Visiting

Mom. Doing dishes with Aunt Grace in the motel bathroom.
Getting in her visit where she can...

I come from a long line of church-attending people.

Call it a tradition.

When I was young we attended with amazing regularity.

Did you know that Sunday comes every. Single. Week?

Well, it does.

Now a little background here . . .

We lived 20 miles from the nearest town of Milk River, Alberta.

The ranch we lived on was its own little village. With an ever-changing population.

Sometimes, there were other women (foreman’s wife, female cook). Sometimes not. (Foreman: single. Cook: Mom)

For my Mom, living there year after year, it could sometimes be a bit lonely when her husband was off ranching, serving on several committees, veterinarian-ing, searching out new bulls by attending sales in far-off places. Far, far off places.

And she ached for someone to talk to.

Then Sunday would come around.

Presenting her with myriad visiting possibilities once the church services had ended.

I remember her standing and talking almost desperately. There was a lot to say and only a short window of time in which to do it.

Because her children would be antsy to head home to the delicious dinner they knew was waiting. She carried on doggedly through a progression of frowns and eye-rolls. Throat-clearings. And finally sleeve-pullings and increasingly louder expressions of, “Mo-om!”.

I admit it, my next older brother and I were the worst.

Moving forward half a century. Mom has been happily visiting with friends in Heaven for nearly two decades . . .

I had attended Sabbath meetings with my brother and his sweet wife. The services were over. I was standing in the foyer, waiting while my brother and his wife finished their respective conversations with friends.

I knew that a delicious dinner was waiting for us at their home.

I sighed and briefly considered moving right to sleeve-pulling and, “Ge-orge!” but I restrained myself.

How far I’ve come.

Brother and Sweet Wife

Plastered

“Please! Please!” Mom begged. “I’ll only be gone for fifteen minutes. Can you two girls try and behave? And husk the corn for supper?!”

I smiled and nodded. “Of course!” I looked at Sally.

Who was gazing out the back window.

“Sally?”

She turned toward us. “Hmmm?”

“Did you hear what Mom said?”

Sally squinched her eyes up thoughtfully. “Ummm . . .”

Mom sighed. “I asked you two girls to behave. I’ll only be gone fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, that! Yeah. Sure.” Sally shrugged and turned back toward the window.

“Okay, then,” Mom said uncertainly. She started toward the door, her eyes on her youngest daughter. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bye Mom!” I said cheerfully, waving. “See you soon!”

“Yeah.” She was still watching Sally as she slowly pulled the front door shut.

Sally leaped to her feet. “Come on!” she shouted, grabbing me by the ear.

I got up hurriedly. “Come where?”

“We only have fifteen minutes!”

“Ummm . . . what are we going to do?”

“We’re going sledding!”

I looked outside at the sweltering August afternoon. Heat was rising in waves above the houses across the street. A small sprinkler, looking like an afterthought in the eerie quiet, struggled mightily to moisten a corner of Mrs. Casper’s lawn.

It was so hot that even the vast army of neighbourhood children had taken refuge indoors. The uncommonly still street closely resembled a scene out of The Walking Dead.

I know because it’s my favourite show.

Sally released my ear and disappeared up the stairs. “Come on! I saw this on YouTube! It’ll be wonderful!”

I followed slowly. You have to know that Sally’s idea of ‘wonderful’ seldom meshes with mine. “But we were supposed to husk the corn,” I said without much force. I looked at the six little cobs stacked neatly on one end of the table. “Sally?”

I climbed the bottom two stairs and gained the lower landing. 
“Look out below!”

I had a brief glimpse of my sister perched at the top, seated on a magic carpet.

Without hesitating, I leaped away in one quick movement. I’ve been Sally’s sister for fifteen years. Out of necessity, the reflexes are pretty good.

“Yahoo!” I could hear the thump, thump, thump as Sally gained momentum on the thick carpet.

