Not Quite Clean

Okay, there are only six here. But you get the picture . . .
Mom is third from the left.

Bath time has changed over the past century.
Really.
The concept of indoor plumbing is actually very recent.
In my mother's day, running water in the house meant that some enterprising and resourceful person had built the house over the well.
And designed the kitchen so that the sink was situated perfectly to accommodate the pump.
Right where the water was needed.
Clear and cold.
Directly from the ground.
Heating it to a decent temperature for such things as cooking and cleaning was a whole other process.
So . . . bath time.
I should mention, here, that I wasn't present for any of this.
I'm telling it as my mom told me.
Every Saturday night, Gramma Berg would pull out the large tub and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Then painstakingly fill it bucket by bucket.
She had nine children, eight boys and my mom, to scrub.
And one tub to do it in.
The youngest went in first.
Then the second youngest.
Third.
Fourth.
All went well to this point.
Though the water was getting a bit . . . soapy.
But that is where her system inevitably broke down.
The fifth-youngest son always exhibited the same reaction to stepping into warm water.
He peed.
In the water.
Every time.
And my Mom, who stood next in line would get a little . . . perturbed.
Gramma always tried to soothe her only daughter by pointing out that the water was mostly clean and soapy. And that Mom would get a good rinse with clean water.
But Mom was only slightly mollified (real word.)
I often wondered why, in my time, my mother so enjoyed her baths.
I didn't have to go back very far to find out.

The Siblings of Summer

The crew. With one small addition.

In 1965, when I was 10, my dad had the opportunity to buy a second small ranch just over an hour from the home spread. Near the town of Coaldale, Alberta.

It would have been a logistical nightmare for one man to run both places, so he had two choices.

A - put a foreman and workers on the second place, or B - park some of his children and one cousin there.

Because Dad was a frugal (and adventurous) man, he went with plan B and, at the beginning of the summer, myself, my three older siblings and our cousin, Michael, found ourselves in a tidy little ranch house nestled in a fold of the prairie.

My eldest sister, age 17 served as chief cook and bottle-washer.

My two older brothers, ages 15 and 12, as general cowhands.

My cousin, wherever he was needed.

And me, as ballast.

Our jobs were properly delineated and we went to them with a will.

Chris cooked.

Jerry and George brought in the hay crop and tended the cattle.

Michael moved between them.

And I read and showed up for meals.

Oh, and rode my horse.

It was a learning, growing experience for all of us.

Simply managing such an operation would have been a challenge, but this ranch was unique.

It was also infested with rattlesnakes.

One day, while stacking hay, my oldest brother sat down on a bale to rest. There was a sudden buzz at his feet. Without even thinking, he simply pitched sideways off the stack, neatly avoiding being bitten. Then he and his younger brother hunted down the culprit and disposed of it.

Can’t have rattlesnakes in the hay . . .

Then they coiled up the remains on the front step of the house and rang the doorbell.

Okay, I served two purposes on the ranch. Ballast and victim.

After that experience, I mostly remained inside the house. Only going outside to ride. Walking slowly and carefully and observantly.

The technique must have worked because my only other experience with anything slithery was during a ride to check the cows, when my mount leaped suddenly and nimbly into the air and I saw, beneath us in the grass, something long and skinny and very, very mobile.

Whew!

Another memory from that summer was of my sister, busy in the kitchen.

Chris was making stew for supper. For a few minutes, she hunted around in the cupboards. Finally, she sighed. I asked her what was wrong.

“I don’t have any more flour,” she said. “Well, I’ll try . . .”

By this time I had lost interest and gone back to my reading.

I’ll never forget the stew she served that evening.

It was absolutely delicious.

Absolutely. Delicious.

Better than anything I had ever eaten.

I overheard her conversation with Jerry as I worked my way through a third helping.

Chris: I couldn’t find any flour for thickener.

Jerry: This is great. What did you do?

Chris: I used pancake mix.

Resourceful. And maybe a secret ingredient for delicious-ness?

It was a wonderful summer. Days of being cared for by older siblings. And cousin. (Sometime, I’ll tell you about my brother chasing off a mischievous bull using a bucket and a shovel.) Evenings spent playing five-handed solitaire. (It can be done.)

