Mine

You can look, but remember who it belongs to . . .

Mountains. Beautiful. Majestic. Snow-capped. Towering.
Noticeable.
I love the mountains. Maybe not as much as my husband, who is a true connoisseur, but why quibble over details?
All my life, I have lived in the 'shadow' of the great Rockies. They were the immovable, dependable wall immediately to the west of us.
Our friends.
Companions.
Source of direction.
One distinctive peak, in particular, was familiar to us on the ranch. It was our nearest neighbour in the immense range. A huge block of stone, standing alone, with a large, rather squared-off top.
Boy scout troops had been know to clamber to its very summit. Of course, that was in the early days, before danger was invented.
I loved it.
It was my mountain.
I just couldn't remember what it was called . . .
Mom and I were heading toward the ranch.
She was driving.
I was bouncing around in the back seat.
This was before such safety measures as . . . seat belts. Shoulder harnesses.
Discipline.
I had been laying on the back seat, staring up at the roof. Suddenly, I thought of my mountain. I don't know why.
Because.
I sat up and leaned over the front seat. “Mom?”
“Mmm?”
That was her usual response. It didn't necessarily mean that her attention was yours, but it was a start.
“Mom!”
“What, dear.”
Okay, the line was open.
“Where's the Old Indian Hill?”
“The what?”
“The Old Indian Hill.”
She laughed. “Do you mean Old Chief Mountain?”
“Umm, okay.” Whatever. I just knew that the name had something to do with the Aboriginals.
“It's right there, Sweetheart. Straight ahead. When we're driving to the ranch, it's right in front of the road.”
“Oh.”
She was right. There it was. Rising before us in all its purple glory.
Cool.
I stared at it. My mountain.
From then on, whenever we were traveling home, I would look out the windshield for my stalwart, immovable beacon.
My guardian. My defender and protector.
The Blackfoot Tribe called it, Ninastiko.
The Peigans, Minnow Stahkoo.
The white man named it many things.
But, to me, it would always be my beloved 'Old Indian Hill'.

Read the legend! http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/ChiefMountain-Blackfoot.html

Low Flying

Add a dashboard, seat, steering wheel, and dust and this is our  steed!

Marty had a dune buggy.
Actually, it had once been a car. But it had been stripped down to the basics. Wheels. Frame. Seats. Motor. And a steering wheel.
Now it was a dune buggy.
That baby could go.
Just not on any conventional roads.
Marty would take us flying across the prairie at speeds beyond . . . what we should have been travelling.
But we were safe.
Marty had firm hands on the wheel.
As long as there was ground beneath us, all was well.
And that's where my story gets interesting . . .
It was a beautiful ssummer day.
The sun was high and hot. The air shimmered. The crickets and bugs were sending up a steady chorus. There was a haze of dust hanging in the still, dry air.
Perfect 'low flying' weather.
Marty had piled Michelle and I into his buggy for a ride.
Okay, I have to admit that the use of the word 'into' is a bit of a misnomer.
'Onto' would probably be more accurate.
I was in the middle. Marty on my left, steering wheel firmly in hand. Michelle on my right, casually slumped back in the seat, one foot propped up on the dashboard.
Oh, right. We also had a dashboard.
Back to my story . . .
We were flying across the prairie just to the west and north of Marty's family farm, talking and laughing and generally enjoying the wind in our faces.
The field stretched out smooth and green in front of us.
Marty stepped on the gas and we all felt the exhilaration of speed.
Then, quite suddenly, a . . . ditch . . . opened up in front of us.
Oh, not just a little ditch.
An irrigation ditch. 30 feet across and a good 20 feet deep.
More of a canal than a ditch, really.
Huh. Where did that come from? And, more importantly, how were we going to avoid it when it carved its way straight across the field before us from fence to fence.
And when we were travelling at upwards of 45 miles per hour.
You're right.
We couldn't.
We didn't.
We launched off the west bank in a graceful arc.
Now the Dukes of Hazzard would have made it.
Evel Kinevel would have made it.
Even Barney Oldfield would have made it.
But three farm kids in a souped-up, stripped-down 'dune buggy'?
Not a chance.
We hit the opposite bank just below the lip still doing 45 miles per hour.
It's funny just how many thoughts can race through your head in the split seconds between launch and land. I remember thinking that Marty really was taking us flying.
Cool.
Then . . . crunch.
The buggy stopped instantly, of course, and slid down to the bottom of the canal.
We sat there, stunned for a moment.
And then the moaning started.
I was fine. I just thought I should point that out.
Something to note - when getting involved in an accident in a dune buggy, the middle position is the safest.
Moving on . . .
Marty and Michelle . . . weren't.
Fine, I mean.
Marty had broken his beloved steering wheel with his chin, splitting it open to the bone.
His chin, I mean.
Michelle was even worse off.
The foot that had been so casually propped up on the dashboard had been driven back by the force of our crash and dislocated her hip.
She was in . . . considerable . . . pain.
Marty put a hand over his chin and ran to the farmhouse a quarter of a mile away for help.
It was up to me to pull Michelle up out of the ditch.
Okay, it probably would have been easier . . . and wiser . . . to call an ambulance and wait for professional help, but we were kids of the country, raised to be self-sufficient and self-reliant.
We acted first.
And thought after.
Slowly and painstakingly, I turned Michelle onto her uninjured side. Then I pulled her up the steep bank. One step at a time.
Step, step. Pull.
Step, step. Pull.
She must have suffered agony throughout the entire ordeal, but she said little.
As we were nearing the top, Marty pulled up in his family's car.
Between the two of us, he and I managed to pull Michelle into the back seat. Then, Marty drove us to the hospital.
Funny that it never occurred to any of us to feel alarm when we again saw Marty with a steering wheel in his hands.
Go figure.
He got us there safely.
This time, professionals maneuvered Michelle out of the car and onto a stretcher.
By this point, I'm quite sure she appreciated their expertise.
And their drugs.
Her hip was restored, though she had to suffer through traction and treatments for months afterwards.
Marty was sewn back together and sports a sexy scar on his chin to this day.
I emerged unscathed.
A few days later, I was flying across the prairie with Dennis in his dune buggy.
Some people never learn.

