Thank you, Miss Wornoski

Miss Wornoski and her 31 little readers

I love to read.

It started very early.

Grade one.

Miss Wornoski taught me.

I don't remember the mechanics of learning.

Only the sudden explosion of knowledge that came with recognizing series of letters strung together.

Miss Wornoski had a list of words on a large flip chart.

And each of us in the class was taken, publicly, through it.

I remember her pointing to each word with a long, slender stick and the victim participant having to then read it out.

A word about the stick. It was about three feet long, with a soft, squishy, plastic, cone-shaped tip.

Tons of fun to play with when the teacher wasn't in the room.

Ahem . . .

Day by day, she worked her way around the room.

Closer and closer to me.

Who would have guessed that panic was one of the subjects taught in the first grade?

Well, it was.

Very well.

If I would have studied the chart, I would have realized that I could read every word on it.

But I didn't.

Thus started a pattern in my life that has served me far too well.

But I digress . . .

Finally, it was my turn.

Miss Wornoski looked at me. “Diane.”

Everything I had ever known simply . . . fled.

Taking my blood and body temperature with it.

A now-frozen lump, I turned slowly and stared at her.

“Its your turn, dear,” she said softly.

Her words might as well have been: Ready! Aim! Fire!

I was about to die.

I swallowed.

And nodded.

The pointer was raised.

I watched as it moved.

Sooo slowly.

Tapped on the first word.

“And,” I said, shakily.

Next word.

“The.”

Next. Ooh, a toughie.

“Into.”

Next.

“For.”

And so it went.

Pointer . . . pointed.

I said the word.

Pointer moved on.

I was doing it!

The panic started to ebb.

With only one slight hesitation, on the unbelievably difficult word, 'house', I was done.

Faster than anyone.

Miss Wornoski smiled. “Very well done, Diane,” she said.

I had done it!

Celebrations were in order.

“Diane, sit down.”

Later.

She handed me my first. Real. Book. “Here, dear, read this,” she said.

And she moved on to the next student.

I stared at the book she had given me.

The Little White House.

There was a picture of a boy riding a horse on the cover.

We were instant friends.

I opened it and, for the first time began to read a story to myself.

Riveting tales of Tom, Betty and Susan as they:

1. Helped their parents
2. Got presents
3. Rode Pony
4. Played with Flip

The magic had begun.

There is a codicil . . .

My Husby and I were on a book-signing tour through the US.

We stopped at a tiny little restaurant in tiny-er Dell, Montana, called the Calf-A.

Exceptional food, especially the roast beef.

And pie to die for.

Sorry. Moving on . . .

The restaurant was housed in what had been the little country school.

The blackboards and even some of the pictures and furniture were still there.

On a shelf was a stack of old text books.

While waiting for my order, I wandered over and looked at them.

And there, right in the middle was my book.

My first book.

Just as I remembered it.

I dragged it out and hurried back to our table.

“Look!” I shoved it under my Husby's nose. “Look! It's my first book!

I sat down and opened the cover.

Instantly, I was transported back to my sunny classroom at Milk River Elementary.

To my seat beside the windows.

Right in front of the teacher's desk.

I could smell the chalk dust.

And see Miss Wornoski taking yet another student through her chart of words.

Paradise.

I had nearly read The Little White House through by the time our meal arrived.

Not a statement on how long it took to be served.

But rather on how quickly I could now read.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski.

You changed my life.

Pancakes With Mom

Breakfast.

One of the three best meals of the day.

And especially when one stumbled from bed into the kitchen and realized that Mom had the griddle out.

Mmmm. Pancakes.

The best of the best.

Mom's pancakes were famous.

Well in our world.

Light and fluffy and oh, so eat-able.

And when one started eating, one simply couldn't stop.

My record?

Twelve.

Dripping with butter and syrup.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

When I started dating my Husby, I couldn't wait for him to taste my Mom's pancakes.

Fortunately for him, and his status as boyfriend without sleep-over benefits, there were times when she made them later in the day.

What is even better than breakfast for breakfast?

Breakfast for supper.

My Husby-to-be agreed that Mom's pancakes were truly remarkable.

So much so that he asked her for her recipe.

Now, you have to realize that, by this time, Mom had been making these same pancakes for nearly forty-five years.

She could do them in her sleep.

An important skill first thing in the morning.

But I digress . . .

“Hmm,” she said, frowning thoughtfully. “Sure I can give you the recipe.”

She then proceeded to list ingredients and amounts.

As she had been adding them for decades.

