Cookie Sail

I had been happily in dreamland.

Happily.

In.

Dreamland.

I want to stress that because what follows did not promote any form of happiness.

Or dreams. Other than wishing the whole horrible experience was one.

I’ll start from the beginning…

I was happily in dreamland (see above).

When Sally jumped on the bed.

Scaring the snoo and almost something else out of me.

“Gwen!” she shouted. “Come on! Get up!”

“Gurfuzzitz?” Okay, I’m not at my best upon waking.

“Come on! It’ll be fun!” She grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the bed and onto the floor.

“What? What are we doing?” I looked up at her.

“Fundraising!” She bounced out of the room.

I blinked. Fundraising? She pulled me from my nice warm bed to go fundraising?

I heaved a regretful sigh and got to my feet.

Okay. I was up.

“Gwen!” Sally shouted from the first floor. “Hurry!”

I threw on some clothes and ran a quick brush through my hair. Then I grabbed a mask and left my room.

Sally, masked and ready, was waiting just outside the open front door. “Come on! He’s already gone!”

I hurried down the stairs. “Who? What’s going on?” I looked around. “Where’s Mort?”

Sally rolled her eyes. “He’s gone already. And is probably well on his way to outselling me!”

I had reached the doorway.

There beside her on the bricked patio was a bright red wagon stacked high with boxes of cookies, each colourfully wrapped and emblazoned with the crest for our local charitable children’s organization.

Sally grabbed my hand. “Come on, Sis! Mort and I are having a contest to see who can sell the most cookies!”

She hurried me along the path to the sidewalk.

Uh-oh. Sally. And a wheeled object. Going door to door.

I tried to turn back.

But her hold on my hand tightened. “Come on!”

Sighing, I followed her.

It was a beautiful summer day. Blue skies. Light, very light breeze.

Bright sunshine.

Kids were playing all over the neighbourhood.

People busily worked in their yards, visited with each other (properly socially distanced, of course), tinkered on cars.

It was a normal, perfect day.

We pulled up to the first house.

Mrs. Michaelson was deadheading her prize roses.

She looked up. “Sally!” She quickly got to her feet and stepped between us and her flower bed. “Ummm…what brings you by?”

“We’re selling cookies, Mrs. M.!” Sally said brightly. “Fundraising for S.O.F. You know. The children’s organization. They do good stuff for kids!”

“I know it very well.” Mrs. Michaelson looked toward the house and bit her lip. Probably she was weighing the prospect of being able to make it to the house, either to hide or to find her pocketbook before Sally accidentally set her house on fire. Finally, she reached into the pocket of her jeans. “I’ve got…twenty, twenty-five, thirty-five…thirty-five dollars! Will that be okay?”

“Perfect!” Sally said excitedly. “That’ll get you seven boxes of cookies!” She started to count them out.

“Never mind, dear,” Mrs. Michaelson said hurriedly. She gave us a brief smile. “I don’t really eat cookies anymore. Just take the money and…” She bit her lip again.

“Super! Thanks so much, Mrs. M. I make out a receipt.”

“Never mind that. It’s fine.”

“Well, I’ll drop one off, then.”

“How about I stop by your house and pick it up?”

Sally nodded happily. “That’ll be great!” She started to move up the street. “See you!”

“Ummm…yeah…”

At the next house, Bill Baggins (and yes he gets teased and no he’s not related to Bilbo) loomed over us at the end of his driveway, arms folded.

Sally began. “Hi, Bill…”

“How much to keep you out of my yard?”

I snorted.

But Sally took it in stride. “Buy all the boxes and you’ll never see me again.”

“Done.”

I gaped at her. We were at our second house and already Sally had moved her entire inventory.

“Let me help you with them,” Sally offered.

Bill held up a hand. “I’ve got this,” he said. He called his sons over and each of them took a stack.

Fortunately, he had five little Bill’s and so the wagon was soon empty.

The oldest one smiled at Sally. “Your last picture was great, Sally,” he said. “I especially liked the part when you…”

“Hurry along, son,” his dad said.

The boy blushed and hurried toward the house with his armload of cookies.

“That’s forty boxes of cookies at five dollars each.” Sally said. “So you owe me two hundred.”

Bill nodded and reached for his wallet. He laid a couple of fifties into her palm, then added a stack of twenties. “There you go.”

