The Bell of St. Vital

There is not much happening today that we could call ‘normal’.

Normal has become merely another word that belongs to the distant past (of one month ago). Those long-ago days of hugs. Handshakes. School. Dining out. Attending Sabbath services. Concerts. Plays. Sporting events. Getting together with friends and family.

Playing with one’s grandchildren.

In fact, the old curse “May you live in Interesting Times” seems to have taken a firm hold.

And so we reach out eagerly, even desperately for anything that could be considered ‘normal’.

I live in the small city of Beaumont in North-Central Alberta, nestled snugly up against the greater-metropolis of Edmonton.

A community known for its quiet bustle.

Its warm, friendly neighbourhoods.

Its village parenting.

Like most other settlements across the globe, the usually busy streets are quiet as families shelter in place.

Community chat pages have sprung up offering support and advice.

Deliveries quietly appear on the doorsteps of those in need.

But still we seek for any sign that brings back that quiet, cared-for feeling of ‘normal’.

Today, at 9:00 AM, I found one, when the silvery tones of the great St. Vital church bell rang out across the quiet city.

As it has done for over 100 years.

Since the end of another plague.

A tiny, silvery bit of ‘normal’.

Corn-eeeee

I can only dream.

I’ve never been able to grow corn.

The planets are aligned against it.

Why am I thinking of this at the end of March?

Because it’s still winter here.

But we're hoping spring (and growing season) are sometime in our near future.

Moving on . . .

For over forty years, I’ve kept a garden.

Oh, it has changed in that time.

Mostly gotten smaller.

For many, many of those years, I attempted to grow corn.

Corn-on-the-cob just says summer to me.

Most of the time, my tidy little corn plants merely peeked above ground.

Sighed.

And died.

Twice, they grew to maturity.

Developed ears, even.

And then . . .

Well, let me tell you about it.

I had a large garden behind our mobile home just outside of Orton, Alberta. (Near Fort MacLeod)

It was growing beautifully.

The weather had cooperated.

The rains had come when they were needed.

Plenty of sun.

For the first time, ever, I had mature corn plants.

Nearly ready to harvest mature corn plants.

Then, one sunny, but slightly breezy day, the county sprayer drove by.

Spraying the ditches.

For weeds.

Now, if there is any wind, the county sprayers are supposed to be cautious. Not spray near homesteads. Avoid people.

This sprayer . . . wasn’t.

And did.

And the next day, I walked out into my garden and noticed that everything looked . . . wilted.

My first thought was frost.

Okay, it was July, the only month of the year when frost is . . . uncommon.

Then I remembered the sprayer.

Long story short – the weed-killer had lived up to its name.

My garden – and my beautiful corn – was dead.

Sigh.

A couple of years later, in a different small house and with a different garden patch, I again saw my efforts to grow corn rewarded.

Saw ears develop.

And then . . . grasshoppers.

In 1983, in Southern Alberta, we had a ‘plague of locusts’. A real plague – look it up. They were so numerous that cars were known to slip in the tide that constantly flowed across the roads. They devoured crops and hay.

And my corn. Drilled holes right through those babies.

Another sigh.

Oh, I didn’t give up.

I tried.

And tried.

And tried.

But never again did my corn amount to anything more than tall, attractive (earless) plants.

I still eat corn.

And corn-on-the-cob still shouts summer to me.

But, alas, someone else has to do the growing.

I will stick with the appreciating.

And devouring.

The two things I’m obviously best at.

A 'Little' Story

She was supposed to be raking leaves.

But you know how an assigned job can be forgotten. Or an assigned worker . . . sidetracked.

I know it happens to me. Why, once . . .

Never mind.

Chicken Little Feathers, of the Merrywoods Feathers, was supposed to be working. C. Little, as she preferred to be called, had been asked to rake the leaves in the front yard.

Now admittedly, the front yard was enormous, taking in, as it did, most of the forest.

But C. Little, full of energy and good intentions started in with a will.

An hour later, with several enormous piles of well-raked leaves behind her and several thousand more ahead, she decided to take a well-deserved break.

Any of us would have done it. I know I would.

She flopped down into one of her heaps of crunchy, brightly-coloured leaves.

For a few seconds, she lay there happily, totally relaxed.

A small breeze sprang up, cooling her slightly over-heated self.

But this breeze, unbeknownst (Ooh! Good word!) to her, also twirled cheerfully around the tree just over her head.