“A couple of scoops of flour. Eggs. Sugar. This much salt.” She held up finger and thumb pinched together. “A couple of cake spoons of baking powder. Milk to make it batter-y.”

My Husby-to-be was frantically scribbling, a slight frown between his brows. When he was done, he stared at what he had written. “Ummm . . . okay,” he said doubtfully.

And he went home and tried them.

Adjusted ingredients and tried again.

And again.

For over 36 years, he has been struggling to get it right.

He never has.

And Mom took the original recipe with her when she passed on.

Sigh.

I love pancakes.

I miss my Mom.

P.S. I'd give you the recipe, but it's a work in progress. I'll let you know . . .

Gazebo Geezer

Delores at The Feathered Nest supplied, for Photo Prompt Monday, this wonderfully peaceful picture of someone asleep in a gazebo.

Hmmm . . . gazebos

My Husby loves the movie, “The Sound of Music”.

In fact, if favourites were discussed, that title would probably be the first to come up.

Most particularly, he loves the gazebo scene.

And its accompanying song, “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”.

Really loves it.

To the point that, if ever a gazebo is sighted, he has to run inside and sing.

Badly.

Really badly.

Badly on purpose.

Just to embarrass his kids.

He's very, very good at it.

Inevitably, after he has run joyfully to the gazebo and danced around inside for a few minutes, singing at the top of his lungs, his children have disappeared.

Totally.

Completely.

You thought children could disappear quickly in a shopping mall?

That doesn't even come close to how quickly they can vanish when their father-figure is embarrassing them.

Suddenly they have, quite literally, ceased to exist.

And they only reappear some time later.

When anyone – anyone – who might have witnessed their father's performance has defected and/or suffered an aneurism.

As my Husby has aged, the suitability of the words of the famous song have . . . lessened.

With his usual creativity, he has managed to 'age' the words to suit.

I include them for your perusal:

[him]

You wait, old girl, on an empty stage

For fate to turn the light off

Your life, old girl, is a filled up page

About which you should not scoff.

Should not scoff.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Baby it's time to think

Better beware, be canny and careful

It's hard to be old, I think.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Old goats will get in line;

Eager old cads and nimble old dads

Will be wanting all of your time.

Totally unprepared are you

To face the world of time.

Timid and shy and scared are you

Of geritol and lime.

You need someone older and wiser

Telling you what to do!

I am seventy going on eighty -

I'll take care of you.

[her]

I am sixty going on seventy

I know that I'm naive

Old goats I meet may tell me I'm sweet

And willingly I believe.

I am sixty going on seventy

Beautiful as a rose

Widower dandies, wheelchair bandies

What do I want with those?

Totally unprepared am I

To take a man again.

Timid and shy and scared am I

Of geezers who call themselves men!

I need someone older and wiser

Telling me what to do.

You are seventy going on eighty,

I'll depend on you!

*  *  *

A word?

If you're walking with us out in public and a gazebo appears in the distance?

Distance yourself.

Cars I Have Known and Loved

The Great Pumpkin. As he was . . .

It started in college.

With Snoopy and The Great Pumpkin.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I love cars.

The older, the better, it's true.

But really, any cars.

When I went to college, my Dad put a down payment on a bright, new, orange beauty for me.

A Dodge Colt.

Any extra money I had was squandered on it.

Any extra time was spent under the expert tutelage of my older brother, traipsing through its inner workings.

We were inseparable, my car and me.

But it was my roommate at school who actually gave my beauty its name.

Debbie, said roommate, drove a little white Chevy.

Named Snoopy.

What else could she call my car but, The Great Pumpkin.

Okay, here's where I admit that the name suited.

The car was orange.

And kind of . . . round.

Great Pumpkin, it became.

And a new tradition was begun.

After the Pumpkin, we drove such darlings as: The Frog. Ralphie. Bluee. WagonHo. WagonHo 2. Lady. The Beast.

And a little firefly named Zippy.

Something to note: We fit my Husby, myself, an eleven-year-old, two nine-year-olds, a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, a two-year-old and a baby in a carseat into that sturdy little firefly.

And made it, unscathed, to church.

Sometime, I'll explain the logistics of such a feat.

Another aside: Our second son, Erik, he of the six foot eight inch height, ended up driving little Zippy. Watching him unfold from that compact little car was a treat in itself.

Back to my story . . .

I don't know where these names came from.

Sometimes, they resulted from some little quirk in a vehicle.

Sometimes from the appearance.

But they caught on.

To the point where people who weren't even in our family knew the names of our cars.

And used them accordingly.

Our children, too picked up the habit.

Our one daughter's family, for example, have driven, successively: Phoebe, Elene, Persephone and Owlyet (the last one named by their daughter).

