The SunSet Date

Just the two of us.

My Husby believes in date night.

A least once a week.

He and me.

Fun.

In our earlier, more penurious days we got creative.

In nice weather, long walks.

Around town. Along the river bottom.

Sometimes, we'd wander through the mall, just looking.

Occasionally buying a hot chocolate or ice cream cone to share.

Going grocery shopping.

Having an evening picnic.

Wonderful times.

As we near retirement, dating consists of movies, dinners, theatre and concerts.

Still fun.

As long as we're together.

A couple of evenings ago, my Husby's truck broke down.

He pulled into the nearest parking lot.

Called for a tow-truck, and then called me to come and bring him home.

I arrived long before said tow-truck.

Looooong before.

Together, we waited.

Nearby were several formal restaurants.

And an A&W.

Not wanting to leave the truck until help deigned to arrive, Grant suggested that one of us run across the street to the fast food outlet and grab a couple of burgers.

I volunteered.

Between you and I, I'd rather do that then instruct a tow-truck driver if and when he decided to show up.

Ahem . . .

I returned.

We ate.

Have I mentioned that the world looks better on a full tummy?

Well, it does.

We talked and laughed.

Sitting on the tailgate of the truck in the warm sun.

And the cool summer breeze.

Oh, we both had places we needed to be.

Things that needed doing.

But, for that moment, all that was important were a couple of burgers.

The tailgate of our truck.

The warm summer evening.

And the two of us.

Re-discovering the perfect date.

In our sunset years.

The Last Tantrum

Don't let the tie fool you.

Our eldest son had a world class talent.

World class.

If it had been an event in the Olympics, he'd have taken home the gold.

But there wasn't.

And he didn't.

Maybe I should explain.

Mark was born with the ability to throw a tremendous, colossal, stupendous, prodigious, enormous, fantastic, howling, mind-blowing tantrum.

I know that many children do.

Even some adults.

But no one has ever done it quite at the same level.

And he saved his best performances for when we were in public.

Usually in the toy section of the local department store.

Sigh.

When he was three, he gave his most memorable performance.

Well, I certainly can't forget it . . .

He wanted a toy.

I can't remember which one, but he wasn't getting it.

The family budget was already suffering chills and fever.

Any unnecessary purchases would have surely sent it into a coma.

We started to move away from said toy.

Mark realized that his begging and pleading had come to naught.

He dropped to the ground.

And began to flop around like a landed fish.

Then the screams started.

Now, my Husby and I had learned that that proper way to handle a tantrum was to just keep walking.

Which we did.

To this point, it had never worked.

We discovered that Mark could flop and scream AND keep up with his moving parents.

See?

Skill and talent.

But this day was a little different.

This day, we had unexpected . . . help.

As we ducked around the corner, and before Mark could start after us, an elderly gentleman walked up to our writhing boy and stood there, looking down at him.

Mark finally realized that someone was standing beside him.

He opened his eyes.

To see a perfect stranger.

“I guess you'd better come with me,” the man said.

Tantrum instantly forgotten, Mark scrambled to his feet.

“MooooOOOOMMMMM!”

His father poked his head around the corner.

Mark ran to him and grabbed him about the knees in a grip fuelled by three parts fear and one part . . . okay, four parts fear.

My Husby silently looked at the man.

Both of them smiled.

And just like that, Mark's public tantrums were finished.

Oh, he still treated us to private performances, but never again were we humiliated in public.

We often think of that man.

A father?

Grandfather?

Whoever he was, his wisdom . . .

. . . and timing . . .

Were one of the greatest blessings of our parenting years.

I wish we could tell him.

Barbie - The Ultimate Weapon

Okay. She's tougher than she looks . . .

My little brother and sister were playing.

Something they wasted a lot of time doing.

When they could have been involved with much more productive pursuits.

Like me.

Sitting in the chair, reading.

Ahem.

Fiery, three-year-old Anita had a new Barbie doll.

She was combing its hair and dressing and undressing.

Happily absorbed in what she was doing.

Placid, five-year-old Blair had been playing with some of his toys.

Also happily absorbed.

Then he noticed Anita’s activities.

Hmmm.

This looked interesting.

He watched for a few minutes.

Fascinating.

Finally, his curiosity had to be addressed.

“May I see it?” he asked.

I should point out that he asked politely.

Blair was always polite.

Still is, but that is another story.

Moving on . . .

Anita looked at him. “Sure,” she said, grabbing her new Barbie by its feet and holding it out.