“Can I make you out a receipt? Your donation is tax deductible.”

“Never mind,” Bill said. “It’s for a good cause.”

“Any more of those cookies?”

We all looked up.

A young boy with tousled, red hair and freckles stood a few feet away.

Sally tipped her head to one side. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Gary. My family just moved in.”

“Oh! You’re one of the Townsends!”

He nodded.

“Hey Gar! We’re almost ready!”

He looked over toward another boy on a lawn a short distance away. “Hang on!” He turned back to us. “So do you have any more cookies?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re all sold out.” Sally crouched down beside him. “So do you like it here?”

“Yeah. It’s cool. Well, I gotta go!”

“What are you doing?”

“My brother and me are going to set off our rocket!”

“That sounds exciting! Can I watch?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Sally abandoned her wagon, and me, and followed him.

I weighed my options. I could do the same.

Or I could leave quietly before chaos started.

I decided to stay. Things had been rather dull lately.

Gary and another boy had a little rocket set up on a small home-made Launchpad.

The other boy, who looked a little older than Gary, but with the same red hair and freckles held a lighter.

“I’m ready to light it, Dad!” he shouted.

A man waved from the shadows on the front deck.

“Wait!” Sally said. “What if we were to move it over there! There’s a bit of a rise. It’ll go way higher!”

The two boys frowned, then nodded. “K,” the oldest one said.

He grabbed the rocket and Sally brought the Launchpad. “Ooh. A bit rickety,” she said.

“It’s okay if you prop it up on this side.” Gary pointed.

“Like this?” Sally braced one of the legs against the platform.

“Yep.”

“Ready?”

“Countdown: Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition!” The older boy touched the flame of his lighter to a short fuse at the base of the rocket and all of us stepped back.

“Oh, wait!” Sally darted forward. “The leg’s fallen over!”

She reached for the rocket just as it sputtered and ignited…

And tipped over.

With unerring accuracy, the small missile shot toward the house, shattering the huge front window and disappearing inside.

There was a shriek and the twins sounds of thumping and crashing and the rocket suddenly reappeared through the same hole, startling all of us. It lay on the lawn, still sputtering but obviously almost out of oomph.

A red-headed woman appeared in the space left by the now-missing pane of glass.

The two boys had been staring aghast at the damage, but now lifted their eyes to her.

“That’s our mom!” Gary gasped out.

Sally smiled. “Hi, Gary’s mom!” she said brightly. “Welcome to the neighbourhood!”

Each month Karen’s fans donate words to the cause.

Karen then redistributes said words among all of us.

And thus, the ‘Use Your Words’ challenge is born.

 appear ~ dreamland ~ horrible ~ rocket ~ startle

This month, my words came from my wonderful (and knowledgeable) friend, Rena at Wandering Web Designer.

Thank you so much, my friend!

Now go and see what the others have done with their…assignment!

Baking In A Tornado 

Wandering Web Designer

Climaxed    

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

DogGONE Dog Days

The dog days or dog days of summer are the hot, sultry days of summer.

They were historically the period following the rising of the star system Sirius, which has routinely been connected with heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck.

They are now taken to be the hottest, most uncomfortable part of summer in the Northern Hemisphere.

Homer had it.

From Homer’s Iliad: The baleful effects attending the return of Sirius:

…Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky
On summer nights, star of stars,
Orion's Dog they call it, brightest
Of all, but an evil portent, bringing heat
And fevers to suffering humanity…

My take is a little different:

It’s summer (at long last), I’m glad to report,

I’m out of my long johns and into my shorts!

The sun overhead is as warm as can be,

And it’s toasting my toes as it smiles down on me.

I lie in my hammock, too lazy to read,

Eyes closed in content, I’m in Heaven, indeed,

Beneath me, flat out, is young Pandy, my dog,

My companion, it’s true, but eschews dialogue.

She rolls over and gives out a big, happy sigh,

I smile and then, lazily, bat at a fly.

What more could I ask you when all’s said and done?

But a cloudless, blue sky and a hot, happy sun?

You know that the weather in Canada’s rough,

Of these ‘dog days’ of summer, there’s never enough!

Each month, our dear Karen, a challenge portends,

And ‘Dog Days’ went well through her legions of friends,

This theme, for the most part, was easy to pen,

I will need to recall…when it’s winter…again.