Learning that, if left on our own, we could succeed.

Our Coaldale summer.

I’ll never forget it.

The Register of P

My walking buddies/confession/therapy group

The Statute of Limitations has run out.

Or so I assume.

It’s been thirty years.

Maybe I should explain…

Every morning, rain or shine (okay, preferably shine) my daughter and I go for our morning walk.

We’ve been doing it since grade eight (hers, not mine) and we have a wonderful ramble and always a great talk.

This morning, the air was noticeably cooler. A few leaves have changed colour and are falling.

Our favourite time of year.

I guess it brought out the urge to confess.

At least one of us was a bit more garrulous than usual…

Our route took us past the house we lived in when we first moved to our little town of Beaumont.

Where her eldest daughter’s classmate/friend now lives.

This is how the conversation went:

Granddaughter: This is where my friend lives!

Daughter: I wonder if they got the smell of pee out of the heat register.

Me: …….

Daughter: When I was three or four, you would wrap me in a towel after my bath and send me into my room to get my jammies on. I was too warm and comfy to go back into the bathroom and use the toilet, so I just stood over the heat register.

Me (you’ll just have to picture the mouth dropping open): !!!!!

Daughter: Yeah. I figured it would go along the pipes and down to the sewer like it does in the bathroom.

Me: I have no words.

Daughter: There’s a blog post for you!

Me (rubbing hands together gleefully): Heh. Heh. Heh.

P.S. When I told this story to Husby, he rolled his eyes. “And here I spent all that time trying to get the smell of cat pee out of the carpets from the former owners (they had four cats who liked to do their business behind the wet bar in the basement). Little did I know it was an ongoing and current problem.”

Emphasis on ‘going’.

Au Nature-al

The theme for this week, I’m sure you all know,

Is ‘Nature’. Where plant stuff and animals grow!

But first, my regrets for my absence this week,

If you want to know why, then I’ll give you a peek!

Sunsets.

Fairies in the woods...

Cohort Family #1

With cohort families #2 and #3.

Cascade Gardens, Banff, Alberta

Ditto

And again...

I love this place, can you tell?

Really...

One last one.

Busy holidaying.

And conquering . . . things.

And waiting while others conquer things.

One last fairy in the woods...

This place had all amenities,

Like indoor plumbing, pool, and trees,

But one more reason we had fun?

Of WiFi, there was simply none!

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?

Next week a topic we all know,
'The Kitchen'. Come with me, we'll go...

Hay!

If you look closely...

In May we would have celebrated Daddy's 95th birthday.

That’s significant.

What else could I do but tell a story about him . . .

It was haying season.

In my day, that meant teams of two, one driving the tractor, one stooking.

In Dad’s day, it involved numerous men, horses, and hours and hours of back-breaking work.

This story is about Dad’s day.

The horse-pulled mower had been over the hayfield, cutting the long grasses.

They had been allowed to dry where they lay.

Another horse-powered machine, a rake, had been pulled over the area to turn and fluff and gather the still-drying grasses.

I should mention here that grasses have to be totally dried before they can be gathered and stored. Wet grass heaped into a pile will rot and stink and generally be disparaged by discerning cows.

Think of kids and broccoli.

Yeah. Like that.

But I digress . . .

Teams of men and horses were gathering the well-dried grasses, heaping them into wagons and hauling them to the main stack, where the hay sling (exactly what it sounds like) would be manoeuvred into position, pick up the hay, and swing it atop the big stack.

It was heavy, exacting work. The hay had to be stacked just right so it would stay in place and cure properly.

Dad’s brother, Bryce, had been the man atop the stack, directing the big sling.

He had other duties, so turned over the pivotal job to his baby brother.

My dad.

For the first three minutes, all went well.

Then the hay sling brought up a load.

It zigged.

Dad zagged.

And the long pole smacked him right in the mouth. Knocking his heretofore (Ooh! Good word!) buck teeth backwards into his mouth.

Don’t you hate it when that happens?

I’m sure there was pain and a lot of blood.

I know there was an attempt to press said teeth back into a proper position. An even better position than before. With partial results. Three tooth 'took'. Straight and perfect. The fourth didn't.

