Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

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

Monday, February 24, 2020

A Puzzlement

A puzzle is a wondrous thing,
As tiny bits, together, string
And from it, something lovely comes,
From pleasant scenes to contests run.

But is there something else around
That’s similar—in sight or sound?
Where little pieces make a whole,
When sorted from the rig-ma-role.

Oh, my word, yes! Just look and see,
Small pieces bring big things to be.
And these collections of small parts,
Are where the big things really start.

I think right off of dogs or cats,
Or even chickens, pigs or rats,
Each is a sum of tiny bits,
From heads to toes from hearts to wits.

The bigger things are just the same,
The trees of less (or larger) fame,
The mountains with their wondrous towers,
That make so great, this world of ours.

I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise,
That even going down in size,
No matter how minute things get,
They’re made of smaller bitsies yet!

To quote Siam’s great king, Monkut,
“Tis a puzzlement”. Aptly put.
To think that even us and him,
Are puzzle pieces, limb to limb.

I know you’ve heard it now, and then
‘Someone’s’ a ‘puzzle’. Big amen!
But there’s no need to scream and shout,
It means they’re hard to figure out.

But . . .
Though we’re assembled, more or less,
From pieces made and then compressed,
There is much more to you and me,
Than puzzle pieces that you see.

Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin,
With pleasant thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So all of us, together, we
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, it’ll be my first back home,
Let’s talk of gnomes. Or combs. Or foam.

Saturday, February 22, 2020

The White Stuff

It’s the ‘white stuff’ in the middle of the Oreo cookie that sets it apart from all the others of its friends in cookie-dom.
But only if you know about it.
Maybe I should explain . . .
Oh, and I’ve changed the names of the people in this story to protect the guilty.
Because she told me to . . .
Beverly had a younger brother, Farley.
A sweet young boy who doted on his big sister and often did her bidding.
Their Mama didn’t bring store-bought treats home often. She preferred to bake her own.
But when she did, the occasion was noted.
When the Oreos appeared, it was a very good day, indeed.
Beverly, without fail, would take a cookie, un-sandwich it and eat the white bits, re-sandwich it, find Farley, and with a, “Here, Bro! Mom got Oreos! Have one!” give the de-icinged cookie to him.
He was delighted and would happily crunch his treat. “Thank you!”
This went on for some time.
Years, in fact.
Then that momentous day when big sister went off to university.
Shortly thereafter (Oooh! Good word!) Mama brought home a package of Oreos.For the first time—ever—Farley took his cookie right out of the package. 
He bit into it.
“Wow! Mom, they sure have improved these Oreos! They’ve started putting white icing in the middle!”
In life, you can get away with things for a while.
But just know that, eventually, they are going to catch up to you.
And then where will the icing be?

Friday, February 21, 2020

Driving or Driven

Throughout my early years, I spent many, many hours herding cattle.

Driving them into corrals.
And loading them into big cattleliners for shipping.
It was long, hot, dusty, tiring work.
But at the end of the day, it was done.
Check written. Hands dusted.
Now, let me tell you my grandfather’s version of the same process, sixty years earlier . . .
The cattle, which had been wintering out in the desert, were gathered to the home place in Teasdale, Utah. From there, they were trekked by Grampa and his brother-in-law, Gus, to the nearest railroad hub, Green River—a distance of over 100 miles through mountains and desert that took the better part of a week to accomplish.
The trip was mostly uneventful, until the herd reached the Green River.
There, they found the Green River ferry ill-equipped to handle such a large number of cattle. Their only recourse was to convince the animals to swim across.
The cattle, natives of the mountains and desert of Utah, were unused to large bodies of water. Especially water that moved. They could not be convinced to cross.
For two hours, Grandpa and Gus tried.
Finally, feeling the two men’s discouragement, the boy who ran the ferry suggested that he bring his family’s cows to the opposite side of the river and see if that would encourage ‘cross-age’ (my word).
It worked! Either because the visiting cows wanted to make new friends, or because they were simply tired of the wretched cowboys whistling to them and chasing them about. Whichever.
They crossed.
Then the cattle were driven up the hill to the stockyards and loaded into train cars.
Now the actual trip could begin . . .
The rules of the day dictated that one man could accompany a certain number of train cars of cattle. Grampa’s herd had filled enough cars that two men could have accompanied them. Grampa was going along, but Gus was not, thus, when another man ran up just as the train was about to leave and asked if he could ride along, Grampa gave permission and installed him in Uncle Gus’ place.
The train started out—destination, Chicago.
When it made a routine stop a few hours later, Grampa saw an old friend he hadn’t seen in years and left the train to visit with the man.
Then got so busy talking that he didn’t notice when the train pulled out.
Without him.
In dismay, he stared after it.
There went his cattle. And, to make matters even worse, the papers that accompanied said cattle. Papers that allowed anyone with the animals to sell them.
Pocket the money.
And disappear.
Bearer bonds for livestock.
Grampa’s only hope of catching them was the next train. A passenger one.
That left in six hours.
After a nerve-wracking wait, he boarded the train and started out.
There are all kinds of people in the world.
And less-than-honest.
Fortunately, Grampa had chanced upon one of the former.
When he finally caught up to the livestock train, he discovered his cattle had been well-cared for by the stranger. Fed and watered.
And awaiting their true owner.
The trip to Chicago and sale of the herd was completed and Grampa was able to head home.
A little tired-er. A little richer. And a little wiser.
But what a trip!
Not sure, yet which I prefer.
His day.
Or mine.