Blair moved closer.

Closer.

He reached out.

Whereupon (good word) Anita lifted her Barbie and whacked him over the head with it.

“See!” she said.

“Ouch!” Blair rubbed his head. “Whydja do that?”

But Anita was back to playing.

“I guess I won’t look at it then,” he said.

Of course there were reports and repercussions.

Punishment was meted out.

And all was forgiven.

But not forgotten.

Moving ahead many years . . .

Our baby sister is achieving a significant age this fall.

Brother Blair already has plans.

I won’t tell you what they are, but they may or may not include something to do with a Barbie doll.

Isn’t payback grand?

More later . . .

The Non-Party Animal

Jerry. With Mom.
Oh, and me.

Jerry is my big brother.

He’s cool

He’s neat.

And he never could be considered a ‘party animal’.

An explanation is in order . . .

One of the best times to host a party is on New Year’s Eve.

Everyone is excited.

Everyone is happy.

And , more importantly, everyone wants to party.

Jerry decided to host his first, ever, New Year’s Eve celebration.

Invitations were extended.

Preparations were made.

And Mom cleaned the house for two days straight.

They were ready . . .

The party started out well.

Forty or so kids, all intent of having a great time.

There was a group in the ping-pong room.

Cheering or competing.

Another group around the pool table.

Ditto.

There were kids dancing in the front room.

Kids playing games wherever there was a space.

Kids circling the snacks table.

And kids visiting with my Mom in the kitchen.

The house was full and the party was, for lack of a better term, ‘hitting on all cylinders’.

The time came for the big build-up to the New Year.

Noisemakers were handed out.

Because forty-plus people couldn’t make enough noise on their own.

The countdown.

The cheer.

Or rather, din.

And the New Year was official.

Everybody completed the ritual hugging and kissing.

And went back to what they had been doing.

Well, almost everyone.

Several young ladies were looking for someone specific to ‘congratulate’.

My brother, Jerry.

They searched throughout the house.

Staked out the bathrooms until the current occupant emerged.

And finally enlisted the help of my Mom.

She did a circuit of the obvious places.

Then decided to see if Jerry was, for some reason, in his room.

She knocked.

No answer.

She cracked the door and peeked into the darkened room.

Then reached in and flipped the light switch.

A sleepy head lifted from the pillow.

“Whazzup?”

He had visited and played games.

He had congratulated and cheered.

He had gotten tired.

He had gone to bed.

Never mind that he was leaving his guests to wind down and find their own way to the door.

Nope.

Bed was the place for him.

Yep.

My brother, Jerry.

Party host extraordinaire.

“Good night! Don’t forget to put out the lights when you leave!”

Rise and/or Shine

Go ahead! Sing!

How do you 'rise and shine'?

Throughout my life, I have been summoned from sleep in various ways.

Some gentle.

Some strident.

All annoying.

My mom, a member of the 'never wake a sleeping child' sorority, let me sleep in till I woke up on my own.

Well, until I went to school, that is.

Then, her usual wake up call consisted of, “Diane! Get up! The bus will be here in ten minutes!”

Okay, I will admit that she usually called me much earlier than that.

I just wasn't listening.

Ahem.

Dad's form of summoning consisted of one word. “Spring!”

And it was always obeyed instantly.

My Mom, you could coax and cajole, but dad?

You moved.

Because.

Often, I found myself standing beside my bed with no idea of how I got there.

My Husby took a more creative, albeit (Oooh! Good word!) equally annoying route.

He would sing.

Badly.

But loudly.

In our house, 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!', the usually bright, happy, uplifting anthem from Oklahoma, sounded more like . . . honking.

Or a chorus of frogs.

Or ball-bearings rolling around in a hubcap.

(Don't ask me how I know what that sounds like.)

His 'singing' brought instant . . . let me put it this way: No one slept through it.

“Dad! Aarrgghh!”

Success.

Moving ahead . . .

Our oldest son had recently become engaged.

To a beautiful girl.

Our entire family had travelled to Fort Macleod to a reunion.

Our future daughter-in-law was bunking with our other daughters.

It was morning.

There was far too much sleeping going on.

My Husby decided he needed to do something proactive.

He went to the door of the girls' room.

Cleared his throat.

And started singing.

You really haven't heard 'Oh What a Beautiful Morning' sung quite like he sings it.

Our future daughter-in-law looked at her future sister-in-law.

“Does he always do this?”

