they make into what is called a kilt. Different colours for different families. It's kind of like a skirt for guys. And they claim they don't wear any underwear under the kilt.

Q: (Thinking it over) Well, I always wear underwear under my skirts! And leggings, too!

Me: Yes, Sweetie. The men are very proud of their kilts. Here I'll show you some pictures.

Picture us looking at...pictures.

One of them is of a VERY buff man. Shirtless. In a kilt.

Q: Oh look, Gramma! He looks just like Grampa. But with muscles.

Me: Bwahahahaha! 

I think it very odd, but my husby didn't find it nearly as funny as I did.

Hmmmm...

Fly on the Wall is a monthly challenge that I share with my blogging sisters, Karen and Marcia where we invite people into our lives and recap the activities and/or thoughts of our past month.

This was a wee glimpse into mine...

Now see what my sisters have done!

Baking In A Tornado
Menopausal Mother

Eensie Weensie

Fly on the Wall is a monthly challenge that I share with my blogging sisters, Karen and Marcia (and this time, Sarah!) where we invite people into our lives and recap the activities and/or thoughts of our past month.

This is a wee glimpse into mine...

Okay, I tried to find the cutest one I could. It still makes me shiver.
Sigh.

The fact that spiders and I aren’t friends won’t come as a surprise to many of you.

Further, the statement ‘Spiders and I exist best when on different time continuums’ will also strike a familiar chord.

But still, I’m bothered by what follows…

The eensy weensy* spider climbed up the waterspout. Actually as far as this goes, I’m fine with it. Spider in waterspout. Diane. Both in different quadrants of their co-existent world and unlikely to cross paths. We’re good. On with the poem… Down came the rain Still good. I like rain. And washed the spider out. Uh-oh. Here’s where the poem and I begin to come to odds. I mean, I can totally sympathize with someone being washed out of their homes. Even spiders. Ahem… Out came the sun I like sun, too. Sun soaked=Warm. Glorious. Happy. Who’s with me? And dried up all the rain Okay. A normal and natural consequence. I use this principal of nature every day for drying laundry. True story. And the eensie weensie spider climbed up the spout again.

Here, I’m forced to say, “Good for you, Mr. (Or Ms.) Spider. You have more stick-to-it-ive-ness than most people I know. Including me.”

Because how many of us would simply dust (or dry) themselves off and start in again?

Believe me, there would be a lot of ‘what-if(s)’ and ‘but last time(s)’ rolling around in my noggin. And it would take a lot more than a brightly shining, sun-er-ific day to get me to start that arduous journey once more.

And—I’m assuming here—but what if during that whole ‘up the waterspout’ thing, little Ms. (or Mr.) Spider had also constructed a home of fine filaments that took many ‘spider hours’ to construct. So, in truth, not only was he (or she) washed out, but also his home and belongings were now somewhere out of Waterspout Falls (not a tourist hot spot) and up Waterspout Creek.

Without a paddle.

So that whole ‘up the waterspout’ thing becomes much more of a ‘starting over from scratch’ affair than simply climbing and re-climbing.

I suddenly find myself in awe of such unwavering resolve and resolution. And hope.

In truth, this poem becomes much more a statement toward keeping up one’s courage than of a little spider climbing again and again (you have no idea how many repeats my kids could happily sing) the same steep slope.

So to all those determined and courageous spiders out there in the world…I salute you!

And now for the ‘silly’ in all of us, my second son’s version of Eensy Weensy. Sung endlessly (with appropriate hand gestures) to all of his kids when they were toddlers.

The eensie weensie parasite crawled up the chi-ld’s back.

Down came the rain and washed it down the crack.

Out came the sun and dried up all the rain…

And the eensie weensie parasite crawled up and ate his brain!

You can now picture the resultant squeals of laughter.

*See also "Incy Wincy” Spider. Or “Itsy Bitsy”. I’m assuming they all mean the same thing…

If you enjoyed my Fly on the Wall post, go now and see what my friends have been up to this month!

You'll be glad you did!

Baking In A Tornado 

Menopausal Mother 

What TF Sarah