Goodbye, Please?

The walks were nearly bare! Then, this morning . . .

 November 8^th. They squealed with glee,

They ran outside, both he and she.

For glistening, glorious, flakes of snow,

Upon the ground in drifts did go.

Almost too lovely to believe,

They praised the Lord that they did leave

The desert dry for such a place,

With snow-wet cheeks, they did embrace.

Our Ernest went to shovel, then,

And soon their walks were clean again,

Till the snowplow trundled through,

And on their sidewalk, snow did strew.

He laughed. “I get to shovel more!”

And finished this delightful chore.

Then back inside to watch it all,

The white snow unrelenting, fall.

Next day the sun arose and shone,

Soon all their precious snow was gone,

They sadly groused to neighbour, Bill,

“Don’t fret,” he said. “You’ll get your fill!”

And he was right. A week or so

Would scurry past, then winds would blow,

And with them came eight inches more,

All piled so nicely there. Outdoors.

With scoop in hand, he headed out,

And finished just in time to scout,

The snowplow coming up the road,

And dumping, once again, his load.

He shook his head. “That goofy guy!”

“He must not see as he goes by.”

Then, with a grimace, he did bend,

And shoveled up the snow again.

Next day another foot or so,

Upon their neighbourhood, did go,

It took two hours before he saw,

The sidewalk bare, the snow withdrawn.

Until the driver of the truck,

Deposited his load of muck.

He shook his fist and nearly swore,

Then sighing, started in once more.

I probably don’t have to say,

The snow fell day by day by day,

Poor Ernest and his mighty scoop,

Understandably, were pooped.

Then came that day and the last straw,

Another foot or so he saw,

His shovel broke, he nearly cried,

He threw it at the snowplow guy.

He stomped inside and told his wife,

That he no longer liked this life.

He said, “It’s May. For Heaven’s sake!

Who knows how much more I can take.”

“Before I have a heart attack.

Or I beat someone blue and black!

Go grab your bags and pack your things,

We’re moving back to Desert Springs!”

So If you’re thinking of the snow,

How jolly and how fun to go,

It is as sweet as you perceive,

But in Canada, it never leaves!

Sigh.

Smarter Phone

 We make a pair, my phone and me,

We get along (to a degree),

And when it does the things I want,

We sometimes even find detente!

 

But, sadly, I’m not tech adept,

And even when I think I’ve prepped,

I simply cannot get it to,

Perform the way I want. (Boo-hoo!)

 

And nothing makes me crazier.

I’d throw it in the brazier,

Except the darn thing cost a lot,

Let’s face it: I’ve no money pot.

 

And yet, I never leave it home,

I will turn back from where I’d roam,

To have it safely in my purse,

For emergencies…or worse.

 

And so we struggle on, we two,

At times, I’d make the air turn blue

If cursing was how I expressed,

My discontent or my distress.

 

In reading this, if you’re concerned,

Something significant I’ve learned,

(I think I’ve known it from the start…)

That only one of us is smart.

 

Sigh.

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause 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 Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
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, if you will join with us,

We'll prove that we have GENIUS!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) Today!

Genius Day (March 14) 
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

Pets (April 11)

Juggling (April 18)

Brothers (April 25)

Babies (May 2)

Music (May 9)

Purple for Peace (May 16)

Turtles (May 23)

Memorial Day (May 30)

BladderWakey

With apologies to Lewis Carroll...

Twasn’t brilliant, and the nighttime coves

  Did show no sparkle in the waves:
Still shady were the darkening groves,
  And the footpaths the same.

"Beware the Bladderwalk, my son!
  Its fullness wakes, makes your breath catch!
Beware the gritted teeth, and shun
  That nightytime Slumbersnatch!"

He took his blankets, warm, in hand:
  Long time the prodigious urge he fought --
Still resting, he with bladder full,
  He laid awhile in thought.

And, as in gloomy thought he lay,
  The Bladderwalk did force-ly claim,
To come whiffling through the dark causeway,
  And burble as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The blankets, warm, went snicker-snack!
He sprightly fled, into the ‘head’
  Then went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Bladderwalk?
  Then back to bed, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brilliant, and the daytime coves
  Did sparkle brightly in the waves;
NOT misty were the brightening groves...
  And he never got to sleep again.