Her answer was muffled by the pillow over her future sister-in-law's head. “Yes.”

“Oh. Hmmm. Maybe I'll have to rethink my joining this family.”

She did join. She comes from hardy stock.

I thought I'd tell you that in case you were worried.

Back to my story . . .

This morning, my alarm woke me.

“Bla-Bla-Bla-Bla-Bla-Bla . . .”

Suddenly I missed my Mom's repeated time updates, my Dad's single word warnings and my Husby's singing.

It's all a matter of perspective.

The Kindling

I was never the victim of bullies in grade school.

But there were kids that didn’t like me.

And at times, I wished ‘nasty’ on them.

Trip in public.

Drop all of their books.

Say something really, really stupid.

Somehow, lighting their gym shorts on fire would have been so much more appropriate.

And infinitely more fun.

And, incidentally, that’s how Braden Bell’s new book, The Kindling starts out.

With the bully leaping and hopping around, trying to beat out his flaming gym shorts.

Genius.

And it just keeps on going from there.

The Kindling takes us, together with thirteen-year-olds Conner, Lexa and Melanie, on a non-stop roller-coater ride of Magic and mayhem with a large dollop of Adventure (notice the capital 'A') with some good old rock'em, sock'em fighting to the finish between the forces of Light and Dark.

What would you do if you discovered that you were a magic-wielding defender of the Light?

Who could call up flames.

Explode someone’s lunch.

Fight the forces of Dark.

Avoid strange-looking stalkers.

And still make it to Dr. Timberi’s third period music class.

Written mainly for middle readers, The Kindling will satisfy the craving for adventure in all who succumb to the pull of its great cover.

Because it is one fantastic, never-ending ride!

The Kindling raises three important questions:

1. Has the destructive power of pizza ever really been tested?

2. Did anyone know that middle school teachers could turn out to be your best friends/army buddies?

-and- 

3. When's the next book?

The Kindling is available for purchase.

Some background on the story, and the author, Braden Bell:

http://www.bradenbell.com/the-story-behind-the-kindling.html

Small Town (Lack of) Education

Milk River is a small place.

Hardly more than a dot on a map.

And, though it was the centre of my world, in a cosmopolitan sense, it would not be considered . . . well . . . cosmopolitan.

Oh, we had descendants of peoples from many places around the world.

Hungarian.

Swedish.

German.

Polish.

United Kingdom.

In fact, most of Europe.

But no African Americans.

In fact, the only people who weren't strictly white-skinned, were our few wonderful Japanese families.

Until I moved from Milk River after high school, I had never actually seen a dark-skinned person.

Move forward several years.

My Husby and I raised our family on a ranch near Fort Macleod, Alberta.

A wonderful town.

Comparative to Milk River in many respects.

Including the lack of people of African American descent.

After several years, we moved our family to Edmonton.

It was an education.

On many levels.

But especially in the 'race, creed and colour' department.

On to my story . . .

Shortly after our move, we decided to take our family swimming at the nearest facility.

They loved swimming.

All went well.

I was sitting in the children's pool with my youngest.

My two-year-old was playing nearby.

Suddenly he stopped.

Stared.

Then ran quickly to me.

“MOM!” he said excitedly, as only a two-year-old can. “LOOK! A CHOCOLATE MAN!”

All heads turned in our direction.

I felt myself flushing as I resignedly followed the pointing finger.

A dark-skinned man was walking along the side of the pool.

Oh, and he was looking, too.

Sigh.

I loved being raised in a small town.

It was peaceful.

Wonderful.

But some aspects of small town life definitely need work.
P.S. My youngest son also had an encounter with "Alladin" but that is another story.

Our Mike

A reworked post for a very busy day.
Enjoy!