By the way, I should probably mention here that our stairway is not open to the world. It has walls on two sides, and ends at a landing and a third wall, with two extra steps leading down to the right and left. When descending, one must, of necessity, turn 90 degrees to avoid contact with that third wall.

I really don’t think Sally was anticipating this.

There was a loud bang.

Followed by a muffled screeching.

As there seemed to be no further movement, I ventured forward.

How can I describe this? Sally had made the descent without incident. But . . . who was it who said ‘It’s not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop at the bottom’? Unable to make that last turn, Sally managed to hit the wall in such a fashion that her head went right through the plaster. 
There was some good news. She somehow managed to miss any of the wall studs that must lie somewhere behind the drywall.

But my errant sister was neck-deep in it. So to speak.

At first, I was understandably alarmed. But as she continued to screech, my fears soon evaporated. No one could make that much noise while mortally injured.

I hurried to her side and put my hands on her shoulders. “Hold still!” I shouted. “Here. I’ll get you out!” Say what you will about Sally, she knows when she needs help. She grew quiet.

It took some maneuvering, but we finally managed to pull her head out, whilst ensuring it was still attached to the rest of her.

Sally blinked plaster out of her eyes and grinned at me. “That was fun!”

And that’s when we both heard the front door open.

“Hello?” Mom’s voice. From the vantage point of the front door, nothing of what had just taken place was visible. I so wished it could remain thus.

I peeked around the corner and our eyes met.

Mom’s hopeful expression vanished like a wisp of smoke. “What happened?”

Sally stuck her thickly-powdered head around the wall. “Hi, Mom!” she said brightly. “You’ll never guess what I did!”

Each month, we of Karen's crew volunteer words to the collective.

And receive words back.

It's a wonderful, challenging, fun prompt!

This month, my words were: 
by the way ~ this ~ wonderful ~ ear ~ cob

And were given to me by my good friend Jules at The Bergham Chronicles

 There are quite a few of us involved in the challenge!
Care to see what my friends have crafted?
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

Along for the Ride

My sometimes ride. And chauffeur.

 For many of you, the statement: ‘The Tolley family tends to spend a lot of their summer outside on bicycles’ will come as no surprise.

I’m almost sure I’ve mentioned it before.

And it's true.

Every morning, weather permitting, we saddle-up—Grampa, Gramma and as many of the chicks and chicklets as are out of bed and/or conscious.

With 22 members of our family living within town limits, at times it’s quite a group.

And the fact that we live in a community riddled with small lakes and a veritable web of biking trails makes the whole thing . . . in a word . . . easy.

Even taking into account that our town crowns the highest hill for miles and there is, of necessity, a lot of up-ping and down-ing.

With such a trail of cyclists, it’s a blessing that we have to cross only the occasional major street.

Our mishaps have been relatively few.

In fact, the only people who have pitched off their bikes are Granddaughter #4 (our newest little rider) . . . and Grandma.

And guess which one holds the record?

I did it again just yesterday.

And yet I still insist on going.

Sigh.

Finally, sitting on a park bench, putting yet another band-aid on Grandma's much-abused knee, and while the kids played at that day’s choice of park, Daughter #1 came up with an ingenious solution. One, I should point out, that would still allow Grandma to continue on the rides, but would be marginally safer and include two-wheeled death traps only peripherally.

Ahem . . .

Her answer? Pump Grandma full of helium, tie a string to her ankle, and float her along behind one of the bikes.

Like a balloon.

Can’t you just see it?

Her idea sparked all kinds of responses: “Ahhhh Reel me in! Low bridge! Low brid . . .!” and “Kids! Power li . . .zzzzaaaap!” and the ever popular: “I told you not to untie Grandma! Now we’ll never get her back!” That little beauty was also followed closely by: “Good thing we wrote her address on her forehead!”

There were suggestions of “Old Air/Wind/Gas bag” and something to do with “being full of hot air”. But by that point, I was already on my bike and halfway out of the parking lot.

My family’s for sale if you want them.

