Getting 'Real'

It started as a normal day.

Okay, yes. You’re right. We don’t have those in our house.

Consider it satire.

Let me start again.

The day began . . .

Mom had made her usual breakfast of champions. My favourite: hotcakes, sausages, eggs . . . and onions. Okay, it’s a personal ‘haute cuisine’ thing.

Cause I’m such a classy person.

Ahem . . .

Sally had been mostly absent during the meal; staring into space. Not an unusual thing. For her.

I’m pretty sure she had a good reason today, though. Mom doesn’t allow electronics at the table and Sally had just gotten a new Roller Coaster game for her DS. I’m pretty sure she was playing it in her head.

Okay, let’s not talk about Sally’s head.

Moving on . . .

Mom and I were actually enjoying the peace and quiet. Sally had been razzing Mom all week because she wanted a ‘Playstation VR’, which was, to her, the greatest virtual-reality/life-changing system ever! But, to quote Mom, was: “So far out of the realm of possibility that it wasn’t even a faint blip on the Hubble Telescope.”

But you who know Sally, also know that she doesn’t take such a frivolous word as ‘no’ seriously. In fact, the introduction of that one tiny word had been known to morph into discussions that encompassed topics from the dawn of creation to the end of days.

Mom had finally relented so far as to buy Sally the aforementioned Roller Coaster game.

For a short time, she'd been appeased.

Breakfast ended. I’d drawn the short straw, so Mom and I started the clean-up.

Sally drifted off.

As I was wiping the table a few minutes later, I saw my sister head out the front door. She had her bike helmet on. And a roll of duct tape in one hand and her DS in the other.

I really didn’t think anything of it. It is Sally we’re talking about.

Silly me.

I was putting the last of the dishes away. Mom turned, our glass milk jug in her hands. “Honey, you’re taller than me. Could you put this up there?” She nodded her head toward the upper cupboard over the fridge. “Then I don’t have to get the stool.”

“Sure.”

Such normal, natural talk.

Sigh.

Just as Mom reached out to pass me the jug, something in the window caught her eye.

I spun around and our passing/reaching ended in the shattering of said jug on the linoleum.

Neither of us noticed because I had glimpsed what so distracted Mom.

A body falling past the window.

Large body.

Roughly ‘Sally’ sized.

We jumped over the shattered mess that had formerly been our sparkling-clean source of all things milky and headed for the door.

Mom is older than me, but her aged limbs . . . okay, she’s thirty-six . . . passed me like a shot.

By the time I’d cleared the door and joined her at the prostrate figure lying in our formerly pristine flower bed, Mom had already knelt down.

Of course, it was Sally. I mean, who else would it be?

Still wearing her bike helmet, but with something added to the front.

With the duct tape.

Mom reached out and grabbed the ‘something’ and pulled it off with one great jerk; handing it to me.

I looked down. Sally’s DS. With roller coaster game still running.

Sally’s blue eyes looked up at us. “You’ve got to try this!” she gasped out. She raised herself up on one elbow. “My own virtual reality! I think I’m on to something!”

Mom shook her head and she and I stood up. I dropped Sally’s DS beside her and the two of us headed for the door.

“Hey! Don’t you want to hear about it?! I mean, leaping from the rooftop in reality as well as in the . . .”

I closed the door. Hard.

And considered locking it.

“She’ll only find some other way in,” Mom said. 

This story is fiction, although I'm sure most of you have a for-real 'Sally' in your life!
Today is a word challenge.

Karen of Baking in a Tornado takes from the repository of words supplied by her slaves good friends, shuffles them, and then gives back to those same . . . erm . . . people.

To do with as they see fit.

The result is the Use Your Words challenge!

This month, my words, satire ~ breakfast of champions ~ morph ~ haute ~ tape ~ virtual reality, came from my friend, Jenniy of Climaxed. What fun! Thank you, Jenniy.

Now go and see what the others have done with the challenge!

Baking In A Tornado

The Bergham Chronicles

The Blogging 911

Cognitive Script

Climaxed

The Phone Less Thrifty

Call me!

One of Dad’s elder brothers, Alonzo (hereinafter known as Uncle Lonnie), became a wealthy man by the simple practices of thrift, caution and wise investment.

Besides being brothers, he and Dad were good friends and often ranched together.

Which necessitated good communication.

Living fifty miles apart, this meant telephoning.

I should explain here that, in the late sixties, phone plans had not yet been invented.

To avoid the high costs of calling long distance, people resorted to many individual 'tricks'.

But, officially, you had only two options.

You dialed a number directly and paid.

Or, if you weren't certain the person you wanted was home, you dialed ‘person-to-person’ and had an operator facilitate the call. This was more expensive if your party turned out to be there, but cost you nothing if they weren't.

