Straw Into Gold

He said a few things.

She said a few things.

Temperatures rose.

You know how it is . . .

Then he was outside, loudly numbering all his daughter’s faults to his neighbour.

Some of which: ‘My daughter has claws and my supper was cold’, were overheard by the king.

Oops.

When the king asked him to repeat what he had just said, the embarrassed miller . . . juggled things a bit. “Erm . . . my daughter can spin straw into gold!”

And that’s how the whole mess started.

Needless to say, the king soon had the girl, Nell, parked in a sub-basement surrounded by masses of straw. And equipped with a state-of-the-art spinning wheel.

I won’t bore you with the tears and despair after the king left.

A little old woman popped out of somewhere and tugged on Nell’s plain, homespun dress. “What’s the matter, hon?”

Out poured the whole sordid story.

There followed a few moments of bargaining and a fine jade necklace (that had belonged to Nell’s deceased mother) exchanged hands.

After that, the old woman got to work.

And actually spun all that straw into gold.

I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to know that the king was beyond pleased.

But not so ‘beyond’ that he didn’t recognize what a prize he’d managed to latch onto.

Rather than let the girl go, he merely set her in another, larger room, filled with even more straw.

More tears.

Another ‘little old woman’ appearance.

More bargaining, this time for a little jade ring that matched the aforementioned necklace.

And, by morning, another room filled to the rafters with gold.

And did the king give up there?

Nope.

He hadn’t even set his treasurers to counting up the gold he had already accumulated before he was setting Nell in a third, much larger chamber, again filled to the rafters with . . . well, what do you think?

This time, though, the story took a bit of a left-hand turn.

Because, when the old woman appeared, Nell has nothing left with which to pay her.

There followed some knitting of brows and thoughtful tapping of forehead with gnarled old fingers. Then a small ‘eureka’ moment. The woman looked at Nell with bright, button-black eyes. “The king has a son and, after all this, I’m quite sure he will want to marry you.”

Nell just stared at her.

You have to know that, in Nell’s day and age, arranged marriages were still fairly common. Usually, some money exchanged hands. Either the groom paying for the bride, or vice-versa.

And, let’s face it, an enormous amount of money (ie. gold) had already exchanged hands.

Things were pretty much decided.

“So, what I’m thinking is . . . after the two of you marry, there will inevitably be a first-born child.”

Nell nodded, cautiously.

The old woman gave her a gap-toothed smile. “Well, I’ll help you out in exchange for that child.”

Okay, who’s with me in thinking that is a terrible bargain?

But Nell’s nimble mind was working. No way she was going to marry some ‘for-sale’ prince. There wouldn’t be a marriage and certainly no first-born child. She smiled and put out her hand. “Agreed.”

And the old woman got to work.

Another chamber filled to the ceiling with gold.

It won’t come as a surprise to hear that the king was more than pleased. Or that things rolled out kind of like the old woman described.

The surprise came when Nell was introduced to the prince. Who turned out to be . . . nice.

And kind.

And caring of his people.

And definitely easy on the eyes.

Oh, dear.

They courted.

Married.

And, sure enough, soon announced the forthcoming birth of the next generation of royalty.

In due course, the baby arrived, a strong, healthy boy.

And, also in due course, the old woman appeared, demanding said infant.

More tears and pleadings. But a bargain’s a bargain.

Finally, in the face of certain hysterics, the old woman relented enough to strike a new sub-bargain. “If you can guess my name in three tries, the original deal is broken,” she told Nell. “And don’t pin your hopes on ‘Rumpelstiltskin’. Because that is the dumbest name in the history of the world!”

Huh. So much for the stories my parents told me.

Just sayin’ . . .

There followed three days of the princess’ guards collecting women’s names from all over the kingdom. Three attempts to match name to old woman.

And three utter failures.

Finally, Nell was facing the old woman. Her last guess had failed.

With tears rolling down her cheeks, she looked over the woman’s head to her assembled guards, intending to thank them for their service.

What she said was, “You are meritorious and . . .”

She got no further.

The old woman’s face turned red. “What did you say?” she gasped.

“You are meritorious . . .” Nell said cautiously.

“How did you guess it?”

