An Old Joke

Inconsequential day with friends,

A drive along the thoroughfare,

The kind of day you hope n’er ends,

To see the sights and take the air.

Three friends were seated in the car,

Minister, Priest, and Rabbi, too.

Talk of life, both near and far,

And things they’d done or’d like to do.

Sensationalism was a theme,

As the dashboard clicked the miles away,

Discussed atomic problems, schemes,

 The mayhem common to the day.

Then talk turned with sincerity,

(Though nondenominational!)

How to divide with parity

Donations congregational.

Then one proposed a circle made,

Donations thrown aboard,

The coins, which from the circle strayed,

Would be given to the Lord.

The second shook his hoary head,

And gravely said,” Not so!”

The coins inside the circle spread,

He’d to the Lord bestow.

The third man deeply frowned, “Instead,”

“Here’s what I’d do, my peeps!”

“I’d throw the money high o’erhead,

And what the good Lord wants, He keeps!”

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a six-word challenge to her devoted followers.

Then sits back and watches the scramble.

And laughs.

I'm almost sure she laughs . . .

It's the highlight of my week when I get to participate.

This week's words?

inconsequential, nondenominational, sensationalism, atomic,

dashboard and mayhem

Hop over to Delores' and see what the others have created!

Fuzzy Love

And each of them has/had a name. Please don't test me . . .

My first date with my Husby-to-be was memorable.

On so many levels.

You can read about it here.

Go ahead . . . I promise you won't miss anything . . .

Our second date was even more memorable.

But for more exciting reasons.

It was the occasion of our first kiss.

Yumm.

Let me see if I can describe it . . .

Chore time.

The sun has set.

Darkness drifts slowly over the prairie.

A large, quiet feed lot.

Young bulls in the background, munching on grains.

The smell of fresh manure wafts on the cool, autumn breeze.

A young man and woman snared in the light of the mercury-vapour lamp.
Hey, this is ranching country, what did you expect? The light of the moon?! 

Their eyes lock.

They move closer . . .

You get the picture.

Romantic?

Okay, maybe not to the normal person.

Fortunately for me, Husby-to-be was as un-normal as his wife-to-be.

A perfect match.

But the date was only beginning.

After our kiss, we returned to my parent’s home.

And that’s when I received my second surprise of the evening.

When we stepped into the vestibule (ooh! I like that word), Husby-to-be pulled a little package out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, smiling. “I brought you something.”

Have I mentioned that I love surprises?

Well, I do.

Moving on . . .

I quickly opened the little bag and tipped out two little fuzzy men.

Pom-pom people.

With magnets on the back.

Ooooh! Cute!

“Thank you!” I said. Then I gave him a kiss.

It seemed like an appropriate response.

And I’d just discovered he was a great kisser.

Ahem . . .

And so began a tradition that lasted for years.

And covered a large part of our fridge.

Until a bottle of home-made root beer sprayed all over them.

Sigh.

Then they were relegated to a shadow box.

For safety.

And posterity.

I love traditions.

Almost as much as I love my Husby . . .

Words, Adorable Words

Me. Swinging. And reciting.

Words are amazing.

Descriptive.

Alliterative.

Explanatory.

Lyrical.

Adventurous.

Romantic.

And I love them.

I learned at a very early age that they could be assembled in ways that were truly magical.

Let me explain . . .

My Dad loves to recite.

Poems, mostly.

On long car trips, he would inevitably break into song.

Or verse.

I especially loved the rhythm of his chosen poetry.

Always there was a story involved.

The boy stood on the burning deck

His feet were in the fire.

The captain said," You're burning up!"

The boy said, "You're a liar!"

The telling was truly magical.

And often educational.

Little Johnny took a drink.

But he shall drink no more.

'Cause what he thought was H2O,

Was H2SO4.

I determined that, when I grew up, I would be JUST LIKE DAD.

When I was five, my oldest sister, then just entering junior high, was labouring over a Language Arts assignment.

Memorizing a poem.