An oak tree.

With dozens of baby oaks—AKA: acorns—nestled snugly against their parent.

Well most of them were snug.

One or two, not so much.

You can probably guess what happened next.

Yep. One of them lost its grip and dropped straight down (This acorn wasn’t going to fall far from the tree!) onto the head of the little would-be gardener thirty feet below.

Now I know there are often comparisons made between mighty oaks and their tiny, little acorns.

And acorns are comparatively tiny.

But drop one from thirty feet onto your head and see how you feel.

C. Little gasped and sat straight up, one wing over the rapidly-swelling bruise on her little head. She looked up into the tree and came to the only conclusion possible. A piece of the sky, barely glimpsed between the thick branches of the towering oak, must have somehow become detached and fallen.

Okay, yes, there are other conclusions. Each of which would have been vastly superior to the one jumped to.

But we’re talking about a little, feather-headed chicken here.

C. Little leaped to her feet and screamed.

Loud enough for one of her nearby friends, Goosy Loosy (hey, I didn’t name these people) to hear her. She hurried over.

“What is it, Lit? What’s wrong?”

“Loos! The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” C. Little pointed in the general direction of up.

Goosy Loosy tipped her head, peering along the trajectory of the pointing feather. She frowned a rather goosy frown, then looked back at C. Little. “I don’t see any . . .”

And it was at that precise moment that the second of the not-so-snug acorns lost its not-so-powerful hold on its parent.

Hitting Miss Loosy right on top of her rounded goosy head.

“Gahhh!” she screamed. “It’s true! It’s true!”

Okay, say what you will about panic. It has been known to motivate people to do amazing things.

Most of them bad.

“We must go and warn the king!” C. Little screamed. “The entire kingdom is at risk!”

And, just like that, the two of them were off.

Now I won’t bore you with the details of their encounters with several other members of the feather-headed variety that peopled (you know what I mean) the forest.

Suffice it to say their hysteria was contagious and leave it at that.

Soon there was a panicky, but determined group of would-be saviours on their way to warn the king of the imminent danger to, and probable destruction of, his kingdom.

Partway there, they came upon a rather shifty fellow by the name of Loxy. First name Foxy.

Who, quite notably, wasn’t panicking.

“Wooah, Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

Now, normally, when there exists a mob situation, the individuals in it have ceased to think as individuals.

This was far from a normal situation.

But part of it, notably the whole not-thinking-for-themselves part, was still very much in effect.

Sigh.

Moving on . . .

“You might not have noticed it yet,” C. Little started out . . .

“BUT THE SKY IS FALLING!” The rest of the group chimed in.

Mr. Loxy looked up at the cloudless, blue sky, then back to them. “Seriously?”

Several feathered heads nodded.

He raised a rather foxy eyebrow. “Huh!”

“We’re on our way to warn the king!” C. Little said importantly.

“I bow to your selflessness and industry,” Mr. Loxy said. Again he looked at the sky. “It’s funny how serene everything looks. You’d never know there was a problem.”

“Hah! Remember the Titanic! And how serene it appeared to be in the early minutes after striking the iceberg!”

Everyone turned to look at Miss Loosy.

“Say what?” Mr. Loxy said. “Ti-. . .”

Goosy Loosy’s eyes shifted away. Then back. “. . .-tanic. It was a ship. That . . .  you know what? Never mind.”

Mr. Loxy gave her a long look, then took a deep breath. “So back to our discussion. You’re on your way to warn the king?”

C. Little nodded. “Yes. It’s our civic duty.”

“It’s a long way to the palace from here,” Mr. Loxy said. “Look. Why don’t you come to my apartment and just post things on Forestbook. Everyone will get the message and of course they will believe it. And share it millions of times. The king is sure to hear.”

“Oooh! That sounds so much easier,” Ducky Lucky said. He held out one of his little, duck feet. “All this walking is making my arches fall.”

The little feather-headed mob was soon in agreement (see above vis-à-vis mob mentality) and following Mr. Loxy toward his apartment/lair.

It will probably not be a surprise to learn that Mr. Loxy, contrary to what he said, had absolutely no intention of helping them out.

In fact, he was more concerned with what was going into his stomach than what may be falling out of the sky.

And it will probably be equally non-shocking to hear that none of the good-hearted but woefully-ignorant citizens ever emerged from Mr. Loxy’s lair.

