Beauty and the Beast (AKA: Parenting Gone Wrong That Turns Out All Right. Or Something Similar…)

Once there was a widower of middle age with three daughters.

Two of this man’s daughters were vain and unpleasant.

But the youngest, Belle, was both sweet AND beautiful.

A terrible combination when one has the aforementioned sisters.

Am I right?

Moving on…

Now their father’s job necessitated his leaving his daughters from time to time to attend fairs.

And similar.

So one day, as per usual, off he went.

Then proceeded to get totally turned around in the forest.

Was it a left turn past the third hickory tree after the twin pines?

Or a left turn past the twin hickory trees after the third pine?

Sadly, this story takes place pre-WGS (Wagon Positioning System) but not pre-MWSFD (Men Won’t Stop For Directions)

Good old Dad was hopelessly lost.

Fortunately, he spotted a castle there in the lost part of the woods and quickly made his way to it.

I have a question…Aren’t castles usually built somewhere that people can see them? On a…I don’t know…road, maybe?

But I digress…

Anyway, this castle was built out in the middle of beyond (back was taken) and just in the right place for Dad to stumble upon it.

Yay.

He knocked at the great front door, which mysteriously swung open, inviting entry.

No one was around.

But in one of the many rooms was a well-laden table, set with a plethora (Ooh! Good Word!) of delicious food.

Seeing no one, Dad immediately sat down and began to eat.

Now in the center of the table was a…centerpiece.

A beautiful arrangement of roses, etc.

As Dad got up from his lonely meal, he was suddenly struck by an idea. He had three daughters! If he took just three roses from the arrangement, no one would be able to tell.

Well…he wouldn’t be able to tell.

Sadly, someone else—probably the flower arranger—noticed.

And as Dad was leaving, he was suddenly confronted by a monstrous beast.

Now, in the movies (yes, there are movies) the beast is always pictured as—despite certain…wolflike…features—tall and strong and sort of attractive.

You picture him how you want. I’ll picture him how I want.

Back to my story…

The beast immediately spotted the roses in Dad’s hand and accused him of theft.

The terrified Dad stuttered out a rather incoherent apology in which the words ‘roses’ and ‘three daughters’ stood out distinctly.

Or at least they did to the Beast.

Who immediately made Dad a proposition.

“Send one of your daughters to live here with me and I’ll spare your life.”

Now Dad, being a thoughtful man, proceeded to think.

For .08 seconds.

He said (and this is where the ‘poor parenting’ comes in), “Okeedokee!”

Or words to that effect.

Of course, now, the former hopelessly lost (see above) Dad had no problem finding his way home. Where he immediately spelled out his difficulty to his daughters.

Sweet Belle, seeing how distraught her father was, and because she was—you know—sweet, immediately offered to take his place at the beast’s castle.

Which her sisters protested vehemently. “Oh-dear-Belle-don’t-do-it.”

Well…semi-vehemently.

So, Belle went.

And immediately found the castle.

Which begs the question: How come only Dad got lost?

Now the beast, at first, was truly frightening in appearance. But Belle soon discovered he was inordinately kind and thoughtful and she spent her days wandering about the castle and getting lost in Beast’s library.

And (surprise!) she and Beast started to develop feelings for each other.

Hands up, anyone who did not see that coming!

But after a few weeks, Belle received a message that said her father was very sick and needed her.

Because who else was there in the family who could look after him?

Beast, being the kind guy he was, allowed her to go. But asked that she stay only one week.

Belle quickly agreed and was off like a shot.

And Beast immediately took up a watching and waiting stance.

Wherein he…watched. And waited.

You should probably know that Beast wasn’t born ‘Beast’.

Nope.

He was cursed following some fracas with an enchantress.

Which he lost.

Thus, his ‘beastly’ appearance.

The upshot of it was that Beast had to find true love.

Then the curse would be broken.

But the other side of this ‘cursing’ was that it had a time limit.

I guess curses have a shelf life.

Who knew?

And Beast’s time was almost up.

Now for the first few days, Belle concentrated solely on getting her father well and gave little thought to her promise to return in one week.

During this time, she told her sisters about her stay at the castle and about the kind, enormously rich, albeit rather unusually-featured king of the castle.