Nell blinked, but, being an unusually intelligent girl, put it together instantly. “I’ve always known,” she said, smiling. “I just wanted to give you a fighting chance.”

The old woman said something rude and disappeared, never to be seen again.

Now you would probably like to imagine the prince and princess and their new baby lived happily ever after.

Proving that even romances begun in the strangest of circumstances can thrive.

So, you know what? Go ahead and imagine it.

Orange You Glad She Didn't See?

Contraband!

Mervin stared at the tell-tale pile of orange peels.

Then, at the large, strictly-forbidden, freshly-peeled, plump and juicy orange in his hand.

He and his friends could all hear the sound of the approaching librarian.

Their nemesis was only two book stacks away.

Death was certain.

What to do?

What to do . . .?

In Fort Macleod in the early seventies, the new library of the equally-new local high school was under the watchful gaze of Mrs. (Eagle Eyes) Mason.

A crack-a-jack librarian who could, quite literally, spot evil-doing across the room and through twenty stacks of books.

Watching her in action was a thing of beauty . . . erm . . . if one wasn’t the culprit.

Something would trigger her radar.

Ugh.

The glasses would be whipped from her face.

And she would peer, narrow-eyed, around the room – inevitably zeroing in on the virtually invisible culprit.

Call it a gift.

Her cardinal rule?

Never, ever bring food into the library.

Food attracts silverfish. (Google it – I had to . . .)

And silverfish eat the glue in books.

And soon, every book would be destroyed.

And children would then grow-up in complete and utter ignorance.

Yes, her rules were simple.

Her logic? Unerring.

Her reach? Vast.

And still, the students tried to, in her words, ‘get away with it’.

Case in point . . . Mervin.

And the telltale orange.

Though he and his friends were literally at the very furthest point from the librarian that the library afforded, the instant he had cracked the outside of his handful of citrus deliciousness, the fragrance had wafted straight to those sensitive nostrils.

The glasses had come off. “Who’s eating an orange in the library?!”

And the footsteps of doom had started.

And drawn ever closer.

Mervin’s friends stared at him.

Mervin stared at the evidence.

Finally, desperately, he shoved the peels in his pocket.

Then, opening his mouth, shoved in the large, juicy orange.

Whole.

I am not making this up.

Not only did he get that entire fruit inside.

He then  . . . closed his mouth.

Just as Mrs. Mason rounded the corner.

“Who here is eating an orange?” she demanded.

His friends had been staring at Mervin in amazement. They turned to the librarian.

There was a chorus of ‘Not me’s!’ From everyone except, of course, Mervin.

Mrs. Mason peered at them suspiciously, then turning, continued her hunt.

The boys looked back at their friend.

Who had spit his orange into his hand and was calmly starting to eat it.

Looking for somewhere to hide things?

A place you know will be safe and secure?

Undetectable?

If you really don’t care about its inevitably moist condition...

Call your big-mouthed friend.

Nasty Little Ball of Death

Warning: Use with caution...

“Gramma! Can we make some popcorn?”

Words so innocently uttered.

So casually agreed to . . .

Some of our grandchildren were over for the evening. (Yes, this was pre-Covid.)

A movie was indicated. And what’s a movie without popcorn?

We are a popcorn family. We have a large, ‘theatre’ popper.

Fully capable of keeping up with the masses.

Gramma enjoys making it.

The kids enjoy watching.

Everyone enjoys eating.

It’s a perfect world.

But, sometimes, even perfection has its drawbacks . . .

The machine was in full pop. Kernels sizzling and swelling in the ‘cooker’.

Spilling out in a fluffy, white, delicious tide over the side and into the ‘hopper’.

Then . . . a tiny problem.

The twin lids over the cooker are merely metal flaps. Designed to hold in the hot, rocketing little explosive devices that are popcorn kernels. And to flip up as needed to let the deliciousness out.

One of these flaps got jammed open.

Little molten balls of death were spewing everywhere.

I had quickly ushered the assembled grandkids away.

And was approaching the machine, set on repairing the problem.

And that’s when it got me.

A sneaky little smoking-hot kernel.

And the term, ‘smoking hot’ is, in this case . . . not good.