She had chosen, for her effort, the Hillaire Belloc poem, Jim.

A cautionary tale of a boy who runs away from his nurse at the zoo and is eaten by a lion.

What better poem for a young girl to start with?

As my sister laboured over the lines, so did I.

I should probably point out, here, that I couldn't read yet.

My patient sister rehearsed each line to me until I had it.

I should also mention that I really didn't understand what I was saying.

Apart from the whole “boy eaten by a lion” bit.

I followed her around for days.

“What's the next line, Chris?”

She would tell me.

And I would repeat it, ad infinitum, for hours.

Or until Chris got home from school and gave me another.

I'm sure my mother heard, “And gave him tea and cakes and jam and slices of delicious ham” in her dreams.

Moving on . . .

By the end of a week, I had it.

All of it.

Then, the fun began.

For months afterwards, my parents would trot me out at family reunions and local bridge parties to show how their young daughter could recite heart-stopping tales of misbehaviour and woe.

In perfect rhyme.

It could only lead to a career in writing.

Or maybe some 'zombie apocalypse/end of the world scenario.

Hmm. Maybe both . . .

For your pleasure –

Jim 

 By Hillaire Belloc

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo—
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know—or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so—
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when—Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,
``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:—
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, ``Well—it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!''
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

P.S. I can still remember it . . .

Getting the Boot

Baby brother . . . being entertained

My father (herinafter known as 'Dad') was a rancher.

He had been born that way.

In his twenties, he added the title of 'Veterinarian' to that.

But he was first and foremost, a rancher.

As a rancher, his wardrobe seldom varied.

Heavy work pants.

Work shirts. (Which have a history of their own . . .)

And boots.

Which were so much more than mere footwear.

Dad's boots were, in fact, the signal that opened and closed the work day.

As well as a source of entertainment.

On several levels.

Dad's boots were - because he had 'special' feet – special.

They were heavy.

And specifically designed to compensate for his long, narrow, profoundly flat extremities.

They laced up the front.

And fit . . . well.

They were the favourite entertainment for my baby brother.

When he was . . . umm . . . a baby.

A source of laughter for us kids when we'd try them on.

Then attempt to walk.

Usually covered in mud and manure during the day's labours, then scrupulously cleaned before being brought into the house.

With Dad's pocket knife. (But that is yet another story.)

In short, they were a part of my Dad.

An important part.

Dad always donned them himself.

Said donning, after breakfast, was always the signal that visiting was over and the workday starting.

But Dad never, ever took his boots off by himself.

In fact, the removal of Dad's boots was quite a process.

And a family tradition.

Let me describe . . .

Dad would take his seat in his usual comfy recliner.

And his numerous children would scatter, suddenly recalling activities that needed immediate attention.

Somewhere else.

But there was always a laggard.

Someone who was the slowest to react.

Dad would pin them to their chair with a look.

Then silently hold out a foot.

Reluctantly, the child would assume the position.

Facing away from Dad and bent forward, clutching said boot between their knees with both hands.

Dad would then put his other foot on his helper's backside and start pushing.

His boot would be quickly and efficiently . . . removed.

And dropped on the floor.

The process was repeated with the second boot.

The footwear was then gathered.

And set aside.

Only then was the slave helper, released.

Mission accomplished.

As mentioned, this procedure signalled the end of the work day.

Odd, isn't it, that a humble pair of boots would assume such proportion in our daily life?

But they did.

Now in his late eighties, Dad has given up boots.

Shoes now replace his slippers when he is going outside.

And, like his slippers, they slip on and off easily.

I was watching him the other day as he sat down.

Staring at the footwear he now pulls on.

And remembering.

Bread Balls

Yumminess.

Twice a week, and sometimes more, the wonderful aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted through the Stringam home.

Magic.

It was followed, almost immediately, by the sight of children munching great slices of fresh yumminess, thickly spread with fresh butter.

Mmmmm.

I wasn't one of them.

Oh, I loved Mom's bread.

It was amazing.

And I definitely was munching.