From here. Teasdale, Utah.
Through here. Green River, Utah.
To here. Chicago, IL

The only picture I have of Grampa on a horse.
Taken shortly before his death in 1959.

Thursday, February 20, 2020

True Grit

Or something similar...
Teaching school has never been easy.
Even in the heavy-handed discipline days of 1903 . . . 
Eighteen-year-old Sarah hadn’t really considered teaching.
When she was approached by a family, her response was: “Well, I really can’t teach. I’ve only passed the eighth grade. I couldn’t teach unless they gave me a permit.” 
A week later, she was facing the fourteen students of Aldrich, Utah.
Some of whom were taller than she.
The woman with whom she boarded told Sarah that the children had run the last teacher out.
Somewhat alarmed, Sarah made some inquiries.
She discovered that the students had flipped rocks at the woman. Constantly. Nothing she could do seemed to help.
They had brazenly done the same to the Superintendent when he came to investigate.
It had finally gotten so bad the teacher quit.
Sarah quietly determined that wouldn’t happen to her.
She called the class to order and assigned seating. Then she told them to get on with their lessons while she put some work on the board.
When she turned her back, two rocks flipped.
She stopped and ordered all of the children up to the front, boys andgirls, and made them turn their pockets inside out.
Most had said pockets filled with little stones.
Sarah confiscated all the rocks and had peace until recess.
After recess, she again lined everyone up and turned out their pockets. Again, many of them had been filled with little stones.
After lunch, she did the same.
And the afternoon recess.
This went on for several days.
Finally, the children tired of the exercise and she had no more trouble.
Sarah might have been tiny.
And only possessed a grade eight education.
But she had the right skill for the job.
Beats rocks every time.

Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Twenty-Seven Twenty-Sevens

1. Mom started me out over 64 years ago with a mixture of evaporated milk, Caro syrup and water. In a bottle. It’s starting to sound good again....

2. From when I was little, Mom always said I was a good eater. Mind you she was a good cook. Maybe it was just a good combination.

3. In a large family, at mealtimes, one learns to gather food on the first round. You never know if there is going to be a second chance…

4. The first thing I remember eating is (are?) potatoes. Mashed. Baked. Fried. Hash-browned. 
Drowned in butter or gravy. My little baby spoon happily scooped up every drop.

5. Mom could save nearly everything by adding cheese sauce. Even formerly-frozen/rather soggy cauliflower took on new life under a generous coating of its golden cheddar deliciousness.

6. Pancakes and eggs and sausages and hot chocolate for breakfast were wonderful. Pancakes and eggs and sausages and hot chocolate for supper were a bona fide treat.

7. Mom always baked fresh bread. Served with fresh butter. Everyone liked—and ate—the crust. I ate the center. Why d’you suppose she was mad at me?

8. I even loved liver and onions. I don’t know what Mom did to them, but I slurped everything down like it was my last meal on earth.

9. If I rose late, I made my own breakfast. Sugary cereal. And chocolate milk with so much powder mixed in you could eat it with the spoon.

