Unbuttoned

Okay, it looks kind of neat on movies or TV.

In reality?

A little more dangerous.

Perhaps you remember the story (stories) of Superman in which mild mannered Clark Kent tears his shirt off and becomes the wondrous Man of Steel?

It always looked so—effortless. And tidy.

Well, I am a witness to shirt ripping and it is anything but.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby had a favourite shirt that was getting rather threadbare.

And needing to be retired.

Now, in the home of my parents, the retiring of a shirt was almost a ceremony.

Buttons snipped off and neatly stored.

Collar stays fished out; ditto.

Anything operational cannibalized for possible future use.

Then the remaining scraps relegated to the rag bag.

All while soft music was being played and/or a choir hummed quietly in the background.

Okay, I made up the part about the music, but the rest is true.

Now, fast forward to my house. And Husby’s threadbare shirt.

“That shirt needs to be thrown out,” I said.

“I love this shirt!”

“I can see right through it.”

Now many of you may think that is a good thing.

And it would be. Except that the places I could see through were things like: underarms. Front button plackets.

I’m sorry, but there is little that is sexy about underarms. Or front button plackets.

True story.

Husby sighed.

Thinking the conversation was over and agreed to, I started to leave the room, heading for my snips and the button box.

And that is when Husby hunched forward, tearing the shirt up the back, then grabbed the front and shredded it apart.

Buttons shot everywhere at the speed of sound, one of them narrowly missing me.

For a moment, the two of us looked at each other as the sound of bouncing buttons died away.

“Or we could do it like that,” I said.

Now I don’t know about you, but whenever I saw Superman do the same thing, no one mentioned flying buttons.

No one.

I think our hyper vigilant protective agencies should be informed.

Insurance rates are gonna rise.

Beached

“And I found this to wear at the beach.” Norma held something up.

Now, I’m assuming, because she said she would be wearing it and the word ‘beach’ was used, that what she was holding would fall under the classification of ‘swimsuit’.

So much for assumptions.

The garment she was displaying so proudly was a mid-calf length dress made of some dark blue material with puffy sleeves and a huge sailor collar. I could see bloomers of the same material lying on the bed behind her.

“Norma—” I was almost afraid to ask, “—where did you get that?”

She laid it on the bed and smoothed the material fondly. “I found it in a trunk up in the attic. Don’t you think it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Well . . .” Cutest? For a moment, I pictured puppies. Kittens. Baby seals. Even Reggie. “Umm—”

Norma made a face at me. “You’re just jealous because I got it before you could!”

I coughed. Politely. “Well—” I was trying to think of something positive to say. “You—umm—won’t get cold.”

She nodded happily. “It was a miracle I found it. I probably wouldn’t have if the trunk hadn’t tipped over just as I was crossing the floor. This little beauty simply fell out and—here we are! And it fits me!” She leaned toward me. “You know I never would have consented to our little beach vacation if I didn’t have this in my wardrobe.”

“You were going to turn Edith’s friends down?”

“You can’t expect me to stuff all of my parts into one of those skimpy things they call a ‘swimsuit’ can you? Think of the stories!”

I scratched my head and glanced at said parts. She did have a point. Even hidden under several layers of cloth, there certainly seemed to be a lot of them.

Norma looked up from her careful folding of the beach costume. “It was the oddest thing.”

“What?”

“Well, I was downstairs, confiding to Reggie my hesitation in accepting this invitation from Edith and her friends. Then I heard a noise coming from upstairs. I thought it was you.”

“I’ve been downtown all morning.”

“Yeah. I forgot that. Anyways, I came up here to investigate and there was the trunk. And the suit.”

“Really.”

She nodded. “As soon as I saw it I knew I was meant to go swimming.”

I would have known as soon as I saw it that it was time for a rummage sale. But then Norma and I never have thought along the same channels.

“Oh and I brought your suitcase up for you to start packing. I put it—” she turned to point, just as the case she had been talking about suddenly tipped over.

I smiled. All at once the reason Norma ‘found’ her suit became clear. Someone was looking for a weekend alone.

I wonder if Elvis is coming over.