But I chose a unique - ie. weird - way of doing it.

Often to be followed by my Mom saying, “Diane! I work hard to make perfectly good, soft bread! Why do you do that to it?!”

She said this because . . . I squished it.

Squished.

Into a tight little ball.

Which I - then - ate.

Really.

Mom would watch, in disgust, as I took my slice of freshly-baked awesomeness.

Quickly peeled off and ate the crust.

Pressed and molded the rest.

Then nibbled.

I have no idea why I did this.

Maybe it was because I had seen the screen cowboys eating little balls of bread out of their saddlebags.

Okay, it looked like little balls of bread.

I didn't realize that what they were eating was, in fact, biscuits.

I wasn't known for my powers of observation and deduction.

Ahem . . .

I no longer eat bread this way.

There are a couple of drawbacks.

The biggest one being that it's rather hard to spread any significant amount of peanut butter and/or nutella on a tightly pressed ball of dough.

And, let's face it, bread is just the medium by which such things are ingested.

And, in a choice between eating balls of dough or getting nutella to the mouth?

Even the cowboys would agree with me.

For A Monday

A poem.

Because it's Monday . . .

Mildred's Nose

Mildred, my friend, has a marvelous nose.

Not bulbous.

Or hook-ed.

Or bellicose.

Not crooked.

Or flattened.

Or shaped like a bean.

The most beautiful nose that you ever have seen.

Can't say it's large.

A potato,

A squash.

A crooked ol' carrot.

An acorn.

A cosh.

(A nickname for what's really a good copper's 'billy'.)

Yes, nothing to ever make Mildred look silly.

It is shapely,

And small.

In reality – fair.

The grandest

Appendage

To ever

Draw air.

Fine-boned.

And slender.

With rose petal skin.

The kind that can always draw everyone in.

But with all its beauty, her friends still make fun.

They laugh,

And they tease.

They jeer.

And they shun.

But why with such beauty for them to behold,

Would they scoff,

And deride,

Mock,

And then scold?

Ridicule, ostracize, taunt, and tell jokes?

Snicker

With all

Of the fair

Jungle folks?

Because Mildred, oh, she of the wonderful nose.

The beauty,

Perfection.

The colour

Called 'rose'.

Well there's something about her that I've not disclosed.

Something, about which you need to be told.

Though our Mildred is all she could possibly be,

Good friend,

And clever,

And kind

As can be.

Yes, Mildred,

Has one,

Little secret

to hold.

Our Mildred's an elephant, truth to be told.

P.S. If you think that Mildred's true story's a laugh,

You should hear about Harold,

The short-necked giraffe.

Thank you, Teacher.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski

Miss Wornoski and her 31 little readers

I love to read.

It started very early.

Grade one.

Miss Wornoski taught me.

I don't remember the mechanics of learning.

Only the sudden explosion of knowledge that came with recognizing series of letters strung together.

Miss Wornoski had a list of words on a large flip chart.

And each of us in the class was taken, publicly, through it.

I remember her pointing to each word with a long, slender stick and the victim participant having to then read it out.

A word about the stick. It was about three feet long, with a soft, squishy, plastic, cone-shaped tip.

Tons of fun to play with when the teacher wasn't in the room.

Ahem . . .

Day by day, she worked her way around the room.

Closer and closer to me.

Who would have guessed that panic was one of the subjects taught in the first grade?

Well, it was.

Very well.

If I would have studied the chart, I would have realized that I could read every word on it.

But I didn't.

Thus started a pattern in my life that has served me far too well.

But I digress . . .

Finally, it was my turn.

Miss Wornoski looked at me. “Diane.”

Everything I had ever known simply . . . fled.

Taking my blood and body temperature with it.

A now-frozen lump, I turned slowly and stared at her.

“Its your turn, dear,” she said softly.

Her words might as well have been: Ready! Aim! Fire!

I was about to die.

I swallowed.

And nodded.

The pointer was raised.

I watched as it moved.

Sooo slowly.