10. After school, my treat of choice was puffed wheat squares. Which I made for myself. Brother George often chose to eat a tin of sardines. I won.

11. During volleyball practice after school, I always dreamed of saltine crackers deep-fried in butter. I don’t know why. I never tried them. Now I wish I had.

12. Catsup on a hot dog or French fries or even a bowl of chili? Acceptable. Catsup on Mom’s delicious pot roast. Less so. Meat connoisseur, Dad, disapproved.

13. What’s the record for most number of cobs of corn consumed? I think I beat it. Of course it meant for interesting washroom visits for a while.

14. When Mom made tuna sandwiches, I was first in line. When she tried to sneak in some tinned salmon, I was outta there. Fish bones are gag-worthy.

15. Smooth Kraft peanut butter was the only truly acceptable brand. When Mom tried to foist something ‘cheaper’ on us, it remained uneaten. Till the end of time.

16. Mom would finally break down and buy Kraft again. Which disappeared immediately. Mom would say, “I’m going to stop buying that Kraft. You kids just eat it!”

17. I loved raisin cookies. Till my brother, George, told me that Mom got the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door. After that? Not so much.

18. Our sick milk cow gave really ‘icky’ milk. Even equal amounts of chocolate to milk didn’t help. And our beloved chocolate pudding couldn’t mask the taste! Blaaaaah!

19. When us kids went sledding, Mom welcomed us home with hot chocolate and fresh, homemade donuts. I don’t know which was better. Going out. Or coming in!

20. I loved school lunches. Mom’s were amazing. Except when she put 7-Up in my thermos and I shook it like hot chocolate. That stopper hit the ceiling!

21. Mom put hot dogs in our thermoses. And buns with catsup and mustard in a sandwich bag. Hot hot dogs for lunch! I thought Mom was genius!

22. My favourite dessert was Mom’s Angel Food Cake. Topped with her patented orange deliciousness. She took the recipe with her when she went home. Dessert hasn’t recovered.

23. Although her recipes for butterhorns, chocolate, spice or carrot cakes, pies, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, chippy squares, date squares, and dozens more could almost make you forget.

24. I loved it when Daddy did the grocery shopping. He brought home such store-bought necessities as: Pirate cookies. Jujubes. Cheezies. Ice Cream. Chocolate bars. Soda Pop. Perfect!

25. Daddy believed in stocking up at service stations while on a family road trip. A pop and chocolate bar for every member of the family. I approved.

26. Demon baker, Mom, forgot to make Christmas Eve dinner and when we foraged for ourselves from the fresh deliciousness, she said, “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!”

27. Mom was a fantastic cook. I blame her for the fact that I like everything. Except tinned salmon or sardines. Even Magician Mom couldn’t make those palatable.

Today’s post was a word challenge. 
Each of us in Karen’s fan club submits a number.
Which Karen then issues to another in the group.
Totally fun!
My number this month was 27.
And came to me from the maestro, herself, Karen of Baking in a tornado!
Thank you so much, my friend!

Want to continue the fun?
Visit our other participants.
You’ll be glad you did!

Monday, February 17, 2020

Ol’ Blue

A horse much better  than the rest, Ol’ Blue,
Although you’d have to look for it, it’s true,
Cantankerous as a horse could be,
Would often hide out in the trees,
And even take a nip at me,
Ol’ Blue.

She had no mane or tail to speak of, Yikes!
Nothing to grab if tragedy should strike,
It made her trash for swatting flies,
Nothing to comb or braid with ties,
But grooming was an easy prize, 
I liked!

A saddle she would not accept, the pill,
And so I rode her bareback o’er the hills,
No saddle horn to dally to,
So when we’d chase the calves so new,
I had to get creative, whew!
What thrills!

The hours I spent up on her back, to ride,
And o’er the waving prairie grass, we’d glide,
Even to the wind and rain resigned, 
We’d do the work that Dad assigned,
Our corner of the ranch aligned,
With pride.

I’m sad she’s long gone from my life, Ol’ Blue,
She was a scamp, but a good companion, true,
She was my blue-haired friend for life,
Her leaving cut me like a knife,
I’ll see her in the afterlife,
My Blue.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts...
Perhaps a grin?
So all of us, together, we,
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought,
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Friday, February 14, 2020

The Ransom of Sally

Sally is a little long-winded today...