 

You get the idea . . .

It's Official

With special days all through the year to celebrate the great and small,

It’s sometimes difficult to choose a single topic from them all,

With things like ‘Ice Cream Sandwich Day’ and ‘Girlfriend’s Day’, to name a few,

And ‘Tell a Joke Day’, ‘Bow Tie Day’. And don’t forget ‘Spumoni’, too!

There’s ‘Single Working Women’s Day and ‘Be an Angel Day’ as well,

And ‘Kiss and Make Up Day’ (to follow that one day of ‘Kiss and Tell’!)

‘Work Like a Dog Day’s’ special too. And while we’re on that subject, there,

There’s ‘Dog Appreciation Day’ for those with dogs for whom they care.

We’ve ‘Sister’s Day’ and ‘Lover’s Day’ and ‘Son and Daughter Day’ besides,

And even one called ‘Lighthouse Day’ for those who love to watch the tides!

There’s hundreds more for all of us, a ‘Day of Beer’ and ‘Day of Sun’,

A ‘Fresh Breath Day’ and one for ‘Hoyle’ and one for ‘Middle Child’ fun.

But with them all, we chose the one that spoke to each of us for sure,

Not ‘Creamsicles’ or ‘Eat Ouside’ or ‘Chocolate Pecan Pie’s’ allure,

I’m sure you’d like to know the champ. (And yes, I feel like such a tease!)

It’s ‘Relaxation Day’ today! I get to catch up on my ZZZZZZZZZ’s!

Each month we have a challenge
Yes, we voted on a theme,
Then each put on our thinking caps 
And hurried to our screens.
Now you know the theme's official,
There won' be any flack,
It's National Relaxation Day,
So get ready to RELAX!


I'm not the only one taking advantage.
See what my fellow 'relax'ers' have done . . .

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: If You Insist

Dawn of Cognitive Script: A Balm To My Soul

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Relax, my Foot

Running for the Unseen Goal

 A guest post by Little Brother, Blair Stringam

A long time ago (I won’t say how long) when I was in grade school, I was pretty much bored with everything school.  The only thing that I looked forward to was the spring county track meet.  I loved to run and I loved to compete in the sprints and relays.  Finally, I progressed through grade school to grade 6 and I thought that now that I was going to start junior high school the next year and would be with the older kids who were stronger and faster, that I wouldn’t be able to compete in another track meet.  It made me sad. 

As school ended and summer vacation began, I was given various tasks on the ranch and I enjoyed working outside.  However, I did get tired of baling hay.  Baling hay helped to get me to look forward to school in the fall. 

Another task that I was usually involved with was fencing.  If we weren’t baling hay, we were building fence. Or mending fence. Or checking fence.  

One day Dad took me out to the field where we were going to build a new barbwire fence.  The process involved pounding in corner posts, stringing a wire between the corner posts then using said wire as a guide to pound in all the posts between the corners.  It was very important to my Dad to make sure that the fence was straight so after the wire was strung and before the posts were pounded, we had to set one of the lengths of barbwire to be our post guide.  

With the wire stretched, my dad would stand at one of the corners and look along it to the other corner.  I had the job of running down the length of wire and moving it to one side or the other as Dad gave hand signals.  As I said earlier, I liked to run so I didn’t mind the task.

During the summer after grade 6, Dad started making me run faster.  I was surprised because in the past he had been content with just allowing me to run at my desired pace.  This summer he was making me put more effort into it.  Because I liked to run, I didn’t question what Dad was doing.  (I think that he may have been in a hurry that day.) 

It happened that that day was a good day for running and we were able to set all of the guide wires for the fence.  We finally got into the truck and headed for home.  I asked Dad, why he was making me run faster than I normally did.  He said that he wanted me to work on training for the track meet next year in the spring.  I said, “but Dad, I’m going to junior high school next year.  I’ll be with the big kids.  I don’t think I’ll get to run in a track meet again.” 

He just said that it is good to prepare. 