Tapped on the first word.

“And,” I said, shakily.

Next word.

“The.”

Next. Ooh, a toughie.

“Into.”

Next.

“For.”

And so it went.

Pointer . . . pointed.

I said the word.

Pointer moved on.

I was doing it!

The panic started to ebb.

With only one slight hesitation, on the unbelievably difficult word, 'house', I was done.

Faster than anyone.

Miss Wornoski smiled. “Very well done, Diane,” she said.

I had done it!

Celebrations were in order.

“Diane, sit down.”

Later.

She handed me my first. Real. Book. “Here, dear, read this,” she said.

And she moved on to the next student.

I stared at the book she had given me.

The Little White House.

There was a picture of a boy riding a horse on the cover.

We were instant friends.

I opened it and, for the first time began to read a story to myself.

Riveting tales of Tom, Betty and Susan as they:

1. Helped their parents
2. Got presents
3. Rode Pony
4. Played with Flip

The magic had begun.

There is a codicil . . .

My Husby and I were on a book-signing tour through the US.

We stopped at a tiny little restaurant in tiny-er Dell, Montana, called the Calf-A.

Exceptional food, especially the roast beef.

And pie to die for.

Sorry. Moving on . . .

The restaurant was housed in what had been the little country school.

The blackboards and even some of the pictures and furniture were still there.

On a shelf was a stack of old text books.

While waiting for my order, I wandered over and looked at them.

And there, right in the middle was my book.

My first book.

Just as I remembered it.

I dragged it out and hurried back to our table.

“Look!” I shoved it under my Husby's nose. “Look! It's my first book!

I sat down and opened the cover.

Instantly, I was transported back to my sunny classroom at Milk River Elementary.

To my seat beside the windows.

Right in front of the teacher's desk.

I could smell the chalk dust.

And see Miss Wornoski taking yet another student through her chart of words.

Paradise.

I had nearly read The Little White House through by the time our meal arrived.

Not a statement on how long it took to be served.

But rather on how quickly I could now read.

Thank you, Miss Wornoski.

You changed my life.

Punch Line

The Stringam kids loved a scary story.

Okay, yes, it usually meant that one of us (ie. me) couldn't sleep afterwards.

And needed to leave a light on.

Or, better yet, crawl in with my parents.

But still, I loved to be scared . . .

My older sister, Chris was a master at it.

Scaring, that is.

She knew dozens of deliciously frightening tales.

It was a perfect partnership.

The scare-er and the easily - and very vocally - scared.

Chris would gather whatever siblings were near by.

And, with them cuddled close, launch into her current favourite.

Her soft voice would wind through the story, slowly spiralling up in volume and suspense . . .

Or suspenders, as my dad used to call it.

. . . to the end.

Her reward? Several squeaks of alarm as she loudly barked out the climactic line.

“I've got you!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Bloody boots!”

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!

“Ivory soap floats!”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Okay. I admit it. She had it down . . .

My parents were building a cabin on St. Mary's Lake.

The fact that it wasn't quite finished didn't deter us from actually using it.

In fact, our summer was usually spent . . . finishing.

We had finally gotten to the painting. Had actually spent most of yet another glorious summer morning doing just that.

Lunch was finished.

Chris had gathered my younger brother and I on our parent's bed.

For a few delightfully shivery minutes, we could have story time.

I should mention that, unbeknownst (Oooh, good word!) to us, Mom had finished the lunch dishes and returned to her painting.

Right outside the window of the room we were gathered in.

Chris was building to her usual grand finish.

“Bloody boots!”

Blair and I were completely absorbed.

“Bloody boots!”

We barely breathed.

“Bloody boots!”

Hands started twisting.

"Bloody Boots!"

Hearts were starting to pound.

Mom stuck her head through the window. “Bloody boots!”

Her timing and delivery were perfect.

Our story teller proved that she was as capable as any of us of being startled.

And Mom was rewarded with three squeaks of alarm.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Yep. Mom got it.

The Geezer in the Gazebo

My Husby loves the movie, “The Sound of Music”.

In fact, if favourites were discussed, that title would probably be the first to come up.

Most particularly, he loves the gazebo scene.

And its accompanying song, “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”.

Really loves it.

To the point that, if ever a gazebo is sighted, he has to run inside and sing.

Badly.

Really badly.

Badly on purpose.

Just to embarrass his kids.

He's very, very good at it.

Inevitably, after he has run joyfully to the gazebo and danced around inside for a few minutes, singing at the top of his lungs, his children have disappeared.

Totally.

Completely.

You thought children could disappear quickly in a shopping mall?

That doesn't even come close to how quickly they can vanish when their father-figure is embarrassing them.

Suddenly they have, quite literally, ceased to exist.

And they only reappear some time later.

When anyone – anyone – who might have witnessed their father's performance has defected and/or suffered an aneurysm.

As my Husby has aged, the suitability of the words of the famous song have . . . lessened.

With his usual creativity, he has managed to 'age' the words to suit.

Both parts.

Because you never know when some old lady will want to sing along . . .

[him]

You wait, old girl, on an empty stage

For fate to turn the light off

Your life, old girl, is a filled up page

About which you should not scoff.

Should not scoff.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Baby it's time to think

Better beware, be canny and careful

It's hard to be old, I think.

You are sixty, going on seventy

Old goats will get in line;

Eager old cads and nimble old dads

Will be wanting all of your time.

Totally unprepared are you

To face the world of time.

Timid and shy and scared are you

Of geritol and lime.

You need someone older and wiser

Telling you what to do!

I am seventy going on eighty -

I'll take care of you.

[her]

I am sixty going on seventy

I know that I'm naive

Old goats I meet may tell me I'm sweet

And willingly I believe.

I am sixty going on seventy

Beautiful as a rose

Widower dandies, wheelchair bandies

What do I want with those?

Totally unprepared am I

To take a man again.

Timid and shy and scared am I

Of geezers who call themselves men!

I need someone older and wiser

Telling me what to do.

You are seventy going on eighty,

I'll depend on you!

*  *  *

A word?

If you're walking with us out in public and a gazebo appears in the distance?

Distance yourself.

Passing the Pancake Crown

Yes, she could do other things, too . . .

Breakfast.

One of the three best meals of the day.

And especially when one stumbled from bed into the kitchen and realized that Mom had the griddle out.

Mmmm. Pancakes.

The best of the best.

Mom's pancakes were famous.

Well in our world.

Light and fluffy and oh, so eat-able.

And when one started eating, one simply couldn't stop.

My record?

Twelve.

Dripping with butter and syrup.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

When I started dating my Husby, I couldn't wait for him to taste my Mom's pancakes.

Fortunately for him, and his status as boyfriend without sleep-over benefits, there were times when she made them later in the day.

What is even better than breakfast for breakfast?

Breakfast for supper.

My Husby-to-be agreed that Mom's pancakes were truly remarkable.

So much so that he asked her for her recipe.

Now, you have to realize that, by this time, Mom had been making these same pancakes for nearly forty-five years.

She could do them in her sleep.

An important skill first thing in the morning.

But I digress . . .

“Hmm,” she said, frowning thoughtfully. “Sure I can give you the recipe.”

She then proceeded to list ingredients and amounts.

As she had been adding them for decades.

“A couple of scoops of flour. Eggs. Sugar. This much salt.” She held up finger and thumb pinched together. “A couple of cake spoons of baking powder. Milk to make it batter-y.”

My Husby-to-be was frantically scribbling, a slight frown between his brows. When he was done, he stared at what he had written. “Ummm . . . okay,” he said doubtfully.

And he went home and tried them.

Adjusted ingredients and tried again.

And again.

For over 38 years, he has been struggling to get it right.

He's still not there.

And Mom took the original recipe with her when she passed on.

Sigh.

I love pancakes.

I miss my Mom.

P.S. I'd give you the recipe, but it's a work in progress. I'll let you know . . .