Once a month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado receives sets of words from her readers. Which she then passes on to her other readers.

The result is an often humorous, always entertaining exercise called Use Your Words.

My words this month? Beach ~ cold ~ stories ~ friends ~ miracle

They were submitted by Minette at Southern Belle Charm

Here are the links to Karen's other blog buddies:
Baking In A Tornado
Dinosaur Superhero Mommy
Spatulas on Parade
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver
Sparkly Poetic Weirdo
Confessions of a part time working mom
Climaxed 
The Bergham Chronicles
Southern Belle Charm 

See what they did with the challenge!

Have you bought your copy yet?

Daughter of Ishmael is now on sale as these fine outlets.

Amazon, both .ca and .com
Barnes and Noble
Deseret Book
Books and Things

And all LDS Bookstores!
Check it out!

Frankenshirt

Magic happening

Life on the ranch demanded creativity and resourcefulness from every member of the community.
Except for me.
I was four.
Oh, I was resourceful.
Just not in a productive way.
Moving on . . .
In this spirit of inventiveness, my Mom had taught herself to sew. And she was good at it.
From her hands and her trusty little machine emerged fantastic and wondrous articles of clothing. Dresses, blouses, skirts, shirts, trousers--all were created quickly and efficiently, with only a bit of cloth.
I know. I watched her.
I also watched her peel potatoes with equal economy, but that is another story.
And a very different outcome.
Ahem . . .
Occasionally, Mom's sewing machine would give her grief, but my Dad instructed me not to say those words.
They must have been sewing words.
Years later, I would use them as cow herding words, but I digress . . .
Mom could also fix things with her electric marvel. The most hopeless wardrobe disasters could be quickly and perfectly repaired with ease and just a couple of strokes of the needle.
A couple of words, here, about the needles she used.
They were sharp.
Enough said.
My Dad had a work shirt.
Green.
Sturdy.
He hated it. Something about the fit or the material.
One day, while fencing, he caught a fold of this shirt on some barbed wire and tore it.
Quite badly.
Rather gleefully, he told Mom to just throw it into the rag bag.
But Mom was far too thrifty to do that.
This was a good, serviceable shirt, with plenty of years of work left in it.
She repaired it.
Dad sighed and wore it again.
We were branding. Dad caught the shirt on the squeeze handle and, again, it tore.
Again, the advice to scrap it.
Again, the repairs.
Another sigh.
Dad was working in the shop and caught the shirt on the work bench.
Another tear.
This was becoming a pattern.
But this time, he was determined to be rid of the hated, but indestructible shirt once and for all. He extended the tear into something . . . longer.
Then proceeded to rip the rest of the shirt apart.
He came into the sewing room, and delivered the scraps to my astonished Mom. “Rag bag,” he said. Then he made the mistake of leaving the room.
Mom looked at the little pile of scraps and . . . smiled. Have I mentioned that Mom has a very good sense of humor?
I probably should have.
She removed whatever project she was currently sewing and started to work.
And giggle.
In a short time, she had reassembled the dreaded shirt.
Oh, it didn't look quite the same. Frankenstein's monster comes to mind for some reason.
But it was, once more, complete.
She folded it carefully and put it in Dad's drawer.
Then waited.
She didn't have to wait for long. The next morning, Dad opened that drawer to get out a shirt and let out a little scream.
And no, it wasn't a girly scream.
He emerged, pale-faced, clutching the shirt. “It's back! It's haunting me!” he said.
Mom laughed and laughed.
We all did.
After that, the shirt finally made it to the rag bag.
It had finally served its purpose.

For those who have not yet 
seen the notices: 
My new book is here!
Daughter of Ishmael has finally 
hit the store shelves.
You can get your copy here:
Some US Costco stores.
Amazon, both .ca and .com
Barnes and Noble
Deseret Book
Books and Things
And at all LDS Bookstores!

The New Job

My good friend Hank had worked a job for most his adult life.

It supported all his family—his children and his wife.

But Hank decided he’d begin with something else this year,

Yes. Even at his age, he’d try and start a new career.