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: A Dog’s Day

Over Dreamt

My Mom and Dad on their anniversary...

The day before their thirtieth, a woman woke from sleep,

“I had the strangest dream,” she said. “Twas something really deep.

“A gift box you did give me, to celebrate our day,

“I gave you a kiss, and tore it open right away.

“Inside that box, I looked and found another box. It’s true!

“I smiled and gave another kiss. Just happy ‘twas from you.

“I opened up the second and found there inside a third,

“Though it seemed a little strange, I set to work without a word,

“And there, behold! I found a fourth. (Now this was getting weird!)

“But I was sure it couldn’t be as strange as it appeared.

“So I opened up the fourth and there inside I found a ring!

“A diamond, much more big and bright than any other thing!

“So I’m wondering, my darling, if this dream’s a thing foreseen?”

Her eyes, they sparkled brightly. “And if so, what does it mean?”

That night they went to dinner, just they two, to celebrate,

And as things were winding down, he set a box beside her plate,

Smiling, she opened it and what should be inside?

You're absolutely right, there did another box reside.

And in that box another box, each wrapped so beautifully,

She hated to unwrap them (And you almost would agree!)

Then next she found a fourth box (just exactly like her dream!),

By now her hands were shaking and her eyes were all agleam!

With much anticipation, she tore off the wrapper there,

The contents were surprising, she did nothing else but stare,

Some people seem to heed. But what they hear’s not what it seems…

Inside the fourth box was a book—"HOW TO INTERPRET DREAMS".

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 Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Berry Good Pies

It's that time again! Berry season!

The sweetest part of the summer.

And it brings back so many memories...

On the prairies, pies come in two forms.

The edible.
And the inedible.
One kind is made from prairie fruit.
The other comes from cows.
One smells wonderful.
The other . . . doesn't.

You must choose carefully.
Just FYI.
Sooo . . . prairie fruit.
This comes in the form of raspberries, strawberries, some apples, chokecherries and saskatoons.
The first three are grown mostly in gardens.
The latter two, in the creases and folds of the landscape near water.
The first three can be picked at any time during the summer, as they ripen.
The last two need planning.
Especially the saskatoons.
Their picking requires a family adventure.
And that's where the fun comes in.
Sometime in the summer, Mom's stack of pails would magically appear.
It was the signal for all of us kids to quickly get into our swimming suits because we were making a trip to the river to pick berries and go for a swim.
The best of times.
Mom had several favourite berry-picking spots.
All of them thick with bushes.
And none of them near our house.
She would load us, our pails and our towels, into the car.
And in a cloud of dust, we were off.
The saskatoon bushes started at the top of the cliff.
And grew downward.
Toward the river.
You had to move carefully.
And hang on.
Like little goats, we would scamper all over those bushes.
Picking.
And . . . well, let's just stick with picking.
Mom's plan was always to have each of us fill a bucket.
Simple enough.
If kids hadn't also come equipped with mouths.
One handful into the bucket.
One handful into the mouth.
And so it went.
After a while, each of us would have half a bucket of berries.
A blue mouth.
And full tummy.
With the hot, summer sun shining down, the smell of baking sage and grass in ones nostrils, and one's family gathered around, it was pure heaven.
Then we would swim.
And to top it off, fresh saskatoon pie when we got home.
Did I mention the best of days?

P.S. Picking chokecherries wasn't nearly as much fun.
For one thing, they are SOUR.
But they make the nicest syrup.

And that is another story...

And now, my berry pickers!

Dramatically Wounded

My little soldier.

My kids belong on a stage.

Case in point:

It was a hot, sunny, summer afternoon.

We sometimes get those in Edmonton.

Seven-year-old Erik was riding his bike on the sidewalk.

Along a street that closely resembled the frenetic scramble of frantic ants when someone has stirred up their nest.

Dozens of neighbourhood kids of every size and variety screamed/shouted/laughed.

Scenarios were being enacted.

Dares carried out.

Counter-dares being proposed.

And through it all, Erik rode his bike serenely up and down.

Up and down.

Up and . . . oops.

Right at the foot of our neighbour’s lawn, in an effort to avoid a collision, he turned.

And toppled off his bike.

I had just come to the door, carrying a bowl of freshly-washed raspberries to offer as a mid-afternoon snack. I watched him go down.