There are several lessons to be learned.

1.                When the world around you seems to be panicking, don’t.

2.                Seek credible sources.

3.                Not everyone has your best interests at heart.

4.                Troubles bring out the good or the bad in people.

5.                Be one of the good.

When Needed

Every time I have a need,

The good Lord sends a pet to me.

It’s true, It’s happened all my life,

Whenever life is filled with strife.

There’s Cheetah. Yes. She was my first,

In barking she was very versed,

It didn’t take long for it to pall,

Except when cougars came to call.

Then Mike, he of the size and hair,

Who followed us kids everywhere,

And when we six would swimming go,

He guarded us from friend and foe.

Then Muffy. Man I loved that dog,

Though she was bigger than a hog,

When I moved out, she came to stay,

And kept the bad guys all away!

Then Panda, Sheepdog number two,

She raised puppies—not a few—

And ran with me before the light,

And kept me safe throughout the night.

And now we’re in a time of trial,

With troubles gathered in a pile,

My Pandy (sheepdog number three),

Gives all the cuddles that I need!

You know, I given lots of thought,

To what’s important, what is not.

When I think of all the pets He’s given,

I must be loved by that Man in Heaven!

Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week being

With pleasant thoughts.

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Next week, cause ‘writing’ is our ‘zen’

Come back, we’ll talk of writing then!

An Education

School is memorable for so many reasons.

Friends. Enemies. Sports.

Life lessons.

The occasional chance bit of 'learning' that slips in and the teacher(s) who accidentally accomplish it . . .

In Lethbridge, Alberta in the early ‘40s, there a great teacher.

Young and energetic, he was one of those inspiring men with the enthusiasm and determination needed to pour knowledge into thirty-plus mostly-resistant heads.

One of which was my dad’s.

Every day, this teacher would painstakingly write out his lessons—filling the blackboard.

Then, just before the end of the period arrived, just as painstakingly review everything he had struggled so hard to put down.

And, every day, he would begin said review with these words: “Class? Watch the board while I go through it.”

Now, admittedly, to him, these words were supposed to suggest exactly what he said. The review was about to begin.

To his students, something far different was understood.

And they waited, day after day, for it to happen.

But never, in all the years this man taught my dad did he actually go through the board.

Rats.

Because that would have been an education.

Watching the Cow

Don’t ask me how he got it,

(I don’t know anyway!)

But Bill Jones owned a golden watch,

‘Twas with him every day.

Then, one sad day, he lost it,

Out, somewhere in the plain.

Mid grazing cows and antelope,

And miles of golden grain.

For hours his household hunted,

(It was that dear, you see),

But none could catch one glint of gold,

Though all searched carefully.

The watch was not recovered,

And years all passed away,

At times, Ol’ Jones still pondered hard

‘Bout where it went that day.

Then, one day, took to market,

A grand old ‘herbivore’,

It was her time, the poor old dear,

To serve the carnivores.

The butcher soon discovered,

(With meat before him spread),

A glint of gold in the old girl’s gut,

(She’d clearly been well fed.)

The watch had been discovered,

And this I must admit:

Restored to the old farmer there,

When it’d be cleaned a bit.

Now the part that’s hard to ‘swallow’,

Is this part coming now . . .

For the golden watch was running true!

After years inside the cow.

Now how could this one object,

So miraculously found,

Survived the years down deep inside,

While keeping itself wound?

The experts speculated,

Their investigations done.

That the churning of the stomach there,

Had made the gold watch run.

Well, now you’ve heard the story,

As Dad told it to me,

Of farmer, cow and running watch,

Do you--like me--believe?

Doing the Swing

Photo Credit

Dances are fun.

Even for the unenlightened (ie. non-dancer).

In my Dad’s younger days, dancing was one of few forms of entertainment.

Alongside books (Google it) and games.

Let’s face it. It was the 1930s. Electricity was just out of the gate. Radio was the sought-after-but-not-yet-universally-available ‘new’ home amusement and only Jules Verne or H.G. Wells had any conception of electronic devices.

Soooo . . . dances.

Dad went to a lot of them. Some at his school, but most in the basement of the local church.

Taught basic steps by his Sunday School teacher, he tried to wow the ladies in his adolescent circle. In those days, it wasn’t really a necessity. Everyone danced with everyone, regardless of danceability or social prowess.