The sisters, sensing that Belle had inadvertently snagged the richest guy in their world, were jealous.

They began to invent reasons she needed to stay.

1.    Father needed more care.

2.    Things needed doing that only Belle—with her inimitable taste and style—could do.

3.    Other stuff.

Belle, initially willing, began to chafe at the obviously invented deeds, and finally—her week long past—she managed to slip away.

But all was not well in Castle-land.

She found Beast on the edge of death.

Weeping copiously (is there any other kind?) she wrapped him in her arms and confessed her love for him.

At which point, the curse was broken and Beast immediately returned to his former form.

Mmmm…

And, as a little side-bonus, he was instantly healed.

The two of them married and lived happily ever after.

One more thought: I like to imagine that, perhaps, Belle and Beast were able to find beasts for her sisters as well. 

Who’s with me? 

Today is Fly on the Wall Day! 

When my sister-bloggers and myself share what's been happening in our homes, hearts and minds this month.

You've seen where my mind has been.

Now go and read what they've been up to!

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado       

Marcia at Menopausal Mother   

Santa Season...Sorta

By request, I'm re-posting my Mrs. Santa story.

Apparently, to quote someone, it's 'beloved'!

Who knew?

So, for your Christmas season pleasure...

Mrs. Santa's Morning After

HE GETS IT DONE, YOU KNOW HE DOES,

CAUSE HE’S...WELL, HE’S THE CLAUS. 

BUT SOMETIMES, through nobody's fault,

He has to take a pause...

It’s happened once or twice in ev’ry hundred years or so

When, for whatever reason, Santa simply cannot go,

And cause there’s no one willing, (and there are not any planes!)

Then Mrs. Santa, she steps up and takes those Christmas reins.

The reindeer seem to know that something's different in the air,

And get excited when they hear her step upon the stair.

And does she dress in red and white? In fur and velvet? No!

She’s dressed in leather for her chase o’er lands of heat or snow.

In a worn ol’ buckskin jacket and some goggles—Santa’s spares,

A pair of leather ‘racing’ gloves, a helmet o’er her hair,

Some ‘biker’ chaps and Uggs for boots, a scarf that’s warm and soft,

One that covers mouth and nose when she’s up there. Aloft.

She steps into the loaded sleigh, the reindeer snort and stamp,

She smiles and says, “My children, it is time that we decamp!”

“And be more careful this year as we streak ‘cross swamp and heath,

I’d like to try-this time-to keep the bugs out of my teeth!”

And with a cry of “Wagons, ho!”, she, sleigh and deer are gone,

Leaving Santa and the elves at home to carry on,

And as they clean and tidy, plan for next year’s girls and boys,

Mrs. Santa does the work:  delivering the toys.

You have to know she sets speed records everywhere she goes,

They’re still unsure just what flew through in Rome 10 years ago,

Those Salt Flats guys have not recovered—likely never will,

From the blur that passed them both like they were standing still.

And she and all the reindeer have a huge sleighload of fun.

Deliveries in record time. This woman gets ‘er done!

And as she very nimbly hops out of the sleigh. And in,

She’s never lost for laughs. Or found without her happy grin.

And with the rising of the sun, she’s back. She parks the sleigh,

Then checks it to be sure it’s safe to drive another day.

She gives each deer a great big hug and praises all of them,

And tells them, each and everyone, they are her brightest gems.

Then hurries in to Santa and the breakfast he’s prepared,

Expresses hope that what was troubling him has been repaired,

Then with a sparkle in her eye, she tells him of her night,

And all the records she has broken during this year’s flight!

Then Santa simply shakes his head and serves her scones and cream,

And teases her that her new name will be Madam Jet Stream,

And when she’s full. And drowsy from her chase up through the clouds,

He tucks her in and kisses her and tells her he is proud.

So on this Christmas Eve as you anticipate the morn,
Waiting for sleighbells to tell you someone is airborne,
It may not be old Santa who is pulling on the reins...
It might be Mrs. Santa, setting records once again!

It's time for Fly on the Wall!

The best part of the month!

When Karen, Marcia and I get to share our hearths, homes and hearts with you.

