Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Monday, March 5, 2018

Ernest's Winter

The walks were nearly bare! Then, this morning . . .
 November 8th. They squealed with glee,
They ran outside, both he and she.
For glistening, glorious, flakes of snow,
Upon the ground in drifts did go.

Almost too lovely to believe,
They praised the Lord that they did leave
The desert dry for such a place,
With snow-wet cheeks, they did embrace.

Our Ernest went to shovel, then,
And soon their walks were clean again,
Till the snowplow trundled through,
And on their sidewalk, snow did strew.

He laughed. “I get to shovel more!”
And finished this delightful chore.
Then back inside watch it all,
The white snow unrelenting, fall.

Next day the sun arose and shone,
Soon all their precious snow was gone,
They sadly groused to neighbour, Bill,
“Don’t fret,” he said. “You’ll get your fill!”

And he was right. A week or so
Would scurry past, then winds would blow,
And with them came eight inches more,
All piled so nicely there. Outdoors.

With scoop in hand, he headed out,
And finished just in time to scout,
The snowplow coming up the road,
And dumping, once again, his load.

He shook his head. “That goofy guy!”
“He must not see as he goes by.”
Then, with a grimace, he did bend,
And shoveled up the snow again.

Next day another foot or so,
Upon their neighbourhood, did go,
It took two hours before he saw,
The sidewalk bare, the snow withdrawn.

Until the driver of the truck,
Deposited his load of muck.
He shook his fist and nearly swore,
Then sighing, started in once more.

I probably don’t have to say,
The snow fell day by day by day,
Poor Ernest and his mighty scoop,
Understandably, were pooped.

Then came that day and the last straw,
Another foot or so he saw,
His shovel broke, he nearly cried,
He threw it at the snowplow guy.

He stomped inside and told his wife,
That he no longer liked this life.
He said, “It’s May. For Heaven’s sake!
Who knows how much more I can take.”

“Before I have a heart attack.
Or I beat someone blue and black!
Go grab your bags and pack your things,
We’re moving back to Desert Springs!”

So If you’re thinking of the snow,
How jolly and how fun to go,
It is as sweet as you perceive,
But in Canada, it never leaves!
Sigh.
Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin,
With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,
Did we help? Or did we not . . .

And next week, we three will write for you, 
A story that is 'mostly' true!

14 comments:

  1. Ah...dessert springs......when does the next train leave? So good to have you back...

    ReplyDelete
  2. I don't miss the snow very much. We get probably a few inches a year and that's enough for me! Loved the poem.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You probably got your 'snow-fill' just by reading. Lucky.

      Delete
  3. Lovely!

    Growing up in Hawaii, my sister and I thought that snow sounded wonderful - especially a white Christmas. Our mom is from NJ and anytime we got to wishing for snow, she would tell us "It's not that neat; it's pretty when it first falls but then it stays and turns gray and you get very tired of it".

    Kids hate to admit their parents are right but living in Brooklyn, every year I get the opportunity to say, "Yep, Mom was right"!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Parents are right???!!! Just kidding. Mine were right all too often.
      Sigh.

      Delete
  4. Bwahahaha! Oh, it is sooooooo true! Darn snowplows :) Well told :)

    ReplyDelete
  5. DO not miss the snow. I'm with Ernest!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I could send you some. Just so you could recall what it's like . . .

      Delete
  6. I look at pictures like your last one and it just blows my mind how it sits on top of tables and chairs like big white icy cushions. I've only ever seen a few snowflakes once in my life - I am so ignorant of stuff like this!

    ReplyDelete

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