Seesickness

Somewhere out there are whales . . . and nausea.

Water and I have a thing.
We love each other.
Alright, alright, so I love water. I really don't know how it feels about me.
Moving on . . .
My family was going whale watching off the west coast of California.
I was excited. Because (remember?) I loved water. And things in the water. And boats.
I should maybe point out here that this child-of-the-prairies' sum total of water experience consisted of my river and Chin lake. Not necessarily in that order.
We put on our life jackets and climbed aboard.
So far so good.
The engine started.
My heart rate increased.
We pulled smoothly away from the dock.
Still fine.
We skimmed lightly across the bay.
Okay, so, it was a fat, clumsy boat loaded to the gunwales with tourists. But I chose the word 'skimmed' and I'm sticking with it.
My more daring family members were already hanging out over the rails, looking down into the amazingly blue water as it slipped past.
I had managed to find a seat inside the little 'house' part.
Because yes, I was a little trepidatious (real word - really!).
We cleared the bay and moved out into open water.
And then the boat started . . . for want of a better term . . . bucking.
Now, I should point out here that I'm used to bucking. In fact, bucking has been a daily ritual in the horse corral since forever.
Just not this kind of bucking.
The deck under my feet rose up. Then, that same deck fell.
And I mean fell.
Worse than an elevator. (And elevators and I do have a history . . .)
Worse than when I fell off the barn roof.
In fact, most of my inner parts were rapidly in danger of becoming . . . outer.
And just like that, I was sick.
Really sick.
I had been instructed to stare at the horizon.
I tried.
But the horizon was going up and down along with the boat, the tourists and me.
Maybe it shouldn't be called 'seasick'. Maybe it should be 'seesick'. Because there sure is a lot to see.
Okay, so horizon staring wasn't going to work.
I began to count the steps. Four to the doorway. Four more across the deck.
Could I make it?
I mean, before something . . . icky . . . happened.
Another 'heave' of the deck.
Okay, so the choice was taken from me.
It was sprint or die.
I sprinted.
I needn't go into the details of what happened next. I suppose you can furnish your own particulars. Suffice it to say that I lost everything I had ever eaten.
Or even thought of eating.
Funny thing about being sick on a tourist boat.
Everyone suddenly has something else to look at.
Somewhere else.
I was abruptly, gratefully, alone where my humiliation and I could happily enjoy our time together.
I don't remember much about the rest of the trip. We saw some whales. I was hauled off of my bench in the cabin in time to see a whole herd (erm . . . pod) of them.
They were neat.
And wet.
And . . . splashy.
And never in my whole life was I so relieved to stand later on real, solid ground.
I didn't kiss it. I didn't dare shift that much. Suffice it to say the two of us were very happy to see one another . . .

