Allergic Aversions

You want me to eat what . . .?

My Dad always claimed to be allergic to onions.
Whenever he ordered any burger, he always asked them to 'hold the onions'.
We just assumed that he really was allergic to onions.
Later in life, we discovered that his reticence was due, not to allergies, but to aversions.
There's a difference.
But what a scheme!
My kids tried to use it, too.
Our eldest, Mark, became quite expert.
His particular nemesis?
Beans.
Harmless, deep-browned, baked beans.
My personal favourite.
And one of the major ingredients in my award-winning chili.
Something that appeared with amazing regularity on the family dinner table.
Mmmmm.
From his very earliest years, Mark exhibited an unparallelled reluctance to put those nasty, evil beans anywhere near his mouth.
Regardless of how many times they might appear on his table.
Once, when he was just learning to say the blessing on the food, his father tried to trick him into 'bean acceptance'.
Grant: “Father in Heaven.”
Mark: “Father in Heaven.” (But imagine it in a little 20 month-old voice.)
Grant: “We thank thee for this food.”
Mark: “We thank thee for this food.”
Grant: “Because it's so yum.”
Mark: “Because it's so not yum.”
Laughter (Grant).
More laughter (Mom).
Grin (Mark).
And so it went.
For 19 years.
At the age of 19, Mark received a mission call for our church to Boston, Massachusetts.
He excitedly prepared to go.
I took him aside. “Mark, you know what they call Boston, don't you?”
“What?”
“Bean Town.”
His face whitened a little. “Bean Town?”
“Yep. Where do you think the term 'Boston Baked Beans' comes from?”
He had to sit down for that one. “Boston Baked Beans,” he said, faintly.
“Yep. So you'd better get used to eating them, because you will probably be getting them morning, noon and night.”
“Oh.”
He went anyways, brave boy that he was.
And returned two years later.
We met him at the airport.
We had sent our little boy.
We brought back an adult.
The first thing I asked him was how he felt about beans now that he had spent two years in the midst of the world's best bean eaters.
His response?
“I just got served beans for the first time yesterday.”
Even the 'Bean Towners' catered to my son . . .
Mark eats beans today.
Mostly to show his children it can be done.
But he doesn't wage much of a battle.
His oldest daughter Megan's favourite food is Grandma's chili.
Okay, maybe the acorn skipped a generation, but it still landed near the tree.

A Little Mousy

It’s quiet.

That, in itself, should be cause for alarm.

Sally is, after all, home.

And where Sally is, there goes Mort also.

Twice the trouble for half the price.

So to speak.

Sally and Mort are playing with her new VR game.

The one Mom could never afford but which proved to be easily attained when one is . . . erm . . . attaining.

As is Sally.

It’s kinda weird, sitting here watching Mort and Sally through the banister between the kitchen/dining/ohmywordwehavealotofspace room and the family room half a floor down.

They are happily engaged in the imaginary world only they can see.

Okay, yes, something that is entirely normal for Sally.

Moving on . . .

I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly reminded of the first time Mom and I knew Sally may be trouble.

“No, Sweetie, you can’t have a pet. Not right now. Mama just has too much to look after with Daddy away.”

Sally had just turned five and for a month, the two of us were the same age. And Sally wanted a mouse.

“But Mama! He’s jus’ a little mouse. Little tiny.”

“But he will still have to be cared for and kept warm and safe. And he and his cage cleaned. We don’t want him to bring us fleas!”

“I can do it!” Sally said stoutly.

Mom looked at her speculatively. Then she smiled. “If any five-year-old could do it, you could, Sweetie.” She frowned slightly. “All right. Let’s try.”

Sally squealed with delight and was soon seated in the back of the car with a little cage on her knees. Nestled snugly in some cedar shavings was one red-eyed white mouse.

“You’ll have to think of a name for him,” Mom said, eyeing the happy pair in her rear-view mirror.

“Hmmm . . .” Sally scrunched her face into its most creative configuration. “Morris.”

“Morris?”

Sally nodded happily.

“Morris, it is.”

Mom pulled up to the house and we all piled out, Sally clutching her precious new pet. And cage. As we approached the front door, Mom spotted a large parcel leaning against the newel post at the top of the steps. “Oooh! It’s come!” She grabbed the parcel and unlocked the door.

Sally headed upstairs and, I was pretty sure, proceeded to push everything off the dresser we shared so Morris could reside in a place of honour.