Really Hard Lessons

Kids and food and . . . the Table

In 1979, to facilitate my Husby completing his Master's degree, we moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba.
We brought everything we owned in one of my Dad's cattle trailers.
He cleaned it first.
Moving on . . .
But there were one or two things that we didn't bring.
One of them was a decent kitchen table and chairs.
We had to dip into our savings and buy something.
I should point out here that Kijiji didn't exist in 1979.
Or personal home computers.
At least in our home.
So we were stuck with the local paper and the classifieds.
But the tables we found listed were worse than the one we had left behind.
We finally decided we needed to go to a furniture store . . .
We had done this once before. Gone to a furniture store, I mean.
It was fun.
And expensive.
But exciting.
We pulled up outside in our little wheezy van and sauntered inside where we were met by a young man with a big grin.
A really big grin.
Looking back, we should have suspected something.
We didn't.
We told him what we were looking for and he led us to the 'kitchen' section of the store.
Wow.
Okay, we weren't expecting that much of a selection.
We divided our options into two categories. 'Those we could afford'. And 'those which were really nice'.
The choices suddenly became easy.
We were down to two.
The one we finally decided on was a faux-wood topped, tubular-chrome-legged marvel.
With four chairs of genuine fake-leather.
We had hit the big time.
The only problem was that we were already a family of four. And family member number five was definitely on the way.
More chairs were indicated.
No problem, the young man said. The company who made the chairs was right here in Winnipeg. They could easily be ordered and at a very special price.
Bingo!
We handed him our savings and he filled out the paperwork, promising to send in the order for our four extra chairs as soon as we left the store. Then he helped us tote our new table and existing chairs out to our little van.
We were kings!
Happily, we set up our new acquisitions (good word) in our little kitchen.
Perfect!
Then we waited for our four extra chairs.
And waited.
Finally, we tried to phone.
Huh. Line out of service. Strange.
We drove over to the store.
And found it closed. Weird. For a Tuesday.
A large piece of yellow paper, fastened to the front door, fluttered in the slight breeze. We got out of the van and moved closer.
It was a notice from the police. Something about signing the paper if we were owed anything by the young men who had absconded (Great word, eh?) with all available cash and left the country.
We stared at the paper. Then at each other.
Did this mean what we thought it meant?
Had we just been ripped off?
I suddenly wanted my chairs!
We had paid for them!
Jerks!
Husby signed the paper and we were duly contacted by the police and able to place our claim.
The problem was that we were owed a mere $200.00 and that put us far down the list of claimants. The likelihood of recouping our losses was slim to nil.
I should mention here that the people at the top of the list were a newlywed couple, furnishing a new apartment. They had paid for their furniture, but were having it delivered.
I guess $10,000.00 (a boatload of money in 1979) was just too much for the store owners to resist. They had taken the money and anything else not fastened down and left the city.
The young couple's furniture had not left the store.
They were furniture-less and out their $10,000.00.
Suddenly our little $200.00 seemed very paltry.
But I still needed my chairs.
We went to the furniture manufacturer and explained the situation. They were very nice and gave us our chairs at their cost.
So, when we worked it out, taking into account the money we had paid Crooked Smiler Guy and what the manufacturer charged, we had actually gotten the chairs for the normal retail price.
We really hadn't lost anything.
And we finally had our chairs.
Oh, they were a slightly different colour from the first four, but why quibble over details?

That table and chairs lasted us through six children and twenty five years.
As it was nearing the end of its life, my husband decided to realize a dream and build a new one.
He did it.
A large, round, solid oak table, capable of seating 12 comfortably and 14 if you were really good friends.
He finished it just in time.
I tried to set a casserole on our old table and the poor thing collapsed, casserole and all.
And no, that isn't a statement on my cooking . . .
It was given an undignified farewell at the city dump.
And Grant moved in his great oak wonder. With twelve chairs that matched.
And that we didn't have to chase down and beg for.
Lessons learned.

More people. More food. And . . . the replacement.

Flushed with Excitement

Husby and me. Don't look closely . . .

I told him not to laugh.

But he did.

I married him anyway . . .

It was a bright and sunny Tuesday.

But not just any Tuesday.

This was Tuesday, the 27^th of April, 1976.

You may wonder why that particular date is etched so clearly in my mind...?

You have a right to know.

It was exactly four days before my wedding.

Four frenzied days of frenetic functions beFore falling into fluffy, feathery fantasy.

(Hmmm...That was sorta fun...)

Four days that I needed to be--healthwise--at my very, very best.

Ahem.

The day started out well.

I climbed out of bed.

I felt a bit more tired than usual, but, with all I had been doing, wasn’t surprised.

I plopped heavily into my seat and stared at my plate as Mom bustled around, setting platters of steaming deliciousness on the table.