You've read mine...now go and see what my sister-bloggers have been doing this month.

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother 

Of Bread. And Patience

I have to say I totally understand her position.

I mean…she did the work, shouldn’t she get the paycheck?

Ahem…

Miss Betsy, heretofore known merely by her description, ‘Little Red Hen’ was a sturdy, dependable sort of being. Hard-working. Honest.

Creative.

Now our Miss Betsy was tired of her usual farm diet (ie. Bugs. Worms. And good grief, who can blame her?!) and decided what she’d really like was a nice, fresh loaf of bread—or something similar.

But, living in a farmyard as she did, the opportunities for the sale or procurement of such things as baking stuffs was pretty nigh impossible.

Privacy was also at a premium. Just FYI.

Moving on…

Then one day, our Miss Betsy found several grains of…grain that had fallen out of the farmer’s wagon.

And she was struck by an idea.

She could grind up this grain and make that lovely loaf of bread—or something similar—that she’d been dreaming of?

Between you and I, a truly lovely idea!

Sadly, she knew that the few grains she held would be woefully inadequate for such an undertaking. Taken to the mill and ground, they would produce…maybe a tablespoon, at best.

But what if she planted them?!

One grain of wheat, properly planted and nurtured could reproduce itself a hundred times over, right?

All one needed was a patch of ground.

Some water.

Sunlight.

100 to 130 days of frost-free weather.

And patience.

Okay, let’s face it—making a loaf of bread in this manner isn’t something one does in a hurry.

But there were no other options and Miss Betsy, not one to be easily discouraged, decided to go for it.

Being the happy little community member that she was, she decided to offer her idea to the…erm…community.

“I found some grains of wheat!” she said, as excited-ly as she could.

Let’s face it—with the indolent crew that ‘peopled’ the barn yard, she would need to sell the idea to get anyone up off their…indolence.

“Yay,” said the cat. Who then yawned.

“Yay,” said the duck. Who flapped his wings idly and settled in for another nap.

“Bring them here. I’ll take care of them,” said the pig. Who then rolled over.

Not one to be so quickly discouraged, Miss Betsy tried again. “I’m going to plant them and then they’ll grow and mature and produce enough grain that I’ll be able to grind them and make a lovely loaf of bread!” She paused, a big, hopeful grin on her face.

Okay, yes, she’s a bird…with a beak. Go with me on this…

The cat stared at her. “That sounds like a lot of work for a very little reward.”

“Trust me on this,” said Miss Betsy. “It’ll be totally worth it! Who wants to help plant it?”

The cat fluffed up his fur. “Not I,” he said. Then he began to lick his left leg.

“I have to agree with my feline friend,” said the duck. “Not I.” He tucked his head under his wing.

“Call me when you have real food and not this imaginary stuff,” said the pig. And slid happily back into his dream world.

“Huh. Well. I guess I’ll just have to plant it myself!” said Miss Betsy.

And she did.

A few days later, several little, green shoots appeared in the rows where Miss Betsy had planted her precious grains.

“Oooh!” she said excitedly. “Look! Everyone look! My little seed-lies are sprout-ling!”

“Uh-huh,” said the cat, duck and pig together.

“Who wants to help me water it and weed it?”

“Your joking, right?” said the cat.

“Nope. Who would like to help? It’ll be a lot of fun!”

Just a side note here. I’ve tried this with my grandkids. But it seems that infusing your words with a lot of enthusiasm only works if there is an obvious—and visible—reward.

Sigh.

Back to our story…

“Not I,” said the cat.

“Not I,” said the duck.

“Not I,” said the pig.

“Fine. Then I’ll do it myself!”

And she did.

The grain grew tall and healthy and multiplied ‘exceedingly’.

And in all that time, Miss Betsy tended it faithfully.

And, after 130 days, as spring turned to summer and then to fall, the tall, heavily-laden stalks were ready to harvest.

“Oh, yow! Look at those!” Miss Betsy said. “Did you ever see any wheat stalks as tall and straight and full?!”

“Can’t say that I have,” said the cat. “Of course, I have to admit I’ve never really taken notice before.”