It hit me above the collarbone, then proceeded to roll into my collar and from there, down under my shirt and into my bra.

Where it stayed as I tried, madly, to reach it.

The dance I performed is classic.

The blisters I have are noteworthy.

After things had calmed down, and noting my woebegone (Ooh! Good word!) expression, Husby decided to cheer me up with a story of someone who had it far worse than me . . .

It was in high school shop class.

Husby and his fellow classmates were being taken, carefully, through the basics of welding.

“Remember, boys,” the teacher said in. “Never, ever, weld over your head!”

Now the consequences of such an action should have been obvious. 

Right

And they were obvious. Except to Monty.

A few days later, he was happily welding.

Directly over his head.

Now I probably don’t have to explain that the temperatures of metal and binding substances used during welding reach temperatures of over 2500 (F) degrees. 1371 (C)

Ummm . . . hot. Like hotter-than-hot hot.

A piece of slag dripped from his project and down the open collar of his shirt.

Where it formed a small ball of death. 

It proceeded to roll - consuming skin, hair and anything else it encountered - down the boy’s body.

Wrong

Lodging somewhere way too near his groin.

Screaming, dancing and frantically shedding clothes, Monty finally retrieved the little purveyor-of-death and spilled it out onto the floor.

While his classmates, teen-aged boys all, laughed at his discomfort.

He and his appendages survived.

Though they sported some rather impressive scars.

Husby was right.

Suddenly my little popcorn kernel took on a whole diminished perspective.

I have seven little blisters.

I’m glad I wasn’t around to count Monty’s.

16 People Who...

1. A beautiful, loving, clever mother who took care of me and everyone else in my world.

2. A father who laughed and led. And also built ranches, raised cattle and horses and kids.

3. A big sister who loved me, even after I was responsible for her getting trampled/broken.

4. An oldest brother who patiently taught me how to drive the tractor, then bravely worked alongside.

5. A second big brother who was my friend/companion/champion during my long hopeless/stupid teenage years.

6. A younger brother who taught me what sunshine-of-the-soul meant. Cause he lived it.

7. A baby sister who brightened my every day with her joie-de-vivre. And notable monkeyshines.

8. A sweet Husby who taught me the real meaning of ‘forever’. Then gave it to me.

9. An oldest son who patiently taught me how to be a mother. In spite of me.

10. A second son who arrived with a wicked sense of humour. And the ability to apply!

11. A third son with a gentle soul who showed me how to care for the marginalized.

12. An oldest daughter who proved to me that handicaps don’t ever have to be a handicap.

13. A youngest daughter who showed me that courage can come in many various and hilarious forms.

14. A youngest son who has always finished. Even when it wasn’t something he wanted to do.

15. Precious grandchildren who steadily make me try to do more because they all think I can.

16. These are my people. Who make me believe in myself because they all believe in me.

Welcome to Word Counters!

Today my fellow Word Counters and I are sharing our monthly group post. The bloggers who are joining me this time all picked a number between 12 and 74 and sent it to our intrepid leader, Karen.

Karen gave the numbers out as assignments to other bloggers who are then challenged to write something (or a few somethings, as the case may be) using that exact number of words. Today we all share what we came up with.

My assigned number was 16.

A gift from my good friend Dawn at Spatulas on Parade

Want to read some more counters?

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Messymimi’s Meanderings

My Favourite

My favourite lunch, oh, what to choose!

Deciding it, will me bemuse,

 I’ll (your assumptions) disabuse,

For certain, it will make the news!

That time we met down by the lake,

And dined—deluxe—on sirloin steak,

Then gorged enough eclairs and cake,

To give us both a bellyache!

Of maybe at that fried food place,

Where we ate chicken by the case,

With cobs of corn and chips to chase,

Both munching fast like ‘twas a race.

That Uncle Burger meal you bought,

With onion rings and gravy: hot,

And apple pie, we sought and got,

Washed down with the best shake, I thought!

You’ve taken me out for Chinese,

And Greek and Turk, Vietnamese,

And Swiss with lots and lots of cheese,

Each one has made me more than pleased!

So what to choose, I cannot tell,

Each was a coup of taste and smell,

And satisfied my need as well,

In diner, ship or grand hotel!

