Headwind

Okay. Picture them a little more tousled and windblown . . .

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

And I don't mean blows in the modern 'that really stinks' way.

Although it's true.

No, I mean blows in the old-fashioned 'wind is really strong' way.

Because it blows.

Hard.

From the West.

And constantly.

One never quite gets used to it.

Even when one is raised with it.

It's . . . irritating.

People try to cope.

They make jokes about it.

Like the farmer getting out of bed hours earlier than usual, telling his wife that he needs the extra time to drive to the next province because that's where his land has drifted to.

Or being able to tell how old a person is by the direction and angle of their leaning.

Wind is a part of living on the prairies.

You just do the best you can.

When my husby and I lived in our first home, a mobile one, we were careful to park it East to West, instead of North to South.

That gave our home a marginally better chance of not being rolled.

Yes. The wind is strong.

Case in point . . .

I had been to town with my (then) four kids, ages 6, 5, 2 and 0.

We pulled up to our house.

I should point out, here, that our little home was newly-built and stood at the top of a small hill, clearly exposed to the prevailing breezes.

Which were . . . prevailing.

And the 2000+ trees we had planted in rows about the house were years away from providing any actual . . . wind break-ish-ness.

We got out of the car.

The older two boys made a bee-line for the house.

No sense in standing out in the open to be pummelled by God's natural sand-blaster.

I unbuckled my two-year-old, Duffy, and lifted him from the car, then turned and unclasped the baby's car seat.

Then I turned back and reached for Duffy's hand.

I missed.

He was eager to get to the house and was already following his two big brothers.

He had just reached the front of the car when a big gust of wind knocked him flat.

But it didn't stop there.

No, it continued to blow, rolling him over and over, across the yard.

“Mommy!” he shrieked.

I didn't dare set the baby down for fear of the same thing happening to her, so I ran after him as fast as I could, still lugging the car seat.

It was like a scene out of a movie.

Little boy doing a tumbleweed impression while his mother, hampered by yet another child (with carrier), runs after him.

I'm almost sure I saw Charlie Chaplin do something similar . . .

I managed to catch my son when he snagged against the corner post of the garden fence.

He was shaken up and dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

We grow them tough in the prairies.

Now we'll just have to work on growing them heavier.

'Twas a Dark and Scary Night

Debbie.
Mischief, mayhem and entertainment in one package.

In college, I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls.

Debbie, she of the famed moth abhorrence, and I in one room, the other two girls in the second.

The apartment was on the main floor of an older, period home, with wonderful hardwood floors and original doors and fixtures.

And windows.

And therein hangs a tale. 

So to speak.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We loved it there.

The south window in Debbie's and my bedroom faced the garage.

It was never locked.

The window, I mean.

With a barrel pushed underneath, it made an excellent entrance to our apartment.

None of this having to tramp around the house, through the entrance and clear across the living room.

Nope. We could step right into our room, drop our boots under the window, and we were home.

I don't think we used our keys to the front door once in the entire year we lived there.

And neither did our friends . . .

So noises from that window were not unusual.

Though not always expected.

One evening, Debbie and I were getting ready for bed.

Well, she was.

I was busy selecting a book for my usual "read-till-you're-heavy-eyed-and-won't-be-fit-for-anything-the-next-day activity.

Without warning, the blind, which had been pulled down over the window, snapped up.

Whip! Whip! Whip!

Debbie, standing there half in and half out of her jammies, screamed. (And you can believe me when I say that no one could scream quite like Debbie.)

And scurried out into the front room, frantically tugging on her jammie pants as she went.

Where she screamed again.

Louder, this time.

Then I heard a thump. A decided body-hitting-the-hardwood thump.

I dropped my book and dashed out into the front room.

To find Debbie collapsed on the floor in front of our little entryway.

I should mention here that the entry to our apartment was about four feet square.

There was a tiny coat rack built into one side. On the wall between that rack and the door was a small window.

Uncurtained.

It was dark outside.

And the lights were on inside.

I rushed over to my friend.

And realized that she was lying there helpless . . . with laughter.

She had dashed out of our room, pulling on said pjs.

And had glimpsed movement in the entry.

Someone was looking at her!

Whereupon (good word) she screamed and collapsed.

Only then realizing that the combination of dark night and lighted room had created a mirror-like trait in our little entry window.

She had seen . . . Debbie.

It must have been a truly scary sight.

