Summer . . . Smells

I wait for summer all year long,

The sun, the green, the birdies' song,

The kids out playing. Hills and dells,

But most of all, I love the smells

Where I live, the clear, pure air,

Wafts fragrances from everywhere,

And one can just stand there and sniff,

In all directions, catch a whiff.

In South Alberta, where we were,

With constant wind (the saboteur),

It blew the summer smells away

Like flowers, trees and new-mown hay,

But twice a year, the wind would stop,

We’d poke our nose out of the shop,

Delighted with the still air, WHEW!

‘Twas time to have a barbeque!

And so we’d get our tools out,

Invite the family, thaw the trout,

And just when we’d sit down to eat,

The table laden, air so sweet,

Another smell would cause alarm

The neighbour’d cleaned his piggies' barn.

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?
Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Next week, because I call the shots,
We'll all talk 'Bridges'. Love them lots!

Write-er

A large, prestigious college had a large, prestigious hall,

And through its doors came visitors. It welcomed one and all,

A bright, brass plaque was fixed o’er where the people walked each day,

Upon it clearly written the hall’s name of Hemingway.

There one day came a man, (a tourist and a writer, too)

Who took a tourist’s glee in all the rooms that he went through.

Who clapped with pleasure when he saw that name upon that plaque,

“Why, Hemingway’s my favourite!” said the man. (Let’s call him Jack.)

“As a fellow writer, I have read most everything he wrote,

“And don’t tell anyone, but he’s my favourite man to quote!

“It says something for your school that you would name a hall just so,

“I simply must explore before it’s time for me to go!”

His guide said, “Jack, I am afraid that you’re mistak-en be,

“This hall was not named for your Ernest, I must make you see,

“Though, yes by the name ‘Hemingway’ this hall is quite well known,

“You have to know it’s ‘Joshua’ who claims the name his own.”

“Joshua!” our Jack exclaimed. “Was he a writer, too?

“And was he a relation of the man that we all knew?”

“Though Hemingway’s his name, a tie to Ernest? Not a spec,

“And yes, he was a writer, for, to us, he wrote a check!”

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?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Next week, we’re all here anyhow,

Let’s talk of Things that Scare Us now.

And now for some funnies!

Beard or Blonde

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) was a tall, lean, man of few words.

Quiet, thoughtful and endlessly patient; when he spoke, you listened.

Usually what he had to say was of import.

But he had an aversion to blondes.

No one knew where this particular sensitivity came from. An unfortunate acquaintance.

A particular experience.

The true reason(s) passed when he did.

His wife, my Mother-in-Law (Ditto: MIL) was a small, dark-haired, bustling person of chatter and good humour.

Living for family and household.

The two of them, together, created a world of peace and calm.

Happy posterity and good food.

But there was one place where they differed.

Noticeably so.

Let me tell you about it . . .

FIL was a clean-shaven man. Never prone to going more than a day or two without face scrape-age. Even during harvest, a time in which many other rules and customs were sacrificed in favour of bringing in the all-important crop.

MIL preferred it that way. She liked to see the lines of one’s face.

But occasionally, FIL would tire of the ever-present razor and declare that he was going to grow a beard.

Anyone within hearing distance would suck in an astonished, slightly apprehensive breath and glance at MIL.

She would smile gently and announce, to no one in particular, “Hmmm . . . I think I’ll dye my hair blonde!”

FIL would silently lift his newspaper and go on with whatever had been interrupted.

MIL would go back to bustling.

And the conversation (so to speak) would die. Right there.

My In-Laws had an amazing rapport.

A friendship.

Companionship.

Truly loving relationship.
Even when they differed.
Interesting. Quietly heading off rebellion using one's partner's own aversions.
Only in the best of families . . .