Then yesterday, you made for us,

A simple meal of fresh bread, plus

Some fresh tomatoes, sliced just thus,

And nothing else superfluous.

And I decided then, you see,

(I’m sure that you won’t disagree!)

My favourite lunch in this precis,

‘S the one that you make just for me!

‘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

This week we talked of Lunches, true,

Next week our FAVOURITE SNACK. Woohoo!

Brakes

...or something similar...

I don’t know where he got it.

And I'm certainly am not surprised things turned out the way they did.

Maybe I should start at the beginning . . .

Sally is home.

This time—with the outbreak of Covid-19—she is here for the foreseeable future.

Apparently movie stars are just as susceptible as the rest of us.

Go figure.

Woe be unto us.

I should probably explain that there have been a few changes in our household.

For one thing, the household.

A couple of months ago, Sally—she of the handsomely-paid movie star job—bought a new, significantly larger house a couple of blocks from our old neighbourhood. Then begged Mom and I to move in with her.

I will admit she captured me with the promise of my own bedroom.

With my own bathroom.

And a beautiful yard.

We had just finished moving in when the call came to stay at home.

This is self-isolating deluxe!

Oh, also Mort is sharing our stay-at-home-i-ness with us. It had started as a week-long thing while his parents had their house renovated.

And the timing was bad.

He now has the basement suite.

Can you believe I actually live in a house with something besides storage in the basement?

Yeah, I keep catching Mom pinching herself, too.

Anyways, back to this morning . . .

Mort appeared from his sunrise walk with an ancient bicycle.

Tandem.

Apparently it had been rusting happily among the weeds of Little Pearl Creek for some years. With all this time on his hands, he decided he could give it the extensive care it needed.

And a home.

He spent much of the morning in the garage (yes, we have a garage!) fixing said bicycle. Greasing. Adjusting.

I don’t know. Doing ‘bike’ things.

Finally, he and his new friend emerged.

One pedal was missing its rubber thingamee and had been reduced to the basics. Both the front and back fenders had to be removed because of possible tetanus-y stuff.

In lieu of two fully-functioning seats, he had tied on a couple of towels.

It was just as rusty and disreputable-looking, but now it had been ‘oiled’ and ‘upgraded’ (his words).

“Sally!” he shouted from the front walk.

I’ll tell you, she could be anywhere, doing anything (because she is, you know, Sally) but that girl could hear that boy’s call no matter what was going on.

She appeared at the front door, with Mom and me close behind.

We find it’s best to start any new adventure with our eyes on Sally.

Let’s face it, it’s just safer.

“Come for a ride with me!”

While Mom and I were still gazing at the sad vehicle with something akin to horror, Sally squealed with delight and leaped aboard the drivers ‘seat’.

Have I mentioned that girl is game for anything?

Mort swung his long legs on behind and, with a quick wave for those of us with too much sense to even approach, they were off down the drive.

Mom and I looked at each other, then shrugged and went back inside.

I had been in the middle of creating a nice slow-cooker stew for supper and was soon happily absorbed in chopping vegetables once more.

The handy little kitchen gadget was bubbling merrily, earning its keep, and I was tidying up when I heard Mom shriek.

I dropped the dishcloth and ran.

Hey. I live with Sally. Something dangerous and/or entertaining was surely happening . . .

Mom was standing in the open front door, staring outside.

I joined her.

Sally and Mort were just coming up the drive.

Both looked a little different than when they had left 20 minutes before.

Sally was soaking wet.

And Mort had sprouted leaves and petals.

The bicycle was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you hurt?” Mom asked.

“Nope!” Sally said brightly.

“Soooo . . . want to tell me about it?”

They stopped at the bottom of the steps.

“Nope!” Sally said again.
Mom turned to Mort. “Mort?”

He brushed at some of his greenery. “Ummm . . . you may want to avoid that Mrs. Talent and her flower garden just to the east of us here.”

Mom sighed, then cocked an eyebrow. “And . . .?”

Sally broke in. “If anyone asks, we have no idea how the old flour mill got knocked into the creek.”

Mom blinked. “The whole mill? Like, the building that’s been there since the dawn of time?”