I followed Mom into the kitchen.

She dumped her purchases on the counter, then tore into the ‘front steps’ parcel.

It proved to be a large, pumpkin-coloured duvet.

“Oooh! It’s perfect!” Mom said. She held it up. “Isn’t it, Gwen?”

I nodded and petted it with one hand. “I like the colour.”

“So do I!” Mom smiled. “I had a coupon and thought . . . why not?” She laughed. “This will keep me so nice and warm I won’t even count the days till your Dad gets home!”

Sally appeared behind her. “Oooh! Pretty!”

“And warm!” Mom brushed Sally’s cheek with the soft fabric. “I’m going to have the warmest bed in the whole house!”

Sally smiled, then set the cage she was carrying on the kitchen table. “Morris doesn’t want to be upstairs alone. He wants to be here. With us.”

I looked into the cage at the soundly sleeping little rodent.

Mom leaned over to look. “He looks pretty contented to me.”

“Well, he’s not!” Sally picked up a pencil and tried to force it between the bars. It wouldn’t fit.

Mom shrugged and started gathering up her new duvet. “Don’t tease him, Honey. Gwen, do you want to help me put this on the bed?”

I nodded and hurried after her.

Later, Mom looked up from the TV program she was watching and stopped Sally on her way to her room with a full cup of water. “What are you doing with the water, Sweetheart?”

“You said we have to clean Morris and his cage.”

“Oh. Yes, I did. But that should probably be done here in the kitchen. And I want to supervise your first attempt.”

“K.”

Now you have to know that this was early days for Sally hi-jinks. Mom was fairly new to it, being as she had only ever dealt with me.

Ahem . . .

Mom turned back to her program, forgetting all about Morris.

Still later, we were all getting ready for bed. Sally, all bathed and clean jumped into her bed and pulled the covers to her chin. “Night, Mom! Thanks for Morris!”

Mom nodded and smiled and leaned over to give her a kiss and a hug. “You’re welcome, Baby.” She glanced at Morris’ cage. “I hope he’ll be all right tonight.”

Sally smiled. “He’s fine. He had a nice bath and he’s all warm and toasty now!”

“Honey, I told you to wait for me!”

“It was just a teensy bath.”

“Well, next time I want to help.”

“K.”

Mom went out, shutting off the light before she closed the door.

Within moments, I could hear Sally’s breathing change as she headed toward sleep.

Suddenly, there was a scream from Mom’s room.

Sally’s eyes popped open and she turned to look at me. “She did say hers was the warmest bed, right?”

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.

My words were: mouse ~ pencil ~ cup ~ pumpkin ~ fleas ~ coupon

They were submitted by my good friend, Dawn at https://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com

Below you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them. 

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Wandering Web Designer

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

Follow Me Home

Climaxed

My Life After

Southern Belle Charm

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Mom's Spit

Notice the cute little boys.
One with hair. One with . . . cheeks.
Ignore the glasses.

When I was expecting my second son, I craved anything 'tomato'.
Pizza, spaghetti, anything I could put tomatoes in or on.
But especially tacos.
Mmmmm. Tacos.
There was only one problem.
I couldn't get them hot enough.
I would buy the hottest salsa I could find.
Not enough.
Add a couple of drops of Tabasco.
Still not enough.
A few more drops. (I admit it. My spice world was limited to salsa and Tabasco.)
Almost there.
Seven drops.
Perfect.
And that's the way I ate them.
The entire nine months.
My baby boy was born without any hair on his head.
None.
I think I burned it off.
This is relevant.
Moving on . . .
After the baby arrived, my husband took his little family out for fish and chips.
Mmmmm. More food.
I had our newest baby in a snuggly on my chest.
Toasty and comfortable.
Just the top of his little, bald head peeking above the dark green corduroy of the carrier.
My dinner arrived.
I looked at the loaded plate.
Then at my baby.
I could take the carrier off and lay it on the table, I suppose.
But that would take effort. And the food was there, waiting to be devoured.
Hunger decided. I would just eat.
Over the baby.
It was just like being pregnant again.
Sort of.
All went well.
The mushy peas went first. That was easy. I just held the bowl close and spooned.
Then the fresh, deep-fried, perfectly cooked fish.
Mmmm.
And finally, to top everything off, the thick, golden brown chips.
With ketchup.
Paradise.
Dip.
Munch.
Dip.
Munch.
Then, that fateful dip.
Splat.
Right on the top of my baby's bald head.
Oops. What to do?
I could get a wipe and clean it off politely.
Pfff. One swipe of my tongue would take care of it much, much better.
Done.
I happily went back to eating my chips.
That's when I noticed the woman sitting at the next table.
Looking at me.
A frozen expression of horror on her face.
Clucking in disgust, she stood up and marched huffily from the restaurant.
I remember being a trifle embarrassed.
And briefly uncomfortable.
Then I shrugged.