In slow-motion.

Scraping one knee.

He rolled onto his back and, for several seconds, lay there. Then he looked up at me. “Mom!” he shouted. “I fell!”

“I saw you!” I called back. “Come on! Let’s get you fixed up!”

Slowly, he rolled over onto his stomach. Then, with kids running back and forth and even leaping over him, started crawling--crawling--up the lawn toward me.

Dragging his wounded leg.

He looked like a soldier crossing a battlefield.

I shook my head and watched him.

Finally, he reached the steps and flung himself onto his back.

“Mom! I hurt my knee! I think I have gangrene!”

I handed him the raspberries and went to get the band-aids.

Two minutes later, he was back on his bike.

Dangerously-wounded-obviously-going-to-fall-right-off knee pumping madly as he rode.

Yep. Kids belong on a stage.

All Gummed Up

Or something similar . . .

We were driving to town.
Maybe that doesn't sound like earth-shattering news to you, but we lived a half-hour away.
When the roads were good.
This was an event.
Mom piled us six kids into the car.
Inquired as to bathroom status.
And started out.
I should mention, here, that the roads into Milk River were never great.
In dry conditions, they were a narrow, dusty, dirty track between two deep ditches.
In wet weather, they were a narrow, greasy, slippery amusement-park ride.
That was anything but amusing.
And they had to be navigated with utmost care and caution.
Always.
Picture my Mom's 1964 Envoy hurtling along at 65 MPH.
With six kids rolling about like dried peas.
But we were safe.
Mom had both hands on the wheel.
She would put out her arm if she was applying the brakes.
All was well.
Suddenly, we reached a stretch of road that had been 'graveled'.
I use this term lightly, because said gravel was uncrushed.
Fist to shoe-size. It would probably be more accurate to say it had been 'rocked'. Or 'bouldered'.
Not good.
Mom slowed down, but rocks still spun and bounced, hurtling off into the ditch or hitting the underside of the car with deadly accuracy and vicious intent.
Finally one rock, a little larger than the others, hit with a metal 'clang' that shook the entire car.
Mom applied the brakes.
And deployed her patented arm gesture.
We all got out.
The smell of gasoline was strong in the dusty air.
We leaned down.
The last rock had put a hole in our gas tank.
Precious fuel was escaping, even as we looked.
Mom straightened. What to do? What to do?
My oldest brother's jaws were moving, rhythmically.
For a moment, Mom stared at him.
Then she pounced. "Jerry! Are you chewing gum?"
My brother froze.
In our family, one wasn't allowed to chew gum in the car.
Because.
"Is anyone else chewing gum?"
We all stared at her.
She turned back to my brother. "Spit it out!"
"Um . . . why?"
"We can stuff it in the hole and fix the tank!"
"Oh."
Weird.
But Jerry complied. Spitting a large wad of pink gum into his hand, he wriggled under the car and applied it.
We all bent down and looked.
It seemed to be working.
"Everybody in!" Mom said.
We lost no time, but scrambled back into the car and resumed our journey.
When we reached town, the car slid to a stop and we all piled out and bent over to look.
The gum had worked!
No more leak!
"We patched our gas tank with gum!" I proudly told curious passers-by.
They glanced at Mom's red face for confirmation.
She nodded.
Sheepishly.
Gum saves the day!

There is a codicil.
The shop that could have repaired our tank was closed for the weekend.
They used to do that in the early 60s.
Mom had to drive home with her gum-patched tank.
Then drive back into town the next day for Church.
And back to the ranch again.
Then into town on Monday to finally effect repairs.
That gum not only got us into town, but it got us back home, back in, back home and back in.
Miraculous.
I defy duct tape to perform as well.
Or taste better.

Masked

I wear a mask when I go out,

Safety’s what it’s all about.

War’s been declared, fills us with woe,

The enemy’s a savage foe,

Some little soldiers we can’t see…

They’re out to damage you and me.

And if we’re not attentive, then

STATISTICS for some future pens!

So we stay home, or if we’re out,

We all are wise (without a doubt),

And do the things that we can do,

We wash our hands. Contact eschew,

And just to add that one last touch,

We wear our masks—it isn’t much

That we can do for safety’s sake,

(Now we’ve banned hugging and handshakes…)

And yes, there’s some will tell us that,

To don one proves we’ve brains of gnats,

They won’t protect us. They won’t heal.