Because.

Presently, my Husby and I are driving two elderly pick-up trucks.

A 1994 Dodge Dakota with a skin condition, appropriately named Scabbers.

And a 2000 GMC Sonoma, with a bit of a balky nature, encouragingly and hopefully called Everready.

All aboard!

Scaring the Scare-er

Blarney Manor House and Tree

My friend, Susan at The Contemplative Cat, posted this deliciously scary picture for Photo Prompt Monday.
It reminded me of something . . .

The Stringam kids loved a scary story.

Okay, yes, it usually meant that Diane couldn't sleep afterwards.

And needed to leave a light on.

Or, better yet, crawl in with my parents.

But still, I loved to be scared.

And my older sister, Chris was a master at scaring.

One who knew dozens of deliciously frightening tales.

It was a perfect partnership.

The scare-er and the easily - and very vocally - scared.

Chris would gather whatever siblings were near by.

And, with them cuddled close, launch into her current favourite.

Her soft voice would wind through the story, slowly spiralling up in volume and suspense . . .

Or suspenders, as my dad used to call it.

. . . to the end.

Her reward? Several squeaks of alarm as she loudly barked out the climactic line.

“I've got you!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Bloody boots!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Ivory soap floats!”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Okay. I admit it. We were easily scared.

My parents were building a cabin on St. Mary's Lake.

The fact that it wasn't quite finished didn't deter us from actually using it.

In fact, our summer was usually spent . . . finishing.

We had finally gotten to the painting. Had actually spent most of yet another glorious summer morning doing just that.

Lunch was finished.

Chris had gathered my younger brother and I on our parent's bed.

For a few delightfully shivery minutes, we could have story time.

I should mention that, unbeknownst (Oooh, good word!) to us, Mom had finished the lunch dishes and returned to her painting.

Right outside the window of the room we were gathered in.

But I digress . . .

Chris was building to her usual grand finish.

“Bloody boots!”

Blair and I were completely absorbed.

“Bloody boots!”

We barely breathed.

“Bloody boots!”

Mom stuck her head through the window. “Bloody boots!”

Her timing and delivery were perfect.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Our story teller proved that she was as capable as any of us of being startled.

And Mom was rewarded with three squeaks of alarm.

A reward indeed.

Intended

When the daughter of my Dad's friend brought her future husband to meet her family, this is what her Dad told her.

The son-in-law never forgot it.

I just thought it would sound fun as a poem . . .

Intended

Her family had all been awaiting this call.

When they finally could meet her intended.

Unsure if a wedding ball'd ever befall

Or if spinster-hood ever portended.

But a young man, she'd met who was perfect, she'd bet,

In whose honour and love she felt sure.

So homeward, she'd set, their opinion to get,

And to tell her her choice would endure.

Her father shook hands with her sturdy young man

And questioned him closely a while.

They talked of his clan, and he asked him his plans,

Then he turned to his girl, with a smile.

“From all that I hear, you have nothing to fear.

But if his standards aren't mine and your mother's

Don't worry, my dear,” he said to her, clear.

“He'll be buried out back with the others!”

DIY Nature

Follow us! We know the way!

Our family was hiking.

The Fenlands Walk in beautiful Banff, Alberta.

A gorgeous two kilometres of shady trails, small bridges, and old forest next to the Bow River.

An easy walk for a group whose members ranged from six weeks to 69 years.

We discovered woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks, several ravens, and at least one bull elk.

Dozens of nests.

And, at last count, nine burrows.

Two members had fallen over tree roots and skinned their knees.

And one had to be nursed.

It was a fun, family type of outing.

Our favourite sort.

Beside the trail were the remains of a large, rotted tree.

A tree that had lived its life.

Perhaps a hundred years or so.

Been struck by lightening.

And then finished off by millions of carpenter ants.

A graceful, natural end to a monarch of the woods.

Our second son was explaining all of this to a rapt audience of five and six-year-olds.

He grabbed the top of the ancient trunk.

“And you see? This is what happened after the tree was killed,” he said, pulling it aside slightly to illustrate.

The entire trunk separated down the middle with a soggy crack.

Our son stared at the remains.

A bit stunned by what had just happened.

The kids were delighted.

They hadn't expected such a grand show on our little walk.

“Wow!” one of the cousins said to his son. “Your Dad just ripped that tree in half with his bare hands!”

His son looked up at him and grinned. “Yup,” he said, matter-of-factly. “My Dad is amazing.”

You can discover a lot of things when you walk through the woods with your family.

Not all of them are about nature.