World's Best Mother

The only surviving picture of Andrew

Ranching is wonderful.
Most of the time.
You get to spend your days outdoors, working in the pure, sage-stuffed air.
See the heat shimmer on the tops of hills.
Watch the prairie grass bend in the breeze.
You witness births and new life. See groups of calves, and sometimes their mothers, cavort and snort and play.
And see the milk cow try to run with the deer.
You can bury your face in your pony's thick, warm winter coat and just breathe in his 'horsey' smell.
You have long, wonderful talks with family members as you ride to or from.
And while you're working together.
It's a peaceful and serene existence.
And the scenery breath-taking.
But occasionally, it gets pretty gritty.
There are disasters.
Pain.
Death.
But even these can result in something beautiful.
Let me explain . . .
As occasionally happens, a young heifer (cow that hasn't yet produced a calf) was inadvertantly 'exposed' to a bull.
She caught. (Became pregnant)
But something went wrong.
Perhaps because she was so young. Perhaps because she had some physical and undetected abnormality.
Whatever the reason, she was dying and there was nothing that could be done to save her.
And her calf was just days away from being born.
My Dad had to make a quick decision.
He decided to take the calf early and then put the suffering mother out of her misery.
Fortunately, in times like these, a trained veterinarian can work very, very quickly.
One life saved.
Another let go.
And we had a new little bull calf.
An extremely healthy and active little bull calf.
I called him Andrew.
Because.
But Andrew didn't have a mama.
Normally, this doesn't present too much of a problem.
You simply adopt the calf onto another mama.
It isn't easy, but it's worth the effort.
Unfortunately, there were no 'mamas' available.
Bottle feeding was indicated.
Now any of you who have bottle fed a puppy or kitten or other young animal know that it's a time-consuming and constant thing.
Not so with calves.
They only need to be fed three or four times a day.
Fairly simple to work around.
And fun for the kids.
So we dug out our bottle and formula and gave our little man his first feeding.
He sucked strongly. A good sign.
On to the next hurdle.
Finding him a place to bunk.
Firmly rejecting our son's offer of his room, we decided on the corral.
There was only one problem.
The corral already had an occupant.
Old Bluey.
Bluey was an older appaloosa mare, gentle and slow.
Her mottled black and grey hair gave her a distinct 'blue' colour.
Thus the name.
Okay, so creative, we weren't.
Back to the problem . . .
We decided that Bluey probably didn't propose much of a threat to our little Andrew.
We carried the calf into the pen and set him down.
He stood there for a moment.
Blinking.
Then he spied Bluey.
Bawling loudly, he headed towards her.
She stared at this little apparition.
And moved away.
He kept on coming.
Again she moved.
This went on for some time.
Finally, deciding that Andrew would be all right, we left them together.
A few hours later, I took a new bottle of formula to our little orphan.
And received the surprise of my life.
There stood Bluey, with the calf beside her nursing loudly.
Nursing?
I should point out here that a horse is generally considerably taller than a cow.
Certainly, Bluey was taller than Andrew's mother had been.
In fact, to simply reach the mare's udder Andrew had to stretch as far as he possibly could.
But he was doing it.
And Bluey was letting him.
It was a miracle.
Another thing I should mention is that a calf is a lot rougher while nursing than a colt. Calves get very 'enthusiastic'. And if the milk slows down, they butt their head into the cow's udder.
Not so with colts. They are quite gentle. Even mannerly about their feeding.
I probably needn't point out that Andrew was a calf.
And an extremely enthusiastic one.
I watched as he butted his head into Bluey's udder. I could almost feel her wince.
She raised her leg and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she lowered her leg and let him nurse again.
It truly was an amazing sight.
Throughout the summer, between bottle feedings, Bluey nursed Andrew.
Once, we left the calf in the corral and took Bluey out to bring in the herd, intending to capture them in that same corral.
As we drew close with the herd, someone opened the gate.
Little Andrew came running out, searching for his 'mother'.
And bawling loudly.
Bluey nickered back at him anxiously and he quickly found her and took up a position at her side, following along happily.
Eventually, in the fall, all the calves were weaned, taken from their mothers and put into the feedlot together.
For a day or two, there was a lot of bawling and angst.
Then they discovered the feed troughs.
And discovered, too that they had very short memories.
Peace was restored.
Bluey, too, resumed her peaceful life as though it had never been interrupted.
There is an addendum . . .
I checked Bluey's udder once while she was with her little adopted boy.
She had no milk.
None.
She had done all of that 'Mothering' with an empty udder.
The pain must have been exquisite.
But she did it.
Cheerfully.
Yep. Definitely a gold medal performance.

Hazards of Work

Which is more hazardous to your health?
This?

Or this?

Two little ten-year-old girls had been given an assignment.

Then left alone to do it.

Mischief happens . . .

My family was raised on a large cattle ranch.

Dealing with cows (and the myriad tasks that follow them) was our daily life.

And when our annual sale/production day approached, work increased as not only the cattle, but the entire ranch must be presented in their best light.

My little sister, hereinafter called ‘Anita’, and her friend, 'Jo Ellen', had been given the assignment to sweep out the sale barn - a large building built for the sole purpose of exhibiting cattle, one-by-one, to scores of people seated in the bleachers.

Said people were then expected to ‘bid’ on said animals.

On sale day, that building was the hub of all activity.

And, incidentally, sale day was the most exciting day of our entire year.