Grace was said.

And oblivious-ness set in as people dove for whatever was nearest.

Soon we were all chewing happily.

Mom passed someone a bowl of potatoes and looked at me. “So what have you got planned...?” she stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at me. “Diane? Are you all right?”

I looked at her.

She got up and moved around the table to me. “You look . . . flushed.”

I shrugged.

She placed a cool hand on my forehead. “You feel a bit warm.”

“I’m tired, but I feel all right,” I said, feeling a slight feathering of alarm.

She tipped my head back and looked at my throat.

“Oh, my word!” she said. “Mark, look at this!”

“What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Dad leaned over the table and peered at my neck. “Oh, my!” he said.

Okay, I was thoroughly alarmed by this point. “What?” I said. Did I grow an extra appendage in the night? Did I suddenly get a whisker? Or worse . . . a zit???!!!

Mom sat back on her chair and sighed.

Sighed.

“Diane, I’m pretty sure you have the measles.”

Whaaa...? I jumped up and ran to the closest mirror.

Sure enough, my neck and the lower half of my face were a mottled mass of tiny, red pinpricks. So many of them that, at first, they resembled a rosy flush on my skin. Only on closer inspection did they morph into what they actually were.

Measles.

I. Had. The. Measles.

Four days before I was going to be married.

My life was over.

Mom bundled me up and hauled me into the doctor’s office. Where our local medical professional confirmed our suspicions.

German measles.

I dragged myself home. How could this be happening to me? Weren’t the measles a childhood disease?

And wasn’t childhood  . . . sort of . . . behind me?

I placed a call to my Husby-To-Be at his work.

Our conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Honey! How’s work?” *soft sob*

“Great! How are you doing?”

“Well . . . I have something to tell you . . .”

Slightly alarmed Husby-To-Be voice. “What is it? What’s the matter?!”

“Well . . . promise you won’t tell anyone. And that you won’t laugh . . .”

“Umm . . . okay . . .”

“I . . . have the  . . . German measles.”

A short pause, while he took in my news. Then, “Bwahahahahahaha!” (Sound of phone being dropped.) And Husby-To-Be moving through the office, telling every one of his co-workers.

Okay, which part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ and ‘don’t laugh’ did he not get?

We did get married.

I was totally fine. Except that in some of our photos, particularly the close-ups, you can see the barest hint of a red flush.

People simply dismiss it as evidence of excitement.

Now you know.

Gnome, Sweet Gnome

‘Twas a surprise, my Husband said, this gnome with lederhosen, red,

Cause I needed something to regard, and help adorn my dreary yard.

His words embarrassed, just a bit, but rather than to pitch a fit,

I tried to show him I was pleased, and smiled and gave my man a squeeze.

Then dutifully, I embraced, my acquisition and I raced,

To prove to Hubs I was a fawner, I put it in a place of honour.

And there it sat, all smiles and glee, and pleasing everyone but me.

But Hubs was happy, so I was, too, and life went on a day or two.

“I saw him in the window, thought... they’d be a pair, and so I bought!”

And thus he brought Gnome number two. This one, with lederhosen, blue.

Dear Husband bought with such great glee. And so I placed it carefully,

And now two faces in my yard, dressed red. And blue. And standing guard.

“A little trio! Look. And See. That one is there on bended knee.

‘Tis a proposal… (Oh, what fun!) …of marriage to that other one!

The third a preacher. Ready. Set. Just how much better can it get?!”

And thus acquired four, five and six. And added to my little mix.

And so it went. With each new day, more little figures came my way,

For Husband, thinking they gave joy, bought little Gnomish girls and boys.

And I placed each and every one, to try to please my Honeybun.

And soon, one couldn’t walk or run, without colliding with someone!

Now my yard’s crowded, oh, dear me! There’s gnomes as far as one can see,

Some are seated, some stand up. They’ve kittens, horses, birds and pups.

I think there’s three that carry snails. Look! One has brought me gnomish mail!

Those painted eyes, they do not see, repeated pleas to leave me be.

And so I know what I must do, to save my yard (and reason, too).

I’ll have a little garden sale. It’s what I need, it cannot fail!

The sign, I’ll make so carefully, it’s letters large and filled with glee:

For sale, one husband, not alone, with him come 80 Garden Gnomes!

Mondays to get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thought--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?

Next week through our working haze,
We'll celebrate vacation days!

Bladderwalk-y

With apologies to Lewis Carroll...