Sally nodded and headed past Mom and me into the house.

Mort followed more slowly, then stopped and smiled, rather ruefully. “Funny thing,” he said. “Did you know that bikes need brakes?”

Today is a word challenge. My favourite thing!

Here’s how it works. Our intrepid leader, Karen collects word from her loyal followers, which she then re-issues back to said loyal followers.

No one knows whose words they will acquire or what will be done to the words they’ve given.

Get it?

See? Totally fun!

My words today: flower ~ flour ~ petal ~ pedal were given to me by Karen herself! Thank you so much, my friend! This. Is. Awesome!

There’s more fun ahead:
Baking In A Tornado
Spatulas on Parade
Wandering Web Designer

Part-time Working Hockey Mom
Sparkly Poetic Weirdo
Climaxed
Follow Me Home

Mom

What do I remember?

Warm hugs and cuddles.

Clean clothes, clean sheets, clean house.

And wonderful, many-times-a-day food.

Stories.

A superwoman who could leap tall buildings at a single bound. Or at least scale mighty towers to rescue an erring two-year-old daughter.

And also pull that same daughter from the slavering jaws of death dressed up as a Holstein cow who mistook said tot for something . . . threatening.

A midnight sewer. Because there simply wasn’t time to make her six children’s clothes in the light of day.

A gardener extraordinaire. And canner and preserve-er, ditto.

A woman who treasured the written word.

Pie-maker unequaled.

An extra hand in the corrals and at round-ups, despite all her other duties.

A game board enthusiast. Whose record for ‘Battleship’ still hasn’t been beat.

A holidaymaker and sewer of costumes.

A woman firm in her beliefs who would, with her hand tight in her husband’s, lead her family along the path of faith.

A person who laughed easily.

And encouraged constantly.

And who gave up a university education and a promising career as a baseball player to stay home and 'help out'.

Nurse. 5-star chef. Writer. Athlete. Wisewoman. Cheerleader. Math coach. rancher. Gardener. Teacher. Story-teller. Cuddler.

Mom went home 18 years ago today.

She was the light in my life.

She will be my light forever.

Un-Safe

Me.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our townhouse.
The one . . . umm . . . in town.
It was a whole different lifestyle for me.
I had a tricycle. A hand-me-down from three siblings before me.
Red.
Sturdy.
With a single plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.
Which I did.
Often.
I was the master of the universe!
I could go anywhere!
As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.
The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.
There were dragons there.
Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it. It was so much better.
So, back on the tricycle . . .
I rode it endlessly.
Doing laps of our block.
The different homes there were categorized according to points of interest and/or what foodstuffs could be procured on the premises.
Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend, Laurie, lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.
It was paradise.
For me, anyway.
I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their driveway on her trusty steed.
At least they were kind.
And polite.
All of this is just my long-winded way of saying there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.
Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel street in search of anything else?
It just didn't make sense.
So I stayed on my sidewalk.
And was safe . . .
There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.
Occasionally, it was used for vehicles. Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.
And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.
I don't know what that means, but it sounds . . . unsafe.
On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.
Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.
I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.
For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.
But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.
Okay, well, it was bigger.
I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.
I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.
In fact, they barely had mirrors.
Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.
Or my tricycle.
It could have been a disaster.
I pulled into the alley entrance.
And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.
Closer. Closer.
Hmmm. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.
I did so.
The truck kept backing.
Backing.
There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle, folding it in two.
Huh. There's something you don't see every day.
The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.
He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.
I watched him go.
Then looked at my tricycle.
Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.
Sigh.
Dad would fix it.
I ran home.
Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.
Brighter red.
And two little tassells instead of one.
And I think he made it a little bigger.
Dads could do anything.
Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.
Conquering worlds.
Staying safe.

Un-Seen

I always was afraid at night

When Mother would turn out the light,

Into the darkness, I would stare

And look for monsters waiting there.

My terror's lasted all my life,

E’en after I became a wife,

Though I admit there's far less fear

When someone else is sleeping near.

But still, the darkness frightens me.

Still harbours scary things, you see.

Into the darkness, I will stare

For thugs and villains waiting there.