“You’re doing good work, Bets,” said the duck. “Keep it up. You’ll have your loaf of bread in next to no time!”

“Zzzzz,” said the pig.

“So who wants to help me harvest it?” Miss Betsy (ever the optimist) asked.

“Not I,” said the cat, stretching out in the autumn sun.

“Not I,” said the duck, preening his feathers.

“Zzzzz,” said the pig.

So she did it herself.

You should have seen the yield! Yow-zas!

But then, the next step in the interminable (this is really taking a long time!) process.

“Who wants to help me haul this haul to the mill to be ground into flour?”

“Are you kidding me?” said the cat, duck and pig together. Translation: Not I!

‘Sigh,” said Miss Betsy. Translation: Sigh.

“Then I’ll do it myself.”

And she did.

Now she had a sack of flour, perfect for that perfect loaf of bread.

Things were starting to heat up at last.

“Who wants to help me make the loaf of bread?” Miss Betsy asked.

She was nothing if not eternally positive.

“Call me when it comes out of the oven,” yawned the cat.

“Ditto,” said the duck.

“Achoo!” said the pig. Translation: I say we just eat the flour like it is!

So Miss Betsy made it herself.

Finally, after the months and months of work and waiting, a big, golden loaf emerged from the oven, proudly carried by Miss Betsy in her brand new oven mitts. “Now, who will help me eat this bread?” she asked.

“I will!” said the cat.

“I will,” said the duck.

“I will!” said the pig.

“You won’t!” said Miss Betsy.

And they didn’t.

But she did.

Then she also went and got some better friends.

Moral: One-way friendships can work for a while, but eventually, they just grind you down to nothing.

The end. 

It's Fly on the Wall Day! The best day of the month!

When my sister-bloggers and I share what's been happening in our homes and minds and hearts for the past month.

You've read mine.

Now go and see what my sisters are up to!

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia of Menopausal Mother

Cinders to Crowns

Former Maid Hits the Jackpot!

Diane Stringam Tolley, Fiction Reporter

Beaumont —   It’s true. Occasionally, everything just works out!

Daughter of a late, well-respected local businessman, Cindy was raised with wealth but had fallen on hard times.

Though we couldn’t get an interview with the girl, herself, neighbours report that she was unfailingly sweet and cheerful.

She had to work hard, but she did so willingly, her positive attitude a positive inspiration to co-workers.

“She was always so kind to all of us!” said one of her co-workers, known only as ‘Jack’.

“Y-y-yes!” another co-worker, Gus-Gus, put in. “Even the new arrivals, like me. She treated us all real special!”

Her co-workers couldn’t comment on the exact order of events that led to her good fortune, saying only: “Everyone chipped in to make it possible. We were just so happy to help her. It was well-deserved!”

One co-worker, on condition of anonymity, hinted that Cindy’s life had not been very easy. Citing “Family troubles”.

“Apparently, she didn’t get along with immediate family members,” she said. “A surprise, because she was so sweet! We were all quite flabbergasted that she and the other female members of her family experienced such animosity. I guess it’s just a fact that not everyone, no matter how kind, gets along with everyone else!”

Apparently there had been a bit of consternation and some hair-pulling over an invitation to a much-anticipated party.

“But Cindy was made of tough stuff and determined to attend, despite hints of ‘unsuitability’ from her relatives.”

Those ‘female relatives’ appeared to have made Cindy’s attendance difficult—even conspiring to ruin a new party dress.

“She was quite distraught,” says our source. “Fortunately, I had the foresight to plan for such an event.

“I was able to provide our girl with something suitable—maybe even superior—as quick as a wink!”

And those efforts certainly paid off. Cindy made quite a remarkable—one could almost say a ‘royal’— impression.

“She had to leave before the party wound down, and in so doing, lost a personal item or two… “But still, when answering her co-workers' questions, she was glowing with praise for the party and the organizers.”

Praise that she continued to spout, even as her regular work-a-day world was once again thrust upon her. “I’ve got that in my pocket,” she is quoted as saying. Though some speculate she meant something else.

There was some mention of a dust-up over the return of her belongings by ensigns from party organizers, but with what she had pocketed, all this was soon sorted, and Cindy was quickly on her way.