Twasn’t brilliant, and the nighttime coves

  Did show no sparkle in the waves:
Still shady were the darkening groves,
  And the footpaths the same.

"Beware the Bladderwalk, my son!
  The urge that wakes, makes your breath catch!
Beware the vision blurred, and shun
  The nightytime Slumbersnatch!"

He took his blankets, warm, in hand:
  Long time the prodigious urge he fought --
Still resting, he with his full ‘tummy’,
  He laid awhile in thought.

And, as in gloomy thought he lay,
  The Bladderwalk did lastly claim,
To come whiffling through the dark causeway,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The blankets, warm, went snicker-snack!
He sprightly fled, into the ‘head’
  Then went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Bladderwalk?
  Then back to bed, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brilliant, and the daytime coves
  Did sparkle brightly in the waves;
All misty were the brightening groves,
  But he never got to sleep again.

Super...Gone

If you are ever in Denver . . .

Somewhere in or near Denver, Colorado, is my wonderful, stupendous, long-awaited, much-anticipated, beloved, toy of the century.

The one that was mine too briefly.

Sigh.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When I was growing up, my rancher father often took his family on holidays.

Said holidays usually included some form of cattle show.

Or cattle ranch visit.

Or driving down the highway slowly because someone’s herd was there.

In the field.

I know you’re wondering what this has to do with my toy.

It’s coming . . .

This particular family trip had been planned with the National Western Stock Show - annually held in Denver - in mind.

And that was okay with me.

Because said stock show also included horse classes.

And I had a new toy.

Now it comes out . . .

The Wham-o company had just released the most amazing gadget.

A solid rubber ball that would bounce higher and do more tricks than anything that had ever been invented.

Aptly named the ‘Superball’, it was a thing of beauty.

An amazing little ball of rubber that promised hours and hours of entertainment.

I had wanted one forever.

Well, since I had first seen an ad a couple of months before.

Dad had stopped at a store before heading over to the stock show.

They had them! A whole display!

I was at a store that actually had the magical little balls for sale.

And my Dad was there.

With his wallet.

The planets had aligned. The day was mine!

And so, incidentally, was my little, dark blue miracle.

I pried open the package and, for the first time, felt the cool, smooth surface of the greatest high-bouncing ball of all time.

I sat there in the truck and held it.

Staring at it.

Smelling it.

I couldn’t wait to give it a good bounce.

Dad pulled into the stock section of the fair grounds and we all got out and went into the nearest pavilion.

I found myself standing in the lane of a long, concrete-floored, stall-lined, barn of a building.

Perfect.

I lifted the hand holding the ball . . .

And smashed it down onto the pavement as hard as I could.

Wow.

All of the ads never really paid it full justice.

That little ball hit that hard surface and shot like a missile toward the ceiling.

I stared at it; eyes wide and mouth open in a foolish grin of pleasure.

Then my magical toy came down.

Down.

Finally landing somewhere in the endless mounds of straw that filled the building.

Okay, that, I never anticipated.

I searched for that ball for hours.

I’d be searching still if my Dad hadn’t dragged me away for some frivolous ‘have-to-eat-and-sleep-and-for-heaven’s-sake-it’s-only-a-ball’ reason.

My one and only Superball.

You know, the ads claimed that it would keep on bouncing, almost forever. 

The ads were wrong.

Been Scammed?

Ever been scammed?

I have.

It's a terrible feeling when you realize what has happened.

But it's nothing new.

Allow me to illustrate:

Gramma and Grampa Berg on their wedding day

My Maternal grandparents emigrated from Sweden.

Grampa came first and started farming/ranching in Idaho.

Gramma followed later and they were married.

A short time afterward, they headed north, enticed by offers of beautiful farm land in Alberta. They settled on a half-section they acquired in the Brooks area.

Soon afterward, they met another couple who had been farming unsuccessfully in the area for some time and were ready for a change.

The man had a scheme.

A sure-fire, can’t-miss scheme.

“Trapping is the answer,” he said knowledgeably  “I’ve done it before. Get yourself a trap line and, in one winter, you can make enough to pay cash for the equipment you will need to farm.”

Grampa was intrigued by the idea.

No stranger to hard work, he was excited by the idea of trading long winter hours for the chance to start his farming operation with such a leg-up. He and Gramma decided they’d do it.

They studied the maps and decided on a tract of land further north of their new home place. A spot near Lac La Biche. They staked out their claim and moved into a small cabin near the train tracks.