In the days before wipes, Mom used to clean entire faces with mom spit and a Kleenex. I even heard that Mom spit on a Kleenex would get rust off a bumper.I guess it's all a matter of perspective. Hunger and convenience win.

A Floral Pun-ishment

A man named Andrew had a shop,

And lots of people came his way,

In Dublin Town, his was the top,

Sold flowers nearly every day,

Working hard, he did impress,

With marketing and quality,

But then some monks saw his success,

And thought, like him, they all could be.

And so they did what he had shown,

(They had a slight advantage there,)

Cause they could grow all of their own,

And undercut his blossom share.

Within three months, the damage done,

Poor Andrew’s business almost gone,

He thought to cut his losses: run,

Had little hope to carry on.

But bad boy, Hughie, came on by,

Andrew engaged him on the spot,

To destroy the Monks’ stall and let fly

With herbicide to kill the lot.

That night, Hugh did his darksome deeds

And they proved most effective then,

The devastated monks did bleed,

And to their business said, “Amen.”

Then Andrew's Flowers reigned again,
And proved that when someone you hire,

To kill a business that’s your bane,

Only Hugh can Prevent Florist Friars.

If poetry you do enjoy,
And hope some more you now will find,
To grant your wishes, we'll employ,
And you can call us masterminds!
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Blossoms, or are they Blooms?
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Blossoms and Blooming

My Favourites

I love to walk outdoors in Spring,

The air’s as sweet as anything,

The leaves turn green, the birds all sing.

And flowers fit for any king.

Their colours are resplendent then,

As they appear cross hill and fen,

The subject of the poet’s pen,

And sonnets by the wisest men.

My favourites? Well, that’s hard to say,

I must say tulips right away,

So crisp and clean, they bend and sway,

To brighten early springtime days.

And roses, well, they are a must,

With shades from white to blue to rust,

And daisies, pleasant blooms to trust,

Rise ever cheerful from the dust.

Impatiens, glads, to name a few,

And hollyhocks, begonias, too,

And lilacs, white or purple hue,

Yes, every one improve the view!

But other blossoms make me glad,

Though, at times, I may be sad,

Or, on occasion, even mad,

They’re still the best I’ve ever had…

Six of them I had, at first,

And as they grew, I thought I’d burst

With love for each one that I nursed,

And tended, kept from hunger, thirst.

Each one grew and multiplied,

I watched them all with tender pride,

As they spread through the countryside,

Attracting others alongside.

And though each grew like stately palms,

And faced both storms and times of calm,

Still I can say without a qualm,

My favourite flowers call me ‘Mom’.

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

We’ve talked about where we have roamed,
Next week, the places we call HOME!

The Condiment Test

Mmmmm. 

Sweet, tasty stickiness.
It categorizes you.
Marks your place in the family.
Even decides if you will be granted admission to the family.
It provides delicious accompaniment to your breakfast, and, at times, other meals during the day. (Members of my family eat it the Swedish way, with grilled cheese. Ick!)
It is yummy, and, if not eaten in copious (Ooo, good word!) quantities, is even very good for you.
I'm talking about jam.
Tasty, sticky, always lands toast-side-up. Jam.
More particularly, strawberry vs. raspberry.
It is the family 'Maginot Line'.
You can be on one side or the other.
(Both of which are tasty--or so I'm given to understand.)
But wander over to the other side only in times of dire necessity, like when your server has run out of packets.
My Husby and I realized very early in our marriage that we needed to have a jar of each on the breakfast table.
His - strawberry. Mine - delicious.
Oops.
I mean - raspberry.
And, as our kids grew, they learned to take sides.
Mine.
Except for our second son, who is Switzerland.
And prefers apple jelly.
We don't talk about him.
Moving on . . .
Once the lines were duly drawn in the family nucleus, it was time to start challenging prospective additions [i.e. fiancé(e)s] to declare their preference.
I should point out here that it is a grueling test.
The nervous neophyte is seated at the breakfast table. The two jars are brought forward. The family waits, breathlessly.
And I do mean breathlessly.
If anyone takes their time making a choice, family members have been known to pass out cold.
I won't tell you what we do to them while unconscious.
But I digress . . .
The prospective member of the family makes a choice.
And my side cheers.
It's true.
Every single one has chosen raspberry.
Until one son-in-law.
Who chose . . . poorly.
I maintain that he was coached.
Money might even have changed hands.
So the score now stands at: strawberry - two, raspberry - 10.
And one son who will not be mentioned.
Now for the next generation.

