Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

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



Friday, September 14, 2018

Crowbarred


I honestly didn’t see this one coming.
Okay I’m quite sure you’ve realized that, with Sally, you can’t always predict things.
But this really caught me off guard.
Let me explain . . .
Mom was away for the weekend. For any of you who know Sally and me, that fact alone should be an indication that things would not proceed normally for the duration of Mom’s absence. It’s kind of a given.
But her sister gifted her with a mini vacay to the city and an all-inclusive pass to the Mint Julep. Which, if I understood Mom’s jabbering as she perused the card, is the name of a spa. The posh-est of the posh if said card was to be believed. Mom babbled on about much-needed massages and hot stones and mudbaths.
All I heard was: You’ll be responsible for Sally 24/7 until I get back. Yikes.
Oh, mom hadn’t left us totally on our own. She’s smarter than that. She asked Mrs. Ames from down the street to look in on us from time to time. The Mrs. Ames of the cats. Who had regarded Sally--and by association me--with suspicion bordering on . . . suspicion since that day we (that is to say, Sally) purloined her big, yellow, savage, spitting fury for what turned out to be an unexpected reno job.
Sometime I'll tell you about it. Ahem . . .
Sooo . . . Mom.
Gone.
For the first few minutes all went well. Sally was unexpectedly quiet. I was in the kitchen, whipping up one of my semi-famous fudge brownie cakes.
Sally was doing something in the front room.
Mrs. Ames showed up for her first check in, tapping authoritatively on the front door.
“Come in!” Sally shouted cheerfully.
I should have known.
The door swung open.
Mrs. Ames was met in the doorway with a faceful of water.
Shot from the garden hose.
That Sally had dragged in through the back door for that exact purpose.
I probably don’t have to tell you that that’s the last we saw of Mrs. Ames for the entire weekend.
Sigh.
On another note, who knew The Cat Lady could run that fast?
Moving on . . .
A couple of hours later, Sally, doing her best to look innocent, walked rather awkwardly through from the garage and headed up the stairs.
Yes, the alarm bells started ringing. But I was just about to beat the level I had been despairing over for a week and no way I was going to drop that controller just because my sister walked through looking innocent.
I know you see the flaws in that argument.
Something upstairs crashed loudly, but as there was no yell of pain and/or death, I ignored it. A short time later, Sally was back and moving fast.
She darted past me into the garage, emerging seconds later clutching the roll of duct tape. She held it up. “Is gray the only colour this comes in?”
I frowned. “Well, no. I think it comes in other colours. But gray is all we have.”
“Will it prevent . . . leakage?”
“Leakage? What . . .?” But I was talking to empty space. Sally, still grasping her tape, had darted into the stairwell.
I sighed, dropped my controller and bounded up the stairs behind her.
The twin sounds of water splashing and tape ripping drew me to the doorway of the bathroom.
A large and growing puddle, being blotted ineffectively by several thick towels was creeping toward me across the lino.
Sally, tongue held firmly between her teeth, was busily applying strips of tape to a large gap in the side of the full tub. A large gap.
Remember when I mentioned the ineffectiveness of the stack of towels?
Well that term would also apply to her efforts with the tape.
Water was pouring out unabated.
I splashed through it and pulled the plug.
Sally blinked. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Why, indeed.
The next few minutes were taken with soaking up water.
Then the two of us stood side-by-side, gazing down at the shattered tub.
“How . . .” I began.
“It was the stupid crowbar!” Sally said. She reached over behind the toilet and brought out the iron implement. “It slipped and . . .”
I help up a hand. “You had a crowbar in the bathroom.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course.” Sally set it down and headed for the medicine chest over the sink. “Do we have any antiseptic cream. I think I may have cut my finger.”
“A crowbar. In the bathroom.” I couldn’t quite get past it.
“Yeah. For the tiles. I thought as long as I had some time, I may as well start . . .”
Again I help up a hand. “Tiles? But why fill the tub with water? And . . . You know what? I don’t want to know.”
Sally again came over to me, wrapping a Band-Aid around her finger. She handed me a vitamin pill. “Here this might help.”
I rolled my eyes, but took it and began to chew thoughtfully.
Sally looked from the tub to me. “So how are we gonna fix it?”
"We?!" I took a deep breath. “How much money do you have in your account?”
She looked at me again, and back at the tub. Then sighed. “Right.” She bent to retrieve the long, iron tool. “Huh. Look at that.”
“What?”
“I bent the crowbar.” 

Each month, Karen's followers exchange words.
And craft stories.
This month, my words, antiseptic ~ cream ~ leakage ~ savage ~ vitamin, came from my good friend, Rena at: The Blogging 911 
Rena. This one's for you!

See what the others have done!
Southern Belle Charm

9 comments:

  1. What an ending, "I bent the crowbar", haha!
    Never a dull moment, huh?
    Have a wonderful weekend!

    ReplyDelete
  2. GOOD LAND! I do hope this is creative writing and not personal experience! Sally, woo wee, she is something else.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Whenever I see the name Sally in the story I know I'm in for a cringe-worthy treat. Keep those Sally stories coming!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Most families have them. I suspect it is MUCH more fun to be the Sally of the family than it is to be responsible for them.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Very nice post really ! I apperciate your blog Thanks for sharing,keep sharing more blogs.

    ดูหนังออนไลน์

    ReplyDelete
  6. I think a better use for the duct tape would be to restrain Sally.....at least until mum gets home (*~*)

    ReplyDelete
  7. Sally knows that DIY's other meaning is "Destroy It Yourself" :)

    ReplyDelete

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