We had a dog. 
Mike. 
Big dog. 
Saint Bernard. 
Very protective. 
He thought nothing of risking his very life defending us from such dangerous things as – the cat. Tumbleweeds. 
The occasional cardboard box, blowing in the wind. 
Laundry. 
In the history of the world, no one was safer. 
My parents could relax, knowing that Mike was on duty.
We decided to take our fearless guard dog swimming. 
We didn’t realize that Mike was a mountain dog. Swimming hadn’t been programmed into his non-rewritable brain. 
He knew only two things. 
Snow. 
And saving people. 
Swimming couldn’t possibly fit in there anywhere. 
But he good-naturedly followed us because he was . . . good natured. 
At first everything went well. 
We swam. 
Mike ran up and down the bank, barking frantically. 
If anyone ventured near enough to grab, he did so. 
By whatever protruded enough for him to get a grip on. 
But to his horror, the ‘saved’ person would inevitably extricate themselves and, without even a thank you, nullify all his best efforts by charging back into the milky waters.
Finally, Mike’s lack of success in the saving department became too much for him. His frustration boiled over into something more proactive. 
He started venturing further and further into the uber-dangerous, monster filled water, seeking someone – anyone - to save. 
A limb passed near. 
Or someone’s backside. 
He grabbed it, and whoever it was attached to, and dragged them to the shore. Kicking and screaming. 
How happy they must be that he was on hand to save them! 
Listen to the sound of their relief! 
He would bark happily and charge in for the next heroic act.
He never managed to drown anyone. 
Wisdom. 
Or a miracle. 
After that, when we went swimming, our hero guarded the garage. 
From the inside.

The Birds and the Bees

No

Yes

This story is about sex.

But it’s not what you think.

I was raised on a ranch.

There are animals on a ranch.

That do ‘animal stuff’.

Eating. Sleeping. Growing.

Making other ‘little’ animals.

Which then eat. And sleep. And grow.

And make . . .

You get the picture.

It was the rhythm of life throughout my childhood.

The statement, ‘I grew up with it’?

Applies here.

My earliest memory of the whole ‘animals fulfilling the measure of their creation’ happened when I was four.

Roundup.

A great red and white sea of animals had been penned in the main corrals.

One jumped atop another.

“Daddy, what’s that cow doing?”

My dad turned and looked.

Then realized that he wasn’t quite ready to explain the whole reproductive process to his wide-eyed daughter. “Oh,” he said. “Ummm . . . resting his feet.”

“Oh.” I was satisfied.

For a while.

Oh, he did explain things.

Later.

When the whole ‘resting his feet’ explanation started to wear a bit thin.

Yes, being raised on a ranch is an eye-opening experience.

By the time I was in grade nine, I knew it all.

Or thought I did.

We were in biology class. My favourite science.

The teacher was talking about animal reproduction.

Yawn.

Specifically: chickens.

“Now the chicken ovulates once a day,” he was saying. “That’s where we get our yummy, delicious eggs.”

I was with him this far.

“But when . . . exposed  . . . to a rooster, the egg becomes fertilized and a chick results.”

Wait a minute.

Roosters have a purpose?

Other than the obvious one of chasing us kids around and being generally obnoxious?

Hold the phone!

Unfortunately, my astonishment was, much to my dismay, expressed verbally.

“What?!”

Whereupon (good word) every kid in the class turned and looked at me.

And snickered.

Sigh.

Yep. I was nearly 14.

And I had just learned that birds follow the same reproductive channels (so to speak) as other animals.

Okay. Now, I knew it all.

I just wish I could forget it . . .

Generation Gap(e)

Look closely. I'm sure you'll see some gaps . . .

Okay, I don't want to suggest that there is a generation gap in our family but . . . well . . .

Yes. There is a generation gap in our family.

And it was never more obvious than it was yesterday.

Several of my grandchildren were over for the long weekend.

It was a fun time, made even more fun by the 'launch' of our new pirate-ship playhouse.

All of the kids were in the house.

Because it had decided to rain.

And our intrepid pirates didn't want to get wet.

Ironic, I know, but there you are . . .

The oldest girls were colouring.

The eldest was also singing.

At least I think it was singing.

“You are Beau-ti-ful! You are Beau-ti-ful! You are Beau-ti-ful!”

Over and over and over.

After a few minutes of this, I leaned over the table, collected her attention and said, “Your record's stuck.”

Now this was a term from my childhood, teenage years, adulthood.

In fact, right up to the present day.

It was something I thought everyone knew.

I was wrong.

She stared at me, blankly. “Huh?”

I thought she must have simply missed what I said.

I repeated myself. “Your record's stuck.”

“Huh?” she said again.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

Finally, “What's a record?” she asked.

“A record,” I struggled gamely forward, “A record is what you listen to. On the . . . record . . . player . . .” my voice dwindled away.

She was still staring at me, blankly.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I can't believe that this newest generation hasn't even heard of records! Why it's only been a few years since I used them. 

Ten at the most.

I looked at her.

Nine years old.

Oh.

Then I thought of all the things she would never understand from my childhood.

She would never pick up a telephone, crank the handle and hear the word, “Operator.” 