That little piece of advice has stuck with me for all of my life.  The funny thing is as I have tried to prepare for future challenges, the task that I was doing prepared me for opportunities that I didn’t foresee.  I am so very grateful for a father that had the foresight to encourage me to try to look at possible opportunities and prepare for them.  It has helped me in ways that I never imagined. 

And by the way, in my senior year, I was able to compete in the provincial track meet.  Thanks Dad.

Summer Flying

“What is your favourite memory

Of summer?” Husby asked of me,

“Times you spent out in the woods?

(The best of times in his childhood.)

“Or merely memories of home

With family or all alone?”

I thought about his question some,

Those sunlit summer days of fun,

Of river mud between my toes,

And little in the form of clothes,

Or riding out in boots and jeans,

And branding, doling out vaccines,

Of showing calves at summer fairs,

And breathing in the sage-stuffed air.

Of family and cabin time,

The cold, lake swims were so sublime.

Or later? Thoughts meandered on,

Of time well spent in days long gone,

When kids were small and running free,

And rolled in mud from neck to knee,

Family trips both good and bad,

When all were there with Mom and Dad,

What memories do I like best?

When I am feeling the most blest...?

I’d have to say those I most like:

The ones spent on my ‘Bluebird’ bike,

With family ahead, behind,

And techniques good to unrefined,

And trailing out across the town,

“Teens wait! The smalls are slowing down!”

Yes, grandkids, aged fifteen to four

With sometimes less and sometimes more,

But, oh! What bliss and… Oh! What fun!

Those early mornings in the sun.

And so to answer Husby’s probe,

And pond’ring days spent on this globe,

My favourite memories, I must say?

The ones that I will make today!

 

All summer long!
The Tolley family on the town!

            

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, because they're close to me,

My poem's of Delores and Jenny!

The Price of Integrity

Grampa Stringam and his Sons.
Back row: Daddy (Mark), Bryce, Elwood, Woodrow, Alonzo.
Front row: Briant, Grandpa, Owen.

My grandfather, George Stringam, ranched in Southern Alberta in the early half of the twentieth century.

There are countless stories about those days, all of which I find fascinating.

But those I am most drawn to are the tales of his integrity and honesty.

Here is one, as told by my Uncle Owen:

Jerry Woodruff, one of the oldtimers of the Glenwood district, ran a few head of milk cows and always had a few head of calves to sell every fall. He always offered them to my father (George Stringam). Father always gave Jerry what Father thought they were worth, which price was always very satisfactory (according to Jerry).

One particular fall, Jerry called Father on the phone and told him he had six or seven steer calves that he’d like to sell.

Father didn’t have time to come and look at them but would Jerry please describe?

Jerry did so, saying they were the same calves from the same cows that Father had been buying every fall.

Father quoted him a price and Jerry agreed, then asked when he could bring them by.

Father told him he would have a pasture ready in about three days and they ended the conversation.

When Jerry delivered the calves, Father wasn’t around, so Jerry just left them in the barn and went his way.

The next Sunday, the two met and Father told him, “Jerry, those calves weren’t what you told me they were!”

Jerry responded,” Well I thought they were just like they always were.”

Father said, “Well, they were better than you told me. Here’s some more money.”

He handed Jerry a check.

It’s Ancestor Sunday! The day I celebrate my Fascinating Forebears.

Tell us about yours!

Paltry Sum

A few days ago, Husby and I went to a movie. 

We enjoyed it.

And we got in for the price of $25.00 for the two of us.

And that included two drinks, and a bag of popcorn to share.

Bargain.

And as he was swiping his debit card, I was remembering another theatre experience.

In another time.

For the paltry sum of fifty cents . . .

Fifty cents used to be a lot of money.

And gave you the ability to do amazing things.

Let me explain . . .

Saturday.

That wonderful day of the week when one didn't have to dive frantically from their beds, feverishly dash through a morning routine, and drive frantically to catch the school bus.

No.