Originally, the cabin had been erected for the use of the crew when they were laying said tracks. Their new friends (Remember the guy with the idea? Him.) had used it before.

It was . . . cozy, but it had every amenity. Walls and a roof. And a window and door. It also had a little stone oven that Grampa built. Outside. Gramma would build up a fire, let it burn down, then bake bread by the heat that remained in the stones. Beautiful bread. It was the one perk of living in a tiny cabin at the back of beyond.

Gramma Berg and her bread

For many long winter months, they and their friends/partners lived there and ran the trap line. Gramma’s first son, my uncle Glen, was born there.

They had a measure of success. In fact, by March, they had an abundant supply of furs.

The winter drew to a close. Even in northern Alberta, it does happen . . .

Plans were discussed to take the winter’s catch to the city to trade.

The decision was made that Grampa would stay at the cabin for one more week to take whatever animals he could in those last few days.

His partner would haul their furs to the city to trade.

The partner left.

Grampa caught up with him a week later in the city.

And that’s when things fell apart.

The partner claimed that he had lost their entire catch in the river when his boat swamped.

Their entire catch.

There was nothing Grampa could do.

He loaded up his wife and new son and their few belongings and headed back to his land near Brooks. One wasted, useless winter behind him. And a new farming operation ahead to be started without the leg-up he had counted on.

He did make a success of it and he and Gramma raised eight sons and my mom.

I’m sure the pain of that first set-back was completely overcome in the ensuing years.

That’s what we all count on when the scammers hit.

Sigh.

Times Table Trouncing

Me: Bottom right.
My Nemesis: Top Left.
Argh! 

I tried.

I really did.

I just wasn't . . . quite/ever . . . good enough.

Maybe I should explain.

Our grade five teacher, Mrs. Herbst, she of the blue hair, was a stickler for math.

And math facts.

Actually, she was a stickler for most school work, but especially for anything to do with numbers.

She devised many and various methods for teaching said facts.

Exercises.

Tests.

Quizzes. (Not to be confused with tests. Quizzes were shorter in length and supposedly carried less weight. And were jumped on you without notice. Yikes! Just FYI.)

Games . . .

And this is where our story starts . . .

Our class sat in desks in several long rows.

Mrs. Herbst would call the names of the front students in the two outside rows.

“Kathy and Margaret, please pay attention.”

Actually, I must confess that I don't know if those two girls were ever actually pitted against each other in Mrs. Herbst's devious little exercise, but they were two of the smartest girls in the class and I thought this sounded good.

Moving on . . .

The girls would take a deep breath and sit up, ready for what was coming.

“Seven times six!” Mrs. Herbst would bark out crisply.

“Forty-two!” Both girls would shout out together, nearly in unison.

The teacher would nod and smile.

And call out the names of the students seated just behind the first two.

“Five times nine!”

“Forty-Five!”

Slowly, she would work her way around the room.

Getting closer and closer to me.

And Kenny.

“Six times eight!”

“Forty-eight!”

“Four times nine!”

“Thirty-six!”

“Five times six!”

“Thirty!”

Finally, she would be looking at the students seated directly in front of her in the two center rows.

One of whom was almost purple with anticipation.

Okay. Me. I was almost purple with  . . . you get the picture.

The other was Kenny.

Mrs. Herbst would inhale.

My heart would stop.

“Nine times nine!”

“Eighty one!” Kenny would say, softly, before she had even finished the last word.

And just as I was drawing a breath, ready to shout.

“Rats!” I would say.

I knew the answer! I did!

That rotten Kenny beat me again!

I would sit back in my chair and glare, narrow-eyed, at the tall young man seated just opposite.

Next time, Kenny. Next time.

Potato Peeling Posterity

Okay . . . well . . . it's tougher than it looks.

My Mom could peel potatoes.

I mean, really peel potatoes.

She did it so fast, that, for years, I thought each potato had two peels.

Because there was always peel where I thought she had already . . .

Okay, so brilliant, I wasn't.

When I was ten, she decided the time had come for me to take my place in the 'potato peeling' scheme of things.

I have to point out that I had been totally fine in the whole 'watching' scenario.

But moms are never satisfied with the status quo.

Sigh.

And to top things off, she wasn't even there. She had put a roast in the oven, vegetables on the stove, ready to turn on.

I did know how to do that . . .

And a pan of potatoes to wash, peel and cook.

She even gave me a schedule.

At four o'clock, I reluctantly set down my book and headed into the kitchen.

I stared at the mound of potatoes and sighed. Surely there was a better way.