Understand?

Moving on . . .

Uncle Lonnie, he of the sound mind and thrifty practices, needed to talk to Dad.

But it was the middle of the day, a time when phone calls were at their most expensive. Uncertain if he would find Dad at home, he opted to have an operator place the call.

Dad answered the phone. The call went something like this . . .

Dad: “Hello?”

Operator: “I have a person-to-person call for Dr. Mark Stringam.”

Dad: “This is Dr. Stringam.”

Operator: “Go ahead, sir!”

Uncle Lonnie: “If I’d known you were actually there, I’d have dialed directly!”

Dad: “Well, I'm here!” And he hung up the phone.

Pumpkin Time

I love pumpkin. Quite a lot.

Love it cold. And love it hot.

Made in soups or cakes or pies,

I even like my pumpkin fries!

And so in honor of this treat,

I have some jokes that can’t be beat,

My grandkids found them, it is true,

And so I’ll share them, now, with you!

What waddles; is orange, white and black?
A penguin with a pumpkin pack.

How are you? What did pumpkin say?
‘I’m feeling very vine today.’

Why sits the gourd on the porch floor?
He has no hands to thump the door.

How do you fix a gourd that’s broke?
A pumpkin patch! (My favorite joke!)

What is the pumpkin’s favorite sport?
It’s squash! (They don’t play on a court…)

A pretty pumpkin. What’s it called?
It’s Gourdgeous. Please don’t be appalled…

What kind of gourd grows up in trees?
A plumkin. If you look, you’ll see.

Who helps the small gourds cross the street?
The crossing gourd. It’s quite a feat!

What’s a pumpkin that is fit?
A jock o’ lantern. They don’t quit.

An overweight-y pumpkin is?
A Plumpkin. Hey! I love this quiz!

How is a pumpkin’s family known?
They are his Pump-kin. E’en when grown.

Who is the leader of the gourds?
The Pumpking. They all call him ‘Lord’.

Best thing to put in pumpkin pie?
Your teeth. Come on now, don’t be shy.

Post-Thanksgiving, what’d gourd say?
Good-pie, All! Hope you had a nice day!

The Grands and I had lots of fun,

Just telling jokes till we were done,

D’you like them? Did we strike a cord?

I guess it’s back to the drawing board…

Each month our ‘boss’ finds something new,

And then we cogitate and stew,

Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes ‘ewww!’

The fun is sending it to you!

This month’s theme was PUMPKIN (time).

And we all got it down in rhyme!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Team Pumpkin

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Pumpkins

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: 4 Little Pumpkins

Added In

I was helping out in my grandson’s first-grade class.

An active bunch. (If any of you have seen the movie, The Lion King, you will recognize the row of monkeys in the ‘future-king-presentation scene’. They were modeled after any first-grade class you find.)

Ahem . . .

The activity I was there to help with was an exercise in caring for animals. Each student chose an animal, then was given materials to build a little compound specifically suited for said animal’s needs. Food, water, sleeping arrangements, toys, entertainment.

Because what animal doesn't need its big-screen TV, right?

Moving on . . .

As coordinator of my little group of four boys, I was entrusted with the big bag ‘o treats. The feathers, popsicle sticks, foam sheets, paper cups, string, sticks, tape, glue and scores of other building materials.

It was a large bag.

And everyone was having a large time.

One of them asked for sticks and I dove into the mass of materials and dug out a small container of bundles of sticks. Colorful little bundles of sticks.

And just like that, I was transported back fifty-five years to my grade one class.

And no, it wasn't held in a cave . . .

Our teacher, Miss Woronoski had laid out multi-colored sticks. Some singles. Some in bundles of five and ten.

And with a combination of those singles and bundles, we were learning to count and add.

I loved it.

I especially loved saying the word ‘bundles’.

I would manipulate little packs of sticks, laying them out in regimental order, and add them. Then re-arrange and add again.

Sometimes I would concentrate so hard, I would completely miss what was going on around me . . .

“Your Gramma isn’t listening to me!”

“Gramma! Gramma!”

Like now.

Sigh.

Giving Thanks

‘Please bow your head and all give thanks for blessings you’ve been given,’

I did as I was told, then thought of this old life I’m live-n.

I’ve fam-i-ly, that’s number one and a modicum of wealth,

And food to eat and clothes to wear and yes, I’ve got my health.

There’s things that I can do that make each day diverse and fun,

And friends and family to help (that keep me on the run).

I’ve tales and articles to write and some to read as well,

And always there’s a grandchild near and stories I can tell.

I’ve got my job, I’ve got my faith, I’m grateful for them both,

And even problems when they come, assuring spiritual growth.

I’m grateful for my childhood, and parents I hold dear,

And all my precious memories that still remain so clear.