There is a sort-of codicil.
My husband took me whale-watching off the coast of Maine.
I stayed outside on deck and kept my face into the wind and miraculously managed to keep my lunch where it had been placed.
All was well.
We came upon a cow/calf pair of  whales.
I'm ashamed to admit that I can't remember what kind of whale.
They were neat.
And wet.
And . . . splashy.
The mother left her baby and dove. The calf stayed where it was, lolling in the waves and the sun. Occasionally batting at the water with a flipper.
Every few minutes, our guide would say something informative.
Finally, she said, "I bet none of you can say that you've sat beside a sleeping whale!"
Okay I admit that, when hugely pregnant, I have described myself thusly (another real word).
My husband glanced at me, but wisely said nothing.
I hit him anyways.

Little Lego Lost

We’d been staying in a lovely resort in beautiful Banff, Alberta. 

(This resort has everything. Comfortable rooms with every amenity. Pool. Sauna. Play rooms. Workout rooms. Squash courts. Tennis courts. Mountain bike borrowing. Nearby everything. And happy, helpful people.)

But no by-the-minute maid service.

On with my story . . .

 

Okay. Now picture it lost.

The Lego Kitty was lost.

The world had ended.

Everything is a tragedy when you’re three.

And Little Girl (LG) was three.

I told LG, "It'll show up. When you clean up."

“But I don’t want to clean up,” she told me with little girl logic.

I countered with old lady logic. “Well, when you’re done playing, you will have to clean up.”

The small lower lip came out and she turned away and continued to play.

A day or two later, we were packing the apartment for the inevitable checking-out.

Sigh.

Lego kitty still hadn’t had the grace or good manners to show up.

Tears threatened at the thought of leaving the minuscule – but highly important – toy behind.

A search was initiated. With little success.

I repeated my mantra. “It’ll show up. When you clean up.”

Fortunately, Mom had my back. She nodded. “Let's try it. Let’s clean up.”

Sighing heavily, the now-put-upon LG started picking up her Legos.

In a short time, all were safely stowed in their handy-dandy little Lego-shaped box. The floor lay, pristine and clean.

Still no kitty.

I could see the doubt starting in the big, hazel eyes.

“Okay,” I said, “Let’s move the sofa!”

Mom pushed and I pulled and VOILA a little, gray kitty appeared.

LG pounced on it and held it up triumphantly. “It’s here!” She crowed happily. “When you clean up, it shows up!” She tucked the toy in with its brothers and sisters and packed her box away.

I looked at her mother and we both smiled.

Once in a while, you have a good parenting moment.

And sometimes, you have to wait a while. A generation, in fact.

I’ll take it.

P.S. On several different occasions, I've heard LG, now 8, telling her cousins that, 'If you clean up. It'll show up!'

With varying degrees of success.

We'll keep at it...

28

Daddy, Big Brother George. And me.
I'm the one in the curlers...

Near Misses:

1. When I was just two, Bobby the Cow (the queen of the barnyard) and I had a disagreement. I lost. Turns out she hates children. Who knew?

2. Did you know that mothers are capable of scaling a 100 foot TV tower in mere seconds? They just need toddler-at-the-top motivation. True story.

3. When butchering chickens, it’s probably best if four-year-olds remain somewhere out of the picture. Chicken heads have been known to cause varying degrees of trauma.

4. Chicken-traumatized children would also much rather wrestle 1500-pound bulls than venture into the dreaded chicken house to retrieve eggs from underneath 3-pound bundles of nastiness.

5. Graduation from one’s pony to one’s brother’s spritely gelding may not be all that wonderful. Though it may guarantee a medical emergency ride on Dad’s amazing stallion.

6. When vaccinating calves, always remember the large crossbar of the cattle squeeze. And remember, too, to always look up. Believe me, your nose will thank you.

7. When crossing the barbed-wire fences on a ranch, long pants and good balance are a necessity. Although impressive thigh-to-ankle scars make for a good story…

8. Okay, this wasn’t me, but I heard and it’s still a good lesson: Even from the distance of the house roof, don’t pee on the electric fence.