Once, Husby took me out to see

A great new movie, just released.

About a girl, so sweet and kind

Who could control things with her mind.

That night, my world again askew,

The light stayed on because I knew

The darkness, into which I stared?

For certain, Carrie waited there.

And beings who would steal your mind

Performing tests on all mankind.

Into the darkness I still stare

And watch for aliens waiting there.

And so it’s been - the darkness wins,

The light goes off, and my mind spins.

Creating creatures in the night

That disappear by the morning light.

Last night I stumbled down the hall

Intent on answering nature’s call

And when I glanced into the mirror,

My reflection was just one pale blur.

For my trifocals help me out,

So I can see my way about.

If in the darkness, I did stare,

I’d not see anything waiting there.

Hmmm . . .

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

Shhh . . . I’m turning off the light.

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

Discovering Gentlemen

Me and Golly Gee.
And yes, that is a band-aid on my nose.
Sexy!

I learned two things that summer.
1.      Barbed wire gates are tricky.
2.      Some young gentlemen, though they look strong, aren't.
Oh, and . . .
3.      They're still gentlemen.
I was herdsman for my Dad. Had been for two years.
It was a simple job, now that calving season was pretty much over.
My duties consisted of making sure that all four-footed red and white creatures were safe and happy.
Much like a mother hen.
On horseback.
The perfect job.
The only difficulty lay in the fact that all summer, there had been gangs of young men between the ranch buildings and the fields. Seismic crews, more-or-less busy laying out lines and setting the charges that would indicate hidden reserves of oil.
The difficult part was in riding past them. 
It made me feel rather . . . conspicuous.
Particularly if they weren't busy at the moment and had nothing, other than me, to watch.
On this particular day, in full view of about ten pairs of eyes, I slid off my horse and effortlessly opened the gate.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Sigh.
I smiled, then hurriedly pulled my horse through and closed the gate.
I wasted no time in heading to the far side of the field, hoping that, when I was done, they would have moved a little further down the road.
It didn't happen.
By the time I finished my sweep, they had finished their work and were standing around, just outside the gate, waiting for their data to be collected.
And with nothing to do but watch me.
Perfect.
I dismounted and opened the gate.
Again, the cynosure (real word) of all eyes.
I led my horse through.
“Can I help you with that, Miss?”
I turned.
One of the young men, obviously a gentleman, had stepped forward.
I looked at the gate post in my hand, then back at him. “Umm . . . sure. Thank you.”
I handed him the post and stepped back.
He stuck the post into the bottom loop, then pushed it upright.
It didn't come anywhere near the all-important top loop.
I should point out here that a barbed-wire gate is held shut by two loops of wire - one top and one bottom - on the lead post. If the bottom loop isn't high enough on said post, the gate is increasingly harder to fasten.
The young man had obviously seen me open the gate.
With the swat of one hand.
His manhood was now on the line.
He pushed while trying not to appear that he was pushing.
Still no progress.
He began to get red-faced.
He put his shoulder to the post and pushed some more.
Still a gap of two or three inches.
A mile in 'gate' terms.
I suggested that he push the bottom loop a little higher on the post.
He did so.
And was still an inch out.
Oh, man.
He had offered to help me.
And he couldn't.
I couldn't bear to stand there and witness his embarrassment.
I told him, “I have to get to the ranch. I'll just leave you with that. Thank you so much!”
And gave him my biggest smile.
Then I jumped on my horse and made a quick exit.
A short time later, when the crew had moved on, I went back and checked the gate.
It was fastened.
I don't know if the poor man did it himself, or if half the crew had to help him.
At least I wasn't around to witness it.
But I will always be grateful.
He was a true gentleman who personified my favourite expression: Nothing so strong as gentleness. Nothing so gentle as real strength.
You never know when you'll run into a true gentleman. Best to keep your eyes open.

A Knowing Knose

The nose is okay. The teeth . . .

Okay, yes, I had been told never to do it.

In fact, I had been threatened with certain death punishment if I did do it.

But it was my favourite indoor thing to do!

I was four. I admit it, my world was small.

My family was living in the ranch house on the Stringam ranch.

Two bedrooms downstairs.