So Hank shed uniform and this he gladly traded for

A job a lot less boring than the one he’d had before.

Yes, Hank became a Taxi driver, certain he would find

His clients much more charming than were those he’d left behind.

His first day started naturally, with sunrise and a fare,

He wisely quizzed his passenger, then started things from there.

He carefully weaved through traffic, even whistled as he went,

Singing with the radio and feeling most content.

When suddenly a hand reached up and touched him on the arm,

His client had a question. Didn’t mean to cause him harm.

But Hank, he screamed and spun the wheel and barely missed a bus,

Scaring people on the sidewalk and then starting quite a fuss.

And when they stopped, Hank pushed his door and left it there, ajar.

For just a moment, both sat convalescing in the car,

And then a tiny voice spoke up from somewhere in the back.

“I only tapped your arm,” it said. “It wasn’t an attack.”

“I’m sorry if I startled you. I didn’t mean to scare.

I merely had a question.” Hank turned around right there.

“It wasn’t you, my friend,” Hank said. “I know I made things worse.

“But you simply have to understand, for years, I drove a hearse!”

New is good, you know, but when beginnings are discussed.

Remember, as you’re switching jobs, a memory’s a must.

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado give her followers a chance to test their poetic skills before the world.

January's theme? Beginnings.

The New Job was my effort.

Now go and see that the others have created!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: New Beginnings
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: (New)Beginnings
Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Beginning...Again

Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Begin Again

For those who have not yet 
seen the notices: 
My new book is here! 
My new book is here!
Daughter of Ishmael has finally 
hit the store shelves.
You can get your copy here:
Some US Costco stores.
Amazon, both .ca and .com
Barnes and Noble
Deseret Book
Books and Things
And at all LDS Bookstores!

Today's the Day!

Daughter of Ishmael has finally hit the shelves!

Do people regret their choices?

Would a child, raised with the rules and standards of their parents regret giving up those standards as an adult?

This is the premise of Daughter of Ishmael.

Hannah, a young Hebrew girl in the days of Jeremiah the Prophet, has been raised in the household of a strong, kind, faithful father, following a prophet of God.

Years later on the far side of the world, seated beside a roaring fire, she watches her son as he dances near the flames with the other men of the village, all painted in the blood of their latest victims.

Where did she--did they--make a wrong turn?

Could she have chosen a different path?

Hannah's thoughts hark back through the years to find out. And in so doing, take us, her readers, along on her voyage through her life and the lives of the people of 600 BC.

This is my first, ever, attempt to write a biblical story. It has been quite an experience. One that I'm hoping to repeat. I've discovered I love this time period and these people.

I will definitely be visiting them again!

About the author:

Photo: David Handschuh

Trained in journalism and raised by a family of storytellers, Diane Stringam Tolley has spent her life writing. From her first published work, “The Scary House,” penned in Mrs. Hainsworth’s grade six class, to her tenth novel, “Daughter of Ishmael,” Tolley has dipped into every genre from sci-fi/fantasy to spiritual. Her Christmas book, “Carving Angels,” has been featured on the “best of” holiday lists for Edmonton Public Libraries. And her follow-up novel, “Kris Kringle’s Magic” (2012) is currently a standard for discussions on prejudice and bullying throughout the Black-Gold region. Drawing on her upbringing on one of the last of the great old ranches of Southern Alberta, Tolley’s stories are filled with unforgettable characters, warm, family connections, and the strength of faith and love.

Read what others are saying about “Daughter of Ishmael” 

Here is the blog tour schedule:
January 10: Marlene Bateman || Rockin’ Book Reviews
January 11: Heart. Mind. Soul.
January 12: Paula Kremser
January 13: Christy Monson Books || My Book a Day || Literary Time Out
January 14: Jots by Jess || Bookworm Lisa
January 15: Misty Moncur
January 16: Beyond the Lake
January 17: Kathryn Cooper
January 18: Ann Morris
January 19: The Dance
January 20: Why Not? Because I Said So || Mel’s Shelves
January 21: Marketing Mentress
January 22: The View From My Window
January 23: The Book Addict
January 24: I Love to Read and Review Books
January 25: Julie Coulter Bellon || A Bliss Complete

Daughter of Ishmael is now available online or in these stores:

Amazon, both .ca and .com

Barnes and Noble

Deseret Book

Books and Things

And at all LDS Bookstores!

