Pantie Prejudice

Me - at my best . . .

I hated them.
Maybe it was the color. Yucky green.
Maybe it was the fit. Tight elastic on the legs.
Whatever.
I only wore them under duress, when there was simply nothing else in my drawer. And following a highly intellectual and diverting argument with my Mom . . .
"Put them on, Diane!"
"Mo-om!"
"Put them on!"
Sigh.
Being the semi-obedient four-year-old that I was - and because 'going commando' hadn't been invented yet - I would haul my little green panties out from under the bed where I had hidden them and . . . shudder . . . pull them on.
Quickly, I would then hide them under a pair of blue jeans and try to put them out of my mind by heading outside to play. 
They itched.
They crawled into unwanted places.
They made me sweaty.
Sighing, I ignored them and joined the group of kids on the corner.
Now a couple of points of background . . .
In 1959, as in every neighborhood in Canada, weather permitting, we local kids gathered. Play commenced. As our mothers were working busily in their homes, we kids ran up and down the street, engaged in one of a thousand different imaginative schemes. At lunchtime, we were called home. We ate as quickly as we could, then returned to the street. Our mothers cleaned up and went back to their ironing or canning or one of hundreds of other chores. We kids played until supper was announced. 
When the lunchtime scenario was again enacted.
Actual physical parental supervision was unheard of. We policed ourselves. Tattled on each other. Looked after each other. When Kenny fell and broke his arm, an army of kids ran to his house and brought his mother. When Brenda got sick on the merry-go-round, same thing. 
It was a wonderful, carefree way to grow up.
Also, at this particular time, my Dad and older brothers had put up our family's brown canvas tent in the back yard.
I know this doesn't sound like an actual part of the story, but wait for it.
Now, back to my story . . .
My best friend and next door neighbor was Laurie. A sweet-tempered, agreeable girl just a bit younger than me. 
She followed me in everything.
Not always a good idea.
By early afternoon, I had been wearing the dreaded panties for much of the day. They had been my largely unwelcome companions while running, climbing, crawling, doing gymnastics, climbing, rolling, spinning, climbing . . . okay, I did a lot of climbing, but that is another story. 
They were really starting to bug me.
But there was no way I would ever be able to sneak into the house to remove them.
And then it hit me! 
If I ducked into the tent, I could shed the dreaded panties and my Mom would never know!
It was a brilliant plan. Awe inspiring.
Completely fool proof.
I acted immediately.
"Were are we going?" Laurie was right behind me, as usual.
"Into the tent."
"What are we going to do?"
"Take off our panties."
"Okay."
Did I mention that I often got Laurie into a lot of trouble?
In a few seconds, the deed was done. I wadded my cast-offs into a little ball and stuffed them down into a hidden corner of the tent.
Laurie did the same with hers.
Then I pulled on my jeans and headed back outside.
Laurie followed.
Hah! Mission accomplished. No one would ever know.
Our friends were sitting around in my front yard, breathing hard from yet another race up and down the street. I pranced to the middle of the circle with Laurie close behind.
"We're not wearing any panties!" I sang out.
Okay, so, secret agent material, I wasn't.
"Panties!" Laurie echoed.
And suddenly, Laurie's mom was there, grabbing her little daughter and running with her towards their house.
I watched them go, wondering at the shocked and dismayed expression on Laurie's mom's face.
What on earth was wrong with her?
Maybe I should point out here that Laurie's mom always dressed her in frilly, feminine dresses.
Short-skirted dresses.
I got a lecture. Something about modesty and being a good example.
Who listened.
Parents are so weird.

Hold the Onions

I set the basket down on the desk and took a seat in the proffered chair, hooking my dripping umbrella on the carved, wooden arm.

For a moment, there was silence between us as we studied each other.

Then his eyes turned to my basket.

I felt a frown gather, drawing my brows together. What was so interesting? I followed his gaze.

It was an ordinary enough basket. Plain. Serviceable. Stiff, yellow straw with brown leather hinges and bindings.

Unremarkable.

My frown deepened as a small, cold trickle of fear? anger? disgust? looped its way down my back. Could he smell them? I thought I had disguised them so well. My nostrils twitched slightly as I stealthily took a sniff of the air.

Nothing.

Did he have super senses? Should I be alarmed?

Outside in the street a group of boisterous children ran past, screaming with laughter as they splashed through the puddles.