Moving on . . .

These two little girls had already had a busy morning. You have to know that we were a family of firm non-smokers. The only cigarettes and/or other smoking paraphernalia that ever came onto the ranch, came in visitor’s vehicles. These two little girls had spotted a packet of cigars in a prospective buyer’s car.  They had stolen borrowed liberated two cigars from it.

I know. What were they thinking?

And now, in sole possession of the sale barn, they neglected their duties to take turns pretending to be either ‘auctioneer’ or ‘buyer’. The one would take a seat at the high auctioneer’s booth while the other would light her cigar, sit on the bleachers, and ‘bid’.

Anita was the first ‘buyer’. She puffed at her cigar in her best ‘I’ve-watched-them-and-I-know-how-it’s-done’ manner, and nodded at the auctioneer at salient times. Then they switched places and Jo-Ellen assumed the buyer’s duties, cigar and all.

After a while, the two of them decided they had better get to work. Sweeping.

They pushed a load of straw and dirt out into the barnyard.

And that’s when Anita lost what little remained of her breakfast.

Oh, man she was sick.

And then the same thing happened to Jo-Ellen.

The two of them crawled up into the bleachers and collapsed. For several minutes, they sat there, wondering what on earth had happened that both of them became so sick.

So suddenly.

They concluded, finally, that it must have something to do with sweeping.

And/or buying/selling.

Either activity is obviously hazardous to one’s health.

Just FYI.

The ring-leader . . .

Baked Snake

It'll get you!

I like snakes.
And it's because of my Mom's cooking.
Hmmm. Maybe I'd better explain . . .
I loved to watch my Mom when she was in the kitchen.
I would sit on the cupboard, more or less out of the way.
And follow her movements closely.
She peeled potatoes so fast that I thought every potato had two skins.
I had watched.
Two skins.
Because there was always a skin where she had just peeled.
At other times, she could take her large ceramic bowl and dump in this and that and come out with something delicious.
Every time.
I once told her she was a 'dump cook'.
"I'm a good cook!" she protested.
I tried to explain that that was what I meant, but I don't know if I got through.
But I digress . . .
Sometimes, she would start her trusty Sunbeam mixer.
A sure Diane magnet.
Within seconds, I was standing beside her.
"Mom! Can I have a taste?"
"Honey, it's just butter and sugar."
"But it looks so good!"
"Well, if you want . . ."
Did you know that butter and sugar can actually taste really good?
Well, if dispensed by Mom on a large cake spoon.
But the best of all was when Mom would bake buns.
Or rolls, for anyone who doesn't feel comfortable calling them 'buns'.
She would dump in (see above) bits of this and that and make a large, sticky mass.
Then she would start punching with her hands, adding little bits of flour.
I should point out, here, that if you see a great tub of something powdery and white in Mom's kitchen, icing sugar tastes infinitely better on the end of a wet finger than flour.
Just sayin' . . .
She would punch and punch until she had her dough to just the right consistency.
And yes, I did know what consistency meant.
For a four-year-old, I was a brainiac.
Mom would pinch off a portion of the larger mass and work it into a long roll, ready to cut into smaller pieces.
Then would come the exciting part.
She would chase me around the kitchen, wiggling this long roll of dough, and saying, "Sssssss!"
That was my cue to run around and shriek loudly.
I was good at it.
The dough snake was going to get me!
The dough snake was going to get me!
Finally, when Mom had had enough, she would set the 'snake' back on the counter and proceed to chop it into bits.
One of which she gave to me.
Snake really tastes delicious.
Remember the part when I said 'brainiac'?
I lied.

Jack's

The year that they all turned fifteen—went out to get some snacks,

Thought they would go to that new place so simply titled: Jack’s.

They only had 6 dollars and they all could ride their bikes,

Plus, Jennie Webster lived nearby. (The girl that they all liked!)

Then ten years on, now twenty-five, they met at Jack’s once more,

The beer was cheap. They had a band for tearing up the floor.

They had no cover charge (it’s key when paying student loans),

And lots of cute girls to encourage raging male hormones.

At thirty-five, just ten years later met, again, at Jack’s,

Because the booze was always good and free were all the snacks,

And it was right there, near their gym, the host would ne’er forbid,

And if they gathered late, there weren’t too many whiney kids! 

Ten years later, forty-five, the group did meet again,

At Jack’s so they could sit a while and ‘talk of days back then’,

And Jack’s served big martinis, too, and kept snack prices low,

And all the servers wore tight pants as they dashed to and fro.

Now fifty-five, they met once more at Jack’s. (You knew they would.)

Cause Jack was sensible and kept the prices where he should,

And plus they had a wine list, nice (and certainly) not small,

And lots of fish. That’s very good for one’s cholesterol.

A decade more and they decided, now, at sixty-five,

That they would eat at Jack’s—at least those who were still alive,

The lighting there was good, they said, unlike so many more,

And happ’ly served the early birds, who gathered there at four.

At seven decades and a half—the years just slipped on by,

Again the friends all gathered, (now were) Jack’s own a-lum-ni,

Because the food was not too spicy, easy to digest,

Accessible for handicapped—e’en better than the rest.

Finally, at eighty-five, the group all met once more.

Decided they would eat at Jack’s. They’d not been there before.

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

Psst!
Next week from gorgeous to absurd,
Our topic will be 'bout the birds!

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
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