Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

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

Saturday, July 11, 2020

Thanking the Doctor

Our last Granddaughter but one (or LBO, for short) has lived a large portion of her young life during the pandemic.
Normal, to her, is having both parents at home, walking, or playing or eating with her during every waking hour. And many of the sleeping ones.
Huh. When you look at it like that, it sounds rather idyllic.
Moving on . . .
In the last few weeks, her world has enlarged by one Gramma (and occasionally one Grampa), who appears at the nearest corner for ‘walkies’.
Usually, Gramma is accompanied by one four-footed, rather fuzzy companion.
Both are greeted by eager waving and “Bwa-Bwa!”
We haven’t quite figured out which she is most enthusiastic about, the two-footed, or the four-footed.
And which one is really ‘Bwa-Bwa’.
But I digress . . .
At the completion of every walk, her mama says, “All done walkies, Sweetheart! Say bye-bye to Gramma!”
Followed by many, many blown kisses with sound effects: “Bwa-Bwa! Mwaaaaa! Bwa-Bwa! Mwaaaaa!”
Which continue until Gramma (and companion—see above) are well and truly out of sight.
Now LBO is a very active little girl. Happily busy and curious.
Much like her mother before her.
You know the old adage: a toddler is someone two feet high with an arm reach of eight feet?
Written for her.
Nothing is truly out of her reach.
Including Sister’s Playmobile.
Which contains numerous microscopic pieces.
Some of which fit perfectly into one’s nose.
I’m quite sure you’ve put it together.
Certainly, she did.
Resulting in a late-afternoon visit to the local ER.
And a subsequent request to appear at the Stollery (the world-class children’s medical center in Edmonton) at 9:00 AM the next morning.
Which, in due course, happened.
Poking and prodding with lights and/or cameras were a matter of course.
But to actually facilitate said poking and prodding, restraint was, sadly, necessary.
Resulting in the expected shrieking.
And tears.
Finally, when no little Playmobile piece was discovered (turns out she had sneezed it out unbeknownst to her mama), and the restraints were removed, a very sad little girl prepared to leave.
“All done, Sweetheart!” her mama said. “Say bye-bye to the nice doctor!”
And she did. Between hiccups and sobbing breaths came “Mwaaaaa!” with accompanying blown kisses.
Gracious to the last.
And sometimes, being a doctor does have its rewards.

Friday, July 10, 2020

Mom Song

Mom's favourite picture.
There is a line from a Joe Diffie (yes, I’m a country music fan) song that goes:
Home was a back porch swing where I would sit, 
And mom would sing Amazing Grace, while she hung out the clothes.
That line reminds me of my own Mom.
Mom was always singing. The first thing she did when she entered the kitchen in the morning was switch on the radio.
And hum along with the current favourites while she stirred up breakfast.
Later, radio off; I can picture her with her hands in hot, soapy water, belting out ‘Darling Clementine’.
Or hoeing in the garden to ‘Till We Meet Again’.
It’s amazing how ‘Amazing Grace’ or any number of other songs go along with milking the cows. The rhythm just works.
Folding clothes? That will always remind me of ‘You Are My Sunshine’. When she could convince one of us to join her, sung in two-part harmony.
‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’ was waltzed with the broom across the kitchen floor.
And what would pea-shelling and bean-snapping be without ‘My Easter Bonnet’?
And early morning without ‘Good Morning, Mary Sunshine’?
Or bedtime without ‘Irish Lullaby’?
Riding out to the cows inevitably brought a rendition of ‘The Old Grey Mare’.
And evenings with the family - at least one chorus of ‘Whispering Hope’, again in harmony.
There are dozens more. I can’t picture Mom without a song in her heart and on her lips.
And her kids all do it, too.
Sing, I mean. While working.
More than once, I got smacked on the back of the head for bursting into song at inappropriate times during school.
It’s been too many years since I heard my Mom sing.
But in my memory, she’s singing still.
The last lines from that same Diffie song are totally appropriate for me: My footsteps carry me away. But in my mind, I’m always going home.