9. When moving a cow herd across sideless bridges, make quite sure there is a bull’s tail in the immediate vicinity. Your bones will bless you. And it.

10. It’s important to note that even polled (hornless) cow heads are capable of significant damage when they meet human heads. Just ask my traumatized mother. Or me.

Word Counters is a monthly challenge from Karen at Baking in a Tornado and her gang.

Each of us submits a number and the lucky recipient uses that number to craft...something.

It's so fun!

This month, my number is 28 and it came from my awesome friend, Sarah at Writer Sarah Nolan

Hop on over and see what the others have done!

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Wandering Web Designer

Sarah Nolan 
Messymimi’s Meanderings 

Night Riders

I was ten, and George was twelve,

And Jerry close to fifteen,

And Chris, the eldest of us all,

The grand old age of sixteen.

But most important, she could drive,

She’d just received her permit,

And we were planning something grand,

On roads of dirt. And moonlit.

Yes, we were going into town,

The first time without parents,

To see a movie, cruise down main,

Just fun. (And not aberrant.)

And all went just as we had planned

Then much too soon, our ‘party’

Was done and we were headed home,

Feeling all grown up and smart-y.

But partway there, the fuel line,

Well, it just disconnected,

But nimble fingers went to work,

And soon it was corrected.

A little further on, we stopped

Cause now the tank was dry,

On such a dark and lonely road,

When no one lived nearby!

But then some lights! Who could it be?

Our neighbours, soon it prov-ed,

Had made their annual trip to town,

To do whate’re behoov—ed. 

They tumbled from their ancient truck,

“Now, kidsh, whash ish the matter?”

When we explained, they laughed and then,

They started in to chatter…

“Don’t worry kidsh, we’ve got a shain,

We’ll help you in a jiffy!”

We kids could smell the liquor,

(And were feeling rather ‘iffy’.)

But soon they’d gotten out their chain,

And wrapped it round our frame,

Our sister drove like Mario,

The speeds were nigh the same!

They dropped us off in our barnyard,

And waved to us so cheerful,

We kids trooped over to the house,

To give our folks an earful!

I often contemplate that night,

And think what might have been,

When neighbours came and saved us all

By appearing on the scene!
Though, it was a little scary and
it was a bit insane,
Driving 50 m.p.h.
On 12 short feet of 'shain'!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts. Perhaps a grin?
So Mother Owl, Jenny and Mimi,
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 I Think it’s fun,
We’ll talk of WINDOWS. Everyone!

Cousins!

It was time for another 'cousins' sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa's.
Between you and me, the term 'sleepover' is a misnomer.
It should totally be changed to 'wake'over.
Just sayin'...
Sooo...cousins. Here.
Number? 10.
That means grandparents were outnumbered by five times.
Yikes.
Age range? 6 to 14. Or every local grandchild not currently in a diaper.
The schedule?
Spaghetti supper: By Grandpa.
Visiting around the supper table: Everyone.
Old Bugs Bunny cartoons: Grandpa.
Stories and songs and 'bedtime' for the younger half: Grandma.
Skull King for the older half: Grandpa.
More Skull King plus Sherlock Holmes movies and visiting until nearly time to get up for breakfast: Grandma. (Smart Grandpa was snoring happily in bed during this period.)
Dollar pancakes with sausages and scrambled eggs: Grandpa.
Visiting over the breakfast table: Everyone.
Playing and/or visiting: Everyone.
Kisses and hugs and see-ya-soon-I-love-yous at the door as parents arrive for the pick-up: Everyone.
Naptime: Grandpa and Grandma.
Things went fairly smoothly. Several of the older cousins are deep into Dungeons and Dragons and were schooling the next group in creating their characters/bad guys/good guys.
The younger set was playing stuffies/school/???
I found these on the younger girls’ door.
Maybe you can help me figure it out...

Well...according to this, at least the boys will be safe...

Normal

Have I mentioned that Sally never—ever—has any good ideas.

Maybe I should re-word: Sally has awesome ideas, but they never come to anything ‘good’.

Better.

Oh, she often has good intentions.

But the outcome seldom is what any normal person could predict.

I mean, it was only last week that she, ably encouraged and abetted by her boyfriend Mort and our Cousin Ruth, managed to turn an innocent celebration of all things ‘pirate’ into a ‘sink-the-enemy’s-ship’ debacle. Sending The Adventure Slide Park’s life-sized model of the Jolly Roger to Whatshisname’s locker.