Both of us turned, distracted for a moment. Then I swung my head back to him.

Now his eyes were on me. Strange eyes. Green. With a blue center next to the pupil.

Cold eyes.

Hungry.

I took a deep breath and held out my hand, palm up. “If you’ll ‘cross my palm with silver’, figuratively speaking, we can get on with this,” I suggested.

He started and blinked. “Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.” He reached into a vest pocket.

I kept my eyes on his hand.

I had been fooled before.

Something jingled slightly and he dragged out a tightly closed fist. Spinning his chair, he presented his back to me and peered down at his hand.

Then he turned back, his fingers closed once more over his palm. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” I slid a paper across the desk toward him. “If you’ll just sign . . .”

He nodded and pinned the sheet to the table with his fist, then grabbed a pen with his free hand, scrawled something across the bottom and released it.

I pulled it back toward me. His scrawl seemed indecipherable, but I was fairly certain those who needed to would be able to decrypt it.

I gave what passed for a smile and pushed the basket toward him.

His eyes flared and, with one hand, he eagerly began to attack the straps.

Again, I held out my hand. “Maybe it would be easier if . . .”

“Oh. Of course. He held his closed fist over my palm and uncurled his fingers, releasing a fair-sized stream of silver coins into it. “That should be about right.”

I looked down and poked at the money. “It seems so.”

He hadn’t waited for my response, but was once more tackling the straps. This time with two hands.

In a moment, he had flipped the lid back and was staring down inside. “Is this really . . .?”

I nodded.

He reached in and, with two hands, tenderly lifted his prize out of the basket. Then, eyes still fixed on it, he set it reverently on the spotless blotter in front of him.

I stood up, pocketing both his change and the receipt and reached for my basket, then said, in a rather sing-song voice, “The one and only Furiner’s Market Special 'Count-To-Five' Deluxe. One oven-fresh roll, two seasonings, three meats, four cheeses and five vegetables, all rolled together with a heaping dollop of love.” My eyes narrowed slightly and I felt a small smile tickle the corners of my mouth. “Or, in your case, the Count-To-Four Special because you instructed us to withhold the onions.” I turned away and continued under my breath, “Which, in my opinion, gives the sandwich it’s unique flavour.”

“What?”

I looked at him.

His eyes were on mine. “You’re sure. No onions.”
I nodded. “Quite.”

As I walked out the door, I let the smile that had been teasing my lips for the past five minutes widen. “No onions, indeed!”

Each month, we, the followers of Karen, submit words. Which are then re-submitted by our fearless leader to other members of our circle.

The resulting Use Your Words posts are unique, inspiring, thoughtful, entertaining and/or all of the above.

My words this month receipt ~ pen ~ basket ~ screaming ~ umbrella

were submitted by: https://cognitivescript.blogspot.com/  

Here are Karen's other victims happy fellow writers.

See how they did!

Baking In A Tornado

The Bergham Chronicles

Southern Belle Charm

The Blogging 911

Cognitive Script

Part-Time Working Hockey Mom

My Brand of Crazy

Climaxed

              

Birdbaths for the Birdbrained

What we wanted.

What we got.

Debbie and I had spent the morning dreaming about the big ‘B’.

Boys.

All of whom were fascinating and none of whom were interested.

Sigh.

We were drooling over yet another male lead in a long line-up of romantic movies.

This one was a Western. My personal favourite.

Mmmmm . . .

Suddenly, Debbie jumped up and shut off the TV right in the middle of blood and blue shadows under the midnight sun.

Who does that?!

“I want to do something,” she announced.

I glowered at her and briefly considered pointing out that we were doing something. Her whole demeanour suggested . . . action. Which probably meant that, sooner or later, I was going to have to get off the couch.

Ugh.

“I want to build a birdbath.”

I stared. Had I heard her correctly?

“I’m serious!” Her voice started to gain in pitch and enthusiasm. “I saw one in a magazine article. It was made of cement and had an all ‘dignified and harmonious-with-nature’ theme. It started with a little pool up top, then plunging down a waterfall  to iridescent bubbles at the bottom!” In her eagerness, she began to pace.

I hated it when she did that.

“We could make a little thatched roof to limit weather-ly interference.” She spun around to face me. “So what do you think?!”