Have I ever mentioned that living with Sally is an adventure?
Well I should have.
The thing is, Mom and I figured that, as she got older, she would be less of a ‘good-lord-harry-what-is-she-doing-now!’ and more of a ‘have-a-nice-day-dear’.
We were wrong.
I blame Sally’s and my father.
I don’t remember him very much. He died when we were six and spent most of those years away.
Studying polar bears.
Living with the penguins.
You know . . . ‘cold and adventures’ kinds of stuff.
Mom went with him until I was born, then she more-or-less-happily waved him off from the doorstep and went back to doing ‘mom’ stuff.
He died on one of those adventures. Ship lost in a storm.
I know it happens in movies.
But it also sometimes happens in real life.
I probably should miss him more.
But . . . Sally.
If you’ve been following my journals, you know that, in the last couple of years, she has become a world-wide sensation.
Which means that her shenanigans now get full press coverage.
Instead of just our neighbours shaking their heads and locking their doors, the whole planet has become involved.
Mom and I still aren’t quite sure how we feel about this.
I mean, we’re glad for Sally. She’s doing things that make her very happy and actually earning very good money doing it.
Not bad for a girl of 18, am I right?
But I’m not sure if we can survive this new level of  ‘global’ hijinks.
Maybe I should explain . . .
Sally’s movie company was shooting some sort of adventure film in South America.
Brazil, I think.
Over the past year-and-a-half, she has been promoted from ‘stunt girl’ to second banana.
Which is movie speak for supporting actress.
I watch the Oscars. So I know.
For three weeks, she had been sending home a more-or-less regular series of postcards with “Having fun. Wish you were here!” scrawled across them.
Then, today.
It started ordinarily enough. Which is something Mom and I are still getting accustomed to.
I’m sure you know that when Sally is home, nothing is ever ordinary.
Moving on . . .
We had rolled out of bed. Breakfast-ed.
Contemplating actually showering before heading to work.
Then we heard the unmistakable sound of Mort’s Volvo, semi-affectionately called the Mort-mobile scraping over the curb in front of the house.
Followed by a frantic pounding on the door.
You have to know that we hear a lot of pounding on that door. And other stuff. There is even a sword wound that is still waiting to be fixed.
Thanks, Cousin Ruth.
This time, whoever was pounding didn’t wait to be admitted, but pushed the door open so hard it hit the wall.
Mort charged in, his red hair on end, his face so chalk white his freckles stood out in sharp relief.
Mom got to her feet. “What is it, Mort?”
He stumbled into the room. “Sally!” he gasped out.
My heart skipped a beat. Usual with Sally.
Mom clutched his arm. “What about Sally?”
Mort gulped a couple of times. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
Mom shook his arm. “Mort?”
“Sally’s been kidnapped!”
Mom gasped and turned paper white.
Okay, I was definitely not expecting that.
I grabbed Mom and lowered her back into her chair.
“H-how did you hear?” Mom grabbed Mort’s arm again and pulled him over to her.
“Her fan page!”
Mom dropped his arm and sat there, staring straight ahead.
I looked at Mort. “But shouldn’t the company have called us? Her family?”
“It just happened! Maybe they’re . . .”
Another car screeched up in front of the house. Through the still-open front door, I watched as a man got out and charged up the walk.
He didn’t bother to knock, but came straight in.
He looked from one to the other. “Ummm, Mrs. Hart?”
Mom surged to her feet and rushed at him. “What’s happening?” she shouted in his ear.
He tried to appear calm and collected, but I could see his hands were shaking. He tucked them into his underarms. “Sally was heading to the shoot. Her driver was stopped at a bend in the road and Sally was taken.”
“Taken?” Mom grabbed his arm and shook it. “Did they hurt her?”
“Well . . .” he hesitated. “The driver was wounded, but Sally was fine when last seen.”
“Wounded.”  This time Mom fell back into her chair.
“I’ve come to get you.”
“I’m to take you to the jet so you can join the crew at the hotel.”
Needless to say, it was the fastest three people ever got packed in the history of the world. 
Because no way Mom was going without me. Or Mort.
I don’t remember much about the trip. Solicitous attendants on a very quiet private jet. Lots of food and drinks being offered.
Mom didn’t touch any of it.
When we landed, I remember instantly feeling hot.
One of the film company bigwigs was there to meet us and whisked us off in a limo.
Amazing how things work among the very rich.
And then we were in a room on, like, the fortieth floor of a Hilton.
Where there was more food. And dozens of people, including some very official-looking guys in uniforms.
One guy in a silk suit sat us down on a couch and told us what he knew.
Which was nothing. Basically, Sally had been grabbed out of her limo and taken to parts unknown. They were all still waiting for the first contact from the kidnappers.
The guy in charge seemed to act like this happened all the time. He was very matter-of-fact.
I decided I didn’t like him very much.
Mom had finally broken down and was weeping noisily into a tissue.
I went and stood behind her. “So what is being done?” I asked in what I hoped was my most grown-up voice.
“Well, you have to know that we really can’t do anything until we have been contacted.”
I stared at him. “So we stand here and wait.”
“Basically, yes. We have our teams standing by.”
“Oh, great. More people standing around waiting.”
He eyed me carefully. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Sadly, this isn’t an isolated occurrence. When we host our foreign visitors, we try very hard to protect them, but occasionally, things like this do happen.”
“And how do they turn out?”
“Well . . . the companies pay and the people are recovered.”
Mom lifted her head. “Pay? We don’t have any money.”
I spoke over her. “Recovered alive or dead?”
He shrugged. “You have to know we are doing the best we can.”
I snorted.
Just then, the phone rang. The man went over to it, nodded to someone sitting by a recorder at a nearby table, and picked it up. “Si?”
He listened for a few seconds, then put the phone down.
He turned to us. “That was the kidnappers. They are demanding six million dollars.”
Mom collapsed in a dead faint.
Everything got a little confused then, what with people rushing to help mom and someone pulling Mort off Silk Suit.
He huffily straightened his coat and gave us a glare. “You must understand that we are really doing what we can!”
Mort and I just glowered at him and sat there beside Mom.
The hours dragged by. Sometimes Silk Suit would take calls on the phone. Sometimes speak quietly to other guys in the room.
Mom hovered between asleep and awake.
Then the phone rang again.
This time, the guy got quite animated during the conversation. Actually looked surprised and . . . pleased?
He put down the phone. “You must come. Things are happening.”
We followed him down the hall to the elevator and were whisked to the ground floor. From there, we all hurried outside into a square just across the street.
Two men were crouched on a couple of benches in front of a group of soldiers. And standing beside them, chewing on what looked like a mint sprig, her head draped in a filmy, blue cloth, was Sally.
Mort passed us like a shot and scooped her up. “SALLY!!!”
Mom and I were close behind and the four of us had our arms around each other and were just squeezing as hard as we could.
When things had calmed somewhat, I realized that Silk Suit was trying to get our attention. “Mrs. Hart. Mrs. Hart.”
We looked at him. “These are your daughter’s kidnappers.” He pointed to the two men. “Apparently they are giving themselves up. Something about Sally. They keep on saying ‘never, never again’!”
Nunca! Nunca mais!” one of the men said, shaking his head violently.
I looked at my sister.
Sally shrugged and brushed some dust off her pant leg. “Sooo . . . anyone got anything to eat? I’m starved. Those guys were terrible cooks.”