Our eldest grandchildren are more than ready.
Once this pandemic is a part of history, it'll be time to make a serious choice . . .

Something Floral

Du-dum. Du-dum. Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-du-du-duuhhh!

He’d been away at work.

Ten days on.

And now he was home for his four days off.

The kids were in bed and he and his wife were preparing for a similar eventuality.

He was brushing his teeth.

His toothbrush was lying, conveniently, at the edge of the sink.

He grabbed it and shoved it under the water from the tap.

Then added a small strip of toothpaste.

And proceeded with the business portion of the endeavour.

At first, the pleasant taste of mint suffused his tongue.

Then . . . something different.

Floral?

Was he tasting something floral?

The scent wafted up through his nostrils.

Okay, this was like no toothpaste he had ever experienced.

He pulled the brush from his mouth and looked at his wife. “This tastes funny. Why would I taste floral?”

His wife clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh,” she said. “I forgot.”

He slowly lowered his brush into the sink, his eyes now riveted on her. “What did you forget?”

“William got hold of your toothbrush and was dipping it in the laundry detergent cup. I left your brush beside the sink so I’d remember to rinse it out!”

And . . . we’re home.

Close Encounter

When Dad was talking... I was listening.

Every. Square. Foot.

The annual production sale at the Stringam ranch was the highlight of our year.

It’s when we had the most visitors.

The most traffic.

The most income.

And the most work. Both before and after.

Before, we had the cattle and the ranch to prepare and beautify.

After, we had the deliveries.

Our family hauled cattle to nearly every square foot of North America.

Every. Square. Foot.

It was a slow, exacting task.

Driving the length and breadth of this continent in a truck, hauling a boatload of bawling cattle. Mapping out places to stop each night so the animals could be released, fed and watered.

Then loading them up the next morning to continue the journey.

Yep. Slow and exacting.

And it wasn’t without its own adventures - due to oversight, wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time, misfortune.

Stupidity.

Or all of the above.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom and Dad were trucking cattle through Alberta.

They had only been on the road for a few hours.

And were, ironically enough, just passing an auction market where a cattle sale was ongoing.

A truck pulled out.

Pickup. With the tailgate down.

This will become significant . . .

Spotting the slow-moving vehicle, Dad pulled into the outer lane to give it a wide berth.

For several seconds, the two of them occupied close quarters.

Dad and his heavy rig in one lane.

The man and his pickup in the other.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the pickup decided to pull over.

Directly in front of Dad.

The collision was immediate.

And inevitable.

Remember when I mentioned the pickup’s tailgate?

Well, that comes into play here.

Dad hit that tailgate going sixty miles per hour.

Both vehicles jammed to a halt.

Then the drivers, both unharmed, got out to inspect the damage.

The grill of Dad’s truck had been caved in, rupturing the radiator and radically displacing the fan and other important features.

Interestingly enough, though, the gate had slid with surgical precision between the headlights and the running lights of the truck, leaving all four intact.

So the front of the truck had been crushed.

But without cracking a single light.

Okay, well, it was interesting to us . . .

Dad scratched his head and looked at the driver of the pickup. “Why did you pull over in front of me?” he asked.

“Oh, I was sure you could stop,” was the reply.

Dad blinked.

The man repeated the statement to his insurance company.

Who also blinked.

And paid.

Dad was involved in two automobile accidents in his life.

Both resulting in considerable vehicular damage.

And neither of which was his fault.

I wish I could say the same about me.

Sigh.

When Neighbours Meet

Stories with Dad . . .

See?

It seemed like a good idea.

Movie night in town.

A bit romantic.

A bit relaxing.

And a much-needed break from two tiny children.

Mom and Dad piled into the car and headed out.

Unbeknownst (Ooo! Good word!) to them their neighbour to the west also thought it was a good night for a break. The difference was that she and her friends decided to take their break at the local bar.