I should point out here that her asking me that was merely a magnanimous gesture. We were doing it. She just wanted me to feel included.

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself to my feet. Let’s get this over with . . .

Pulling her little brother’s wagon, the two of us walked downtown to the hardware store. Then followed a frenzied rush to grab anything she thought would help. And the expenditure of two months of allowance.

As we toted her baggage home, she talked endlessly about the indelible impression her creation would make. About how the town gentry would stroll past, abandoning their normally impartial opinions in their excitement over this brush with the . . . wet and bird-like.

Yeah, she dreamt big, that Debbie.

What followed could only be considered inhumane – which is really ironic, considering we were creating something to benefit nature.

Because I was a farm girl – with muscles - I hauled cement. Mixed cement. Formed cement in a great hole which I had also helped dig.

Then I collapsed.

Debbie looked at the mass of grey glop in the bottom of our hole and then at her exhausted friend.

“It’s perfect!” she said.

I, too, looked into the hole. At the plop of cement in the bottom. Seriously?

Debbie got the garden hose and filled the little indent in the top of her creation. “See? Perfect!”

I blinked. Then turned to look at the paraphernalia strewn about. “What about . . .?” I got no further.

“Perfect!” Debbie nodded decisively, then gathered everything else up and packed it away.

After that, when the weather cooperated, Debbie happily filled her birdbath. Her beautiful, aesthetically-pleasing work of art.

Well, to her . . .

Debbie’s family moved away from Milk River decades ago.

But I think her birdbath sits there to this day.

A monument to what can be accomplished by the lazy and unmotivated. 

Or of an afternoon spent with a friend.

Take your pick.

The Monthly SWS

“Please tell us all your problem, sir,

You know we’re here to help.

Supporting is how we get through,

You only have to yelp!”

“Just look around the circle, Sir,

There’s not but friends you’ll see.

Get the whole thing off your chest,

Then Madge will serve us tea.”

“It started much as any day,”

He said. And then he sighed,

“A run together in the dawn,

I was so proud, I cried.”

“Then changing for the workday, but

A load of laundry first.

Who knew that act would be her last?

‘Twas like we both were cursed!”

“So innocent as soap went in,

Naive as buttons pressed,

Then watched as clothes began to swirl,

And tumble with the rest.”

“All was well until the load,

Was moved into the drier.

We were watching it together as

The heat was getting higher.”

“Then she was gone, t’was just that fast,

My love was there no more.

And all I had was memories

Of what we had before.”

“I’ve tossed it round within my mind,

There really is no doubt

As a pair of socks, we two went in,

As a single, I came out.”

Each month we have a challenge
Yes, we voted on a theme,
Then each put on our thinking caps 
And hurried to our screens.
So you know the theme 's official,
It was on the internet,
Today's Lost Sock Memorial Day,
Join us in our SOCK regrets!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Ode to a Sock

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Ode to My Sock

Leaving Little Girls

Me. And my Daddy.

My first experience with the radio . . .

Mom must have heard the sobs.

She came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Diane?”

More sobs.

“Diane, where are you?”

She followed the heartbroken sounds to the couch.

To behind the couch.

To the little four-year-old who had crawled between the piece of furniture and the large picture window just behind.

I looked up at her.

Can’t you just see the little tear-stained face?

Mom smiled at me and reached out to pull me into her arms. “Diane, what’s wrong?”

The two of us sat down on the couch.

Mom dabbed at my face with her towel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“He left her, Mom!” I managed at last.

Mom stared at me. “Who? Left who?”

“He left her. His little girl. Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face was a veritable cornucopia of expressions.

Worry.

Defiance.

Sympathy.

Defense.

With a large dollop of confusion.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

“The man!” I looked at her intently through drenched eyes. Surely she knew him. She had been listening to him. I reached out and grasped her arm, giving it a shake. “The man you were listening to!” I looked away. “He was so sad ‘cause he had to leave his little girl in gings-tin-down.” I looked back at her. “Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh. The radio!” she said.

It was my turn to stare at her. “The radio?”

She cuddled me closer. “Honey, you were listening to a man singing on the radio!”

“But he left his little girl! He said!” I scrubbed at my nose with a slightly grubby hand. “And he was sad.”

Mom smiled. “It was just a song,” she said.

“But his little girl!” I couldn't get past the thought that, somewhere, there was a little girl who was missing her daddy.