Moving Out

Mark the Independent

Mark was angry.
And no one could get angry like our little two-year-old.
Anyplace would be better than this one.
Grandma's was infinitely superior.
She never made him clean up his toys or eat his meals.
He was leaving.
He had his pajamas and Kermit the Frog.
He was packed.
And out of here.
I sat, nursing the baby, and watched him walk down the hallway, one leg of his sleeper hanging out through the improperly closed zipper of his backpack.
My little independent man.
“I'm going, Mom!” he said loudly, without looking back.
His 'declaration of independence' continued as he moved along the hall . . .
“I'm going!”
“Here I go!”
“Yup. I'm going!”
“Going to Gramma's”
“You won't see me!”
Yup. Living with Gramma now!”
“Bye!”
By this point he had made it the entire length of the hall and was out of my sight.
There was a short pause and I could hear the sounds of movement and a tiny grunt.
Then, “Mom! Can you open the door?”
Yup. My independent little man.
Walking to his Grandmother's ten miles away.
If he could make it out of the house.

A side note:

I am way past excited! My book, Daughter of Ishmael hits store shelves tomorrow (Tuesday, January 10)!
It's my first attempt at writing a Biblical story.
It will be available at Amazon, both .ca and .com

At Barnes and Noble

At Deseret Book

At Books and Things

And at all LDS Bookstores!

Shaved

Back from a week away visiting family.

I've missed you!

Surprise!

Changes. Some are good . . .

This was a bit more than a little girl’s mind could take in.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Every Christmas season, Husby and I spend our time among families and other assorted celebrants at their festivities, dressed as Santa and his Mrs.

It is a happy, joyous occupation as we have often stated (and restated).

But it necessitates the growing of a beard.

His. Not mine.

And the keeping of said beard year round.

This year, Santa-in-the-off-season decided he would shave.

To the skin.

Yeah, I was surprised, too.

He did so. And presented a bare face many of us have not seen for years.

Oh, we knew it was in there behind the tangle of whiskers. We just hadn’t seen it.

The day after the significant wielding of the razor, we met our family for food, fun and games in the cultural hall of our chapel.

Santa-in-the-off-season, or Grampa, as he is known was running and playing British Bulldog with numerous grandchildren.

He stopped.

And realized that one small person was standing beside him, looking up.

He looked down.

Into some serious—and rather confused—dark brown eyes.

“What’s that matter, Leah?” he asked.

I should probably reiterate here: that beard has been on Grampa’s face for longer than that little girl has been around.

Four-year-old Leah blinked. “What happened to your face, Grampa?”

“I shaved off my beard, Leah.”

“Oh.” She turned that over in her mind. Then, “Can you put it back on?”

Change. It’s all about us.

Sometimes good.

But most times unwanted. 

Frump Village Grump

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

No loveliness in his demeanour,

He lived all alone near the old county dump,

Developed his skills as a screamer.

Whenever he heard just so much as a bump,

His head would pop out of the door,

With a noise that would make almost everyone jump

And his displeasure then underscore.

One day to the village known solely as Frump,

(Please don’t think it’s for fashion expression!)

Came a strong-minded widow, quite pretty and plump,

With her children that numbered eleven.

Now, when moving, one’s household goods come in a clump

And are sorted through carefully after.

And necessitate many a trip to the dump,

For the children: Adventure With Laughter.

Now, Horace P. Flee, that old village grump

Wasn’t happy with all of the joy.

So he shouted a phrase that made all of them jump,

He intended to hurt and annoy.

Then Abigail, she who was pretty and plump,

But possessed of a lively, bright spirit,

A piece of her mind, she gave that village grump,

And forced him to stand there and hear it.

Then something strange happened that day at the dump,

With all of the parties together,

For Horace’s heart hit his shoes with a thump,

While Abby’s beat light as a feather.