And they had begun a bit earlier. In fact, they were taking Last Call, just as my parents were starting out.

Their two worlds collided, quite literally at the town bridge.
Oh, and you should probably know: DUI hadn't been invented yet.

Milk River, the town, nestles closely to Milk River, the river. On February 28, 1952, there was only one bridge spanning the foaming torrent--okay, the frozen-over, snow-covered mass of ice.

This bridge was sturdy: iron bolted to iron bolted to concrete – and built to withstand all sorts of abuse.

Good thing, too. Cause 'abuse' was definitely on the horizon.

There was only one problem. It was a narrow bridge. One car at a time, thank you very much.

Mom and Dad were approaching from the south.

Car lights ahead told them that someone else was approaching from the north.

No problem. Dad slowed his vehicle.

The car opposite did the same.

As Dad was much closer, he took that as a sign that he should continue.

He drove onto the bridge.

Then realized that the car coming toward them was still coming toward them.

The two of them met on the far side.

And not in a good way.

The driver of the other car, in a warm, invincible glow derived from her time spent with friends at the local bar, decided that, though it had never happened before or since, two cars would fit nicely on the bridge.

She was wrong.

Her car hit the bridge support hard enough to shake up her passengers.

Remove a wheel with surgical precision.

And knock out her own front teeth.

The car then spun around and neatly caved in the side of Mom and Dad’s car.

Dad quickly determined that Mom was uninjured, then jumped out and ran over to the other vehicle.

The driver’s face was so swollen and bleeding from her forcible connection with the steering wheel that Dad didn't even recognize his neighbour. Now panicked, he ran to the theatre a quarter of a mile away to use their phone, quickly calling the police.

Then he ran back.

I should mention, here, that the road across that bridge is a major Canadian route. Part of the Alaska Highway. 

But on a quiet evening in 1952, the fact that it was completely blocked didn't even raise an eyebrow.

In fact, no one noticed.

Okay, major route is only a subjective term.

Back to my story . . .

Mom and Dad did what they could for the passengers of the other car.

The police arrived and alternately helped and pried.

Finally clearing the road for any possible future travelers.

The passengers received medical care.

And everyone limped home, surprisingly (except for the missing teeth) uninjured.

Mom and Dad missed their movie.

But that was okay.
They were unscathed.

And reality is far more exciting.

Where Friendship Starts

To a globe trotter, I am wed,

His in-ter-ests are quite widespread,

And so this rancher girl has found

That, with her man, she gets around.

Our travels started out quite slow,

To those who spoke as us, we’d go,

But soon he wanted more: To get,

Our foreign travel toe-sies wet.

And so to Rhodes. He booked us there,

A hotel ‘near the Old Town square’.

‘Online’ was in it’s infancy,

And still had glitches, as you’ll see.

So when we told the taxi man,

He frowned while loading up his van.

But drove us far away from town,

Then stopped and took our luggage down.

The inn was nice, as we supposed.

Just one thing wrong, the place was closed.

We pounded on the door, in hope

We’d raise someone to help us. Nope.

The taxi’d started moving: slow,

Something was wrong, he had to know.

We ran and flagged him. Me in tears.

This trip was feeding all my fears.

His white teeth showed in a wide grin,

He stopped and helped us climb back in.

Then gently told us not to fret.

“I’ll have you settled soon, I bet.”

To ‘his cousin’s’ place, he said he’d drive.

(I was simply glad to be alive.)

He drove us to the Phaedra then,

So we could try and start again.

A man came out to greet us there,

All white of smile and dark of hair,

His arms were—to us—opened wide,

“Welcome home, friends! Come inside!”

The Phaedra proved a real God-send,

It’s owner, soon a trusted friend.

Ironically, it proved to be,

What we had sought originally.

We travel lots, my man and I.

We drive and sail and hike and fly.

Some people speak like us, and some

Use foreign words to get things done.

My fear is gone, I must admit,

Though, at first, it hampered. Quite a bit.

Cause I won’t forget (I can’t pretend),

The kindness of that first sweet friend.

Now years and years have passed on by,

I’ve friends who help me laugh. Or cry.

You know, what I’ve discovered is,

The best I have are reading this…

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

Up here, we've started with spring showers
Next week let's talk our favourite flowers!

Forty-Four

What can I say of the sum: Forty-four?