I can still see the look on Mom’s face when I fished her out from under her bed and told her.

Then there was today, for another example . . .

It started out as an innocent shopping expedition.

We needed milk.

And eggs.

Such normal activities, right?

But Sally insisted on coming along.

For a while, all was well. We entered the store like normal people. Wandered the aisles. Perused shelves and produce.

Collected. Purchased. Bagged.

And left.

I remember pausing in the doorway on the way out. So this is what ‘normal’ is like.

As I stood there, I noticed store employees popping out all over like tree buds. Employees who had been noticeably absent while Sally had been in the store.

Hmmmm . . .

I turned and followed Sally across the parking lot.

We walked along the sidewalk toward home, each laden with a couple of grocery bags.

It was a warm day. The sun was shining. I could hear birds in the trees, singing madly at each other.

It felt, for want of a better word . . . normal.

We were walking along the high, page-wire fence that enclosed the long-abandoned Paxton’s Shoe Factory and warehouse.

Sally suddenly stopped and turned toward the great, grey-weathered, windowless structure.

I stopped behind her. “What is it?”

“I heard something.”

I put on my best ‘listening’ face and tipped my head toward Sally.

Huh. Someone was crying. Loudly.

“Do you hear that?”

“The crying?” I asked.

She gave a short nod, her eyes focused on the building.

Suddenly, she hooked both of her bags over her shoulders, grabbed the fence with long fingers and scaled it.

Like a monkey.

Or a spider.

I blinked, then hurried back the way we had come and went through the wide-open gate, shaking my head as I did so.

Trust Sally to make the showy entrance.

I joined her just as she darted through an entryway.

It proved to be a short walkway lined with rickety shelves that opened into a large central court, overgrown with weeds and the repository of many, many years’ worth of trash.

On the far side, we could plainly see a man standing over a girl. He was . . . well . . . not shouting, but talking loudly and poking her with a stick or something with every phrase.

She was cowering away from him, trying to push at the stick and sobbing heavily.

Sally didn’t pause for even a moment. She pulled the bags from her shoulders and, swinging them wildly, charged across the open space.

I took a deep breath and followed, not quite sure what the two of us were getting into.

I saw the bag in Sally’s right hand connect soundly with the man’s head, knocking him off balance.

Then before he could react, her left came around and laid him out.

Flat.

I stopped and stared down at him.

His unconscious face wore a look of complete and utter surprise.

And fear.

As Sally stood triumphantly over him, grocery bags at the ready, the girl he had been abusing rose to her feet.

Tears seemingly forgotten, she asked, rather breathlessly, “What are you doing?”

Sally turned to her. “Helping.”

“But . . .”

“CUT!” someone roared.

Uh-oh.

Sally and I turned toward the voice and noticed, for the first time, the cameras and crew lined up in the shadows along the far wall.

Oops.

One rather red-faced man was advancing toward us followed by someone with a clipboard and someone else carrying a little case of something.

I’m not really sure, but I think the first man may have had steam coming from his rather prominent ears.

He stopped beside the guy on the ground. “Is he dead, Brady?”

The person with the little case knelt down. “No, just stunned, I think. He’s coming around now.”

The man then turned to Sally. The words that exited his mouth contained more than a few expletives, so I will edit. “What the ********************** are you doing?!”

Sally looked at him calmly. “Helping.”

“Helping?! ********************** who are you **************************** helping?!”

She pointed toward the girl, who was frantically shaking her head.

The man took a deep breath. “I could have you ************************ arrested and charged! I could . . .”

“Mr. Armin, sir? I think you should see this . . .”

The man turned. One of his cameramen was gesturing.

He gave one last glare to Sally, then with a brief “We ain’t ************************** finished with this, yet, Honey,” he started toward his cameraman.

The two men stood by the camera, looking at the screen.

A short conversation followed in which the words, ‘natural’, ‘born-for-this’ and ‘magic’ featured prominently.

Mr. Armin slowly retraced his steps, stopping beside Sally once more. “Ummm . . . sooo . . . would you like a job?” he asked.

It was the first time in my life I can remember Sally speechless.

I took the opportunity. “Hey, Sally. Were you carrying the eggs?”

Today is a word challenge.

Karen’s Girls, as we affectionately call ourselves supply words to our intrepid leader. Who then shuffles and re-distributes. 