They're All Alike

Go on. Give it a pull!

Life on a ranch is glorious.

Open, endless vistas.

Fresh air.

Time with your family.

And endless hours with your 'other' co-worker. Your steady, actually-does-most-of-the-work partner.

Your horse.

Did you know that horses are fun?
And smart?
With distinct personalities?
Some are lazy.
Some crafty.
Some love people.
All love to play.
A favourite game when I was growing up was 'tongues'. You would tickle a horse's lips until he stuck out his tongue, whereupon (good word) you would give it a little pull.
The tongue, I mean.
The horse would whip it back into his mouth.
Then promptly stick it out again.
Pull.
Retract.
Stick out.
Pull.
They loved this game.
They would play it for hours.
Or until you got tired of it.
You can probably guess which scenario usually happened first.

Enough background . . .
My Husby and I were touring the Buckingham Palace Mews, conducted by the head hostler to the Queen, Edward.
A very proper and pleasant British man who also loved horses.
We were instantly connected.
Moving on . . .
My Husby and I were having a great time.
We had dutifully and happily walked through the storage buildings.
Gotten up close and personal with the royal family's famous Gold Coach.
And had finally headed into the stables.
Ahhh! Heaven!
Horses are intensely curious.
If something is happening, they want to be front and center.
Gawking.
Getting in the way.
Pretending to be startled and fleeing spiritedly.
Coming back to see if there was anything they missed.
For the resident horses, our tour of the stables was out of the ordinary.
Everyone wanted a look.
Heads popped out of stalls the whole length of the building.
One horse, a handsome grey gelding, quartered by himself, was especially interested.
I should point out here that horses, when they meet another horse, sniff each other's noses.
A much more civilized practice in my opinion than what one would typically see when dogs greet each other.
Ummm . . . back to my story.
The big grey sniffed me.
I sniffed him back, then started to move on.
He moved with me.
I think someone was bored.
I touched his lips.
He licked them.
I pulled his tongue.
His head shot up, startled.
He stared at me for a couple of moments.
Then he stuck out his tongue again.
I pulled it.
He drew it back in.
Then he did it again.
This went on for some time.
Grant and Edward had been standing a little ways off, talking.
The horse and I were enjoying our game.
Then I realized that the stable had fallen silent.
The men were watching us.
Thinking they had finished their conversation, I patted my new friend and started toward them.
The big grey leaned out as far as he could, nickered at me and stuck out his tongue. “Hey! I'm not finished with this game!”
I laughed and patted him again.
Then joined the two men.
Edward was still staring. Finally he shook his head and in his perfectly modulated English accent, said, “I've never seen a horse do that before!”
He looked at me with renewed interest and said,” Any time you want to come back here, you are welcome. Anytime.”
A horse lover knows another horse lover.
And all horses are the same. No matter what circles they move in.

Did you like this story?
It's my contribution to an anthology: Mob Hit on My Gandmother's Dog
Hilarious Animal Stories
Order yours now!

Two or Four

He found a bottle in the sand,

It wouldn't qualify as grand,

He took it home, because he could,

And it upon his mantle stood.

It sat there for perhaps an hour,

Till his wife noticed, looked quite dour,

Said, “Ray, your bottle’s filthy, true,

Now clean it up. Or say adieu!”

He grumbled just a little bit,

Then shrugged and took a buffing mitt,

And polished that old bottle fine,

Till it glowed with lustrous shine.

But as he buffed that bottle shook,

A genie popped out, turned and looked,

Then said, “A wish for you—just one,

So choose most carefully, my son.”

Ray said, “Y’know I hate to fly,

But I’m a real ‘Hawaiian’ guy,

So build a bridge from here to there,

I’ll get across ‘thout being scared.”

The genie snorted, “That’s just weird,

Impossible I greatly fear,

So choose again, my silly man,

I’ll tell you if I think I can.”

Ray rubbed his chin both to and fro,

Said slowly, “I would like to know,

The secrets of a woman’s heart,

And understand them…for a start.”

The genie frowned and stared at him,

(I think he looked a little grim,)

He crossed the room and op’ed the door,

Then flexed his hands: “Two lanes or four?”

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

Old

Dedicated to our beloved Shirley. Who gave us ten more years with our dad!

Shirley. Gramma and her little beans.

Great Gramma and her Little Bean

Had the greatest day you’ve ever seen.