How to describe? I've not been here before!

It follows behind Forty-three, it is true,

And lots of sums added together accrue,

At times you will find it in Times-table fun,

When using two, four and some others. And one.

It’ll cleanly divide if you use the right tools,

Just see above. And then follow the rules…

So what can I say of that number? It's fine?

It's solid? It's pretty? It's stately? Divine?

Well, to Husby and me, it's all the aforesaid,

Cause today, it's the years that we two have been wed!

Happy Anniversary, My Love!

The Gift Horse

There’s an old saying, ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’.

Now you should know that horses, as they get older, show it mostly in their teeth.

The older the horse, the more outward sloped the teeth.

I’ll talk more about this later . . .

We once received a gift horse.

Okay, well, it was a yellow Chevette.

But it was a gift.

And had several 'horses'.

The car was . . . old.

Rust spots bloomed like a garden.

The doors wouldn't open. 

Or if they did, they wouldn't close.

The internal organs alternately belched or squealed.

There was, literally, no back floor on the driver’s side.

And pieces quite frequently dropped off, made scraping sounds on the pavement, or detached altogether, only to be run over by the vehicle that had lost them.

The car had one thing going for it. It had a new engine – put there by our good friends, the former owners. People who then made the magnanimous gesture of presenting the car to us.

I'm quite sure you are wondering why they would do such a thing. 

They had finished school and made the recent move to newer, or at least less rusty.

And why we would go on driving our 'testament to rust'? 

We were still poor college students with four kids and little means of support. Who needed all the help we could get.

So ‘Rusty Yeller’ made the daily commute to college with my Husby.

Often, they would sit in traffic, cars around them humming or growling happily.

While this car made its convincing impression of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Without the cuteness.

Or magic.

This went on for several months.

Finally, my Husby neared graduation. He would soon have a Master’s degree under his belt.

It was time to move up a peg on the whole ‘commuter’ scale by selling the car.

We weren’t asking much.

Just pay for the ad and the car is yours . . .

No bites.

We tried to give it away.

Still no takers.

Finally, Husby took to leaving it parked at the college with the keys in it, hoping to entice some desperate--or at least near-sighted--student into taking it for a spin.

A long spin.

Nothing.

Oh, come on! Vehicle theft had reached near epidemic proportions on that campus!

Obviously, the students were a bit . . . judicious . . . with their choices. Choosing cars that were, oh I don't know . . . road-worthy? 

Sigh.

We finally got rid of the car.

Traded it on a push, pull or drag sale.

I think we even got $500.00!

So, back to the gift-horse scenario.

And the looking of said horse in the mouth.

In the usual sense, it means that one shouldn’t find the faults in a gift.

In our case, we did look.

Saw the new engine. 

And ignored the rust spots and obvious problems which later proved . . . rather important.

My lesson? Don’t bother to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Let the rust and disease put you off right from the beginning.

Close. Just add rust...

Idiot Sundae

This . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

Plus this . . .

And finally, this.

Dad loved telling this story. 

First day as a father . . .

He had just left his newborn daughter and her mother sleeping happily (and healthily) at the hospital.

The newly-minted father stepped out into the sunshine and grinned.

He needed to celebrate.

He stood there for a moment.

Then it hit him. What better way to celebrate than with a dish of ice cream at the Spudnut Shop?

Soon he was standing in the familiar café, studying the menu on the wall.

Hmm . . . he’d always wanted to try the Idiot Sundae.

He took a deep breath and grinned.

Perfect!

He stepped to the counter and placed his order.

“Just take a seat, sir,” the soda jerk said. “We’ll bring it right out.”

He did.

And they did.

Now I should probably mention, here, that the Idiot Sundae was a concoction of twenty large scoops of various flavours of ice cream. With all of the fixings.

All. Of. The. Fixings.

And one spoon.

The . . . platter . . . was brought out.

And slid carefully onto the table in front of him.

Heaven.

Another grin as he picked up the spoon.

And started working his way through the melting mound of deliciousness.

He did well.

One scoop after another disappeared.

Finally, there were only three scoops left.

He stared at them.

Three scoops.

He groaned.

He.

Just.

Couldn’t.

Do.

It.

He dropped the spoon in defeat.

So close.

So very close.

To the day he went home, he remembered those three scoops left melting in the dish.

And wondered.

Was he an idiot for leaving them?

Or just an idiot for ordering in the first place.

You decide . . .