Thursday, July 9, 2020

G of the G

Sometimes, things said shouldn’t have been.
Because sometimes little ears are hearing.
And shouldn’t be.
Let me tell you about it . . .
Mom had invited some of her friends over for tea and a visit.
The house had been scrubbed inside and out.
The kids, ditto.
Furniture had been arranged.
Sighed over.
Okay, admittedly, what was said at this juncture was directed to no one and almost under Mom’s breath.
Just not enough under her breath: “I sure hope Mrs. (name-withheld-because-we-don’t-want-this-to-happen-again-EVER. Or NWBWDWTTHAE, for short) doesn’t choose to sit here. This antique chair of mother’s is pretty delicate and she is so heavy.”
FYI. Just because kids don’t appear to be listening, it doesn’t follow that they aren’t.
Moving on . . .
Little sister was well within hearing.
And understanding.
And . . . eeep . . . recording.
A short time later, the ladies started arriving. Including the aforementioned NWBWDWTTHAE.
The woman hovered uncertainly near the previously-discussed chair.
And that’s when little sister took it upon herself to save the day. Swooping in quickly, she smiled at the woman. “You can’t sit here,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “Because you’re too fat.”
I know you’ve had those occasions when you spoke without thinking. Or when something you said was repeated to the wrong person.
When the embarrassment is so thick and deep you want to just sink through the floor.
Take comfort in knowing that it’s happened to all of us.
To some of us, more than once.
We call ourselves the Girls of the Gaffe.

Wednesday, July 8, 2020

Smacking the Stop Sign

Ready to Run!

Sometimes, prayers are answered.
Let me tell you about it . . .
For years, I enjoyed my early-morning run.
My family was very supportive encouraging tolerant unconscious of it.
Let’s face it, to fit it in before time to get everyone ready for school, I started before most of them were even awake.
And/or cognizant.
But one of them was watching.
Youngest daughter had just entered the eighth grade. Strong-willed and a little rebellious, she was my chief worry out of six kids.
And, incidentally, one reason for my frequent prayers.
One morning as I was preparing to leave, she appeared.
Running shoes donned.
“Mom? Can I run with you?”
All the reasons why she shouldn’t raced through my mind.
She’d slow me down.
She wouldn’t be able to finish.
She’d get injured.
All of which, I’m happy to say, I ignored.
I nodded. “Sure.”
And we went running.
On the—then—outskirts of our small town, there was a four-kilometer Ring Road. Our house was situated just one house away from this ‘made-for-running’ track. If one followed the road, one inevitably returned to that spot from whence one came.
A few steps and we were off.
Of course we didn’t make it all the way around that first day.
Or the next.
Or any of the days afterward.
In fact, in the four years we ran together (till she graduated high school and went off to college) I think we only made it all the way around once.
But that didn’t matter.
Because what we did do was talk.
And talk.
And talk some more.
And become best friends.
Now, pushing a stroller and with her older daughter bouncing along beside us, we still walk.
No longer do we make a pretense of ‘running’.
Walking is just fine.
And we talk.
And talk.
And talk some more.
It took a while, but I realized finally that the Lord had answered my prayers.

P.S. I’m sure you’re wondering what the title has to do with this story . . .
On the far side of town, at the halfway mark on the Ring Road, is a stop sign, just at the top of the hill.
Every day, our goal would be to make it up said hill and smack said stop sign to signify our triumph.
Because that’s what we had.
In more ways than one.