But this was the sixties. Instant anything was in its infancy.

And TV dinners were something other families ate.

I picked up a knife and started.

In my mind, I could picture Mom's sure, steady stroke, denuding each potato in seconds.

And in one long peel.

Reality was a bit . . . trickier. Little chunks of potato began to rain down into the bowl.

Hmmmm.

My potato skins seemed to be a lot thicker than Mom's.

Must be a different kind of potato.

Slowly . . . very slowly . . . the white potato began to emerge. Somewhat smaller than the original.

Okay, a lot smaller.

But finally it was finished.

I glanced at the clock. Suddenly, Mom's strict starting time instructions began to make sense.

This wasn't her first rodeo. Three older siblings has stood right where I was standing. Risking life and fingers in an effort to provide the family with dinner.

I picked up the second potato.

Half-an-hour later, I looked down, proudly, at my pristine bowl of newly-peeled potatoes.

Hmmm.

What had once filled the bowl now . . . didn't.

I shrugged and put a pot on the stove. Filled it to the instructed depth with water. Added my potatoes.

And turned on the burner.

A few minutes later, Mom came home.

I proudly pointed to the now bubbling pots of potatoes and vegetables and waited for her praise.

She didn't disappoint. “Good job, Diane,” she said, smiling.

Happily, I went to set the table. A job I was comfortable with.

That was over forty years ago.

I did learn to peel potatoes. In a lot less time. And with a lot thinner peels.

I have never been able to match my Mom's lightning fast, and amazingly efficient knife, but I can make a fairly credible showing.

Or so I thought.

At a recent family dinner, two of my granddaughters, ages six and nine, peeled all of the potatoes for the meal.

And when you are feeding some twenty people, that is a mound.

They were quicker than I am.

I was suddenly reminded of my mom.

Sometimes excellence skips a generation.

Bunny Breakage

Dishes and I have a history.

Okay, yes, I use them at meals.

But we regard each other with deep suspicion.

I’ve recounted one experience here.

But the one I’m about to describe is the first I can remember . . .

On the Stringam ranch, mealtimes were an exciting gustatory trip down the trail to deliciousness.

When the meal ended, the work began.

Well, for the rest of us. Mom had obviously already been at . . . never mind.

I was five.

The work, for me, consisted of transporting non-breakables from the table to the sink.

Yep. The spoons, butter knives and forks were my special friends.

Occasionally, I also branched out and dealt with such things as: napkins. Salt and pepper. Toothpicks.

My work load was exhausting.

Leftovers were carefully covered and stored in the ‘fridge.

Anything left on the plates was scraped into one container and taken out to the dogs, who then thought they had been sent to doggie heaven.

It was 1960. Doggie nutrition and diet hadn’t been invented yet.

Back to my story . . .

On this particular day, the scraps had been placed in my little brother’s ‘bunny’ bowl.

A cute little china bowl with a bunny scene in the bottom and bunnies running all around the outside.

The favourite choice of the under-five group.

Which, at that time, consisted of my brother.

Moving on . . .

Everyone was busy.

I had finished my all-important silverware shuffle and was at a loose end.

Then I saw it.

The bowl of dog scraps. Just sitting there, waiting for some grown-up person to transport it.

Me!

“Mom! I’m gonna take out the scraps!” I said, in my most authoritative voice.

“Mmm,” Mom said.

You have to understand that she was busy: effecting the organization of three other children, keeping a watch on the baby and talking to Dad.

“Yeah. I’m big enough!”

“Yes, dear.”

She said yes!

I grabbed the bowl and headed for the door.

Feeding the dogs on the ranch consisted of carrying the scraps across the cement driveway to the far copse of trees beside the old garage and tipping said scraps into the large, metal hubcap waiting there.

Sound easy?

Now picture several dogs (who had appeared as soon as the door opened) leaping and jumping around like idiots.

I suddenly realized why the job of taking out the scraps usually fell to a . . . bigger person.

I didn’t even make it across the driveway.

Blair’s little bunny bowl was knocked from my hand, breaking in half on impact.

The dogs happily started in on the scraps (glass fragments hadn’t been invented, either) and I collected the two pieces and returned, in tears of defeat, to my Mom.

It would be some years before I was again trusted with anything breakable. (See above.)

And our little bunny bowl was gone forever.

P.S. There is a happy ending to this story.

During a recent trip to Costco with my son, I saw something that . . . . well, I‘ll just let you see for yourself.

They’re back. Or, in truth, were never, really gone.

Just keep them away from me!