One evening, his future brother-in-law, Ken, was one of the dancers.

A Virginia Reel was introduced.

I should probably mention, if you are not already aware, that the Virginia Reel is a fun, old-time dance that involves a lot of swinging. And/or whooping.

Usually at the same time.

But occasionally for different reasons . . .

Ken’s partner was a woman of . . . well, let’s just say she was large and leave it at that.

Ken was a stick of a man. Tall and slender.

The two had been doing well to this point in the dance. Then came the swing.

Hooking elbows in the tried and true technique, they started in.

Now, normally, there is no cause for alarm during this manoeuvre.

The partners simply swing around and return to their usual positions.

Easy.

Except when there is . . . enthusiasm.

And a difference in weights.

As they swung, Ken felt himself being lifted right off his feet.

In a blind panic, he let go.

The woman went down on her . . . erm . . . posterior, and slid ten feet across the dusty, waxed floor; sweeping a nice, clean path two feet wide.

The dancers froze.

Then the whole room erupted into laughter.

The whole room.

Dancers and slider.

Say what you will about dancing.

Even for the non-participant, it has entertainment potential.

Six Forty-One’s

There are many negatives swirling about concerning the Covid-19 Pandemic. And we are right to be concerned. But I was determined to find something positive. And I did. From a woman quarantined with her housing complex in the storm center, Wuhan.

In their pre-pandemic days, she and her husband, schoolteachers, would dart off in the early morning to work. Their children were dropped into the arms of day care workers. Evenings were more bustle. Occasionally they would manage an evening meal together.

Now every day is spent together. They play games together. Eat meals together. Talk. And listen. For the first time, they are getting to know each other. This, to her, is the great blessing of the Pandemic. Time with her family.

Their complex surrounds a large, beautiful courtyard. The formerly great empty space is now filled with people. Neighbours who care for each other. She walks circuits of the courtyard with a next-door neighbour she hadn’t even met . . . before . . .

Every day, the people in her complex order their groceries from nearby stores. The boxes are quietly delivered to the courtyard and the workers quickly disappear. But it doesn’t matter if they have no outside contact. Because they have inside friends.

Even though there is much worldwide fear and uncertainty in our present circumstances, this woman has shown me that we can find the positives in any situation. Even the scariest ones. We just have to slow down and look for them.

Words Counters is a word challenge. Each of us in submits a number, which is then assigned to another in the group. It’s totally challenging. And totally fun!

My number this month, 41, came from my good friend Mimi. Thank you so much!

Want some more Word Counters?

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Messymimi’s Meanderings       

Woe$

Things are fairly upside down right now with fear and confusion everywhere.

My blog will continue to post only cheer.

I hope it helps!

This week's poetry topic?

Money!

Thank you, Jenny!

We hear talk of ‘tainted’ money,

Earned illegally,

Through sales of illicit things,

Or gamb'ling cheerily,

But a friend of mine has said it right,

A man who’s sure and tough,

“Tainted money?” he guffawed,

“There jus ‘taint’ ne'er enough!”

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, all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

A lot of us are feeling blue,

And so we’ll try to cheer a few,

We’ll give that ol’ despair a shove…

Next week: Pets, I’ve Known and Loved.

Gwen's Turn

Sally has been quiet.

Usually, this would be a cause for concern all on its own.

But she’s on a shoot somewhere in Texas, with fairly normal people (or at least people who can ACT normal) and with on-duty guards militarily (is that a word?) trained to tackle/shoot if the need arises.

And I’m quite sure her movie-making employers have noticed, as have Mom and I, that when you keep her busy, there is infinitely less breakage/scream-age/disaster-age/goodlordharry-age.

So Mom’s and my (and Mort’s) worries have been . . . lessened.

With Sally, they never really go away. (Remember the kidnappers?)

Anyways, Mom and I have been living a more-or-less quiet existence. We have almost daily correspondence from our famous family member, but Sally-at-a-distance is diluted enough for even the most pallid palate.

Sooo . . . quiet.

I work at a local printers. Aksel’s: The Place for Print.

Aksel’s is run by a family. The Pedersen’s. Whose grandfather was named (wait for it) Aksel.

I know. Big leap there.

They are a fun-loving bunch. Supportive of their employees. Cheerful.