Tuesday, July 7, 2020

Truth, Forgiveness...and Chocolate

For those of you following Sally’s stories with me . . .
The story you are about to read is true.
The days, weeks and months of Kindergarten were peaceful. Understandably so because . . . Sally.
And it was really nothing she did . . . well, other than knock a would-be bully onto his can the first day in class. I’m not sure, but I like to think she changed the whole course of his life. And everyone else who witnessed and/or heard.
Who’s with me?
Anyway, the peaceful days continued through the fall and winter and into the spring.
Continued until what is written in the annals of Briercombe Elementary School as ‘The Day of the Doll’.
Here we go . . .
A new girl moved into the area.
A very pretty girl with long, flowing, dark hair by the name of Rachel.
Whose name became . . . Betty.
It shall all be understood . . .
It was soon very clear to the rest of us at ol’ BES that Betty was determined to vie for the position of ‘Top Girl’.
A position held—to date—by no one.
Because it’s elementary school. Geeze.
Before long, Betty (see above) was terrorizing the smaller children. Taking their toys and roughing them up.
Sally and I, engaged with our friends in a cut-throat game of Jacks, heard the scuffles. And indignant outcries.
And the tears.
Sally’s radar went off.
And so did she.
Apparently (because few of us actually saw it from start to finish) Betty had snatched little Miriam’s precious Ava—her doll/constant companion/don’t-anyone-touch-her-or-I-may-faint-and-quite-possibly-die.
With predictable results.
Sweet, golden-haired Ava held high over her head, Betty was dancing around the playground, taunting the much smaller, now copiously-weeping Miriam who was in arm-outstretched pursuit.
Suddenly, the rest of the playground fell silent and parted for the newly-arrived-on-the-scene Sally.
Betty stopped and stared at the red-faced little demon headed rapidly in her direction.
I think she managed to figure out that the tide had turned.
And it wasn’t in her favour.
Clutching the now-forgotten doll, Betty spun about and made a bee-line for the school.
And the principal’s office.
An interesting side note: It was the first (and only) time in the history of BES that a student ran ‘to’ the principal’s office.
But I digress . . .
Sally was right behind her.
With the still-weeping little Miriam, a faint and distant third.
I watched as Betty skidded around the last corner and disappeared into the school.
Now I didn’t actually witness what happened thereafter.
But there were enough reports from students who did that I’ve been able to stitch together a fairly accurate account.
Betty wasted no time asking for directions (it was a small school—finding the principal’s office was really a no-brainer), but simply charged up the hall until she happened upon her feverishly-sought goal.
She dashed in.
And took cover behind the principal’s desk.
And the principal.
Sally simply marched in and stood there, hands on her hips.
The principal looked from one girl to the other. “Erm . . . can I help you girls?”
She was a very polite principal.
Sally just raised an eyebrow in Betty’s direction.
Betty silently held out the doll.
By this time, Miriam had arrived. Still crying.
Sally snatched Ava from Betty and restored her to her rightful owner, who, clutching the doll to her small self, turned and disappeared.
Then Sally turned once more and glared at Betty.
Remember, Sally at this point was still only in kindergarten. So . . . on the shady side of five.
Betty hovered somewhere around the ‘twice-Sally’s-size’ grade three level.
One of them was obviously in charge.
And it wasn’t Betty.
For a moment, the two of them regarded each other. Then, as large tears started welling up in the bigger girl's eyes, Sally grabbed Betty’s hand and pulled her back into the hall. “Hi, Betty. I’m Sally!” she said brightly.
Betty looked at her. “Umm . . . my name’s not . . .”
“Welcome to our school, Betty. You’ll like it here! Have some chocolate.”
I have it on good authority that the principal merely shrugged and went back to what she had been doing.
I expect you’re wondering what happened to Betty?
Well, maybe this will clarify . . .
Earlier this afternoon, a delivery arrived for Sally. A fairly large package that smells deliciously of chocolate.
In the upper ‘sender’s’ corner were the words ‘Rachel. Aka Betty’.
And the addressee?
“To My Very Best Friend EVER”.
Yep. Truth. Forgiveness. And chocolate.
In the same perfect package.