Once a month, Karen issues a challenge to her followers.
Plus a selection of words, passed from them to her to . . . someone else.
This month, my words: polar bears ~ benches ~ mint ~ leg ~ host, came via Karen from my good friend Michelle Mariott.
Thank you, Michelle! This was so. Much. Fun!

Now go and read what the others have done with their words!

Thursday, February 13, 2020

Getting Trained

Sarah, my grandmother, on her wedding day 1905.
Life was just . . . different back then.
In rural Utah, one made do.
And soldiered through.
Later, perhaps, one learned the whole story . . .
Sixteen-year-old Sarah, fifth of eight children and oldest surviving girl still at home, was put in charge of her younger siblings while their mother went to the big city for several months of formal midwifery training.
It was a time of learning.
Hard work.
And learning.
Did I mention learning?
Things were going surprisingly well.
Then youngest sister, twelve-year-old May, developed a sore throat.
A bad sore throat. That shed white ‘pieces’.
Older sister, Sarah, thought she merely had a bad throat and nursed her as best she could.
Without any outside influences.
Like the local Health Officer.
She had her sister “gargle everything she could think of, but it was still very bad.”
At length, she sought the advice of her grandmother, who lived nearby, and who did what she could to help.
Finally, when May was nearly better, Sarah’s Grandmother called the Health Officer.
Who told Sarah she had just nursed her sister through Diphtheria.
Maybe sometimes we’re better off not knowing . . .