We can then craft our given words into whatever we see fit.

Fact. Fiction.

The choice is ours.

This month, my words were: 

warehouse ~ crying ~ short ~ shelves ~ fence

And given to me by my good friend Dawn at https://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com

Thanks so much, Dawn! Your words were awesome!

Now go and see what the others have done with their challenge...

Baking In A Tornado

Wandering Web Designer 

Spatulas on Parade
Follow Me Home 
Sarah Nolan 
Part-time Working Hockey Mom 
Climaxed 

Low Language

At least one of us was a lady . . .

Dad always told me that foul language is a sign of a feeble mind. We'll go from there . . .

It was hot!
I was tired!
Give me a minute, I'm sure I can think of better excuses . . .
The milk cow had been quartered in the east pasture, waiting for her to 'freshen'. (A cowboy term for 'give birth'.)
I know.
Cowboys are weird.
Moving on . . .
Her moment was getting close and it was time for her move into closer quarters.
I was elected to do it.
On foot.
Sigh.
Dad dropped me off at the gate with specific instructions. "Just chase her along the ditch, past the ranch and into the near-west pasture." I nodded. Instructions received and understood.
He drove off.
Things went well at first.
Right up until we reached the ranch entrance.
Madame Cow (I use this term lightly) couldn't quite get into her head the part of our instructions that said, "PAST the ranch."
I should explain here that the entrance to the ranch was on the north side of the road. The ditch we were following toward the west was also on the north side of the road.
And, when the breach in the fence appeared, Madame Cow insisted on turning . . . north. Towards the buildings. I had to sprint around her (remember I was on foot) and turn her back towards the road.
At which time she took the corner and headed east up the ditch we had just come down.
Another sigh. A little more forceful this time. And accompanied by a "Stupid cow!"
I got around her (feet, again) and turned her back west.
She followed the fence and again turned towards the ranch.
Way wrong!
"Stupid, dumb cow!"
Back towards the road.
Please head west. Please?!
Nope. East.
*#$! Cow!
Just a little swear.
This went on for some time, and my language, I'm ashamed to say . . . worsened.
Or got more colorful. That would be the 'PC' term.
Remember, I was raised around hired men. Experts at the English language. Or at least a certain part of it.
Not an excuse, just a reason.
Again and again, I got round her and tried to head her in the correct direction.
Again and again, she . . . didn't.
And my language got more and more peppered with, shall we say, 'colorful metaphors'?
None of which explained to said cow exactly what I expected of her.
I have to admit that the poor animal was probably quite confused by this time.
There were the buildings. With hay and comfort.
Why were we going the other way?
Okay, strange human, I'll just go back where I came from.
No?
Except that it would have probably sounded more like this:
Food!
Home!
Food!
Home!
In 'cow' of course.
Finally, after what seemed hours of chasing back and forth, and turning the air blue with . . . ahem . . . profanities (me, not her), the cow skipped past the ranch entrance and, wonder of wonders, walked right over to the proper field.

Okay, I'd rather go here, too . . .

Eureka! (real word)
I opened the gate and she stepped sedately through.
Then turned and looked at me.
Stupid human!
At least one of us had retained her gentility.
I closed the gate and started back towards the ranch, humming happily. All that had gone on before conveniently forgotten.
Dad's truck slid to a stop beside me. "Need a ride?"
I climbed in, still humming.
Dad drove for a moment. Then he said, not looking at me, "I got a real education this morning."
I looked at him, innocently, "Oh?"
"Yes. I discovered that my middle daughter knew words I didn't think she had even heard of."
"Oh." Very tiny voice, "You heard me?"
"Heard you! They heard you in town!"
"Oh."
That was all that was said.
It was never brought up again.
But I knew that Dad knew.
And he knew that I knew that he . . . never mind.
I'd like to say that I never used 'foul' language again, but I'd be lying.
For some reason, working with cows brings out the lowest form of expression.
Probably a good thing I don't work with them anymore.
And I should probably point out that swearing isn't an easy habit to get rid of.
Even now, years later, a very strange word will pop into my head.
I'm happy to report that it never makes it past my lips, but I feel some dismay in the fact that it appears at all.
I'm a work in progress.
I should have taken lessons from the cow.

Be Kind

Kindness is my motivating force for life!
In honour of World Kindness Day, a poem I wrote.
My talented son put it to music!