And they look stupid? What’s the deal?

Who knew one insignificant act,

Would cause such ire? Opposing facts.

But though the mask’s so vilified,

That it can help can’t be denied.

(Well, for the wear-er, maybe not,

For those we meet, it helps a lot!)

So know as now my mask you see,

That I’m not doing this for me,

This mask I don through much ado,

I’m doing this, my friend, for you!

And…

That future day when we ‘high five’?

We’ll be alive, yes. Still alive.

Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me,

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week a special kind of theme,

We’ll talk of dreams. Yes. Special dreams.

Uphill Both Ways

Recently, there has been a lot of discussion about the kids going back to school in the midst of a pandemic.
Although Husby and I are firmly in the 'need an education' camp, we are also firmly in the 'safety' camp.
Because both of us are, through no fault of our own (I blame my mother for having me in 1955), in the 'at risk' camp.
But all this talk about school and 'having it rough' has brought back my memories of school in the small southern Alberta community of Milk River in the early '60s.
When I rode the bus...

 Picture it with a few more bumps and bruises.

You've heard the stories from the past where kids had to walk to school through eight feet of snow.
Uphill.
Both ways.
Husby's stories even include having to carry his horse!
Well, those didn't apply to me.
I rode the school bus.
Which was an adventure in itself.
Stay with me . . .
School buses in the early sixties were very similar to those driven today.
Yellow.
I'm almost sure there was an engine under the oversized and bulbous hood.
They had a driver.
Seats.
Windows.
And lots and lots of kids.
But busses in the sixties had a few 'extra' features.
Forms of entertainment that simply don't exist in our more modern world.
Too bad.
Busses today have powered windshield wipers that are sturdy, dependable and have several settings.
They keep on working through rain, snow, sleet, hail.
In fact, anything that may be thrown at the all-important front windshield.
The bus that carted me to and from school had wipers, too.
Just not the kind you see today.
It had what is known as 'vacuum' wipers.
I'm not sure what made them work.
But I know what didn't.
Revving the engine.
If it was raining hard and the road was on an even grade with no challenges, all was well.
But if the bus was required to do something untoward . . .
Like move faster.
Or go up a hill.
The engine would rev.
And the wipers would quit.
The driver would have to roll down the side window and stick his (or her) head outside so they could see.
If the driver took his foot off the accelerator, the wipers would start again.
Push the pedal down? They stopped.
It was enormously entertaining.
But not nearly as much fun as when the bus was required to go up Angel's Hill.
Yes. We really had an Angel's Hill.
Oh, it's not what you're thinking.
It was simply the hill that led to the Angyal family's ranch.
But I digress . . .
Our rather aged vehicle had a hard time going up that hill.
Sometimes, if we had a larger than normal load (perhaps all of us kids had eaten breakfast, for example), the bus wouldn't be able to make it.
We'd have to get off and trail along behind till it reached the top.
Well, we younger kids would trail.
The older kids would push.
Whereupon (good word) we would all clamber back aboard and happily find our seats once more.

Huh. I just realized that we did have to walk uphill to get to school.
Both ways.
Pushing the bus.
Beat that!

Sniff

Watch out! She'll get you!

The morning milking happened . . . early.
Before any of the younger kids were stirring.
It was a peaceful time.
Just the milkmaid (ie. me) and the cows.
The afternoon milking, though, was quite different.
While the milker was with the cows, the bustle of afternoon chores was going on all around.
Talk and laughter as the kids fed chickens and pigs.
Held buckets for the calves.
Hauled feed.
Opened and closed gates.
Chased kittens.
It was a busy, happy time.
And the baby generally was left with little to do.
Tristan, said baby, was five.
He had helped feed.
And now was looking for Mom.
I should mention, here, that our little milk barn had two rooms.
One for the business part of the operation.
And a waiting room with a little pen.
I was milking Kitty.
One of our two, gentle little Jersey milk cows.
Bunny was in the outer room, already milked and patiently awaiting her freedom.
Tristan came into the barn.
"Mom?" (Real conversation.)