They’d talked and laughed, played games – all sorts,

Built puzzles and a blanket fort.

Played Lego, making things just right,

Baked treats and had a pillow fight.

Played knights and forts, read stories, too,

Dressed up, and sang. (To name a few.)

Then, happily exhausted, they

Decided to slow down the day.

Great Gramma’s Little Bean and she

Were nestled down quite snug-i-ly.

Then LB stroked Great Gramma’s hair,

And to her own, she did compare,

“Yours is white!” said the little girl,

Gently touching her own curls.

Then the soft, plump hand the lines did trace,

That clearly showed on Gramma’s face.

“You’re old,” she said, with honesty.

“You’re so much older, Gram, than me!”

Great Gramma smiled, as Grammas do,

And touched the lines she too well knew,

She said, “The things you say are true,

I’ve lived a lot more years than you!”

“I’m four,” said Little Bean with pride.

And a grin that went from side to side.

“I’m eighty-six,” Great Gramma said.

She sighed. “Somewhere ‘tween birth . . . and dead.”

Then LB tipped her head askew,

And grappled with this thought so new.

And then she said, when she was done,

“Great Gramma, did you start at one?”

Five Years

On May 28, 2015, we said good-bye to Daddy.

We've told stories and laughed and cried.

Now we have the memories . . .

Mark Reed Stringamm

Husband, father, rancher, veterinarian, brother, friend, uncle, cousin.

Jokester.

My Dad is the youngest of eleven children.

At 89 years old, he is the last surviving sibling of a great progeny.

And he has made his mark in the world. (Oddly enough, his name is Mark. Apropos . . .)

He has served in numerous leadership roles in Church and community.

Been a voice for change in Provincial/Federal politics.

Lovingly supported his wife all her life and through her final illness.

Raised six kids, numerous grandkids and even more great-grandkids.
Built heritage clocks and other woodworking marvels from caragana and other exotic woods.

Developed and refined his own award-winning genetic line of Hereford cattle.

Taught. Led. Supported. Pushed. Pulled. Guided. Built.

Worked.

But what do his progeny mostly remember this great man for?

His pranks.

Yep. Pranks.

This was the man who shaved his head into a ‘mohawk’ do, long before it was acceptable. And with red, curly hair, such a style was . . . noticeable.

Proof! Daddy's on the right...

Painted a large ‘48’ on the water tower at his Alma Mater in Guelph, Ontario.

Disassembled and re-assembled the headmaster’s car on the porch of the administration building.

Played the ‘wedding waltz’ when his youngest brother-in-law showed up with a girlfriend. And rigged a smoke bomb on the engine of said bother-in-law’s car at the end of that particular visit.

Served drinks in ‘dribble’ glasses.

Lit the bottom corner of a newspaper on fire when the reader was concentrating on reading the upper corner.

Used a syringe to squirt water through a nail hole, thus winning, once-and-for-all, the title of ‘water fighter extraordinaire’.

Also used a syringe to squirt skunk ‘essence’ through the keyholes of the 'Ag' students at Guelph Verterinary College. Can anyone say ‘stink’?

Floated a plastic ice cube with encased fly in guests’ drinks. 

Hid an unwrapped prophylactic in the headmaster's handkerchief, tucked into the man's tuxedo, to be revealed with notable results.

And other monkeyshines too numerous to mention here. But which will be the subjects of future posts . . .

The once-mighty rancher is frail now.

Still clear mentally, but moving slowly and with care.

And seldom venturing far from his comfortable chair and book shelf.

It would be painful to watch, if one were not buoyed by Dad’s own words. “I’ve had fun!”

Words followed by the familiar twinkle as he recounts past pranks.

And still looks forward to future ones.

During my last visit, a dear guest looked at her glass and said, “This isn’t one of those ‘dribble’ ones, is it?”

Daddy? Never change!

How I'll always remember him. Seated at his desk. Getting things done.
See you soon, Daddy!

Accidentally Awesome

For once, he’d listened to his wife,

How to ameliorate her life,

And he went without delay,

To take her on a holiday.

But as he hastened to comply,

In proving he was one sweet guy,

He left his glistening lab in less

Than pristine order, I confess.

While those two hurried who knows where,

One petri dish abandoned there,

A part of his criteria,

Was moistened with bacteria.

When they returned, that fateful dish,

Was not as clean as they could wish.

Bacteria, possession had,

And things were looking rather bad.