I mean, they don’t encourage truancy or other minor infractions, but they aren’t about to fire you for the occasional gaffe. Though they won’t tolerate deliberately sloppy procedures on the line or any form of malicious gossip around the water-cooler.

If they had a water-cooler.

It is doubly attractive for me because it is also well within commuting distance for me and Hairy Barry, my trusty bicycle.

Enough background . . .

I was working with the main printer, “Big Ed”, in his royal residence (aka the back room).

Big Ed was busily coughing out copies of the newest edition of ReMARKETable. A small run magazine for collectors.

He was just completing the print when, quite suddenly, he just . . . stopped.

A small red light blinked into existence. A light I’d never noticed before.

I hopped off my stool.

You have to know that, to date, Big Ed and I had enjoyed a fairly comfortable relationship. No real conflicts or name-calling. And we’ve certainly never come to blows.

All of that was about to change.

I approached the humming, shivering behemoth.

Just as I reached out toward the red button, a ding on my phone indicated a text.

I pulled the phone from my pocket, then moved away from Big Ed to look at it.

Sally.

I’d answer her later.

Shoving my phone back into my jeans, I started to turn.

Just as the entire machine disintegrated in a blast of smoke and hot air.

Rather like a politician.

Ahem . . .

Aksel the Third appeared almost immediately in the doorway.

I was still standing there.

My mind frantically cataloguing and checking off important parts of my anatomy.

When all seemed to be accounted for, I turned to him. “Erm. There seems to be something wrong with Big Ed, Aksel.”

He stared at the mound of smoking rubble where the mammoth machine had stood, largely intact, only moments before. “What did you do?!” He looked at me as he approached slowly. “Tell me exactly!”

“I was sitting. Big Ed stopped. There was a red button. I moved toward it. Got a text. Decided to answer it later and shoved my phone back in my pocket. Started forward again . . .”

“Text? Red button?”

I frowned. “The text I'm pretty sure of. The red button, less so. Should I have done something?”

“How should I know? I didn’t even realize there was a red button!”

He began to poke around, then pulled out his phone and dialed. “Dad? I think Big Ed is toast.”

He listened for a moment, then pocketed his phone and looked at me. “You should probably go home, Gwen. Maybe get checked out by the doctor.”

I nodded and turned (a little shakily) toward the door.

“By the way, who was the text from?”

“Sally.”

“Figures.”

I spun around and looked at him, but he was already back poking at the debris.

I frowned and headed for my bicycle. The (fortunately few) people I saw on my homeward commute seemed to have a special look for me as I rode past.

But I really didn’t think about it. My mind was churning over the fact that Sally had messaged me just before a major malfunction in my company’s equipment.

Could she jinx things from a distance? And more importantly had she, in point of fact, saved me?

This was something that should (or maybe not) be checked into.

I noticed Mom’s car in the drive as I rode across the lawn.

Parking Hairy Barry in his usual home next to the hedge, I hurried to the front door.

Mom was in her favourite recliner, her eyes on the peaceful scene just outside the window.

“Hey, Mom,” I said.

She looked at me, her smile of welcome evaporating. “Gwen, honey?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are your eyebrows?”

Each month, our little band of intrepid, unstoppable scribblers contributes a series of words. Which our gracious leader, Karen shuffles and re-distributes.

Those words then form the basis of everything from recipes to flash fiction.

My words this month--hopped ~ hairy ~ bicycle ~ truancy ~ sloppy ~ gossip--came to me, via Karen, from Jenniy at Climaxed.

Thank you so much, Jenniy! This was the best fun!

Want to keep the fun going?
Head out and see what the others have created!

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade 

Wandering Web Designer

Follow Me Home 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom   

Climaxed 

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

Honey For Sale

Perfect for each other.