Tuesday, July 7th is Global Forgiveness Day, Tell the Truth Day AND World Chocolate Day. I'm celebrating all of them with my friend!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Truth, Forgiveness, and Chocolate
Jenn from Sparkly Poetic Weirdo: Truth, Forgiveness and Chocolate

Monday, July 6, 2020

Summer Light

I give a smile to Mr. Sun,
With his appearance, Winter’s done,
The light and warmth from him are spun,
As life returns to everyone.

And in his light, with joy, I bask,
Surely, this is all I ask,
To close my eyes and tip my flask,
Forget the snow and Winter tasks.

Ooh. See the sunhat I have brought,
And salves. With burns, I won’t get caught,
I’ll do the things I know I ought,
Cause Mr. Sun can be so hot!

So I am at the house herein,
Conditioned air now cools my skin,
So tell me why I wear a grin,
When Mr. Sun returns again?

Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought,
To try to make the week begin,
With gentle 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 . . .


This week our Jenny gave us light,
From which we penned with all our night.
Next week, because they're awesome creatures,
We'll talk about our fav'rite teachers!

Thursday, July 2, 2020

Forever Bubbles

On the street where we lived...
The tricycle in the background sits on Penny's drive.
I asked my youngest daughter what her favourite memory of growing up was.
Her answer surprised me . . .
When our family moved to Beaumont, Alberta, our first home was ‘up on the hill’.
A term for all of the houses built before 1980.
When the town was still . . . small.
Every home on our lively little side-street was filled, quite literally, with children.
We once tried to count all of the kids.
And got lost somewhere around fifty.
Yep. Lively.
On any given day--rain or shine, sleet or snowstorm--the street seethed/boiled/churned with children.
They were running everywhere.
Between homes.
Through backyards.
To the semi-private park tucked neatly into the corner.
It was a safe, peaceful world in which to raise them.
Across the street from our house was the home of Penny and her family.
Penny was my best friend.
And our kids liked each other, too.
On a warm day in spring or fall, with the afternoon sun shining on her front yard, it wasn’t unusual for she and I to be found sitting on her front step, visiting and waiting for our school-age kids to make their way home.
And blowing bubbles for our still-at-homers.
Our little learners would come around the corner, spot us up there on the porch, and quickly join in the fun.
Talking about their day between batches of bubbles.
It was, in a word: peaceful.
I remember it as a fun, happy time.
My youngest daughter remembers it as the very best of times.
Penny and her family moved away.
We are still in touch, as time and distance allows.
But, sometimes, in my mind, I’m sitting on that front porch visiting with my best friend and waiting for my children to gather.
Forever blowing bubbles.
I think my daughter is right.

Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Navigating by Nose

Navigate this!
(Taken from Blarney Castle. Just after I kissed the famous stone.)
In Canada, we have The Dominion Land Survey.
And my husband has 'iron boogers'. 
These two are connected.
Maybe I should explain . . .
My husband's favourite program on TV was the Tim Allen show, Home Improvement.
In one episode, Neighbour Wilson told Tim that men are actually endowed with minute bits of metal in their noses that aid in navigation.
Tim, putting his twist on it, called them 'iron boogers'.
A term that my husby whole-heartedly embraced and endorsed.
When Canada was first being mapped/documented, it was divided into a perfect grid.
Or maybe an imperfect grid, but a grid, just the same.
We were raised in an area where the roads were straight and regular and one mile apart.
If one road was blocked, you could find 113 other ways to get where you wanted to go.
It was a perfect system.
People growing up in that environment developed an unerring sense of direction.
Thus, my husby.
See the connection?
Moving on . . .
We were traveling in Ireland.
Have you ever heard it said that there is no green quite like the green of the Emerald Isle?
It's true.
But I digress . . .
We had just driven into town and were looking for our bed and breakfast.
Our map only covered the specifics of reaching said town, not the particulars of what to do when we got there.
There was a woman walking down the street.
Grant pulled over and we asked her how to reach Thus-and-So Bed and Breakfast.
These are her exact words, "Oh that one. It's rather difficult to describe. You need to go up that hill (pointing) and turn right. There is a hotel there and they can direct you further."
We thanked her and did as she directed.
Except for the 'turn right' part.
My husby turned left.
At which time, I gave up.
He drove around for a total of thirty seconds, then pulled over to the side of the street. "Why don't we just stop here?" he said.
I looked out of the window and gasped.
Thus-and-So B&B. Right there.
In front of us.
I turned to stare at him.
He merely tapped his nose and looked at me significantly.
From then on, I used the map merely to get us to the next town, then tossed it into the back seat.
Grant was much better at finding our destination when he wasn't hampered by such distractions as maps.
Old Iron Boogers.
Old Iron Boogers.