When I grow up, here's what I'll be
An astronaut in space.
A doctor or a farmer or
An athlete in a race.
A soldier or an engineer,
A miner in a mine.
No matter what I choose to be,
I'm choosing to Be Kind.

Be Kind. Be Kind.
That's how you were designed.
Be smart, be fun, be fast on the run...
But best of all, Be Kind.

Or maybe I could be a nurse,
A fireman, or cook,
A pilot or photographer,
A writer, writing books,
A vet-rin-ar-i-an who'd help
The animals I find,
No matter what I choose to be,
I'm choosing to Be Kind.

Be Kind,
Be Kind,
That's how you were designed,
Be smart, be fun, be fast on the run...
But best of all, Be Kind.

This post is part of a monthly challenge.
Why don't you head over and visit the other participants?
You know you want to...

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Kindness of Strangers
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: A Kinder Gentler World
Lydia of Cluttered Genius: TheyAin’t Your Friend

Wrong Knife

Husby is a knife connoisseur.
A bona fide expert on all things sharp and/or pointy.
He and our son have a forge in the back yard and create their own.
Give lessons.
Advice.
He could tell you the quality of the steel just by holding it. Could explain what the ‘tang’ is. (And no, it’s not a drink for astronauts.)
Soooo . . . Connoisseur and expert.
Usually, it’s a good thing.
Except when I’m cooking and using my favorite knife-for-all-occasions. The knife that fits my hand. And is sharp and pointy.
And does the job.
Inevitably as I'm working, Husby will enter the room and announce, to any who may want to hear (no one), that I am once again using the wrong knife.
The fact that he is still alive is testament to my restraint and/or his ability to stay just out of reach.
I can see the headstone now: Here Lies Husby. Stabbed With The Wrong Knife.
Moving on . . .
Today, the planets aligned.
The ‘I’s’ were dotted. The ‘T’s’ crossed.
My ducks were finally in a row.
My ship had come in.
Because Husby, he of the infinite knife wisdom, used a small paring knife to slice the block of cheese.
Eschewing the handy-dandy cheese knife sitting nearby.
His excuse? The paring knife was already dirty and he didn't want to dirty another.
The consequence? The knife broke. Just behind the stubby little tang that cheap knives are known for. (See? I was paying attention.)
But the best part - the very best part – is this:
For the first time ever, I was finally able to say, “You used the wrong knife!”
You’ll have to picture the glee and handsprings.

My day has come.
I'm buying a lottery ticket . . .

Glasses. And a Prayer

First pair.

Mom noticed I was squinting, that

I couldn’t read the signs,

It didn’t take her very long to see between the lines.

Her darling nine-year-old had early

Gotten her birthright,

And now she needed glasses to correct her poor eyesight.

I chose the frames I wanted, watched

The doctor hem and haw,

And finally was fitted without fanfare or hoopla.

For several weeks I wore them, then

One day they disappeared,

And I was back to ‘blindness’, or a ‘something else’ quite near.

Now I was at the church,

With lots of kids one afternoon,

And we were singing hymns and trying hard to stay in tune.

Then a teacher told a story from

The pulpit up the stair,

A story of a child who needed help. And offered prayer.

That tiny prayer was answered,

She was given what she sought,

And I began to think: to say a prayer was what I ought.

No sooner thought, then done, I folded

Up my arms and prayed,

‘Twas simple, but I hoped my need had duly been conveyed.

I opened up my eyes again,

It hadn’t taken long,

I smiled to myself and then went back to singing songs.

Then I noticed something sitting on

The pulpit, quietly,

It looked to be a shadow, and it interested me.

You have to know the span was far,

I really couldn’t see,

But still my eyes kept straying. Yes, it’s strange, you must agree.

And when the service ended, I

Went to investigate,

Hurrying through the throng because I really couldn’t wait.

And what was there? I’m sure you’ve guessed,

My glasses safe and sound,

My prayer had worked and, oh, my precious glasses had been found!

That was the first time I remember

Answers to a prayer,

O’er years and years, I now have used what had been started there.

T’was such a little thing, you know,

A prayer to find my specs,

And who could know that it would have such lasting, long effects.

Newer and . . . improved?

Ummm...

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts, perhaps a grin?

So Mother Owl, Jenny and Mimi

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you've read what we have brought...

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, because we have a few,
We'll talk of 'Neighbours' just for you!