My Mom had been raised on a ranch.
She knew cattle and could speak the language with anyone.
But there were times when she very much longed to change the conversation . . .
She and Dad were out with a group of friends.
Fellow Hereford breeders.
The conversation veered, as it always did, to the discussion of the newest miracle bull.
"That 55L! What a bull! Longest animal I've ever seen!"
An animal's length is important. More beef on the hoof.
Just FYI.
The men were enraptured.
The women, silent, polite listeners.
Mom tried to add some colour other than red and white to the conversation.
"We did something different this weekend," she said. "We went to a Gilbert and Sullivan . . ."
But the men's conversation continued unabated.
"You know, 55L was unknown until his calves hit the ground! Long. Tall. Big as colts!"
"We saw the Pirates of Penzance," Mom finished weakly.
No one heard her.
She sighed and withdrew.
But her mind was working busily.
A few days later, Mom again took a back seat to Dad's cows. Giving up on a much anticipated wedding because Dad couldn't go.
That was the last straw.
The next day, she decided to play a prank on him.
She called the local paper and had this ad inserted:
            HUSBAND FOR SALE - Cheap
            Complete with blue jeans, SSS monogrammed shirt,
            rubber boots, old floppy hat, B.S. spattered coveralls,
            pitch fork, scoop shovel, feed bucket,
            25 Hereford cows and one grumpy bull.
            Not home much.
            Speaks only COW. Call 244-2108
Then she waited.
Not a word was said, though she saw my father reading the paper and knew that he always finished every word.
The next day, another ad appeared, directly below Mom's.
This one read:
            HONEY FOR SALE
            The sweetest gal this side of Texas. Good mother,
            helpful, kind, patient, understanding, loving,
            cheerful, caring, cooperative, self-sacrificing,
            grateful for all favours, especially a frugal income,
            and as a bonus, is beautiful and loves
            my Hereford cows. Call 244-2108.
Enough said.

When Lion’s Bad

The small boy and the minister looked gravely at each other,

“Today,” the man said firmly, “We’ll talk lyin’, Little Brother.”

The small boy nodded at him, though he looked a bit unclear,

“Don’t worry!” smiled the man, “We’ll make confusion disappear!”

“Okay,” the small boy whispered, “But will this take very long?”

“It’s important,” said the minister, “So that you learn right from wrong.”

The boy sat down across from him and nodded his small head,

“Father Bryon, let’s begin.” Said Father, “Okay, Ned.”

“Now, firstly, son, can you tell where it is you go for lyin’?”

The small boy simply stared at him. “Of course, old Father Bryon.”

“Well tell me, son, I’d like to know.” The little boy said, “Bah!

I know that one, silly! Everyone knows: Af-ri-ca!”

With Karen it all started and, through her, it carries on,

This monthly ‘poem’ ritual and resulting liaison,

So if you’ve enjoyed my contribution, just you wait and see,

The poems that my writing friends have all now brought to be!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: In the Den
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Lions Galore 1, 2, 3, 4

Moving Meetings

See? 4-H. Totally important.

 I was raised on a ranch near the small town of Milk River, Alberta.

On the Alberta/Montana border.

Farming and ranching country.

We were, quite literally, children of the prairies.

Big brother, George. And calf.

And the highlight of our young lives - the very pinnacle we could aspire to – was 4-H Calf Club.

Our world was small, I admit it.

Yep. When we turned the age of twelve, we could – at last! – join the calf club.

We learned many things there.

Of course, the main (and most obvious) were the care and feeding of your calf.

In my case, handled almost exclusively by my big brother, George.

Because he’s amazing. (Are you reading this, George?)

Big brother, Jerry, ditto.

But there was also the record keeping. (Which George completely refused to do for me. Sigh.)

And the monthly meetings.

Wherein (Oooh! Good word!) we were supposed to learn the proper, accepted, efficient way to run a gathering of that type.

I emphasize the words ‘supposed to’.

Because we didn’t.

Always.

In fact, at some point during many of our meetings, our current club president would throw up his hands and exclaim, in loud and carrying tones, “I don’t know why I do this! I’m getting outta here!”

Something he never did.

Returning to the idea of running a proper meeting . . .

Me. With glasses. And calf.

We had been taught that, if we had something to offer, we should do it in the form of a ‘motion’. As in: ‘I would like to make a motion.’ And then followed by ‘I move . . .’

We were getting it. We were.

One evening, the meeting had been going well.

Everyone had been unusually attentive.

And our leader hadn’t, even once, cried out in despair.

Then one shy young man stuck up his hand.

He was recognized by the ‘Chair’.

And he proceeded. “I-I-I w-would like to m-make a movement!”

There was silence. Then some sniggers.

Umm . . . first door down the hall? Says ‘boys’ on the door?

One of the leaders whispered into his ear, “Motion.”

“Motion!” he corrected himself, turning bright red. “I-I w-would like to make a motion!”

Things carried on.

But the mood had definitely been lightened.

Who says meetings have to be boring?

4-H. Don't you wish you were here?