“He’s not actually talking about a little girl . . .” Mom began.

“But he said!” I broke in. “I heard him! He said his little girl!”

“In this case he’s talking about his wife or sweetheart.” She tightened her arms around me. “Sometimes men call their wives or sweethearts, ‘little girl’.

I felt my face twisting into my favourite - and most effective - confused expression. “What?”

She nodded. “It’s just their way of saying, I love you.”

“Oh.” I thought about that for a minute.

Just then the front door opened.

Tears and forlorn little girls forgotten, I leaped down from Mom’s lap and headed for the front hall. “Daddy! It’s Daddy!”

Tall and strong, he was there to scoop me up. “How’s my little girl?” he said.

True story.

And here's the exact song, by the incomparable Harry Belafonte. Enjoy!

I have Kleenex . . .

New Green

It Monday.

And warm.

Everybody cheer!
Thank you.

Our winter’s finally backed away,

Those days of cold and snow-y.

And Spring has slid the curtain back,

Has giv’n us warm and grow-y.

But though we curse the winter’s snow,

And praise the heavens when it goes,

While gaily heaving heavy clothes,

There’s something we should know-y . . .

From October through to April on

Our mansion or our hovel,

Snow is moisture that we need,

Though we look on it as trouble,

And now, with spring, still moisture falls,

And drips from eyebrows, hats. And walls,

We curse and put on over-alls.

(But it’s easier to shovel!)

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

Come back next week, we'll share our thoughts,

On leaves and flow'rs the rain has brought!

Queen of the Griddle

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

Breakfast.

One of the three best meals of the day.

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 future 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 42 years, he has been struggling to get it right.

He's still not there.

And Mom took the original recipe with her when she went home.

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 . . .

The Winning Trip

My first official household job when I became a newly minted teenager was the vacuuming.

Ugh.

Mom would drag out her antiquated upright vacuum, wheel it over to where I was sitting watching Saturday morning cartoons, and say, cheerfully, “Diane! You've just won a trip!”

There, she would pause significantly, smiling widely at me.

I knew what was coming.

Which made it distinctly un-funny.

Finally, she would add, “Around the house with the vacuum!”

Sigh.

I hated vacuuming.

And her vacuum, whatever it's glowing attributes in its younger days, was distinctly past its prime.

In fact, it hardly had any suction at all.

Vacuuming with a machine that hardly sucks really sucks.

So to speak.

Dutifully, and after a significant number of follow-up (and incrementally strong) 'encouragements', I would drag myself out of my comfy chair, grasp the handle of my nemesis, and start in.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Stupid vacuum.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Look at that! It won't even pick up that piece of lint.

Brrrrrrrrr.

Have I mentioned that I hate vacuuming?

Brrrrrrrrr.

And so it went.

Every Saturday, there was a half hour or so of my life that I'd never get back.

Sigh.

I learned a few things:

1.  Running an upright vacuum with a spinning brush over an area rug usually resulted in the disastrous ingestion of said rug.

2. Kind of funny to watch, but not so good for either the rug or the vacuum.

3. If you stood with a foot at either edge of said rug you could hold it down.

4. Genius. And,

5. SPINNING BRUSHES ARE NOT TO BE TAMPERED WITH.

Hmm. I think on that last point, I will elucidate:

One day, the wretched vacuum quit sucking altogether.

For several minutes, I ran it back and forth over the same piece of lint.

Nothing.

Without shutting it off, I tipped it up to see if the problem was something obvious.

It was! Right . . . there.

Now, just because a vacuum had quit sucking, doesn't necessarily mean that it has stopped working.

I poked one finger towards the problem.

ZZZZZTTTT!

Ow.

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

I dropped the vacuum and did the dance of pain, clutching my injured right pointer finger in my left hand.

Finally, I spread my hand, palm up and gazed at it.

Looked okay from here.

I turned it over.

My fingernail was black.

I kid you not.

Black.

The spinning vacuum brush had ripped it free of my finger in one quick, easy movement. Leaving it attached only by the outer edges.

And it had filled instantly with blood.

Ick.

And it hurt.

Ouch.

Sometime later, an incessant noise intruded upon my pain and I realized, belatedly, that the vacuum was still running.

Not that it was doing any good.

I switched it off and ran to find my mom.