Finally, Dad was hauled to the family dentist and a new tooth, on an intricate framework, was installed.

As good as the old one. Almost.

At least it looked right.

From that day forward, Dad had a conversation starter.

Or stopper.

He would hide his tooth and grin his gap-toothed smile.

Or hang it out over a lip.

Okay, well, we kids thought it was hilarious.

And isn’t that what being a dad is all about?

Happy very Birthday, Daddy! We miss you!

Slinging. See the guy on top?
Brings a whole new meaning to 'Watch your mouth'.

Raking.

Collecting.

Tomat-oooo

Tomato is a lowly sort,

It’s used for things from food to sports,

And though it’s fruit so edible,

It poses as a vegetable.

And think of all that we would miss,

If this fruit did not exist…

Tomato soups to start us out,

Delicious when it’s cold, no doubt,

And Caesars are a lovely drink,

With salty rim and booze (wink, wink!)

And then we have our sauces, yum,

A million types to please our tum,

We’ve salads, infinite indeed,

And all delicious, we’re agreed,

There’s sandwiches and sweet stuff, too,

There’s nothing that this fruit can’t do,

But when it’s all been said and done,

There’s one more thing that would be fun,

The Tomatina in Buñol, Spain,

I’d love to do it, sun or rain,

Though sometimes banned, it’s still alive,

And going strong since ’45.

Yes, I think it would be a hoot,

To pelt my neighbours with ripe fruit!

And best of all, and what’s most blessed?

Someone else cleans up the mess!

So, as I said, from food to sports,

Tomatoes are a wondrous sort,

And think of all that we would miss 

If this fruit did not exist…

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?

Next week, because I’m out in it,

We’ll talk of NATURE just a bit!

Warmly Remembered

In 1974, My parents sold their long-time holdings in Milk River, Alberta and bought a ranch in the Spring Point community nestled in the beautiful Porcupine Hills west of Fort Macleod, Alberta.

It was a difficult time for the entire family, leaving the home we had known for generations and putting down fresh roots in a place eighty miles away.

Okay, yes, our family members came with us.

As did our cattle and horses and daily chores.

But the scenery – and the neighbours – were different.

Especially the neighbours.

No longer did we have anyone who could reminisce with us about our years without phones.

Navigating sketchy gravel roads.

Trips into town.

Brandings.

Barn dances.

School bus rides.

Everything that simply went into being ‘neighbours’.

For a short time, we felt bereft. (Ooh, good word!)

Then, slowly, the people who lived in nearby ranches introduced themselves.

They proved to be kind, wonderful people.

All of them.

And we were welcomed.

We attended new celebrations.

Brandings.

Dances.

Mom introduced the Spring Point community to the concept of quilting and started their first, ever, quilting club.

I met and married my Husby.

They were warm, wonderful years.

Our family was loved.

As Mom’s health worsened, my father took a position in another town and retired from ranching.

The rest of the family followed within a couple of years.

We do tend to stick together.

And the name ‘Stringam’ disappeared from the town rosters.

Moving ahead . . .

I was back in the ‘old stomping grounds’ once more.

I walked the old streets, but recognized no one.

Then I toured Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, a World Heritage site which almost directly overshadows the old ranch.

And visited Heritage Acres, ditto.

I was speaking to one of the employees.

I mentioned that our family had lived just below the site.

She immediately asked who I was.

I told her.

“The Stringams!” she exclaimed. “Of course we remember you! Your Mom started the quilting club! It still meets. Every week!”

It’s been over forty years.

In Fort Macleod, there are only a few people who remember the Stringams and their few short years there.

But those that do . . .

Details from the quilt.

Do as I say...

What do you think?

First, a little background…

In our church, we have something called ‘The Lord’s Law of Health’ or the ‘Word of Wisdom’.

It was given to us back in the 1830s and, in a nutshell, consists of advice like: Cigarettes and alcohol aren’t good for you. Neither are tea and coffee. You should eat right and get lots of exercise. And if you do these things, you will be blessed with good health.

My family, including my parents, were raised on this.

Thus we were a non-smoking, non-drinking, eat-well household.

Oh, us kids branched out occasionally (don’t tell Mom and Dad!) but mostly, we toed the line.