Never see the 'Indian-head' test pattern and hear 'O Canada' at the beginning of the television day. Or hear 'God Save the Queen' at the end of the day, before the TV goes dark and silent. 

Never sit around the table after dinner, listening sleepily to the hired men discuss their day's experiences with the boss.

And I thought of all of the things that I wouldn't - or didn't want to - understand from hers.

Yep. Generation gap.

Gives us a little breathing room.

Probably a good thing.

Speedooooooooooooooo!

It's July.

Time for a story about Christmas.

Because.

And in keeping with what has become a week of stories about my Husby, my favourite . . .

In the Tolley household, Christmas . . . the actual ‘business portion’ which includes frantic tearing of colourful papers and scrabbling through mounds of discarded wrapping, was an event on hold.

Until the father of the house finally succumbed to the pleadings of his numerous children and crawled out of bed.

Once he hit the front room, it was every man for himself.

Or every woman . . . or child . . .

You get the picture.

To facilitate the introduction of said father to the ‘action room’, the children, over the years, had graduated from begging to more . . . proactive methods.

As their size and strength increased, they finally achieved the impossible.

Plucking their sire from his warm downy and carrying him, bodily, to his place of honour.

In an attempt to thwart their . . . growing . . . expertise, their father began to incorporate thought into the proceedings.

He resorted to sneakiness.

With varying degrees of success.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

Christmas, 2001, began like many others.

Tiny noises in the bowels of the house which told us that the natives were stirring.

And that time for any needed preparation was short.

Grant leaped from the bed and, under cover of darkness, began to shed his pyjamas.

Not unusual.

However, considering that our children would soon be bounding up the stairs demanding to open presents . . . Well . . . okay, unusual.

Sleepily, I noted the sound of fabric sliding over flesh.

He was pulling something else on.

Then, he crawled back into the bed and snuggled close.

Suspicious, I asked him what he was wearing and he chuckled.

“Not much,” he said.

Then the pounding started. “Mom, Dad! Time to open presents!”

“Okay,” he called, cheerfully.

Another sign that all was not as it should be.

The door swung open.

Slowly.

Several suspicious noses poked into the room, the light from the hallway throwing their shadows across the bed. Remember, these children had been exposed to many different devices in an attempt to discourage them from their desired goal.

Duct tape, catapults, duct tape, air horns, chains with padlocks, duct tape, yards of medical gauze, mustard, duct tape.

Okay, I admit it. He likes duct tape.

Back to my story . . .

The group stayed huddled for a moment, afraid to pierce the unknown blackness that pervaded our room.

We remained still.

Finally one brave soul reached for the switch, flooding the scene with light.

I blinked sleepily at them.

They moved slowly forward, still tightly packed.

A group makes a harder target.

Okay the reasoning needs a bit of work, but there is safety in numbers.

They approached the bed.

Still cautious.

Still peering anxiously into the shadows and flinching at every sound.

Finally, they reached their father.

Silence.

Grant’s eyes were closed, a small, blissful smile creasing his face.

Not a good sign.

One of the older boys grabbed the covers, then paused, gaining courage.

The silence stretched.

He threw them back.

And disclosed his portly father clad in a ‘speedo’.

I am not making this up.

It was a bright blue one.

Oh, and a bow-tie. Red. With sequins.

Now I would like to take this opportunity to state that the ‘speedo’ swimsuit was created with speed in mind, hence the name. Comfort is secondary, and looks a far distant third.

Certainly they look . . . ummm . . . delicious on a trim, incredibly fit man.

On a middle aged, fairly Santa-esque male?

Not as good.

But certainly effective.

The kids scattered.

Screaming.

We could hear one of them moaning in the hall. “I don’t want to open presents, do you want to open presents?”

Another, “I can’t un-see it! I can’t un-see it!”

Still another, “Presents? What are those? I’m going back to bed!”

My husband chuckled. “I should have thought of this years ago!” he said.

Mission accomplished.

Okay, you'll have to use your imagination regarding  clothing.
This is the best I can do.

Honey Bunny

He is a Honey Bunny!

I admit it.

I call my Husby names.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby was serving on a church committee.

With several other men.

One of which worked as a police detective in his real life.

Tough guy to the world.

Sweet and kind underneath.

It was evening.

After supper but not yet bed time.

The phone rang.

I answered.

What followed was, to me, a fairly mundane conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Diane. Is Grant there?” I recognized the voice of our friend, the police detective.

“He is! Would you like to talk to him?”

“Please.”

“Just a moment!” I turned and hollered.