On Saturday, one could leisurely climb out of bed.

Enjoy a healthy breakfast.

And spend the morning . . . diverting.

Okay, well I don't know about the rest of the family (ie. Mom . . . and everyone else), but I could.

And the best part of Saturday?

Talking Dad into taking me and my siblings into town for the movies.

Remember, we lived twenty miles away.

On sketchy 'gravelled' roads.

Sometimes, it took a great deal of talking.

On the days we were successful, he would pull up to the theatre, hand each of us fifty cents, and wave as we scrambled for the door.

The smell of freshly popped and popping corn would wash over me the instant I stepped inside. Clutching my money, I made a dash for the admissions counter and handed over half of my precious coins.

Then I took up a post in front of the all-important concession and eyed the limitless possibilities.

After several moments of tempting myself with mouth-watering indecision, I made my choice.

Inevitably, a glass bottle of Grape Crush (with the all-important paper straw) and a bag of popcorn.

With a nickle for a package of red licorice.

Then, clutching my booty and my ticket, I would approach that magical doorway to infinite worlds and possibilities.

The door-keeper would tear my precious ticket in half with a grin and an, “Enjoy the show!” and I was inside.

The curtains, deep green velvet, would be tightly closed, hiding the magic behind them.

Reverently, eyes glued to them, I would slowly make my way down the sloping, creaking wooden floor to my chosen seat.

Somewhere near the front.

Preferably in the first two rows.

Then, one hand stuffing popcorn into my mouth, and the other clutching my precious bottle of pop, I would settle back.

Waiting for the magic.

Waiting to be transported to another place and time.

Suddenly, the house lights would dim and a bright beam would shoot through the air and snare the green curtains in a noose of light.

They would slowly begin to part.

I should mention here that, for years, I thought that the thick, heavy curtains actually became opaque.

And that the beam of light was shining through them from the back.

Yeah. So, Einstein, I wasn't.

Moving on . . .

For the next two hours, I was somewhere else.

Watching the lives and/or exploits of someone else.

It was magic.

Occasionally, reality would intrude for precious seconds.

Especially if the projectionist was a bit slow in starting the second and/or third reels.

But mostly, my immersion was happy and complete.

Another world.

Another time.

Another life.

Complete with yummy snacks.

All opened to me for the paltry sum of fifty cents.

The Making of the Beds

Okay, that's not me, it's my little brother, Blair.
But that is one of the beds.
Picture me in it . . .

I have just realized that Mom was infinitely more patient than I am.

It's a bit of a painful discovery.

A moment of silence, please.

Now I will explain . . .

When I was four, I used to follow Mom around as she went through her morning routine.

This was before she really expected me to be of much help.

Though I did try.

I should mention, here, that about the time I became a valuable helper, I no longer wanted to follow Mom around.

Oh, the irony.

Back to my story . . .

I watched Mom clean the kitchen.

Pick up clothes and discarded items.

Tidy.

Dust.

Vacuum and/or sweep.

And scrub bathrooms.

But my most favourite activity . . .

The one I waited patiently for . . .

Was 'the making of the beds'.

Because Mom never just made the beds.

Nope.

That would be boring.

No, what Mom would do was 'make me in the beds'.

I would snuggle in and she would pull the covers up and proceed to make the bed.

With me in it.

I would lay quietly until she said, “Okay that's done. Time for the next bed.”

That was my cue to squeal and sit up abruptly, totally negating her efforts.

She would pretend to be flabbergasted. (Oooh. Real word!)

And I would laugh uproariously.

Then she would order me from the bed and make it again.

This time without any stowaways.

And we would move on to the next bedroom.

And the next bed.

Where the routine would be repeated.

I don't ever remember Mom making a bed just once.

No.

That's something other mothers did.

Moving ahead fifty or so years . . .

Several of my grandchildren were staying over.

Everyone had finally crawled out of bed.

And were awaiting breakfast, which Grampa was cooking.

I took advantage of the interim to make the beds.