The grand finale.

The New(d) Game

She had spent the day in catching up and putting things away,

Vacuuming and cleaning in her housework ‘dust ballet’,

And in between, the laundry in the small room down the stairs,

Washing, drying, folding and then making stocking pairs,

When going down the last time; spied the helmet of her son,

The one he wore when playing football—making scoring runs,

Her arms were full, she placed the helmet snugly on her head,

And once she dropped the laundry off, would throw it on his bed.

Because this was the last load, she’d include the clothes she wore,

And so she stripped them off and dropped each item to the floor,

Then, naked, shoved them in the washer; turning at a sound,

To behold the wide-eyed meter man (who’d been duty bound),

“It’s not too hard to guess,” he said, “If you play ‘shirts’ or ‘skins’!

“And Ma'am, though I don’t know this sport, I hope that your team wins!”

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 all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see,

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Small, Medium or Large

My youngest daughter and I were grocery shopping.

That in itself may seem unremarkable.

But, in the course of the conversation as we were wandering up and down aisles, she reminded me of something.

Allow me to share . . .

Our family is large. In a couple of ways.

Six kids, most of whom are over six feet in height.

When they were all still home, these large people ate large meals.

Back then, our supplies were, justifiably, bought in bulk.

It was a necessity if one didn’t want to shop for groceries every. Single. Day.

Which I didn’t.

Sooo . . . bulk.

To us, it was a normal way to live. Peanut butter, miracle whip, honey, pickles, salad dressings, oil, margarine and other foods by the pail. Ketchup in a bag. Soups in gallon containers. Large quantities were deposited in the cold storage according to directions. Then small containers were filled from larger containers and kept in the kitchen for easy access.

By the time the younger kids were helping with meal preparation, this had been the ongoing practice for as long as they’d been alive. Even the older kids had forgotten their ‘long-ago’ when food was purchased in normal-sized containers.

We walked past a tub of margarine. I looked at it. “Huh. Remember when we bought margarine in that size?”

My daughter laughed. “I remember when we bought it in the five-gallon pail and I had to take a smaller container and fill it from the big one!” She went on. “One of my first discoveries when I moved away from home was that food comes in smaller containers. I thought they were so cute and tiny. Little jars of peanut butter and miracle whip. I even had to bring one home to show you.”

“I remember.”

“My roommates thought I was crazy.”

“That goes without saying.” For that comment, I got ‘the look’.

“A person learns so many things when you leave home.”

It’s true.

Life comes in all shapes and sizes.

Small, medium, large. Extra large.

The trick is finding which you need.

Modern Day Archaeology

Looking for this?

In 1979, Husby and I moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba, so he could complete his Master’s degree in history.

It was an interesting, eye-opening experience for a girl who had never been off the ranch for more than a few days.

We were there for eight months.

It was as long as I could be away from my beloved Alberta prairies.

But moving back to Alberta necessitated some commuting back and forth as he completed his thesis.

These trips, a necessity for him, were pure holidays for me.

One, in particular, stands out . . .

We had packed up another couple, parked our kids with our respective mothers, and headed out.

It was a joyous, happy group that talked and laughed our way across Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba.

One evening, the four of us camped at Buffalo Pound Provincial Park, a historic buffalo hunting site just outside of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. (Yes, there really is a place called Moose Jaw.)  Years ago, native hunters used to drive herds of buffalo into the bogs in the area, dispatching them easily as they struggled in the mud.

Umm . . . ick.

Remember where I said that Husby’s thesis was in history?

Well, that would become important here . . .

 Because such sites are good places to find artifacts. Husby’s favourite pastime.

And what else would one want to do when holidaying?

Immediately after setting up camp, the two husbys set out, most notably looking for arrowheads.

We wives stayed at the campsite, visiting, preparing the evening meal and generally enjoying the outdoors and the fact that we weren’t sitting in a car.

About half-an-hour after they set out, our Husbys returned.

With broad grins denoting success.

“We found an arrowhead!” they announced.

“Really?” Okay, we wives were a little bit surprised. Pleased for them. But surprised.

“It really wasn’t that hard! We just looked around and there it was, lying right out in the open!”

“Well, let us see it! Let us see it!”

A hand was extended and there, in the palm, was indeed an arrowhead.

A real arrowhead.

Rubber. With a suction cup on one end.

Carbon dating is ongoing . . .