"I'm here, sweetheart."
"You done?"
"Almost."
I could hear sounds of someone small climbing the gate of the pen.
"Can I wait here?"
"Sure, sweetie. I'll just be a minute."
A heavy sigh. "Okay."
"Did you help feed?"
"Yeah. Are you coming?"
"Pretty soon."
"Okay." Suddenly, "Mom! Mom!"
"What's the matter?"
"Mom! This cow is coming over!"
Cows are intensely curious. If something comes into their sphere, it needs to be investigated.
And smelled.
And tasted.
"She won't hurt you."
"Mom! She's getting closer!"
"She won't hurt you, sweetie!"
Silence.
Then, indignantly, "Mom, she's getting . . . sniff on me!"
Cow sniff.

In a world full of troubles, if that's the worst that happens . . .

Life's Leaves

Those heralds of spring, their soft, misty green,

Suffuse all the trees, give them life, make them preen,

And all through the garden, the plants take their cue

With colour and scent, all of nature renew.

Then like sands in a glass, time moves quickly along,

With lengthening days and returning birds’ song,

And leaves daily grow till they’re full. And their hue

Becomes richer. And deep as with life, they’re imbued.

They dance in the breeze and they gleam in the rain,

And shine in the sun as o’er nature they reign,

A long, lovely cycle of varying days,

As to man (and all life), they delight and amaze.

Too soon, with the passing of seasons, then they

Succumb. In the shortening days, are arrayed

With colour—rich blazes of orange or red,

Bright praise to life lived (and of slumber ahead).

When I lay on soft grass and look up at the leaves,

And see them give life to the birds and the trees,

I wonder if we’re like the foliage up there,

And its sun and its wind, like life’s joy or despair.

Though their life is shortened (their months are like hours),

Are they not like us with their sunshine and showers?

Don’t we try, by example to succor and lead,

To soak in the sun and to dance in the breeze?

And then, as life’s autumn creeps slowly away,

Are we not filled with colour that brightens the day?

From all our experiences—joys or defeats…

That busied our fingers and hurried our feet?

As a youngster, I laughed through my misty green years,

Then grew richly hued jug’ling kids and careers,

 And now that I’m older, I can happily say,

I’m bright crimson with joy in my sweet autumn days.

Cause Monday’s 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, it's not a lot to ask,
The four of us will speak of 'masks'.

Pole Dancing

The Behemoth

Things move.
Big things.
They move.
I have proof.
On the ranch, we had a large power/light pole.
Full-sized.
Firmly planted.
It had been there since the beginning of time.
So . . . for quite a while.
It stood in the very center of the turn-about.
People driving in would go around it, conduct their business and complete the turn as they drove out.
Simple.
Unless you lived there.
Then you would have to drive in and park.
Preferably somewhere out of the way so the next person would have a place to drive in and turn.
At times it got a little . . . tricky.
I lived there.
I had parked.
I needed to leave.
This entailed backing the van up, manoeuvring into the lane, then completing the turn to head out.
I should probably point out here that our van could quite easily have been described as a behemoth (good word!). It held 12 passengers.
Or two parents and six children, neatly spaced to avoid argument-age.
Well to try to avoid argument-age.
Well . . . never mind.
I loaded in the kids.
I sorted out the first argument.
I started the van.
I sorted out the second argument.
Good so far.
The third argument started.
I began to unknot that disagreement just as I stepped on the gas.
The van reversed, as it should.
Straight back.
All of us inside were concentrating on the ongoing conversation.
None of us (ie. me) noticed the pole directly behind the van.
Well, not until we (ie. me) smacked into it.
Oops.
I pulled ahead and got out to survey the damage.
The bumper had a lovely crease in it, bending it towards the van and forming a point that made it impossible to open the back door.
Double oops.
Later, when I showed my husband, he laughed, shook his head and simply sawed the top point off the dent. Just enough so the door would clear it.
But leaving the dent for all to see.
Sigh.
The conversation went like this . . .
Husby: "Honey, didn't you see the pole? The large one that has been standing in the center of the yard since forever?"
Me: "Ummm . . . I don't know how to answer that question."
Husby: "You did know about the pole, didn't you?"
Me: "Ummm . . . yes?"
Husby: "You did see it?"
Me: "Well, it was like this . . . I was backing out carefully . . ."
Husby: "Yes?"
Me: "And then . . . that nasty old pole just jumped behind me!"
Husby (with just the right amount of skepticism): "Jumped."
Me: "Yes."
Husby: "Right out of the ground."
Me (getting into my story): "Yes. It was the weirdest thing!"
Husby: "I'm going to go lie down."
True story.