Okay, yes, I do that . . .

“Honey Bunny!”

Grant answered.

From somewhere in the bowels of the house.

“You're wanted on the phone!”

He appeared.

Took it from me.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then, “Are you a Honey Bunny?”

I saw my Husby's face turn slightly pink.

Here was his good friend, the policeman.

Tough guy extraordinaire.

What should he say?

He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

His friend laughed. “Good,” he said. “So am I.”

Even the most unlikely . . .

The Beaumont Pie-Rats

Monday's PhotoPrompt:
Inspired by my PhotoPrompt group and my good friend Delores at The Feathered Nest  

For several months, my Husby's health wasn't . . . very good. 

In fact, we were quite worried about him.

But, with excellent medical care and ongoing treatment, he has stepped back from the brink.

The conception and planning for a new PROJECT has completed the cure.

I present his 'cure'.

The New Tolley Grandchildren Playhouse

We now have a pirate ship in our back yard.

Or as my Husby prefers to call it, a 'Pie-Rat' ship.

I won't mention the looks we have been getting from the neighbours.

Or the speculation over whether 'we know something they should know'.

And the watching of the sky for the threat of heavy rains.

Moving on . . .

Our ship is built completely out of recycled and scavenged materials.

It consists of three levels.

Spiral staircase.

Rope ladders.

A plank, ideal for walking into the family pool.

A slide.

Swings.

And a flag picturing a pie and crossed forks.

I should probably mention that we rather like pie.

Hence the renaming of all grandchildren, 'Pie-Rats'.

Looking forward

The spiral

Looking back
Photos by: Kallie Tolley

We opened it to the grandchildren - ahem - Pie-Rats, on Saturday.

Following very brief speeches.

The tossing of a pie.

And the equipping of grandchildren with the necessities.

Pirate head scarves.

Swords.

And lots and lots of food.

I think it is a hit.

Who says the Tolleys don't know how to party?!

More pictures to follow . . .

The 'Eyes' Have it

The Stringam ranch house had one delicious feature.

That kids love.

And parents hate.

The kitchen ran right into the hallway, which ran into the living room, which ran back into the kitchen.

Or, alternately, if one wanted to change things up a little - from the kitchen into the living room into the hallway, back into the kitchen.

It was a perfect setup.

For running laps.

Which we did.

Usually at mealtimes.

Because it kept us near the kitchen.

But not completely under Mom's feet.

Unfortunately, in an effort to keep us safe, Mom would inevitably holler, “You kids stop that before someone loses an eye!”

We would stop.

Oh, not because we were afraid of losing something important.

But because Mom usually had a large spoon or knife in one hand when she said it.

Okay, yes, we were afraid of losing something important.

Moving on . . .

It was suppertime.

Mom was cooking.

My brother and I were running.

Mom said, “You kids stop running! Someone's going . . .!”

That was as far as she got.

I skidded out on the corner.

Just going into the turn between the living room and the hallway.

There was a chair there.

Large.

Heavy.

It, and my eye, had what could only be called a 'close encounter'.

It won.

Remember what Mom said about 'losing an eye'?

Well, she was close . . .

There was the sound of contact.

*thump*

Then the pause.

Then the shriek.

Mom came running.

I was writhing around on the floor, screaming.

Both hands clamped over my right eye.

I'm sure Mom's heart probably stopped.

She pulled my hands away.

Probably expecting to see the fulfilment of her prognostication (Oooh, good word!).

Fortunately for me, it hadn't happened.

The fulfilment, I mean.

My eyebrow had taken the brunt of the blow.

It puffed up and out quickly and remarkably.

I looked like a prize fighter.

Mom dragged me, still screaming, into the kitchen.

Where she produced her largest and deadliest-looking knife.

I stared at her, then clamped my hands back over my injured and puffy eye and screamed, “No, Mom! Don't cut it off!”

You see, when she picked up the knife, she had been looking for 'cool'.

Something to lay against my wound to take down the swelling.

I was looking at an instrument of a far more radical method of 'swelling removal'.

Fortunately, her more humane treatment was what we went with.

“Diane! I'm not going to cut it off! The knife is cool. It'll help the swelling!”

Oh.

I finally dropped my hands and allowed her to continue.

She pressed the cool surface against my eyebrow.

Ahhh!

Moms know everything.

I'd like to say we stopped running.

Forever.

That we learned our lesson.

That one close call convinced us that Mom knew whereof she spoke.

I'd be lying.