Except one place had not been ‘got’,

No icky growth upon that spot.

Instead, a little bit of mold

Had landed there and taken hold.

Beating off the icky stuff,

And proving it had strength enough,

Its presence brought discovery,

And new ways for recovery.

I guess you’ve guessed by now that guy

Was christened Fleming from on high.

And penicillin, started small

S’the best discovery of all!

After that, we note that he

Made no startling discoveries.

His wife, by his chaos dismayed,

Decided she would hire a maid.

Haven

Supplier of kindliness. And food.

The Stringam ranch was a large spread situated some twenty miles from the town of Milk River, Alberta.

The land stretched for miles along the Alberta-Montana border.

The buildings were nestled in a picturesque prairie valley somewhere in the middle, surrounded by tall cliffs and the lazy sweep of the south fork of the Milk River itself.

It was nine miles to the nearest neighbour.

But we got there as often as we could.

Or, at least we kids did.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In my day, the school bus service ended at Nine-Mile corner, a triangle of crossroads exactly – you guessed it - nine miles from the ranch.

This necessitated the driving, twice a day, of a vehicle to intercept said bus.

Okay, it was something unheard-of in this day of school bus service to your door, but it was a fact in the sixties.

Mom was the driver of choice, with occasional relief work by Dad.

But that’s only a peripheral to my story . . .

Less than a mile from that corner, at the end of a long driveway, was the Sproad farm. Our nearest neighbours.

Ben and Clestia Sproad were an elderly couple who raised sheep and milk cows. Their daughter had married and moved away and they had settled into a routine of farm work, household duties, grandparenting and kindliness.

Their home was a haven of peace, cleanliness, love and fabulous German baking.

Every day, after the bus had deposited our little group beside the road, and if our intercept vehicle was not in sight, we would excitedly begin the long trek toward the promise of smiling faces and wonderful food.

We didn’t make it often.

Usually, the ranch station wagon would come skidding around the corner in a cloud of dust and slide to a halt beside us, before we had taken much more than a few steps.

But occasionally, if Mom had been delayed, we managed the ten-minute walk and actually grabbed the brass ring.

Or, in this case, the freshly-baked reward for our efforts.

Served happily by Mrs. Sproad, and accompanied by her soft, cheerful chatter.

“Oh, Di-ane! You are getting zo big. Zoon you’ll be taller than me! Here. Have another.” And she was right. By the time I was in sixth grade, I had passed her by.

On these special days, Mom would appear, rather red-faced and spilling apologies. “Oh, Clesti! I’m so sorry! I got tied up . . .”

It didn’t matter. Mrs. Sproad would laugh and offer something to Mom as well.

Soon we would be on the road back to the ranch.

Still tired from the day.

But with bellies filled with yumminess and hearts filled with cheer.

Nine-Mile corner no longer exists.

And the Sproads have long been gone.

But I can still taste that baking.

And feel the love.

Summer . . . Smells

I wait for summer all year long,

The sun, the green, the birdies' song,

The kids out playing. Hills and dells,

But most of all, I love the smells

Where I live, the clear, pure air,

Wafts fragrances from everywhere,

And one can just stand there and sniff,

In all directions, catch a whiff.

In South Alberta, where we were,

With constant wind (the saboteur),

It blew the summer smells away

Like flowers, trees and new-mown hay,

But twice a year, the wind would stop,

We’d poke our nose out of the shop,

Delighted with the still air, WHEW!

‘Twas time to have a barbeque!

And so we’d get our tools out,

Invite the family, thaw the trout,

And just when we’d sit down to eat,

The table laden, air so sweet,

Another smell would cause alarm

The neighbour’d cleaned his piggies' barn.

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

Next week, because I call the shots,
We'll all talk 'Bridges'. Love them lots!

A Grampa Memory

My Grandpa as I remember him.
With my older siblings, Chris and Jerry. 

My Grandpa, George Lewis Stringam, was born in 1876, in Holden Utah.

He ranched there with his dad. Married. Prepared to welcome children.

And then tragedy struck.

His first wife, Mary Ann (May) Snow, passed away, together with her twin unborn sons, following an accident involving a carriage and runaway horses.

Broken hearted, Grampa continued to ranch. Then accepted a call to serve a mission for his church to Australia.

After his return home, he married longtime friend, Sarah Lovina Williams and they set up housekeeping, first on his father’s farm, then on their own place in Teasdale, Utah.