P.S. Cuba, the country, has also been known to move. But that is another story.

Flushed with Excitement

Husby and me. Don't look closely . . .

I told him not to laugh.

But he did.

I married him anyway . . .

It was a bright and sunny Tuesday.

But not just any Tuesday.

This was Tuesday, the 27^th of April, 1976.

You may wonder why that particular date is etched so clearly in my mind...?

You have a right to know.

It was exactly four days before my wedding.

Four frenzied days of frenetic functions beFore falling into fluffy, feathery fantasy.

(Hmmm...That was sorta fun...)

Four days that I needed to be--healthwise--at my very, very best.

Ahem.

The day started out well.

I climbed out of bed.

I felt a bit more tired than usual, but, with all I had been doing, wasn’t surprised.

I plopped heavily into my seat and stared at my plate as Mom bustled around, setting platters of steaming deliciousness on the table.

Grace was said.

And oblivious-ness set in as people dove for whatever was nearest.

Soon we were all chewing happily.

Mom passed someone a bowl of potatoes and looked at me. “So what have you got planned...?” she stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at me. “Diane? Are you all right?”

I looked at her.

She got up and moved around the table to me. “You look . . . flushed.”

I shrugged.

She placed a cool hand on my forehead. “You feel a bit warm.”

“I’m tired, but I feel all right,” I said, feeling a slight feathering of alarm.

She tipped my head back and looked at my throat.

“Oh, my word!” she said. “Mark, look at this!”

“What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Dad leaned over the table and peered at my neck. “Oh, my!” he said.

Okay, I was thoroughly alarmed by this point. “What?” I said. Did I grow an extra appendage in the night? Did I suddenly get a whisker? Or worse . . . a zit???!!!

Mom sat back on her chair and sighed.

Sighed.

“Diane, I’m pretty sure you have the measles.”

Whaaa...? I jumped up and ran to the closest mirror.

Sure enough, my neck and the lower half of my face were a mottled mass of tiny, red pinpricks. So many of them that, at first, they resembled a rosy flush on my skin. Only on closer inspection did they morph into what they actually were.

Measles.

I. Had. The. Measles.

Four days before I was going to be married.

My life was over.

Mom bundled me up and hauled me into the doctor’s office. Where our local medical professional confirmed our suspicions.

German measles.

I dragged myself home. How could this be happening to me? Weren’t the measles a childhood disease?

And wasn’t childhood  . . . sort of . . . behind me?

I placed a call to my Husby-To-Be at his work.

Our conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Honey! How’s work?” *soft sob*

“Great! How are you doing?”

“Well . . . I have something to tell you . . .”

Slightly alarmed Husby-To-Be voice. “What is it? What’s the matter?!”

“Well . . . promise you won’t tell anyone. And that you won’t laugh . . .”

“Umm . . . okay . . .”

“I . . . have the  . . . German measles.”

A short pause, while he took in my news. Then, “Bwahahahahahaha!” (Sound of phone being dropped.) And Husby-To-Be moving through the office, telling every one of his co-workers.

Okay, which part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ and ‘don’t laugh’ did he not get?

We did get married.

I was totally fine. Except that in some of our photos, particularly the close-ups, you can see the barest hint of a red flush.

People simply dismiss it as evidence of excitement.

Now you know.

In With Pigs

Daddy and me.
Do any of the rest of you see the irony here?

Okay, I wasn’t supposed to do it.

And I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it.

But that just made it all the more fun.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On the Stringam ranch, behind the *shudder* chicken coop was the pigpen.

It was rather off the beaten track, tucked in as it was.

A destination in itself.

A perfect location for hijinks when the horses were out and everything else possible had been explored/done.

And boredom was threatening to set in.

Or one was feeling adventurous.

One could climb the fence. Slide into the shadow of the shelter. Pause there.

And pick out a victim co-conspirator.

I should point out here that pigs are very sociable and curious creatures.

When something – or someone – is introduced into their world, they immediately converge to give it a sniff.

And a taste.

And they love to be scratched.

Back to my story . . .

All I had to do was sit there until all of the pigs swarmed me.

Scratch a couple.

And (this is the forbidden part) climb aboard one.