I decided to teach them the game I used to play with my mom.

“Hide in the bed,” I told them. “And don't move.”

They crawled in.

And managed not to move.

But giggling was definitely optional.

I made the bed, then said, loudly, “Well that's done. Time to move on to the next bed!”

Three kids suddenly sat up. “Gramma! We fooled you!”

I pretended to be shocked and ordered them out.

Then I made the bed a second time and we moved on to the next bedroom.

“Can we hide in this bed?” they asked.

I looked at it.

Then thought about having to make it twice.

“No. Once is enough,” I told them.

“Awwww . . .”

“Next time we'll do it again,” I promised.

They were happy.

And I had made two conclusions.

My first was that being the made-ee was infinitely more fun than being the made-er.

My second conclusion?

My Mom used to play that game at every bed.

Every bed.

She was much, much more patient than I am.

I'm sure you agree.

Get Lost With Me

Yes. That's me.

Just before I turned fifty, Husby took me and our two youngest children on a holiday.

To Italy. And, even more exciting, on a tall ship cruise through the blue Mediterranean waters surrounding Italy.

We met our second son there. He was stationed in Bosnia and was quite happy to make the short hop to meet us when he was on leave.

There are lots of stories.

The one I’m going to tell you about could easily be titled “Scuba Diving for the Direction-ally Challenged”.

Ahem . . .

Whilst Husby was topside, exploring such wonders as . . . Malta. Sicily. Corsica. The rest of his party was under the water--air canisters strapped to our backs and flippers and wet suits correctly and prudently donned-–exploring the wonders of undersea ship wrecks. Fish schools. Sea life.

We still argue about who had the most fun.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

First we had to get in the water . . .

It was a perfect day.

Perfect as only a bright, sunny day in the Mediterranean can get. The tender, filled to the gunwales with happy, excited tourists all attractively clothed in black wetsuits, made its way out to the center of the bay immediately adjacent to the Island of Malta.

We had been given extensive instruction.

Do this.

Never, ever even attempt to do that.

We were ready.

Our first duty was to attach any and all tubes necessary to continued breathing and/or life, and fall backward into the warm, welcoming depths of the blue, blue water.

I emphasize the word ‘fall’.

It was a simple procedure.

All you had to do was fall.

And this is precisely where I came to grief.

I flipped over backwards, twisted around a bit.

And came up under the boat.

Under the boat.

Uh-oh.

It was about then that I got totally confused.

And forgot which way was up.

I was equally muddled about which way was down.

While I was thrashing around, trying to sort things out, my knowledgeable (and very attractive, but that is a different story) instructor, who fortunately had up and down . . . erm . . . down, reached in and extracted me.

Whew.

We had an amazing time. We swam through great clouds of yellow fish. Past entire undersea gardens. And flew out over a cliff.

The best of all was the WW2 battleship wreck which we covered from stem to stern.

An entire new hemisphere opened to our eyes.

And me? The instructor kept me right by his side the entire time.

His reasoning was simple.

If I could get lost falling out of the boat, just imagine what I could do with a whole ocean.

Sigh. 

Who Needs Enemies?

Don't blink! Blink and you're dead

Way, way too scary . . .

We had been visiting with our daughter.

Had a wonderful time.

Talking.

Walking.

Making puzzles.

Playing games.

Eating.

And she had introduced us to the TV show, Doctor Who.

Yes I know that most of you will have seen this program.

I know I had certainly heard of it.

But I had never actually sat down and watched it.

Our daughter (loving person that she is) chose, for our first experience, an episode called, “Blink”. Also known as the 'Weeping Angels' episode.

A story of statues that come to life when you aren't looking at them.

And do terrible things to you.

It was, in a word, SCARY.

Truly frightening.

Chilling enough that I watched the entire thing snuggled close to my Husby.

And holding his hand.

Okay, so . . . brave, I'm not.

Through the last half of the episode, I had to visit the 'little girl's room', but was watching the screen so attentively that I . . . didn't.