And . . . umm . . . two bedrooms up? (I think. Counting past four made my mind crazy. And it was dark and scary up there.)

I had my own room on the ground floor.

I had recently graduated from my little ‘kitty’ bed to my own giant, iron bed.

My giant, iron bouncy bed.

You can probably see where this is going . . .

During the night, bouncy iron beds are good for sleeping.

During the day, they make perfect trampolines.

Yeah. My mom didn’t get it, either.

She would come into my room. Kiss me awake. Make the bed.

And leave.

Probably the part where she ‘left’ was her biggest mistake.

Or making the bed.

It’s a toss-up.

There was this remarkably smooth surface.

That was incredibly bouncy.

It was a no-brainer. Literally.

So I did.

Bounce, that is.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

First, on my knees.

Then, graduating to my feet.

Oh, you can really catch air when you use all of you!

This is fun!

“Diane! Are you jumping on the bed?”

Stopping. “Umm . . . no!”

“Don’t jump on the bed! You’ll get hurt!”

I looked around at my lovely, soft friend. Pffff! How could I possibly get hurt?

Boing. Boing.

“Diane!”

How did she know?!

Boing.

“Diane!”

Man, that woman could see through walls!

I sat there for a moment.

Then I heard the kitchen door close.

Mom had stepped outside for some reason.

My time had come!!!

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boiing. Booiing. Booiinng. Booiinngg!

Okay, now I was really flying!

You remember when I mentioned that mine was an iron bed?

Well, this is where that fact comes into play.

And FYI? If noses and iron come into contact?

Noses lose.

CRUNCH!

It took a moment for me to realize that something had happened.

Because something had definitely happened.

“Ahhhhhh!!! Moooooommmm!!!!” I can’t quite produce it here. Think of something high-pitched and piercing. Like an air raid siren.

Mom ran into the room and wrapped her erring daughter in warm, loving, Kleenex-bearing arms.

My little nose was shattered at the point of contact. The bridge.

I sported two very black eyes and a sore snout for many, many days.

I’d like to say I learned my lesson.

And I did. Sort of.

After my wounds had healed, and when Mom wasn’t looking, I still jumped on the bed.

But I hung onto the iron headboard.

That way, it couldn't leap out at me unexpectedly.

Because they do that.

I'm happy to report that today, over 60 years later, I no longer jump on beds. The ceiling is simply too close for comfort.

But I do jump on trampolines.

Oddly enough, whenever I do, my nose hurts.

It remembers.

Waiting...

When I was four, my parents had a TV.

A wonderful, marvelous creation that stood on its own four legs in one corner of the living room.

And, if one waited, showed the most magical, amazing programs. Like Friendly Giant.

If one waited.

After breakfast, I would hurry to the living room—and the TV therein—and look to see if something had appeared.

Usually, nothing had.

Let’s face it. I lived on a ranch. Breakfast was E.A.R.L.Y.

And the TV stations didn’t wake up until long after morning chores were done.

Wussies.

I would stare at the dark screen for a while, quietly willing something to happen.

Then begin playing.

During those early hours, play often consisted of something that kept me close to said TV.

Or following Mom around, asking when Friendly Giant would be on.

Once in a while, the genius woman would say, “Soon,” park her repetitive and annoying daughter in front of the set, and turn it on.

The Indian Head test pattern would show its familiar face. So to speak.

And keep me entertained for some time.

Did you know that, if you stare at it long enough, it . . . changes?

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Eventually, ‘O, Canada’ would start and, immediately after that, I would see tiny little figures and ‘that big boot’.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

My day had officially begun.

Moving forward a generation . . .

No longer did one ever stare at a blank screen or a test pattern.

For my eldest son, it was a matter of watching some lessor show whilst waiting for Sesame Street to come on.

Because the programs just kept on coming.

Another generation forward . . .

My granddaughter (Hereinafter known as Little Girl—or LG for short—was sitting in her parents’ bedroom.

Looking up at the big screen TV on the wall.

The conversation went something like this:

LG: “Mo-om! I’m done watching that. I want to watch this, now!”

Daughter: “Well, here’s the remote. Choose which one you want.”

LG: “It’s taking too long.”

Me: “Sigh.”