The pig would snort and scamper (yes, scamper) across the pen to the far side.

And, if one were lucky enough to still be aboard, back again.

Okay, yes, the fun was decidedly fleeting.

One’s raging father could – and usually did – appear.

How did he do that?

But there he would be, with hands on hips and the heated glare that only an angry father can summon, as his newly-repentant child silently slid off the pig and exited the pigpen.

Our subsequent conversations usually went something like this:

Dad: Diane! I’ve told you and told you not to ride the pigs! You could injure them. And they get all excited and don’t gain weight.

Me: Look Dad! I fell in the poop!

Yeah. Let’s just cross rocket scientist off that future occupations list.

Buddy

Just a word of warning: Treating your appliances like people maybe be hazardous to your health. And to your sleep patterns. And also: I think talking to my Roomba may have given him sentience.

I had just fallen asleep. You know, that deep, deep ‘first sleep’ wherein you are someplace warm and delicious and wish you could stay forever. Usually, the time when your kids wake you up…

Now my chicks are grown and we seldom have our chicklets here midnight skulking. So we’ve grown accustomed to uninterrupted sleep. (Well, barring the bathroom polka, which urge can hit at any time.) Ahem…

Suddenly, my intercom went off. The one on my phone that Husby and I use when neither of us wants to negotiate stairs and his office is down and mine is up. That intercom.

I came out of my delicious (see above) state with a gasp. Then grabbed the phone. “Hello?” Hello?” Crickets. Now you should know that using our handy-dandy intercom necessitates holding one of our handsets.

So someone had to be in the house. Holding said phone. And pressing the ‘intercom’ button. At 1:30 in the morning. Someone who was NOT Husby (who was still snoring away happily) or me.

Clutching the phone as a weapon, I opened our bedroom door and peered out into the hall. Silence. Well, near silence. I could hear Buddy (my Roomba) happily working away under cover of darkness.

A little side note: Recently, Buddy has taken to waking up at 12:40 AM to do his business. No amount of poking or programming will change his mind. Husby and I have just adjusted.

Turning on lights as I went, (Hey, I watch the movies—the bad things always happen because some doofus didn’t turn on the lights!) I moved toward the sound emanating from the front room.

And there I found Buddy. Trapped between the chair and the table and the wall. He had somehow managed to bump the phone onto the floor and was ramming it repeatedly into the wall.

Trapped and needing rescue, Buddy had dialed me! All was explained. Rolling my eyes, I punched his button. “Go to sleep!” He instantly obeyed. I put the phone away and headed back to bed.

Then lay there wide awake. Now that Buddy had figured out how to contact me, what else could I expect? Further demands for aid? Requests for midnight pizza? Dating advice? I’m a little worried.

Each month our intrepid little group accepts a challenge. Of numbers. This month our challenge came from Mimi of Messymimi’sMeanderings and the number was 34.

How did I do?

Now go and visit the others!

Karen
Mimi

Small But Mighty

If you could be an animal, what is it you would choose?

A lion with his heavy mane, a sloth who likes to snooze?

Perhaps a horse who runs so fast, a monkey in a tree?

How about a dolphin playing games of tag at sea?

Mayhap a shaggy bear? They eat most everything that’s seen--

Go sleep the cold months all away and wake up really lean!

Sometimes, I think a great gazelle, cause they run really fast,

Or perhaps a spotted cheetah, watch me as I blow right past!

An eagle flying overhead and looking down on all?

Would you choose an elephant? Or something rather small?

Now here’s the point that I would make: A bug’s not on the list,

At the bottom of the food chain, they’re the ones that just exist,

Look at all the ants, we humans see them as a pest,

And do the things we can to kill or tear apart their nests,

Getting squished or poisoned if they stray beyond their grounds,

Trying hard to live their lives where they cannot be found.

Is it any wonder that an ant I would not be?

I’m sure you see my point and likely with me you agree…

But here’s a thought I had not factored in the very least,

Thought the ant is very small, he is a hearty beast,

And every one can carry ‘most a hundred times their weight,

In food and lots of yummy stuff, to put upon their plate,

And then the thought struck me: In food, a HUNDRED TIMES MY WEIGHT?

I’ll be an ant. Stand back! I’m heading for the choc-o-late!

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 it's 'leaves' for those who care,

Good-bye for now, we'll see you there!