Once the show had finished, I shivered, then turned on every light as I made my hasty way down the hall.

A few seconds later, much refreshed, I opened the door.

And this is what was sitting on the floor directly in my path.

I screamed.

And heard loud answering laughter from the family room.

I hate my family.

Dinner Talk

An actual conversation . . .

The family of Second Son (hereinafter known as SS) was gathered for supper.

All had been quietly and happily munching.

The meal was winding down.

Time for the most important part.

Visiting.

Youngest Son of SS (Let’s call him YSSS to be creative) was studying his father as the latter was talking.

Then, completely ignoring the ongoing conversation, he burst out with, “Dad! You have really big, black hairs in your nose!”

The current discussion derailed.

SS looked at YSSS. “Yup!” he said. “They’re like trees in there. What else would my nose beavers chew on and build stuff with?!”

YSSS’s eyes looked back and forth as his mouth hung open, speechless.

YSSS’s mother blinked and did the same.

For just a moment, all were silent at the table.

Then Only Daughter of SS (okay, yes, ODSS) spoke up. ODSS: “I’m not going to touch Dad ever again.”

Yep. ‘Nuff said.

SS and family at dinner.
Not (clearly) pictured: Nose Hairs

Motivation

“I’d do anything for love,” it said,

               In the lyrics of the song,

Or, “Do it all for you!” Another,

               Equally as strong,

Just “Do it for the World!” we’re told,

               To treat our planet nice,

And, “Do it for the children!” Heard

               Oh . . . once or twice or thrice.

“Please do it for your country!” Found

              When things have gone awry.

And “Do it for your neighbourhood!”

               It sometimes is the cry,

 “Please do it now for Peace!” I saw,

               In the news just yesterday,

“Please do the things that must be done!”

               Mysterious, I’d say.

Now, with all this advice right here,

               And good, it is. And true,

What is it that’s impelling and

is motivating you?

For me, I find that nothing pushes—

               Causes, drives or money,

Like the motivation CHOCOLATE gives,

               As it goes from mouth to tummy!

              

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, you'll find, with them and me,

Our favourite summer memory!

Just Like Dad

It's Ancestor Sunday.

Time to talk about the preceding generations . . .

My Dad, aged three.
And yes, that is a gun. Don't ask.

Okay, I admit it, I have had a few . . . misunderstandings . . . with the family car.

One where I hit the ditch. (Only my pride and my Dad’s $400.00 deductible suffered.)

One where I backed into the tractor. (Who needs a fender?)

Another when I filled the gas engine with diesel. (Oops.)

And one where I ran into the carport. (Repeatedly.)

The hardest thing about each of these was the actual ‘Telling-of-The-Dad’.

Actually, with that last one, I didn’t have to tell him because he appeared. In his jammies.

Now that’s a sight I’ll never forget.

Ever.

Moving on . . .

2014. I was visiting with my Dad.

And discovered, to my everlasting joy, that he had also had his share of automobile . . . mishaps.

The first when he was just a little gaffer (his words).

Gleefully, I tell you about it . . .

He and his mother were on their way to Cardston.

A town approximately 34 km (21 miles) from their home in Glenwood.

His mother drove.

Little Mark divided his time between playing about on the floor and looking out of the window.

It was 1928. Seatbelts hadn’t been invented yet.

They crossed the river and little Mark was interested to see a couple of young men sharing a picnic lunch beside the gently-flowing water near the road.

Their car passed the young men and started to climb the hill.

And that’s where it stopped.

The car, I mean.

Dead.

His mother slammed on the brakes to keep the vehicle from rolling backwards and sent her young son back to the two young men to elicit aid.

Putting his own spin on things, little Mark, sure that his mother was in dire circumstance and picturing all sorts of disasters if the car rolled backward on the road, fairly flew to get help.

Almost incoherent in his appeal, he finally managed to convey the gravity of the situation and said aid was immediately procured. (Ooh! What big words I’m using today!)