What Matters Most

You see animals. They see . . .

Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .

Our grandchildren were playing.

I should mention, here, that my Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.

Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.

Animals from every continent of the world.

And from every age.

Yep. Extensive.

He bought them for his grandkids.

He says.

Moving on . . .

Said grandkids love playing with said animals.

They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.

And will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.

Countless scenarios had been acted out.

Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?

Well they can.

Back to my story . . .

Three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.

The theme of the day was dinosaurs.

Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.

Thorin, the same for the triceratops.

Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself.

“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”

Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.

“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin frowned.

Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.

Rini smiled, too. Encouragingly.

Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.

“Pokies!” he said happily.

Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

Bravery for the 'Faint' of Heart

Which are you?

I just read that, when faced with something dire, a person will fight.

Or a person will fly.

Sometimes, we don't know which one we are until the climactic moment.

Allow me to illustrate.

My bedroom was across and down the hall from the bathroom.

And I wasn't an 'early-to-bedder'.

These two facts will become relevant . . .

I had been reading.

Something I did every night.

For a very long time.

I finally decided it was time to get ready for bed.

Which included brushing and scrubbing.

And all things hygienic.

I should point out that all other members of my household had long been asleep.

Or so I thought.

I finished my evening ablutions. (Oooh! Good word!)

And, clutching my toiletries bag, headed for my bedroom.

Now the words 'across and down the hall' may sound like a long distance.

It wasn't.

But it was enough.

And it was dark.

I darted toward my door.

And was just reaching for the doorknob when a voice came out of the darkness.

“What are you doing!”

Okay, it was the voice of my father, so it shouldn't have given me the fright it did.

But the fact remains – I was frightened.

And then, the ultimate response.

Fight?

Or fly.

Let me describe:

Pitch dark hall.

Household asleep.

Girl with large imagination and small intellect dashing across the hall.

Quickly, so as to avoid things that might come out of the darkness and 'get her'.

Voice rumbles out of said darkness.

What does girl do?

Fight?

Fly?

No. 

Girl crumples to the floor.

I am not making this up.

My legs folded up and I fell to the floor.

When faced with a crisis, or so I thought, I curled up.

Like a little spider.

But with less legs.

So, which are you?

Fight?

Or fly?

When you decide, let me know.

I will be the shivering little puddle of goo.

Curled up on the floor.

Sigh.

I Can Fix That!

Foreground: Ranch. Background: Machinery Hill

On the Stringam Ranch, there was a hill.

A large hill.

It had old machinery parked on top.

We called it the 'Old Machinery Hill'.

Okay, so creative, we weren't.

There could be found the outdated, outmoded and discarded mechanical devices of ranch life.

Mowers, haybines, cultivators, tractors, cars and trucks.

All neatly parked in rows.

My brothers spent many blissful hours on that hill, deconstructing the various machines (and machine engines) to be found.

Excitedly, they would point out to me the valves and sprockets pulled from this amazing machine and 'Wow! Aren't they fantastic?!' Then proceed to explain just how these intricate little marvels fit into the whole 'making-this-machine-bale-hay' scenario.

To which I would nod and smile.

Then run off to see what the horses were doing.

But that was just the beginning of my brothers' mechanical adventures.

Throughout their lives, I can picture them with various machine parts spread out neatly as they re-constructed and fine-tuned.

Something that still goes on today.

I should probably mention that the 'mechanical bug' hit me as well.

Later.

I took apart, fixed and re-assembled in my world, too.

Mom's piano-organ. Her toaster. Iron.

The only thing that defeated me were the clippers.

Oh, and the washing machine and I have a history, too.

But we won't mention those.

Please.

Moving ahead . . .

Our four-year-old grandson was playing quietly in their basement.

A little too quietly.

Usually this heralded trouble.

His mother went to check.

She found him with one of his sister's musical toys disassembled in front of him.

Part of it had stopped working.

The need for new batteries had been ruled out because the other parts were still working.

He had rummaged through his father's tools and found the screwdriver he needed.

Then proceeded to take the toy apart.

This was when his mother came in.

He looked up at her.

“It wasn't working,” he said calmly.

Something he had pointed out to her on numerous occasions.

“So I'm fixing it.”

Now remember, this boy just turned four in April.

The two of them saw that a wire had become disconnected.

They reconnected.

No response.

“It has a micro-chip,” he said suddenly, pointing. “Maybe it just needs a new micro-chip.”

His mother stared at him. “You're probably right,” she said, finally.