Wednesday, February 12, 2020


“It’ll be a great escape!” said he,
“The sun, the sand, the water, me.
“Come fly out cross the wide blue sea,
“It’s how the winter’s s’posed to be!”

And so I packed my bags and went,
The first two weeks moved like cement,
With problems, rain, that left us spent
I’m sure that wasn’t what he meant.

Then all at once, repairs were done,
And in the sky, the shining sun,
Soft breezes blew on everyone,
So this is what he meant by ‘fun’!

I’ve thrown out all my sour grapes,
Bikini’d my amorphous shape,
Laid back on my warm, sandy drape,
Ahhh. Now it’s truly an escape!

“Come!” Karen said. “Let’s have a ball!”
The rest of us all heard her call,
And madly scribbled, one and all,
While making sense out of the scrawl.

And we present to you our ‘pomes’,
Where we have bared our hearts, syndromes,
Perhaps betrayed our chromosomes,
Now go! And to the others, roam…

Karen of Baking In A Tornado:  Can’t Just Go  
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade:     The Great Escape
Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Escape the Madness

Third in the series

Third in the series
Deborah. Fugitive of Faith

The Long-Awaited Sequel to Daughter of Ishmael

The Long-Awaited Sequel to Daughter of Ishmael
A House Divided is now available at all fine bookstores and on and .ca!

Daughter of Ishmael

Daughter of Ishmael
Now available at and .ca and and other fine bookstores.

Romance still wins!

Romance still wins!
First romance in a decade!

Hosts: Your Room's Ready

Hosts: Your Room's Ready
A fun romp through the world's most haunted hotel!

Follow by Email

Hugs, Delivered.

Compass Book Ratings

Compass Book Ratings

Ghost of the Overlook

Ghost of the Overlook
Need a fright?

My Granddaughter is Carrying on the Legacy!

My Granddaughter is Carrying on the Legacy!
New Tween Novel!

Gnome for Christmas

Gnome for Christmas
The newest in my Christmas Series


A heart warming story of love and sacrifice.


My novel, Carving Angels

My novel, Carving Angels
Read it! You know you want to!

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic
What could be better than a second Christmas story?!

Join me on Maven

Connect with me on Maven


A scientist and his son struggle to keep their earth-shattering discovery out of the wrong hands.

Essence: A Second Dose

Essence: A Second Dose
Captured and imprisoned, a scientist and his son use their amazing discovery to foil evil plans.

Looking for a Great Read?

E-Books by Diane Stringam Tolley
Available from

The Babysitter

The Babysitter
A baby-kidnapping ring has its eye on J'Aime and her tiny niece.


Haunted by her past, Melissa must carve a future. Without Cain.


Following tragedy, Devon retreats to the solitude of the prairie. Until a girl is dropped in his lap.

Pearl, Why You Little...

Pearl, Why You Little...
Everyone should spend a little time with Pearl!

The Marketing Mentress

The Marketing Mentress
Building solid relationships with podcast and LinkedIn marketing

Coffee Row

Coffee Row
My Big Brother's Stories

Better Blogger Network

Semper Fidelis

Semper Fidelis
I've been given an award!!!

The Liebster Award

The Liebster Award
My good friend and Amazing Blogger, Marcia of Menopausal Mother awarded me . . .

Irresistibly Sweet Award

Irresistibly Sweet Award
Delores, my good friend from The Feathered Nest, has nominated me!

Sunshine Award!!!

Sunshine Award!!!
My good friend Red from Oz has nominated me!!!

My very own Humorous Blogger Award From Delores at The Feathered Nest!

Be Courageous!

Grab and Add!

Search This Blog

Ghost of the Overlook

Ghost of the Overlook
Need a fright?