The young men hurried to the rescue.

Within seconds of their arrival, they ascertained that the engine was being starved of fuel.

Now, a little background. The elderly car which little Mark and his mother were driving had its gas tank up front, under the windshield. Perfectly situated to gravity feed fuel to the engine, but not really the best position for safety.

Or, as it turns out, for a little boy’s inquisitive fingers.

The gas line snaked down to the floor and from there to the engine. And, somewhere on that line, was a little pet valve.

That turned easily.

Back to my story . . .

One of the young men followed the line with his eyes. “Hey! The valve’s been shut off!” He immediately effected ‘repairs’. “I wonder how that could have happened?”

Mark's mother’s eyes went to her small son, who had suddenly become very, very quiet.

The young men started the car and the trips to and from were accomplished without further incident.

My point is this: All right, nothing was actually ‘damaged’ in this story. And repairs were minimal and complete. But you have to admit it’s proof that my dad and cars have a history. And that he has done things that caused some automobile – and driver – grief.

It’s a leap, but it’s all I have.

I’m taking it.

When Cool Isn't . . .

Yep. That's me. Heart-breaker extraordinary.

1965.

I had just realized that boys didn't have cooties.

I also discovered that I was capable of being a two-faced non-friend.

The two went together.

Perhaps I should explain . . .

Grade five.

The year when math problems became more . . . problematic.

Times tables proved important.

Story writing, more intense and personal.

Mrs. Herbst officially turned into Oh-Teacher-of-the-Blue-Hair.

And boys became . . . interesting.

The latter started with a note, passed to me during free reading.

“Will you go to the movie with me on Saturday?”

It was signed, 'Paul'.

What???!

A boy?!

Wanted to go to a movie with me?!

What should I say?

What should I do?

What should I wear?!

Shakily I wrote, “okay” on the note and passed it back.

He unfolded it, read it and smiled at me.

And that was it.

My feet didn't touch the ground for the rest of the day.

For the rest of the week, actually.

Saturday was a long time coming.

I should mention, here, that Paul was one of the cool boys.

The popular, cool boys.

And way out of my league.

But his group adopted me as one of their own.

For the first time in my life, I was hanging with the cool crowd.

Back to my story . . .

I don't remember much about the movie, other than it was an Audie Murphy and involved something called 'cactus torture' which made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.

And that Paul held my hand through the whole thing.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

After that, we met every day on the playground and on Saturday afternoons at the movies.

For about a month.

Suddenly, Paul had his eye on someone else.

And I was no longer one of the cool crowd.

Bitter and angry, I rejoined my old group.

Who took me back in without so much as a frown.

For half a morning, I complained bitingly.

Making acid comments about 'the cool kids' and how fickle they were. And mean. And nasty. And . . .

You can see where this is going.

“Well, you're with your old friends now and that's all that matters,” one of my group said.

“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn't go back with them if they begged me!”

Just then, three of the cool girls came over to us. “Diane. Lloyd likes you. Do you want to come back to our group?”

I sprinted to join them.

Didn't even look back.

Now I met Lloyd every day on the playground and held hands with him at the Saturday afternoon movies.

I know what you are thinking.

Fickle non-friend.

And you're not wrong.

Ahem . . .

This went on for some time.

Throughout the rest of Grade five in fact.

Then my popularity waned.

And died.

And do you know what?

My old group again took me back.

Without even a sideways glance.

This time, I stayed.

We went through grade six together.

Then Junior High.

Then Senior high.

And we had fun.

I discovered that it all comes back to math.

♀ + ♀♀♀ = ☼♥♫.

♀+ ♂ = brain-dead non-friend.

I learned my lesson.

P.S. At our class reunions, I've discovered that we are no longer divided into the 'cool' kids and the 'dweebs'. The 'cool' kids have had just as many challenges in life as me and my group. The same heartaches. The same joys and reasons to celebrate.

Life is the true leveler.