On the Alberta/Montana Border: Left at the Fork

As is usual in our home, the day started out quite normally.

But those of you who know Sally, also know this can only mean ‘something’ is coming.

In Sally’s patented roundabout way.

Sigh.

Sally’s and my school was hosting a bake sale. Proceeds to be used to buy a pair of goats for a little village somewhere in Nigeria.

So Mom and I were baking up the proverbial storm. Cakes, cookies, squares. All in a charitable effort to provide . . . charity. Initially, Sally had been helping. Then we asked her to do something else.

Somewhere else.

Because . . . reasons. Also . . . Sally.

I’m assuming she retired to the front room because shortly after she left us, the TV began to blare at about 150 decibels. Clash of the Titans. I’d know it anywhere.

Frowning sharply, Mom had raised her sticky hands into the air and marched in there.

As the sound was almost instantly halved and Mom returned still with sticky hands but minus the frown, I assume she had successfully curbed Sally’s nine-or-nothing impulse to volume control.

Peace was restored and everyone was happy.

We went back to work.

Some 90 minutes later, Mom and I had managed to bake—and frost—some four cakes, 14 dozen cookies and three large sheets of squares.

I was in the process of wrapping up those things deemed cool enough to . . . erm . . . wrap up.

Mom was mixing yet another batch of brownies.

Then, from the front room, we heard the scrape of chair legs, followed almost immediately by thumping and the sounds of battle.

All right, yes, the sounds of men and hardware were purportedly coming from the television, but there were enough local reverberations to convince both Mom and me that the movie battle currently broadcasting wasn’t confined to the screen.

We looked at each other.

“Should I . . .” Mom started to say.

That was as far as she got.

From the front room came shout of, “A Titan against a Titan!”

And, also from the front room, a huge thump, then a moment of silence.

For those of us in the kitchen, it quickly became all too apparent what that tiny moment of silence actually meant, as something long and pointy flew into the kitchen in a great, graceful arch, neatly snagging one of the two ‘iffy’ legs on the laden table.

I probably don’t need to elucidate vis-à-vis said legs because those of you who know Sally, would also know why we have a lame table.

Moving on . . .

For a moment, the table teetered on two sound and two less-sound legs.

Instinctively, I dove for it, but misgauged my trajectory and managed—rather than to right it as had been my intention—to push it to its ultimate doom.

The weakened legs folded like wilted lettuce.

Packages of baking slid to the floor in an unhurried, sweet-smelling avalanche.

Mom and I stared at the heap. Then, as one, turned to stare at the architect of our doom.

A pitchfork, still with one of the table legs clutched in its tines, lay on the far side of the kitchen, its innocent, supine position belying its former destructive-ness.

Sally appeared in the doorway. “Oops.”

If looks could skewer, Sally would have been a goner. “A pitchfork?!” Mom shouted. “Where the h-e-double-hockey-sticks did you get a pitchfork?!”

Uh-oh. Mom almost swore. Mom never almost swears.

A journey someplace far away was indicated. Sally disappeared.

Mom was two steps behind her.

I started to pick up packages.

Yep. Just another day.

P.S. Most of the baking survived the ‘clash’.

I’m not so sure about Sally…