When she told us the story, I was reminded suddenly of my brothers.

With their tools.

And their sprockets and wheels.

The torch is passed.

The newest generation . . .
Photo Credit

Talking Turkey

I am bilingual.

Oh, not in the way you imagine.

My second language really isn't that practical.

Truth be told, I don't even know what I'm saying.

But the fact remains that I can speak another language.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My kids and I loved spending time at Fort Edmonton Park.

It's a stroll through Edmonton's history.

There's a bona fide re-creation of an 1846 fort.

And a small town.

Comprised of 'dated' streets.

1885 Street, devoted to life in Edmonton when dust and mud were king and electricity was something only Jules Verne imagined.

1905 Street, when modern dreams were beginning.

And 1920 Street, where modern conveniences and votes for women have become reality.

There are shops and residences with actors portraying very real Edmontonians of the past.

It was (and is) fun.

And we loved it.

We spent nearly every Thursday there throughout the summer.

Walking on stilts.

Playing games.

Eating baking fresh from the ovens.

Visiting the shops.

Inter'acting' with the actors.

It was a great way to spend a day.

Then we found the flock of turkeys behind one of the residences.

And that's when I discovered that I could speak a second language.

Turkeys make a distinct 'mmmmbladladladladladladladladl' sound.

And I could mimic it.

Really.

You want to talk talent?

We stood at the side of their large pen and I 'talked' to them.

The male got quite animated.

He ruffled his feathers and puffed up his facial dangly bits and marched around importantly.

It was very entertaining.

The kids would urge me on. “Come on Mom! Say something else!”

And I'd do my mmmmbladladladladladladladladl.

And the turkey would get apoplectic.

We even drew a crowd.

“Look! That woman can talk to the turkeys.”

Okay. Sometimes, you have to look for your entertainment.

And you have to admit that not everyone can talk turkey.

P.S. Guinea Pigs and I also have a history.

Bonus:

Gram and Gramp . . . and Me.

From Delores' wonderful Monday PhotoPrompt.

Delores' picture of she and her grandparents

Gram was in the kitchen, cooking so efficiently,

Gramp was in his easy chair and I was on his knee.

Their kindly ways and gentle spirits touched so tenderly,

Way back in the early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

He was a rancher, cattleman; and honest to a 'T'.

She helped and worked right by his side and served so faithfully.

The two of them raised children strong and loved their family,

E'en before those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

When I was four, my Grampa died; he passed on peacefully,

Gram carried on as best she could, preserved his legacy.

But when I stop and think at bit, I cannot help but see,

There weren't enough of those early days of Gram and Gramp . . . and me.

My own Gram and Gramp` Stringam on their 50th wedding anniversary

Dining-Chair Buses

Oh, the places we went . . .

Photo Credit

Mom was washing the floor.

Something she did often.

Because.

I should mention also that, when Mom washed the floor, she WASHED the floor.

Everything portable was carried into the next room.

She got down on her knees with a pail of hot, soapy water and scrubbed.

Then she applied wax.

Then she ran the polisher.

Which looked like a big, green bug on a long stick.

Just FYI.

The floor shone like a mirror.

Perfect for sliding on with stocking feet.

But this story isn't about that.

This story starts where she carted the portable stuff into the next room . . .

As soon as the chairs appeared in the living room, George and I would materialize.

From what ever places we had disappeared into when Mom announced that she needed helpers to wash the floors.

Ahem.

We would line the chairs up, one behind the other.

Voila! Bus.

George would be the bus driver and I would be the lady with the 400 children riding in the back.

Okay, you're right. I didn't have 400 children.

But I did have 400 stuffed animals.

Sheesh.

You're such a stickler for details.

Moving on . . .

Happily, we played until Mom finished with the floors and came out to dismantle our playground.

Actually, it was the one time in the week that George and I did play happily together.

A thing of note.

Oh, the places we went.

The children we dropped out of the windows.

Good times.

An aside: the couch worked well for a bus, too, but there was just something about articles of furniture sitting where they usually . . . didn't . . . that inspired – play.

Moving ahead many, many years.

Yesterday, some of our grandchildren were over for a visit.

Two of the kids had lined up several of grandma's stools.

I was holding granddaughter number five.

So I was instructed that I could be the mommy in the back with the baby.

Number three grandson, announced that he would drive.

It was then that I realized - they were playing bus.

I sat in the back as I had been told and I had to smile.

Suddenly, I was four years old again.

It was a good feeling.