My black fingernail was with me for a long time.

A long time.

A reminder that vacuuming was not to be taken lightly.

Or at least that vacuums were to be treated with respect.

After that, whenever I needed to see the inner workings, not only was the beast switched off.

But it was also unplugged.

A lesson harshly taught.

But a lesson nonetheless.

P.S. I still hate vacuuming.
Just FYI.

Life's Elixir

Cool, clear water.

The Stringam ranch had plenty of it.

Soft.

Pure.

Clean.

There was only one thing distinctive about it.

And I do mean 'stinc'.

Let me illustrate with a little aside . . .

My Husby's Gramma used to give her kids a dose of 'spring tonic' every year.

It consisted of sulphur mixed in lard.

Eaten from a spoon.

Ick.

But she maintained that it kept them healthy . . .

Well, on the Stringam ranch, we never had to be dosed with this old wives remedy.

Because we got it merely by living there.

Yes, our water was right full of sulphur.

I am not making this up.

Our water was plentiful and healthful.

But reeked like rotten eggs.

The smell of it permeated everything and everyone.

And, oddly enough, we loved it.

We drank it.

Bathed in it.

Cleaned with it.

Offered it, chilled, to anyone who happened to drop by.

And snickered silently when they would hold their noses to drink it.

Poor, unenlightened visitors.

Our animals happily drank it, too.

In fact, when we took our cattle to show, we always had to take time to get them accustomed to the water in the new place.

Most places added chlorine. Now THAT really stank (Stinked? Stunk?).

And tasted worse.

These days, I'm missing our good old sulphur water.

That elixir that kept us healthy and strong.

There is an addendum . . .

The people who bought the old ranch from us hauled their drinking water.

And finally drilled a new well.

I can only shake my head.

Strange, weird people.

A Stick in the Mud

Spring is here! Spring is here! Spring is here!
And with it, mud . . .
Oh.

Or something similar...

Spring had finally arrived at the ranch.
Let me describe it to you . . .
The snow has melted away. Even the drifts which filled the ditches have finally succumbed to the encroaching sun.
Everywhere on the prairie one can see the signs of spring. New green in the prairie grasses and in the occasional and solitary trees. An infrequent blossom. The smells, in the prairie wind, of things growing . Scurrying animals. Birdsong.
And knee-deep mud in the barnyard.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
It is a wonderful time. A time of anticipation. Of wonder.
For a four-year-old who had been cooped up in the house since time immemorial (ie. hours), it is a wondrous opportunity for freedom.
And I took it . . .
Anxious to put a new accomplishment (that Mom and I had been labouring over) into practice, I disdained my ugly, black gumboots and stuck my feet into my brand new running shoes and triumphantly tied the laces.
I was free!
I dashed out of the house and into the spring sunshine.
The day was filled with endless possibilities for exploring. There was the ice-house. The riverbank. The blacksmith shop. The feed sheds. Hayloft. Pig sty. Chicken coop.
Okay, maybe not the chicken coop.
All my usual haunts.
But today, my first day of freedom, I chose . . . where else would a horse nut go? . . . the horse barn.
Where I would find the . . . ummm . . . horses.
It started out all right. I walked down the hard-packed driveway to the grass of the foreman's house.
So far, so good.
From there, I crossed to the fence. Still fine. I climbed the fence and looked across the barnyard to the tempting building just over there . . .
I jumped down.
And that is where everything fell apart. I watched my feet disappear into the morass that the barnyard had become.
Right up to my knees.
For a stunned moment, I stared down. What had happened?
I tried to lift one foot. It didn't move.
I tried again. Same result.
Panic threatened. Was I going to be stuck here for the rest of my life? I was perilously close to tears.
Then I saw my dad. He of the strong arms and wisely gum booted feet.
He worked his way over to me. I can still remember the sucking sound of his boots as he pulled them from the mud. Ssss-thook. Ssss-thook.
My saviour.
He plucked me from the mud and set me back on the fence.
Then he frowned and looked at my feet. “Where are your boots?”
I, too, looked down. Muddy socks and pants, but no shoes. Huh. Maybe my lace-tying wasn't as good as I thought.
I looked at the mud.
Dad sighed and felt down into the mud that had so recently held me, and found, first one, then the other shoe. He stood up and held them out. “Are these your new shoes?”
I gave him my best 'deer-in-the-headlights' look.
“Where are your boots?” Boots that would have been vastly easier to clean, by the way.
I looked towards the house.
Dad sighed. “You take these and head to the house. I'm going to come later and give you a spanking.”
My eyes got big as I stared at him. A spanking?!
I should point out here that I had never had a spanking from my dad. But I could imagine it. Unspeakable pain and torment.
I grabbed my shoes, jumped down from the fence and lit out for the house at my best 'I'm-in-trouble' pace.
Throwing my shoes down in the aptly-named mud room, I headed for my closet . . .
Dad never gave me my spanking. I guess he thought that I'd been punished enough when I spent the entire morning in my closet, hiding from the possibility.
Or maybe he simply forgot.
And I never again tried to wear anything but my gumboots into the barnyard.
I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.