The only time I ever tried smoking was at the age of 10 when my best friend’s worldly-wise cousin came to visit from the big city, stole some money, and bought cigarettes with it.

It didn’t end well.

Of course, we were caught.

And of course the weight of my parents’ disappointment and disapproval nearly crushed me.

Ensuring I would never EVER try that again.

You can read the full story here. Go ahead. We’ll wait…

Back? Let’s move on…

I have this picture of my dad, taken when he was a Veterinarian student at Guelf Veterinary College in about 1947 by one of his roommates.

He is being studious.

But I want you to look closely at the picture.

Because Daddy was right-handed.

And in his right hand is a pen.

In his left hand is, according to Daddy, another pen.

Hmmm…

So, I ask again—What Do You Think?

The monkey…

P.S. Daddy once told me a story about how his request for an increased allowance while attending college was refused by Gramma Stringam because he would (and I quote) 'just use it for buying cigarettes'.

I shook my head in disbelief at her 'so-obviously-way-off-the-mark' comment.

Sooo, my head's not shaking now.

60 and Counting

For my baby brother and all those turning this year.... I can dimly remember it...

At 60 years old, your birthday suit requires regular ironing.

They put all 60 candles on your cake, but by the time they get the last one lit, the first twenty have already burned out.

People call you “spry” and you’re not offended.

It’s time to start yelling at the television.

Fortune tellers read your face instead of your palm.

Your favorite station on cable is the Weather Channel.
Target and Walmart is where you shop for great, stylin’ clothes.
You know your way around but you really don’t want to go anywhere. Ever.
Your wife suggests you pull in your stomach and you get a hernia doing it.
The 60 candles on your cake set off the sprinkler system.

You miss your high school car, but you can’t remember your classmates.

No More Tank Tops. It's a rule.
Your pants creep upward as you age. By 60 you’re a pair of pants with a head.

You can still chase women. Downhill.
When someone leaves you a sexy mirror lipstick message, your first reaction is how to clean it off.

Your favorite classic rock? Elevator music.
You wonder why the TV remote isn’t working, then realize it’s a cordless phone.

At the gym, you mostly do squats because of how they help you in the bathroom.
When classic movies come on, your comments are: “She’s dead. He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
Your childhood toys sell for a fortune on eBay.

The sheer quantity of gold in your mouth would make a decent retirement plan.
Your parties never even wake up the dog, let alone the neighbors.

Sucking in your gut can blow the hair right off the top of your head.
When you sit and relax on a park bench, boy scouts offer to help you cross … your legs.

Not wearing a bra tugs the wrinkles right out of your face.
Just saw this headline: "Godzilla turns 60." Life was pretty good before I knew I was OLDER THAN GODZILLA.
It took me awhile, but I’m finally a 60-year-old senior. How much longer till graduation?
Two of the most important things in life are bowel movements and nose hair.

Birthday thrills: more pills, more chills, more bills.
You can start bragging about your age. How else are you going to get your senior discounts?
“Chasing girls” refers almost exclusively to granddaughters.
Turning 60? Look on the bright side: you’re still younger than Mick Jagger.
I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again. But I wouldn’t mind looking like one.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 74. All bloggers taking part that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times.

This month’s word count number is: 60

It was chosen by: ME!

At the end of this post you’ll find 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 ATornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings 

Responsibly Irresponsible

My Grampa and me, we’re a pair, it is true,

And when we’re together there’s lots we can do,

Sometimes we go fishing, sometimes weed the yard,

We really have fun or we work really hard,

He says that those things he is teaching to me,

Are summed in one word: Responsibility!

One day while we two were just lying around,

A spider crawled over to him, there on the ground,

And took a big bite out of Grampa’s strong arm,

Grampa jumped up and was filled with alarm,

I laughed and said, “Grampa, you’re fine, I am sure!

“That spider’s not toxic. Your life is secure!”

“You don’t understand, Son, just what is at stake,

“I’m for being responsible, make no mistake,

“But this sense of duty’s much more than I’d planned…

“At my age I can’t handle becoming Spiderman!”

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try and 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?

Next week, cause I happen to like them a lot,
We're talking 'tomatoes'. From home or store-bought...

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