A few years later, they had settled in Glenwood, Alberta, ranching there and in the Milk River area, and raising nine of eleven children.

My dad was the baby.

Grampa was a rancher, husband, father, grandfather, MLA for Cardston for three terms, faithful church attender and leader, neighbour and friend.

He was faithful, honest, hardworking, kind, and thorough, with a terrific sense of humour and a firm belief that actions should always speak louder than words.

My Dad loved him and tried to emulate him throughout his life.

Grandpa Stringam passed away just before I turned four.

I have only one memory of him . . .

My grandparents, in their later years, moved to the city of Lethbridge, in Southern Alberta. The main entry of their home opened onto a hallway that bisected the house, front to back, with French doors to the right, leading into the living room.

Behind those doors was my grandfather’s recliner.

At this point in time, he must have been quite ill with the cancer that finally took his life.

All I know is that’s where I found him.

Reclined in his chair, feet up and newspaper spread out in front of him.

“Grampa!” I said.

The newspaper dropped. “There’s our little Diane girl!”

That was all the invitation I needed.

There was Grandpa. There was Grandpa’s lap. Just waiting for a little girl to snuggle.

And that’s what I did.

For several minutes, I cuddled there, listening to his heart beating and the sound of his voice coming through his chest as he talked to my parents.

I didn’t follow the conversation, which was probably quite serious.

All I knew was that I felt safe. And cared for.

Breathing in, for what turned out to be the last time, the scent that was Grandpa.

As a young man

During his mission to Australia

Grampa in the apron. Oh, the missionary life!

May 4, 1903

At my parents' wedding

Gramma and Grampa Stringam on their Golden Anniversary

Nine

I’m not tech savvy. My students would shudder when I picked up a TV remote—an action inevitably followed by the frenzied pressing of buttons and a few muttered church-friendly expletives.

When churches and schools closed, I was sad about being barred from my beloved students, but what could I do? The only senior citizen in the class, I was most at risk.

When I groused to my uber-helpful and very tech astute elder sister about missing my students, she suggested I download a program called Zoom, gather up my kids and teach online.

I laughed and laughed. Because . . . see above. No way I was going to ‘gather my students’ and learn something new. Especially something that could possibly require online computing.

When the ‘powers that be’ announced I would teach every day on a newly-discovered program called ‘Zoom’, I laughed again. Then cried a little. Surely they knew me better than that?

Nope. They promised to help me learn. Promised I would enjoy it. Promised I would be a tech amazing whiz-senior before the week was out. But firmly told me to ‘do it’.

Now every morning, I am seated at my desk in front of 23 teenagers, teaching. Watching videos. Following Power Point presentations. Even separating into ‘rooms’ to work as individuals or groups.

I am the king of the world! Yes, it’s a small world, peopled with teenagers 14 to 18, too polite to laugh out loud when I screw up. (Which I do.)

But I’ve done it. Learned a new program. Implemented it without too many disasters. And best of all, I get to ‘see’ my teenagers nearly every day! It’s a beautiful world.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. We contributing bloggers each picked a number between 12 and 74. The submitted numbers were then assigned to other bloggers challenged with writing at least one piece using that exact number of words.
I was assigned the word count number: 31
It was submitted by my best blogging friend, Karen of Baking in a Tornado.
Thanks so much, Karen! You are awesome!

Here are the links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what numbers they got and how they used them. 

Links to the other Word Counters posts:
Baking In A Tornado
Spatulas on Parade 
Messymimi’s Meanderings   

Homes

I admit it, I'm a homebody.
This pandemic hasn't changed my lifestyle much at all. I hated to go out before.
I hate to go out now.
I wrote this song for the play: The Three (Plus a Few) Little Pigs a year ago.
It tugs at my heart today.
I offer it today for Poetry Monday: Home.
Picture the little piggies and wolves singing it!

Here in this world are many different houses you can see,

There are houses on the ground and there are houses in the trees,

And some float on the water and some others are of stone.

One thing they have in common is that each is someone’s home.

Cause in this world, there’s nothing like your home,

It welcomes every day, be it on land or sea or foam.

Like a hug, it wraps around you as you step inside the door,

Yes, there’s nothing like a place to call your own.

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 and Mimi are also participating.
Take a little jaunt over and see what they've done with the topic!

Next week, it's time for shows and tells,
Cause we'll all be discussing 'Smells'!

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.