A Little Bit of Magic

My own ballerina.
Notice the dress.
Ignore the ketchup.

It was pretty.

It was playful.

It was elegant.

It was magic.

And when I wore it, I was all of the above . . .

I had reached the excellent and grown-up age of four.

One day, Mom, who was shopping with Dad in the big city of Lethbridge, came home with a gift for me.

A white, esthetically (and ecstatically) pleasing crinoline.

Okay, I will admit it was intended to be worn with my new ‘Aunties-Wedding/Church’ dress.

To make it fuller and ‘froufy’. (Real four-year-old word.)

But let’s face it. Who wants to wear a dress in the first place?

Am I right?

So I wore it by itself.

With my little, sleeveless undershirt and white panties, it made me look like a ballerina. So what else could I do?

I ballerina-ed.

I dipped and hopped and twirled.

I soon discovered that said twirling made my new garment fly out in the most magical way.

I danced all over the house and, when I could escape the watchful eye of my mother (who foolishly insisted I was dressed solely in underwear) out in the yard.

It also looked quite smart over my jeans, snap shirt and little red boots. Lending my outfit an elegance it struggled to achieve on its own.

And flying gracefully in the breeze caused by the fat, churning legs of my running pony, it made me feel as though I had somehow managed to sprout wings.

Yep. Magic.

Of course, Mom had a lot to say about me wearing my now-formerly-white crinoline out in the barnyard.

And separated us decisively. Laundering my beautiful garment carefully and then hanging it in her closet ‘out of reach’.

Which actions failed entirely in their objective.

Oh, the cleaning worked.

Just not the enforced separation.

A chair and a couple of stacked boxes later, my crinoline and I were reunited and dancing once more around the dining room table.

The reason I bring this whole topic up is because I was shopping with Husby over the weekend.

And there, in the aisle of a store selling such prosaic items as: washers. Baling twine.

Hammers.

Was a little ballerina. In jeans, a snap shirt and little cowboy boots.

As her mother hunted for chicken feed, the tiny girl was twirling.

It made the crinoline she had pulled on over her ensemble stand out in the most magical way.

I admit it. It made me cry happy tears.

And isn’t that what a beautiful ballerina is supposed to do?

42

Kids . . .