Monday, June 29, 2020

A Little Bug-y

The theme for this Poetry Monday is BUGS.
I'm afraid I've done a bit of cheating today, owing to the fact that I spent a large slice of last week visiting doctors so they can hem and haw over my torn retina.
So, a little poem of mine,
Then my favourite 'Bug' poem.
Me and my one good eye thank you for reading...and listening!

It pro-bab-ly won't come to you as much of a surprise,
I don't like bugs, don't care their colours or their many eyes,
That is one reason Canada's the place that I call home,
The bugs are less and smaller here and less inclined to roam,
I do not find them in the cupboards, or upon my bed,
Don't find them crawling on the ceiling, don't take show'rs with dread.
My Son in Law is similar for his aversion, too,
When we were all on holiday, he caused a ballyhoo,
When his small daughter was affrighted by a centipede,
Whose many legs and six-inch length crossed the floor with speed.
Grabbing up a garbage pail, he beat that bug full sore,
T’was certain that it’d never threaten his girl anymore.
But I heard every ‘thump’ and must admit, it caused me glee,
Good thing he lives in Canada. With small bugs…just like me!

P.S. Don't ever threaten one of his kids...

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?

Ready for more?

Now, the expert . . .

Wednesday, June 24, 2020


Catching Sunbeams

The afternoon sun spilled through the living room window like golden honey.
Making the air glow and creating a cozy pool of warm delicious-ness.
I watched my three-year-old granddaughter, her face alight, white-blonde hair a shining halo about her, as she tried to capture the floating dust-motes in the beam of light.
“Gramma, look!” she said excitedly. “They’re dancing!”
And suddenly, I was remembering another time.
And another little girl . . .
I had just graduated from Nursery. The place, in our church, of food, toys, warm hugs, and sitting on the floor. Also the room in the basement. With the least amount of windows.
My fellow three-years-olds and I had been guided upstairs and into the sunlit chapel. Then given the gi-normous (expressive/made-up word) front pew to sit on.
Don’t get me wrong, we were used to those pews.
But normally we sat on them with our parents/families.
Suddenly that great expanse was ours. Alone.
We were ‘big kids’ now.  
My classmates alternated between sliding about on the polished, golden oak surface and staring at the women in charge of this meeting.
I was seated furthest from those women. And nearest the tall window next to our pew.
The late afternoon sunshine was streaming through.
On me.
For a while, that was amazing enough.
Then, I discovered that there were floating . . . things . . . in that golden beam of light.
Things that danced and swirled about when I waved my hand.
Things that gently, but effectively, eluded capture. No matter how quickly I moved. Or how hard I tried.
While the rest of the kids in the room sang or listened to stories, I concentrated on the little ‘floaties’ so tantalizingly close and so difficult to actually grasp.
Suddenly, the girl seated next to me slid to her feet. I looked around, startled. Our little group was following Auntie Grace and filing out of the room. I glanced one last time at my golden beam of magic and reluctantly followed.
We were led to a tiny classroom that opened directly off the chapel.
And set down on chairs.
Real, our-size chairs.
Auntie Grace smiled at us and welcomed us warmly.
Then she said something I’ll never forget. “Diane was playing in the sunbeam during opening exercises.”
I stared at her. Was I going to get into trouble?
She looked at me and smiled again. “Diane, that’s what you are! That’s what this class is! Sunbeams! You’re not in Nursery any more. You’re all Sunbeams now!”
I blinked at her, not quite certain what she was telling us.
But I never have forgotten.