Their marriage was viewed by the Village of Frump,

With the two of them there in the heather,

The minister stood on a great old tree stump,

With a smile, he joined them together.

Now the villagers using the Frump Village dump,

(If it’s not too hard to believe . . .)

Found the happy noise now from the home of the ‘grump’,

Was far more than what they could achieve.

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

Until life with his Abby ‘begun’,

When you least expect it, you’re knocked on your rump,

‘Cause there’s someone for ev-er-y-one.

That New Year's

To celebrate the squeaky-clean beginning of yet another year, I'm going to regale you with the tale of our New Year's Eve of a few year's past . . .

It's a heart-stopper. 

Really . . .

We had spent the evening, much like millions of other people, happily celebrating with friends.

Eating wonderful food that someone else prepared. (My personal favourite.)

Playing games: Charades. Word scramble. Card contests.

And visiting.

Sometime shortly after midnight, we senior citizens called it a successful, wonderful night and left for our respective homes.

Husby and I were safely in bed by 2:00 AM.

All was well.

All was not to remain well.

Just as we were both deeply asleep, someone pounded on our front door.

Pounded.

In my half-awakened state, it sounded frantic to me.

Frightened.

Panicky.

“Grant! Something's wrong!” I screamed, leaping from bed and switching on lights as I sped down the hall.

Mentally, as I ran, I tallied where my kids and grandkids were. Who had stayed in for the evening and who might still be out.

One family, I knew, had taken their little girls to a friends' party. They could conceivably still be out.

What's wrong? What's wrong?

I reached the front door, heart racing and breathing heavily.

I peeked out.

No one.

I opened the door. The front step was echoingly empty.

I stepped out and peered around.

No one.

The night was quiet.

The street deserted.

Nothing moved.

I came back inside and shut the door.

Then I peeked out again.

What on earth . . .?

By this time, Husby was also up.

Doing a circuit of the windows and doors.

No one.

We looked at each other.

Did another circuit.

Still no one.

Puzzled, I headed back to bed while Husby locked up again.

He soon joined me and almost immediately dropped back to sleep.

I didn't.

For the next two hours, heart still racing, my mind spun through every terrible, horrible thing that could ever befall a family that then numbered twenty-five.

It was a long night.

We survived it. 

I mention it because I know you were worried. 

None of the terrible, awful things happened.

And I know that, because this crazy mom/grandma phoned everyone as soon as it was light the next morning.

Two facts remain.

1. Someone pounded on our door that night. The reasons remain obscure.
2. Somewhere in our bed remains my heart, scared out of me the moment someone did said pounding.

Happy New Year.

It's the Ver-Very Last Day of the Year

With apologies to Andy Williams.

Sung to the tune of It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

It's the ver-very last day of the year.
Candidates were compelling and everyone yelling,

T’was hard to find cheer!
It's the ver-very last day of the year.

It's the think-thinkingest season of all.
It’s a time to remember how we reached December,
With wars to appall!
It's the think-thinkingest season of all.

There were issues for joining,
And deeds disappointing,
And stars disappearing like snow.
There were scary world stories
In all categories!
We wished we were long, long ago. 

(Now)It's the time for us to plan for the next year.
We will need to get going, good deeds overflowing,
And a clear atmosphere!
It's the time for us to plan for the next year!

Puffed Up

How do you spell 'delicious'?

There was a bright spot to every school day.

And no, it wasn’t that magical moment each morning when we first stepped into the hallowed halls of learning and knowledge.

Ick.

No, it was that moment, when the whole thing was safely in the past.

The long bus ride to school.

The sweat and toil.

The long bus ride home.

Ta-da!

That moment.

When Mom would usher us into the house and the smell of warm deliciousness would sweep over us like a welcome blanket.

Snack time.

The wonderful reward for having made it through yet another school day.

And mom made it special. Homemade snacks like pudding, cake or pie.

Hot chocolate.

Sometimes the extra-special spudnuts.

Fresh, warm bread with melty butter.

It made all of the pain and drudgery worth every drop of effort.