Now a new life and a new home awaits her—along with a beautiful, budding romance (wink, wink)—and all this reporter can think to say is: Hooray, Miss Cindy! With your co-workers, I congratulate you!

From cinders to a crown! Surely the stuff of magical fairy tales! Every woman's dream. Well...mine, anyway.

Today is Fly on the Wall Day!

When, with my Blog Sisters, we post what's been going on in our minds, homes or hearts! Or maybe something...pithy.

You've read mine.

Now go and read my Sisters'.

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother 

Pi and Sixpence

My topic for March?

What else?

Pie!

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing.

Wasn’t that a dainty dish

To set before the king?

The king was in his counting house,

Counting out his money.

The queen was in the parlour,

Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,

Hanging out the clothes,

When down came a blackbird

And pecked off her nose.

They sent for the king’s doctor,

Who sewed it on again.

He sewed it on so neatly,

The seam was never seen.

or:

There was such a uproar,

That little Jenny wren

Flew down into the garden,

And put it back again.

Okay, I admit that this poem/song was a great favourite when I was a kid.

And I may or may not have recited/sung it ad infinitum et ad nauseum.

But now that I am a mite older, I’ve had the chance to really take a good, hard look!

Ahem…

Now, personally, I think it should start out with: ‘Sing a song FOR sixpence’ because, according to a popular author of the early fifteenth century, giving someone sixpence for a song was, if not common, at least accepted.

I know, I know. That would be an unacceptable number now—being both grossly inadequate and completely out of date.

But go with me on this…

A pocketful of rye could just be a simple unit of measure—although what one bake-er would be able to bake for his (or her) bake-ees with that much rye is questionable…

Now the next line was always the one that most fascinated me. The baking of four and twenty blackbirds into a pie.

I probably don’t have to tell you how I begged soulfully demanded asked politely for Mom to bake blackbirds into a pie for me.

Although I had no idea what a blackbird was.

Just a note: Now all I can think of is: feathers and beaks (birds and I have a history there…)

And bird poop.
Moving on…

But she never did.

So all pie singing had to be done by me. Ad infinitum, etc. See above…

And all eating by some nameless/faceless king who probably got yummy pie-makings all over that money he was counting.

Now the Queen had the right idea. Vis-à-vis eating, that is.

She was in the right place.

And eating the right things. (Although I always insisted that Mom add peanut butter to MY bread and honey.)

But the maid really got the short end of the stick.

There she was—the only person in the story (besides the bake-er) actually…you know…working…

And what does she get for her troubles?

A pecked-off nose.

Can anyone say OUCH?!

Oh, yeah…me.

OUCH!

Okay, okay, yes. Her nose was seamlessly restored by either the doctor or the less-likely Jenny wren, depending on which version you favour, but still.

I broke my nose bouncing on my bed and you have to know that anything to do with damage to that appendage… HURTS!

And bleeds.

A lot.

So I’m thinking we probably will be looking at washing to do over.

Poor maid.

See? Short end of the stick.

Oo! Oo! I just want to put this out there: Said maid was, in all likelihood, hanging said clothes on a Clothesline. I’m not too sure of their efficacy in relation to actual—as the name suggests—clothes.

We’ll have to explore that later…

But clothelines make great jungle gyms…

And there you have it.

A day in the life of the Blackbird King and Queen and their long-suffering maid.

With at least 24 blackbirds. Plus or minus one that obviously got away and started mutilating local personnel.

And maybe a bake-er.

Oh, and a doctor…or wren.

This was fun!

 

And just FYI: If you make me a pie with live birds in it, I’ll hand you a fork and napkin. Maybe even a plate.

But you’re eating it on your own.

Pi Night was a great success again this year.

My daughter and I--with a little help from two granddaughters and several more super-excited teenagers--made 106.5 pies this year.

We moved the event to our local church to see if more room would allow for more visiting time.

And it did!

A success on all counts!

I love Fly on the Wall days!

Today is that time, once a month, when my blogging sisters and I give you a glimpse into what has been happening in our homes, at our desks and in our heads.

I hope you enjoyed your visit here!

Go, now and see what my two sisters have been up to.

You know you'll like it!!!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother