Cookies and Cutlets

What can I say but Mmmmmm.

My Dad taught me manners.

I was a slow, but well-fed, learner.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Dad and I were on a cattle show tour.

I say, 'we' but I was mostly useless.

I had injured my hand in a grooming accident getting ready for the show.

Don't ask.

The road was long between cities. Because Alberta is a big place.

But we had eats.

Mostly sweet or salty.

But all yummy.

My Dad's favourite cookies were large marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.

I should explain here that sometimes, in Canada in the summer, we have hot days.

I know.

The words 'Canada' and 'hot weather' usually aren't found in the same sentence.

But it's true.

Back to my story . . .

It was hot and stuffy in the truck.

Heat has a rather negative effect on marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.

Melts them, quite effectively, into solid lumps of delicious-ness.

It was mid-afternoon.

We had been on the road since lunch.

It was now about 4:00 pm.

Snacking was indicated.

I dragged out the bag of cookies.

And realized that each row had been fused into one, long cookie.

Except the first row.

From which two were already missing.

I picked up the remaining (rather large) cookie and looked at it.

It could be done.

I shoved it into my mouth and chewed happily.

Then realized that my father was staring at me.

Incredulous (good word).

“Did you just eat that whole cookie?”

“Maybe,” I mumbled through a mouthful of marshmallow/cookie/chocolate delicious-ness. “Who wants to know.”

He just chuckled and shook his head and the matter was dropped.

Or so I thought.

A couple of hours later, we stopped for supper.

I ordered my favourite, veal cutlets.

They arrived.

Two very large cutlets.

With mashed potatoes, vegetables and thick, yummy gravy.

Mmmm.

Remember my injured hand?

Well that comes into play here.

“Daddy, could you please cut my meat for me?”

“Certainly.” Dad grinned and slid my plate over.

Now, anyone familiar with that grin knows that something was being plotted.

Because it was.

He took his knife and fork and sliced each large cutlet down the middle.

Then he slid my plate back in front of me.

I stared at the four very, very large bites.

Then at my Dad

Who was nonchalantly cutting his own meat.

“Dad, how am I supposed to eat that?”

“Well, judging by the bite of cookie you shoved into your mouth a couple of hours ago, those should be just about right,” he said. “Go for it!”

I stuck my tongue out at him and slid my plate back.

“Now cut!”

He laughed and did so.

Etiquette.

It exists, even on a cattle trip.

Who knew?

Gone?

It was raining.

So both Reggie and I had eschewed the great, green outdoors in favour of something warmer and more welcoming to old bones.

The front room and the fireplace.

Okay, yes, it was July, but cold and damp is cold and damp, no matter the season.

Reggie was entertaining himself by whistling rising and falling notes. A sort of a do, ray, mi for birds.

Let’s face it, Julie Andrews, he’s not. And he was about two stanzas from joining that old birds home in the sky.

Where birds go up.

And never, ever come down.

Back to my story . . .

Something thumped on the stairs.

Now I know that you know my sister and I live in a haunted house. So strange noises or things that go bump (even in broad daylight) are not uncommon.

The first thump elicited no response from either Reggie or me.

But the second, third and fourth did.

And the fifth, sixth and seventh.

Reggie fluffed out his feathers. His usual reaction when something is happening that he doesn’t understand. I don’t know about you, but nothing shouts ‘I’m-dangerous-and-every-part-of-me-is-a-lethal-weapon’ better than a fat bird.

Me? I lowered my magazine.

Both of us were ready for anything.

We stared at the doorway into the front hall. The place the sounds seemed to be coming from.

Norma appeared around the corner.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Norma, what are you doing?”

She moved further into the room.

Then pulled a gigantic, obviously heavy suitcase in behind her.

Immediately the noises were explained. Someone had been transporting something much too large down someplace much too steep.

I was suddenly thankful that I hadn’t heard more thumping and bumping.

I raised my eyebrows and looked at her expectantly.

She smiled at me. “I’m leaving,” she announced in the same chirpy, good-news voice she would have used to announce that she’d changed the toilet paper roll.

Yeah, I guess you’d have to know my sister.

“Leaving?” I stared at her. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve been invited for a visit!”

“O-kay. Who and where. And more importantly, for how long?” I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that the two of us were living in Norma’s house—she, by paying the mortgage and me, by invitation and economy.

“I don’t know for how long.” Norma went for the last question. “Maybe forever!”

My head reared back. “But, but this is your house!”

“Yeah, well, if I don’t come back you can have it!”

“I can have it?”  I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. I gave Reggie a can-you-believe-what-we’re-hearing look, then pinched myself mentally and shook my head. I’d obviously been around him too much. I turned back to Norma. “Okay, you’d better start from the front and take me through your orbit again.”

She sighed and sat down on her suitcase. “Well, you know how sick I’ve been getting. Those fevers and all.”

“Umm . . . yeah. But the doctor thinks he’s got it figured out.”

“Well I was talking to her and she said—”

“Her?”

Norma raised her head and looked up toward the ceiling.

“Oh. Her!”

She nodded. “And she was telling me how no one ever gets sick over there.”

“Yeah. Well, Honey, they’re dead.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.” She went on, “And she told me I could come for a visit and see how I liked things.”

“A visit.” I blinked. Then looked around. “Are we on Candid Camera?”

She gave a very unladylike snort. “No! She asked me to come for a visit and I’m going to go!”

I got up. Some things you just have to do while standing. “Norma.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “You can’t go over there—and then come back.”

“Who says so?”

“Everyone!” I sputtered. “Norma! You can’t cross into the world of—spirits and then come back.”

“Pfff.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I can do what I like.”

I have to admit that this has been Norma’s mantra from day one and, for a moment, the thought crossed my mind that if anyone could do it, she could. But then reality returned. “Norma, you can’t do this!” I was getting a bit desperate.

“Fine!” She got up and started back toward the hall, pulling her case behind her. “You never let me have any fun!” She disappeared through the doorway. “Since you moved in here, my life isn’t my own!” Her case followed her around the corner. “One day, I’m going to—” Her voice quit.

Frowning, I followed her into the hall. “Norma, try to see reason—” I stopped.

And stared.

Norma--and her enormous case--had disappeared.

Wanna catch up with the Sputterling sisters?
Barbecue With Spirits
Something Scary
Beached
Christmas with the Sputterlings
Raindance

Tell-Tale Sneeze
Sisters
Catching Up

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now. 

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them. 

I’m using: Fifth ~ economy ~ orbit ~ gigantic ~ fevers

They were submitted by: http://www.bookwormkitchen.com/

 Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

Baking In A Tornado

Cognitive Script

The Blogging 911

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

The Bergham Chronicles    

Simply Shannon

Southern Belle Charm

Bookworm in the Kitchen

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Climaxed

Ruby the Wanna-Be

Our usual Camping buddies
Panda and Chiefy

The Interloper
Okay, I admit it. She's cute.

We raised Old English Sheepdogs.

A wonderful breed.

Shaggy.

Smart.

Protective.

Affectionate.

Did I mention shaggy?

We had raised them for years.

Long enough that anyone remotely connected to us had one of our pups.

Old English Sheepdogs wherever you looked.

A good thing.

Then our close friends bought, in addition to their resident sheepdog, a *gasp* Miniature Schnauzer.

Heathens.

They called her Ruby.

We stared at the wee little mite suspiciously.

Snapping black eyes.

Little black nose and ‘folded-over’ ears.

Tuft of a tail.

Okay, we had to admit it, she was cute.

Really cute.

She was accepted. And immediately took over the household.

Now, I should probably mention here that our dogs went with us camping.

All of our dogs.

And our friends brought their dogs as well.

We usually got campsites adjacent or directly across from each other and put down roots.

Now we were accustomed to camping with Sheepdogs who stayed in the campsite.

Even when their family went to the beach without them.

And were seldom/never heard from.

We discovered that a Miniature Schnauzer was . . . different.

For one thing, she had a habit of speaking up when there were strangers walking past.

Or thinking of walking past.

Or breathing . . . somewhere.

And she didn’t like to stay in the campsite. If chained, she was vociferous in her opinion of families who treated their doggies so.

And, if left unchained, she would disappear.

For the first day, dealing with her was a puzzle.

Not that I pointed out that she was definitely not an OES.

Several times.

Her family soon devised a solution.

They wrapped her leash around a small log.

Which slowed her down.

Notice I didn’t say ‘stopped her’.

No, it just slowed her down. Enough that her family could keep her in sight.

Now, when they strolled across into our campsite, Ruby would appear a few minutes later, manfully (can I say that about a female dog?) pulling her little log.

“Oh, here’s Ruby,” they would say. “Pulling her log of shame!”

But Ruby learned. And found her place in our family.

Amongst the sheepdogs.

I don’t know what life would be like without her.

Gahhh!

I always was afraid at night

When Mother would turn out the light,

Into the darkness, I would stare

And look for monsters waiting there.

My terror's lasted all my life,

E’en after I became a wife,

Though I admit there's far less fear

When someone else is sleeping near.

But still the darkness frightens me.

Still harbours scary things, you see.

Into the darkness, I will stare

For thugs and villains waiting there.

Once, Husby took me out to see

A great new movie, just released.

About a girl, so sweet and kind

With powers that absorbed her mind.

That night, my world again askew,

The light stayed on because I knew

The darkness, into which I stared?

For certain, Carrie waited there.

And so it’s gone - the darkness wins,

The light goes off, and my mind spins.

Creating creatures in the night

That disappear in morning light.

Beings who would steal your mind

Performing tests on all mankind.

Into the darkness I still stare

And watch for aliens waiting there.

Last night I stumbled down the hall

Intent on answering nature’s call

And when I glanced into the mirror,

My reflection was one pale blur.

For my tri-focals help me out,

So I can see my way about.

If in the darkness, I did stare,

I’d not see anything waiting there.

Hmmm . . .

What you can't see won’t hurt you, right?

Shhh . . . I’m turning off the light.

Once a month our little Poetry group

headed by our intrepid leader,

Karen of Baking in a tornado,

posts (what else?) Poetry. It's fun.

And on a theme.

This month? Reflection.

Visit my team and see what

everyone has done with it!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: No Reflection

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Reflection of My Past Life

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: One Year

Snow Angels

A guest post by little brother, Blair.

Not me, but similar.

On occasion, as a teenager, I made choices that lacked caution and or wisdom.

Okay, I made stupid choices.

On one occasion, I was out in the evening with friends riding snowmobiles and enjoying the winter in the hills near my father’s ranch.

We all drove trucks to a drop off point where we parked and unloaded our snow machines and headed up snow packed roads and trails into the woods.  The snow in the woods had just fallen and it was a blast riding on what felt like fluffy clouds of snow.

After spending some time up in the wooded area, we finally decided to pack up and head home.  However, the group was delaying our departure.

As a teenager, I tended to get impatient and after waiting for what I thought was a half hour (10 minutes), I got mad and hopped on my machine and headed down the snow packed trail by myself. Now at that age I tended to lose all caution when I got mad and I barely made it through the trees and fluffy snow back to the snow packed road without wrapping my snowmobile around one of the trees. You would think that this would have made me be a little more careful.

But I left all sense and reason back in the trees somewhere.

I came out of the treed area onto the snow packed road, operating a machine that was way more powerful than I needed considering my frame of mind. I wound it up to full speed. 

It was exciting as I heard the motor growl. 

The adrenaline coursed through me as I flew down the trail.

The lights on the machine would shine a reasonable distance ahead or what I thought was reasonable even though I had the snowmobile running at its top speed. The trees on the side of the trail were whirring by and I was enjoying the rush. 

I came to a bend in the trail that I slowed for and rounded, and once again opened the throttle wide. 

Then I looked up and saw an immediate turn and embankment directly in front of me. 

I thought, “Gee I don’t remember that sharp turn”.  Then, “I’m going way too fast. How am I going to get around that corner without planting myself in the embankment?”  And finally, “This is not good, I am going to be killed or maimed”.

I had no idea what I should do.  I was going so fast that if I tried to break on the snow packed trail, I would likely slide out of control and become part of the embankment.

I let the throttle go and the snowmobile started to slow. I dropped down and hugged my machine while leaning over to help it stay upright around the corner, certain that I was going to leave the trail and hit the embankment at any second. 

Suddenly, I was around the corner and headed down the trail.  The snowmobile continued to slow and I was not inclined to speed up at this point.  I thought, “How did I make it around that corner?” I was sure that I shouldn’t have. 

I have since imagined that if I had stopped and gone back to the corner, I would have seen a line of footprints in the snow from a whole group of guardian angels that guided me around and kept me from planting myself in the bank.

They would have probably said to each other, “This is one stupid teenager.”

Oh, wait a minute. Guardian angels would say, “This young man has just made a poor choice, but maybe if we step in this time, he will make better choices in the future.”

I managed to get back to my truck and then home a little shaken but in one piece.  I vowed that I would not be so foolish again.

I can’t say that I have always been wiser, but maybe my guardian angels can vouch for me.

Sorting Souls

Just inside the graveyard fence stood a big old pecan tree.

One day two boys came hunting nuts. In actuality.

They filled a big old bucket (though they spilled some by the fence),

Then sat down right there by the tree so counting could commence.

“One for you and one for me,” said one boy, happily.

“And another one for you and then another one for me.”

A third young boy came riding past the graveyard on his bike,

Heard some voices from inside that sounded quite ghostlike.

Slowed and heard a voice say, “One for you and one for me.”

“One for you and one for me,” it continued gleefully.

In an instant, he had figured who was speaking thus,

Left to find someone with whom all this he could discuss.

‘Round the bend he came upon an old man with a cane,

Hobbling slowly down the road in quite extensive pain.

“Come here quick!” the boy said. “Please believe what I just heard!”

“They’re in there sharing out the souls, both Satan and the Lord!”

He said, “Beat it kid, you see it's hard for me to stroll?”

The boy was firm. The graveyard fence then became their goal.

Standing by the bars they heard those fateful words once more,

“One for you and one for me.” As had been said before.

The old man whispered, “Boy, you're right. What you said is true!”

“Let's move closer by the fence and bring the Lord in view!”

They gripped tight those iron bars as they tried to get a glimpse.

But they could not see anything. Though they hung there like two chimps.

At last they heard, “For you. For me. That's all and ain’t this fun?”

“Let's get those nuts o’er by the fence and then we will be done!”

The old man led for a good half-mile, just running like a deer,

Before the kid on the bike shot past and left him in the rear.

'Tis Monday and I know you know that that means poetry.

So visit Jenny and Delores. Now that you've seen me!

Trading Cockroaches for Cold

I love Alberta. 

It's beautiful.
Wide, grassy prairies.
High, majestic mountains.
Blue skies.
Clear air.

Warm temperatures.
Okay, I know that it gets cold in Alberta.
And yes, -40 (C or F) is not uncommon.
But, probably because of the extreme temperatures, Alberta is missing a couple of very important things.
And I'm not complaining.
1. Alberta is the only place on earth that has no rats.
None. They are stopped at the borders, asked to produce a current passport, then turned away.
Let's face it, have you ever seen a rat with any passport, let alone a current one?
There is even a designated rat un-welcome committee stationed at every border.
An effective one.
Equipped with guns and traps.
And lots of cheese.
I don't know about you, but that would certainly indicate to me that I wasn't wanted.
Moving on . . .
So . . . no rats.
2. Alberta also has no big bugs.
Okay, we have bugs.
Just not big ones.
I've seen the pictures of people holding cockroaches that reach to their elbows and spiders that could easily carry off small children.
I know what big bugs look like.
And we don't have them.
That makes me happy.
We know how blessed we are.
Case in point:
Our son was preparing to go out to milk.
It was cold.
Alberta cold.
He was layering up at the back door.
Long johns.
Jeans.
Cotton socks.
Wool socks over cotton ones.
Heavy shirt.
Sweater.
Jacket.
Scarf.
Heavy coat.
Touque. (Warm Canadian winter hat)
Gloves.
Mittens.
Boots.
Yep. In Canada, we pretty much invented layering.
And going outside isn't something you do at the spur of the moment.
It takes thought.
And time.
I was preparing breakfast and I could hear my son moving around at the back door.
And mumbling to himself.
I dried my hands and walked over to him.
What I heard was, " . . . cockroaches."
I moved closer.
"We don't get cockroaches," he said.
As he pulled on one sock.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Second sock.
"We don't get cockroches."
Shirt.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Jacket.
And so it went.
The same refrain with each and every layer.
Psyching himself up to open that door and get the blast of cold air in the face.
We live in Alberta.
It is beautiful.
And cold.
But we don't have rats.
Or get big bugs.
Sometimes it takes the one to appreciate the other.

Small Town Summer Night

Milk River, Alberta. My Home Town.

A summer sunset.

For a short time, a hush falls over the town.

Then the Summer Evening starts.

The rumble as the teen-aged drivers in Dad’s car (or one resurrected and maintained by their own hands) start cruising Main from the Catholic church to the hotel. Most of them watching for ‘that’ vehicle. The one containing their person of the moment.

Listening to CJOC or CHEC, or, if you had a good radio, CKXL in Calgary.

Rat races (hide and seek with cars) through the back alleys and sidestreets.

The dust hanging in the still air, most noticeable around the street lights. Giant water bugs, ditto.

Glancing in the lighted windows of Charlie’s to see who is hanging out there, listening to the jukebox.

Checking out the dance in the high school gym and trying to avoid the chaperones, all of whom know one’s parents.

Going to one of a half-dozen parties at someone’s barn/gravel pit/cabin/shack complete with bonfire and/or some form of alcohol.

Stopping for milk shakes, mushroom burgers and/or popcorn twists at the Milky Way and visiting/flirting with whichever of your friends currently works there…

Cruising main again.

And finally, as the cars thinned out and your friends find other places to be . . .

Sitting by the slow-moving ribbon of silver that gives your town its name. Drinking one last milk shake and eating popcorn twists by the bagful with your big sister. The sixteen-year-old who just gave you a glimpse of what you will be doing when you become teenager in a few short years.

And the words over the radio you’ve been waiting all night for: On McKenzie’s Instant Top 12, THIS is Number One!

A Moose Parked...

A repost for birthday number five!

And you thought she was protective of her moose!

Our second youngest granddaughter, Baby Girl (hereinafter known as BG) was a tiny little thing.

Not walking yet, she scurried using the time-honored technique perfected by infants and babies since earth started.

Hands and knees.

At eleven months old, she could sure get around.

Her favourite toy/workout apparatus was her rocking moose - one of many made by my Dad, BG’s great-granddad.

(Yes, I said moose. We live in Canada, it seems apropos.)

If BG wasn’t busily exploring somewhere she shouldn’t, she could be found on that moose. Rocking wildly.

And she was more than a little possessive.

Something that had only recently discovered.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

BG, the youngest of four siblings, was underfoot in the kitchen.

Her oldest sister, nine years her senior, saw an opportunity to take a ride on the currently unoccupied moose. (Hmm. There’s a statement you don’t see often!)

I should mention here that said older sister had waist-length hair.

This will be important later.

Moving on . . .

BG looked over and spotted her sibling on her moose.

Hey!

She motored over and, latching onto the moose’s tail, levered herself to her feet.

Balancing there, she reached out and grabbed a hank of her sister’s hair.

Then she pulled.

“Ahh! Mom!” eldest sister squawked.

BG pulled again.

“Mom! She’s got me!”
BG tugged and tugged and finally, eldest sister disentangled herself and dismounted.

Her youngest sibling lost no time in climbing aboard.

Then she turned and grinned at her sister.

A knowing, ‘Nya-nya-nya-nya’ sort of grin, complete with wrinkled nose and sparkling eyes.

Did I mention that she was eleven months old?!

I predicted she’d be CEO of a major company by the time she’s five.

That's today!

Stay tuned . . .

The innocent bystander/cause-of-it-all.

So Hair We Are

Okay. See? Here she looks like a girl!

Sometimes, being thrifty has its limits.

When I was eighteen, my Mom taught me to cut hair.

She thought it was a skill I would need as I contemplated starting my own family.

The brave lady used herself as my working model.

Let's just say that, for several months, my Mom's hair was . . . interesting.

And leave it at that.

Her bravery was rewarded.

I learned to cut hair.

In one style.

And short.

Moving forward several years.

My Husby and I were blessed with three sons.

All of whom had the same barber.

Me.

I got quite proficient at boy's haircuts.

And fairly proud of myself.

We all know about pride, right.

After three sons, our family increased in size once more.

By a daughter.

A girl?

I should mention, here, that my sisters both knew how to do hair and fussy, 'pretty' stuff.

I had been raised in the barn.

With the horses.

And, for some reason, missed out on that talent.

Or interest.

I didn't realize my lack until the doctor laid my new daughter in my arms.

Holy Smoke!

My exact words.

It was then I realized that being born in the center of the family, with the boys, and spending all of my waking hours and no few of my sleeping ones in the barn, had ill-equipped me to deal with a girl.

I muddled through.

Fortunately, she mixed in with the boys as easily as her mother had.

And was gleaming bald till she was two.

That gave me time to work through some of my other inadequacies before I had to tackle the whole 'hair' problem.

But, finally, inevitably, the hair grew to a length that required either styling.

?????

Or cutting.

I opted for what I knew and fetched my scissors.

All was well.

Or so I thought.

One evening at an activity, several young boys ran up to her father and I and informed us, loudly, that our son had just gone into the girl's bathroom.

I stared at them.

We didn't have any of our sons with us.

And our daughter was . . .

Ah!

I learned to do hair.

And also to dress my daughter as a girl.

But that is another story.

There is a codicil:

That same daughter, when asked by her daughter for a haircut, did exactly the same thing.

Now her little girl, shorn of her locks, is . . . happy.

Full circle.

Rest-ing on a Sunday

 From Mom's journals.

How did this . . .

 . . . become this?

Sunday at the Ranch was a day of rest.

We slept in!

Instead of getting up at the uncivilized hour of 5:30 AM, we got up at the uncivilized hour of 6:30 AM.

The Wrangler assigned for the day saddled up Slow Poke and rode out to bring in the horses.

The other cowboys swept out the barn, fed the animals in the feed lots and milked the cow.

The man who drew the short straw got cow-milking duty.

Not a favourite chore.

Especially on Sunday.

And a cause for real irritation to whoever got stuck with it.

'Horse Play' usually erupted around or near.

Let me explain . . .

Hans, an animal lover came down the stairs from the hay loft, Cyclone (the aptly-named barn cat) purring in his arms.

Seeing Joe seated beside the milk cow, grouchily taking his irritation out on poor Jenny-the-cow, Hans got an idea.

Okay, not a great one, as it turns out, but an idea none the less.

He set the cat on Jenny's back and pulled his tail.

The cat's, I mean.

Cyclone's claws instantly contracted into the innocent old cow's hide.

Bellowing in pain, Jenny lunged forward, kicking wildly to free herself.

The milk bucket flew into the air, spilling its contents all over Joe as he scrambled for the door, desperate to get away from the flying hooves.

Cyclone flew through the air like a rocket. Five feet off the ground. He shot through the door with legs spinning, all of his nine lives in jeopardy.

With Jenny, intent only on finding the nearest far-away place, right behind him.

Just as the Wrangler arrived on Slow Poke.

Horse, cow, cat and cowboys met.

Completely out of character, Slow Poke erupted. With great heaves and grunts, he flung himself into the air.

Sunfishing.

Twisting.

Switching ends.

Pounding the ground.

The Wrangler catapulted into the sky in a beautiful arc.

Over the corral gate.

Everyone stood mesmerized in a total state of shock.

The dust settled.

Then the casualties began to moan and move.

Slightly.

This shook everyone out of their trance.

Mark grabbed his vet bag and began to check for cuts, broken bones and heart beats, prodding gently at each limp form. He swabbed and bandaged and dispensed pain killers.

Then Joe sat up, rubbed his eyes and lay back down. "Wake me in the morning," he said, "I just had a nightmare!" He opened one eye. "I should have gone to church!"

The boys carried Joe to the bunkhouse.

All of the other casualties limped or dragged themselves away to the nearest safe place.

Where they collapsed into a heap.

Everyone survived.

But it was some time before Jenny, Joe, Slow Poke, Cyclone, or any others involved in the spin off would approach the barn without apprehension.

Sundays. Truly a day of rest.

Verse-imilitude

A bit of a departure for today's Poetry Monday (the best day of the week!)

This is 'verse' written by my mother so many, many years ago.

But it is so perfect, it needs to be shared.

Again.

And again . . .

My Mom.
She of the wicked pen . . .
and wonderful cooking.

From my Mom . . .

Blessed art thou, woman.
For thou shalt be called 'Mother'.
Yea, and thy tasks and thy chores shall follow thee all the days of thy life.
And thou shalt eat the bread of thine own baking.
And thou shalt dwell forever in a dirty house, if thou dost not choose to clean it thyself.
Thou shalt arise before the cock croweth.
And thou shalt say unto thyself, "Where are the offspring which were given me? Yea, the sun has risen high in the sky and the hour grows late, wherefore I have been long at my labours."
And thou shalt go and find thine offspring prostrate in their cot.
And thou shalt say unto them, "Haste, arise and shine, for I have many labours for thee to perform; wherefore I have been many hours preparing the way."
And thine offspring linger in sleep and shall say unto thee, "Thou didst not watch the late, late, late show as I did last night and mine eyes are heavy and mine bones acheth."
And thou shalt say unto thy offspring, "Get thee up from thy cot; ere I lay a hand upon thee, and go ye hither and scrub a sparkling tub, for thou hast left black rings upon its sides."
And thy offspring shalt say unto thee, "I will go and do thy bidding - in a minute."
And thy rage shall know no end.
And thou shalt weep and wail and gnash thy teeth mightily.
Never-the-less, thou shalt scrub a sparkling tub thyself and glory shall be added unto thee, for thou didst not strike the lazy beast.
Thou are blessed above all others and thy descendants shall call thee 'Blessed', for thou preparest a table before them. Thou cookest meat and all manner of tasty vittles and they shall sit at thy table with thee and partake with thee.
And they shall add glory unto thy crown for they shall let thee also wash the dishes, if thou wilt.
And when the night falleth thou shalt be deflated, and thy offspring shall say unto thee, "She is an old woman, wherefore she neither goes dancing, nor does she watch the late, late, late show."
Thy art and thy craft shall make thee called upon and thou shalt labour at many tasks in thy kingdom for whosoever asketh.
Thou doest his bidding.
Thy back shall acheth with arthritis; thy cane and thy husband shall be thy support.
Thy veins shall be varicose in thine aching legs, but thou shalt do thy duty with a smile; neither shalt thou complain.
Thou are blessed with a crown every second Sunday in May.
Wherefore, thou art blessed above all others for thou are 'Mother' and thou shalt find joy in thy offspring forever.
If thou endureth to the end!

Thanks, Mom.

Now go to and see what Jenny has to say about cat hair and Delores about a rather large birthday celebration! Hooray for Poetry Monday!

Muffy the Two

Muffy the First. With our eldest son, Mark

For over thirty years, our family raised Old English Sheepdogs.
We loved them.
They came as little, furry puppies.
And turned into big, furry dogs.
Gentle. Affectionate. Protective.
Have I mentioned that we loved them?
Several of our dogs stand out in my memory.
One is Muffy the Second.
Not to be confused with Muffy the First.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.
Muffy lived to eat. And receive affection.
But mostly to eat.
Our youngest son, Tristan had an ice cream cone.
And an audience.
Muffy was sitting nearby, keeping what she hoped was anunobtrusive eye on his actions.
I should point out that in our house, the dogs weren't allowed anywhere near the dining room.
Tristan was in the living room.
The rules were a bit more blurry there . . .
He had taken a couple of licks.
With the third lick, his little scoop of ice cream vacated the cone and headed for the floor.
It never landed.
In a blur of motion, Muffy was across the room. She had that ice cream downed before Tristan had even realized he had lost it.
Tears ensued.
Tristan, not Muffy.
Another scoop, and all was well.
After Muffy had also been banned from the living room.
Sigh. People, make up your minds . . .
Another time, rawhide bones had been issued to all three dogs currently residing in the house.
They retreated to favourite corners to chew.
Or so it seemed.
Muffy was again keeping an unobtrusive (she was getting good at it) eye on the other two.
Biding her time.
When one of them got distracted, she would sneak in and snatch their bone.
Whereupon (good word) the offended party would look around in confusion, sigh and close their eyes for a nap.
Have I mentioned that they weren't always the brightest bulb in the chandelier?
Finally, Muffy had cornered all of the bones. Happily, she cradled them between her front legs and proceeded to chew, first one, then another.
But that is where her bliss ended.
Oh, not because the other two figured it out.
No. Because the kids came home from school.
Now it was the usual scenario in the Tolley household, that the kids be met at the door by All. Three. Dogs.
They would jump around and make general nuisances of themselves in their excitement and enthusiasm.
The dogs, that is.
Ahem . . .
We heard the bus.
Panda and Chief headed for the door, wiggling happily. I should also mention that an Old English Sheepdog has no tail. Thus, when excited, they wag their entire rear end.
Just FYI . . .
There was much wiggling and snuffling and vying for attention as eight kids came through the door.
And Muffy was missing it.
She whined and cried and fidgeted as she stood over her ill gotten gains, not wanting to leave them for fear of losing them, but sad to be missing all of the excitement.
Finally, it was too much for her.
In a flurry of movement, she joined the others.
Whereupon (that word again) the other two left the melee and dashed over to the bones, each snatching one and heading to their respective corners to resume their interrupted afternoon chew.
Maybe that was their plot all along.
Muffy finished greeting the kids and ran back to her spot.
To find just one bone.
The price of enthusiasm.

We just said good-bye to our beloved Aldo. The last of the last.

May you romp and play happily in Heaven, our boy. We'll be along some time . . .

Outruded

Our family loves taking holidays.

And for a simple country family from Southern Alberta, we have managed to cover a good portion of the globe.
We have had wonderful experiences.
Sunsets over the Mediterranean.
Fresh bratwurst in an open-air mall in Frankfurt.
Moving church services in an old cathedral in Cork.
A wild bus ride through the streets of London.
The smell of the dust in the air on a hot afternoon in Turkey.
The bustle on the streets in Paris.
But, sometimes, like everyone who travels, we have . . . 'adventures'.
Let me explain . . .
We were touring one of the great cities in Europe.
And enjoying seeing things that for us, had existed only in pictures.
We wandered into a very popular tourist site.
And were instantly accosted by a small, but determined group of 'entrepreneurs'.
These people had made little bracelets and were anxious to make a sale.
At first, it seemed as though they wanted to present you with a little gift.
They would smilingly knot one around your wrist.
And I do mean 'knot'.
Pretty.
Then stand back and loudly demand money.
Great scam.
We had seen it happen to people walking just ahead of us.
“Keep your hands tucked in!” Grant whispered urgently to the rest of us.
“Don't let them grab you!”
I should point out here that we had no intention of letting them grab us.
And, through our travels, we had learned the great art of 'obtuse and avoidance'.
The tourist's best friend.
If you don't make eye contact and pretend you don't hear, you avoid a lot of unwanted purchases.
This didn't work here.
If you looked away, a pair of enthusiastic salesmen would move alongside.
One would grab your hand and the other would tie the bracelet firmly.
There was no way of getting rid of it, short of cutting it off.
You would be forced to pay.
We managed better than most.
You learn to be agile, working on a ranch.
But two of them had converged on our youngest daughter.
An outspoken girl of 21.
She had tucked both of her hands against her body and said, “No, thank you.” And, “I'm not interested.” And, “I don't want a bracelet.” several times.
Firmly.
Then she tried to break, as politely as she could, through the closed ranks around her.
Politeness and patience were wearing thin.
And not working in the slightest.
The salesmen had resorted to trying to physically take her hands, chattering enthusiastically in their native tongue.
She shifted back and forth, eluding them.
We started towards her, intent on rescue.
We weren't needed.
Before we could reach her, she suddenly shouted loudly at the two men, “Get the hell away from me!”
Did I mention outspoken?
All heads in the square turned.
Smiles broke out on many tourist faces.
The two would-be salesmen fell back and stared at her.
Finally, one of them drew himself up and sniffed, “There is no need to be rude!”
They disappeared, taking their little bracelets with them.
There was laughter and a small smattering of applause.
Okay, it came from us, but why haggle over details?
I was proud of my daughter.
She had tried to be polite.
She had tried to be firm.
But, faced with a situation in which neither of these tactics proved effective, she became fierce.
And won the day.
This was an isolated incident.
Fortunately, one of very few negative experiences we've had in our travels.
But it proved to us that when patience and good manners don't work . . .
Good old 'country spunk' will.
Travelling?
Take a farm girl.

"I have a baguette and I know how to use it!"

An Uplifting Experience

It's officially summer time in Edmonton. 

Today we were driving past one of the many ski hills that abound in the area.

The snow is finally gone. The slopes green-grassed and empty.

Only the lifts, looking forlorn and forgotten, are there to remind one of the usual bustle on those slopes.

Lifts.

It reminded me of something . . .

Years ago, our family used to ski Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana.

Every winter.

It was the highlight of our year.

Well, mine, anyway.

Dad forked over a whopping $3.00 ($4.00 CAN) per ticket for us to ride all the lifts all day.

Watched as we attached said ticket to our ski jackets.

Then waved us off cheerily.

I don't know what he and Mom did all day while we kids were having the time of our lives.

But as long as he showed up at the end of the day and immediately took us to be fed, we were happy.

But back to the ski slope . . .

At that time, Big Mountain had four main slopes.

There was the bunny hill. Which we learned on. Then immediately spurned.

Two intermediate slopes.

Where I and my siblings spent the most time.

And, finally, the advanced slope. Which, for me, merely served as the entrance to the back trails. (See here.)

Oh, I skied it.

Once.

And ended up taking off my skis and walking down.

Don't ask.

Moving on . . .

The first thing we learned about skiing was the fact that you had to get to the top of the hill before you could come down.

Skiing 101.

And that required the use of the tows/lifts.

Sure. It looks fun here . . .

The bunny slope had a rope tow.

A very sneaky rope tow.

Consisting of a rope running continuously.

I assume it was pulled by some sort of . . . pulley.

The rope had to be approached cautiously.

One would place one's mittened hands on the rope.

Then slowly tighten said hands around the heavy, quickly-moving hemp until finally, one's grip was tight enough to actually start one sliding up the hill.

It wasn't as easy as it sounds.

If one gripped too hard, the rope would jerk one off one's feet.

Which, I must admit was hilarious.

Unless it was you.

And, even funnier was the sight of a pulled-off/escaped mitten riding up the rope.

All by itself.

Do not attempt this without supervision.
Ouch.

The tow on one of the intermediate hills was a little more . . . touchy.

It was the 'poma' lift.

Pomas consisted of a long pole attached to the high tow wire by a spring.

With a little disc welded onto the bottom.

Which disc, when inserted between the skiers legs, would, theoretically pull one up the hill.

It took practice.

A lot of practice.

There were the inevitable mishaps and false starts.

People who lost their grip on the poma and watched it spring up into the air.

While the hapless skier slid to a halt down below.

Or, better yet, the people who lost their balance and were dragged several feet before they realized that any hope of completing their ride to the top was gone and that their best tactic at that point was to . . . let go.

The poma lift always attracted a non-skiing group of observers whose sole purpose was to watch.

And laugh.

Jerks.

I should mention, too, that getting off was . . . tricky.

Enough said.

Effective. And cosy.

The other intermediate slope tow was a 'T' bar.

A bar in the shape of a T.

That pulled two riders up the slope.

Or one rider if the other one fell over.

Which happened a lot.

If you were a bit more of a skiing expert, you got to ride the chair lift. The most fun of all. And the easiest to ride.

How often does that happen?

The problem was that it took one to the very highest slope.

And the steepest (see above).

My siblings and I became experts on each of these lifts.

The Ultimate.

Oh, not all at once.

It took time.

And we had our learning curve.

Which was infinitely more 'curve' than 'learning'.

But still, we had fun.

And were finally able to stop providing entertainment for the jerks.

HA!

Masters of the ski lifts.

Life just didn't get any better.