Then, as we grew older, Mom stepped back a bit and let us create our own snacks.

In the process, something was lost. But something else was definitely gained.

Our snacking of preference grew and changed as our skills did.

At first, my brother, George, would simply spread cheese on crackers and create a giant stack.

Which was then happily consumed, layer by layer.

I would toast bread – just barely – and spread it with peanut butter.

Peanut butter is better all soft and melted.

Just FYI.

Then Mom got a new invention, a Teflon frying pan and I discovered the magical world of omelets.

With lots of melty cheese.

Hmm . . . I’m beginning to see a pattern there.

Mmmmmmelty things.

Moving on . . .

Then George was introduced to tapioca pudding.

Made from scratch and eaten while still warm.

And sometimes shared with his sister.

Until she was shown the amazing chocolate wonderfulness of puffed-wheat squares.

I should explain here that the puffed-wheat is simply a medium to get the chocolate syrup to your mouth.

And it does it well.

Did you know that a hungry teenager can eat an entire pan of puffed wheat squares and still have room for supper?

It’s true. And I proved it on many an occasion.

Moving forward many, many years.

Yesterday, I dug out my tattered old recipe for puffed-wheat squares.

It was stained.

And worn.

But still readable.

I mixed and cooked.

Added, pressed down and cooled.

Then, with my daughter and granddaughter, sliced and consumed.

And, just for an instant, relived the best part of growing up.

Starting at Eight

For Christmas this year, I received Lego.

Yep. Lego.

As I have done every year for over 50 years.

It sparked a memory . . .

Maybe he should have wrapped up some teeth . . .

In the Stringam family, birthdays were always exciting.

Family. Good food. Cake.

And presents.

My fourth had been truly memorable, with a little barn fire thrown in for . . . umm . . . excitement.

But my eighth was memorable for two other reasons.

Let me explain . . .

It began ordinarily enough, with Mom's wonderful breakfast and good wishes all around.

Dad had gone into the city, on ranch business, and wasn't expected back until later--when us kids got home from school.

But that was okay, because I knew that my real birthday, complete with birthday food and cake and the all important presents wouldn't happen until supper time.

I went through the day with high anticipation.

I'm sure my teachers tried mightily to teach me something that day, but who can compete with birthday supper and cake?

And presents.

By supper time, I had worked myself into a rare mood.

Mom made my favourite.

Spaghetti.

With meat balls.

Mmmm.

Then the cake. Again my favorite - Angel food. With fluffy seven-minute frosting.

I should point out that the name of the frosting had to do with how long it took to make it.

Because it certainly didn't describe how long it took to eat it.

But I digress . . .

And then that moment.

The time I had been anticipating for an entire year.

When the wrapped boxes came out and were given the place of honour.

Right in front of me.

The first one was rather . . . book sized.

I tore into the colourful paper eagerly.

I should explain, here, that I had fallen in love with reading in the first grade, at the age of six.

Dr. Seuss had introduced me to world of books and I hadn't looked back.

By the time I was eight, I had graduated to the next step.

Chapter books.

And here, on my birthday, I was suddenly holding the greatest treasure I had ever seen.

Nancy Drew. The Secret in the Old Attic.

A chapter book.

All my own.

My world had just gotten bigger.

Then there was more.

A large, rectangular package.

Intriguing.

Reluctantly and reverently, I set down my precious new book.

And ripped into my other present.

The wrapping came off easily.

Revealing . . . Lego.

Lego?

What on earth was that?

I stared at the package.

Everyone stared at the package.

My father was well known for finding the new and the wondrous.

He didn't fail here.

I opened the box and poured out a stream of little red, white and blue blocks.

Of varying sizes and shapes.

I unfolded the brightly-coloured instruction sheet.

And my world got bigger, still.

I needn't tell you that my Nancy Drew collection expanded to include every volume ever written.

Or that Lego became a large part of the Stringam world that day.

And that a major part of playtime, for three generations now, consists of amazing feats of construction with myriad colourful blocks.

Or reading.

I only need to tell you that everything began on my eighth birthday.

A day truly worth celebrating.

This year's.