My friends both near and far I simply could not do without,

I’m grateful for their caring, even when they bawl me out!

I’m grateful for my country and the freedoms I enjoy,

And happy, too, that I can choose just how I’ll be employed.

My list goes on and on and, yes, it truly humbles me,

When I think of all I have and all that I can be,

And so, today, you’ll find me, folding arms, with eyes shut tight,

For blessings I’ve been given I thank Him with all my might!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Inspired by Delores, next week,

We'll talk of DOORS--it will be sweet!

The Other Side

The two of them watched as the family picked its way reverently through the cemetery, stopping to exclaim over one headstone or another.

“Look at this one!” the mother exclaimed. “This man served as a soldier in the First World War!”

Her three kids gathered around her and stared down at the marker.

“Ooh!” the oldest boy said. “A soldier!”

The three-year-old looked at his brother. Ooh!” he echoed.

Their sister simply stared, then reached for her mother’s hand.

“Come over here and look at this one!” The father had worked his way to the oldest part of the cemetery.

The family moved toward him . . .

The man snorted. “Look at them! Ooh-ing and ah-ing over the epitaphs!”

His companion smiled gently. “I think it’s charming!”

He looked at her. “Charming?! To wander among the dead, exclaiming over what their relatives thought appropriate to carve on their expensive headstones?”

“In a word? Yes.”

“Pfff.” He turned back to the family. “Look at them, wandering around in their hideously mundane existence! Just look!” He pointed to the youngest son. “He’s picking his nose. How charming is that?”

His companion laughed. “He’s a child!”

“Oh, and now he’s . . .!” The man shuddered. “You know what the difference is between broccoli and snot, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “Maybe I don’t want to . . .”

“Kids won’t eat broccoli!”

“James! That’s revolting!” She made a face.

“Yes. Revolting!” He turned a slightly nasty smile toward the wandering family.

“Well I, in probably what is a lone opinion, think they are precious! I hope they enjoy their time here today. And I dispense with any formalities and give them franchise to make a thorough and enlightening tour of the entire grounds!”

“Hmph! Like they need your permission!”

“Nevertheless, they have it!” She nodded decisively. Her face softened. “We who sleep, dream; wait 'neath marble slabs and blowing grass . . .”

James stared at her. “What are you talking about, Anne?! You didn’t wait fifteen seconds ‘neath marble slabs and waving grass!”

She laughed, rather self-consciously. “Well, I am a bit claustrophobic.”

“Claustrophobic?! How can you be claustrophobic when you’re dead?!”

“Well, you're dead too!” Anne shot back.

“Yes, I am!” James glanced at the family once more. “And here are these awful people stomping around without the least respect for the people they are tramping heedlessly over!”

“They’re not awful!” Anne said. “They’re . . .” She paused, then pointed. “Look!”

James spun around.

The little family had reached the furthest corner of the grounds. A small, slightly overgrown area, rough with tree roots from the encroaching forest growth. The father had knelt down and was pulling carefully at some grass and weeds. “Look at this!” he said softly.

“What is it dear?” The mother and her children crowded close.

“These must be the oldest graves in the cemetery! See this one?!” The man leaned closer. “Sixteen . . . something.”

The mother knelt beside him and bent over, pulling her glasses to her nose and peering over them. “I think it’s a seventy-four.” She nodded. “Yes. I’m sure it is. 1674.”

The father traced the faded carving gently. “James Marion. . . Coville? Goville?”

“I think it’s Coville. See, there has been a part chipped off to make it look like a ‘G’.”

He nodded, then pulled out a small, obviously well-used notebook and scribbled something. “James Coville.” He said. “1674.” He touched the small slab gently. “Well, that’s as good a place to start as any!”

“Wait, Dad!” The oldest boy had moved to one side. “Look! Here’s another beside it, but it has tipped over and is almost covered.”

The man got to his feet and joined him. “Huh. You’re right, son.” He knelt again and pulled away the overgrowth, then brushed off the stone. “This one has been more exposed and is more worn.”

“I can’t make out a date,” the mother said. She traced the stone with reverent fingers. “It looks like . . . Anne?”

“That’s about all I can see, too,” the father said. He stood up and studied the two stones. “They are the only two over here, so I’m going to assume that they are connected somehow and go from there.” Again, he made a note in his book.

The mother nodded. “Good idea.”

The father pocketed his notebook and reached for his smallest son’s hand. “Well, shall we go? I have a feeling that there is a lot of work to do.”

The mother nodded. “Come on kids.”

The family began to pick their way to the entrance.

Anne watched them go, then turned and elbowed her companion. “A penny for your thoughts?”

For the first time in over 400 years, James was silent.

Sundays are for ancestors. 

Today was for someone else's.

Tell me about yours!