Tuesday, June 23, 2020


Here is my Mimi,
            Who wears a bikini
It’s painted, there's nothing at all can be done.
Over that, in a pair
            I put pink underwear,
(You have to admit that they're cute and they're fun.)

                                                So now my sweet Mimi
in her pinkish bikini
                                                Has pink underwear
Always found in a pair.

I think she’ll look pert
            In a white undershirt
That I dig out from under the bed.
Then what would look better
            Than a warm and soft sweater
In a pattern that’s yellow and red.

                                                Now look at Mimi,
her covered bikini.
                                                Still with underwear
That is there in a pair,
                                                And her white undershirt
that made her look pert,
                                                Till I hunted to get her
a warm and soft sweater.

Now what would be sweet?
            Why, some socks for her feet
And I think these bright green ones will fit,
Then to cover her knees
I need pants, I’ll try these:
They’re a truly remarkable shade of scar-let.

                                                Oh my little Mimi,
somewhere is her bikini,
                                                And then pink underwear,
Always there in a pair.
                                                And likewise her pert,
little white undershirt.
                                                Now she’s put together
with a cuddly sweater,
                                                And some awfully sweet,
bright green socks for her feet
                                                And where are her knees?
Under pants, if you please.

Now what’s left to do?
            Why a jacket of blue,
Yes! I found it right here on the door.
And some shoes that don’t match
            Notice, one has a patch,
They were under the chair on the floor.

                                                Wow, look at Mimi,
not a trace of bikini,
                                                Can't see underwear
Even though it's a pair.
                                                Or a peek of the white undershirt
which is pert,
                                                And now see her better,
 bright-colored, warm sweater,
                                                And even her sweet,
green, sock-covered small feet,
                                                And those pants, if you please,
that hide both of her knees,
                                                Are all covered - It’s true!
- by her jacket of blue,
                                                And the shoe with the patch
and the mate that won’t match.

Now with infinite care,
            I will cover her hair
With a hat so amazingly cute,
That it matches her clothes
            From her head to her toes,
While just nicely completing her suit.

                                                Now she’s finished, my Mimi,
with no sign of bikini,
                                                Beneath pink underwear,
That is there, in a pair.
                                                Also hidden’s her pert,
Nice and white undershirt,
                                                And her very much better,
Cuddly soft, knitted sweater,
                                                And also the sweet,
bright green socks on her feet,
                                                And her tiny, cute knees,
still in pants, if you please,
                                                With her jacket of blue,
and her shoes that aren’t true,
                                                And a hat, (it is said),
like a crown for her head.

But what did Mom say?
            Let’s go swimming today?
Why, the two of us better get set.
We must start right away,
            There’s no time for delay,
I can’t wait till we’re both getting wet!

                                                So off with the hat.
Make it sail, just like that,
                                                And the jacket of blue,
it can hit the wall, too.
                                                Then her shoes, so mismatched,
will be quickly dispatched,
                                                And now we see knees
as her pants hit the breeze,
                                                And discover her feet
as her socks meet the street.
                                                Soon we’re going to be wetter,
so let’s ditch the sweater,
                                                Then toss with our might,
the pert undershirt, white,
                                                And follow it there,
with the underwear pair,
                                                Till I just have my Mimi,
in her pinkish bikini.

Today is National Pink Day.
Let's celebrate!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Celebrate Pink with Pineapple Raspberry Sheet Cake
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Celebrate Pink with A Pink No Churn Ice Cream
Tamara of Par-time working Hockey Mom: Pink is the new Black

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

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Pearl, Why You Little...

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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!

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Ghost of the Overlook

Ghost of the Overlook
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