It's been forty-two years since my Husby and I said "I do."
It was eight o'clock in the morning when we exchanged our vows.
The first hot, sunny day of the year.
I forgot his ring.
And tossed the bouquet so high that it hit the ceiling and dropped directly behind me.
But it was there that the adventure started.
Maybe I should explain . . .
My Husby and his brother-in-law (hereinafter known as BIL) worked as civilian guards for the RCMP.
A job that entailed long nights spent watching the prisoners.
And visiting with the 'on shift' RCMP officers.
They became friends.
The guards and the officers.
Not the prisoners.
I thought I should point that out.
Ahem . . .
When my new Husby and I were set to leave on our honeymoon, we were very careful to leave a get-away vehicle safely hidden.
In the next town.
Let's face it, with this BIL, getting away was not only difficult. It was very nearly impossible.
He had been known to fill honeymooners vehicles with balloons or crumpled newspaper. Saran-wrap them shut. Apply Vaseline to each and every surface. Stick Oreo cookies to every window. Wrap them in toilet paper.
He had a fund of new and clever ideas.
But new Husby was crafty.
He and a trusted friend had gone days before and stashed the get-away vehicle in a garage of a friend of a friend of a  friend.
No one was finding it.
Oddly enough, his BIL asked only one thing. "In what direction are you headed?"
Husby told him. "North."
He merely smiled and nodded.
Okay, yes. It seemed too easy.
Sigh.
Our friend sneaked us out of the reception and into his car.
Then he took us to our truck.
It was undamaged.
Whew.
We piled in and started out.
Just as we were about to turn onto the main highway to Calgary, Husby stopped.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"It's too easy," he replied.
I stared at him.
"Too easy," he repeated. He put the truck into gear and turned it around.
"Umm . . . so . . . what are we going to do?" I asked. I mean, going back to my parents' was sort of out of the question . . .
"We're still going to Calgary," Husby said. "But we're going by a different route!"
And we did. We followed every secondary, gravel and/or dirt road all the way from Fort Macleod to the great metropolis.
It took a bit longer.
But we arrived safely.
We checked into our hotel.
Stayed there for a couple of days.
Then headed out on our real honeymoon.
We were gone two weeks.
Two wonderful, enjoyable, surprising, educational weeks.
When we arrived back home, we were met by the BIL, who welcomed us home warmly.
And with a wide grin.
Husby could stand it no longer. "What did you do?" he demanded.
The grin widened. "I had the boys put an APB out on your vehicle," he said.
"You . . . what?"
"Yeah. They put an APB out on your vehicle. I'm amazed they didn't pick you up!"
An APB is an 'All Points Bulletin' which alerts every police station - and I do mean EVERY - that such-and-such a vehicle is wanted. If spotted, approach, detain and apprehend.
Yikes.
I mean, the police in other areas didn't know why our vehicle had been flagged. They only knew it had been.
The results may have been disastrous.
I still shiver.
And glare at the BIL.
Forty-two years later.

I love you, Honey.

Garden Treasure

A tray of nasturtiums, a little pink hoe,

The widest of smiles, almost ready to go!

She grabbed tiny gloves, in red boots, she was clad,

And three-year-old May went to garden with Dad.

Both daughter and Pop. In the dirt. On their knees.

Teased by a squirrel and mischievous breeze,

They spent most an hour in the bright springtime sun,

Mom could tell by their glee, they were having such fun!

Soon the squeak of the latch and a “Mom!” at the door,

And the sound as her gloves and small boots hit the floor,

Then the tiptoe of sweet, round and little pink feet,

‘Twas her small daughter trying to be so discrete.

She slipped up to Mom, and then peered all around,

“Mama!” she whispered, with hardly a sound,

“I was out helping Dad and watched all that he did!

“Dad buried the flowers. But I know where they‘re hid!”

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

Come back next week, we'll strain our brain,

And we three will discuss the rain!

Full Contact Art

Chalk dust can provide an astonishing medium for creating art.

True story.

Maybe I should explain . . .

The years of formal education were finally behind Shayne.

His dream of teaching art to children was being realized.

And his group of avid eight-year-olds were loving today’s assignment.

The “Go-to-the-front-of-the-room-and-strike-a-pose-so-the-rest-of-the-class-can-sketch-you” assignment.

One by one, the students were moving to the front of the class, striking a—to them—classic pose.

And being sketched.

One shy young man was holding back. But it was obvious to his attentive teacher that he desperately wanted to participate.

Shayne called the boy up.

He came. Slowly. Then, said quietly to his teacher, “I don’t know what to do!”

Shayne smiled. “How about I do a pose and you react to it!”

“Okay.”

I should probably mention, here, that Shayne is not a martial arts expert.

And his student already had several years of training under his belt.

So to speak.

Which will be evident shortly . . .

Shayne struck an ‘as seen on TV’ karate move.

To which the boy reacted.

Spinning around, the boy laid out a level back kick.

Which caught his teacher directly in the groin.

Knocking him both to the floor and out of the exercise in one move.

The class went silent.

Perhaps they were wondering which figure they should sketch.

The young boy who had just executed (I use that word deliberately) a perfect back kick.

Or the teacher crumpled into a heap on the floor and moaning in pain.

Ahem . . .

Shayne climbed back to his feet and gingerly continued the class.

Remember when I mentioned the chalk dust?

Well, that comes into the story here.

Only later did Shayne discover that the student’s perfect back kick had been faultlessly etched for all time—or at least till laundry day—in the front of Shayne’s trousers. Right at the point of contact.

Full contact art.

Probably not coming to a classroom near you.