Definitely Hazardous

Admit it. This is scary...

Okay. Maybe I overreacted.

Maybe.

We were on holiday in a foreign land. France, to be exact.

And having a glorious time.

Our family had just finished an underground rafting trip.

Did I mention that we were under the ground?

I guess I did when I said underground.

Ahem . . .

It was fantastic!

Feeling slightly euphoric, we had driven to our hotel and were unpacking in the parking lot.

Suitcases.

Food.

Other stuff that wasn't suitcases or food.

Our rooms were on the second floor. One door opening from the long communal balcony into two separate units.

I dragged myself and my load up to the second floor.

Then looked back into the parking lot where the rest of the family was still in the process of unloading/loading.

There, standing in the very center of the lot was a young man, dressed completely in black.

Black hoodie pulled up over his head so that only his nose showed.

He was just standing there quietly.

Looking up at me.

It was . . . startling.

I stared back at him for a moment, then turning, shoved my key in the door and escaped into my room.

Throwing my load onto the closest bed, I took a quick look around.

Nice, quiet little room.

Two double beds.

Comfortable.

Then I walked over to the window.

And threw open the curtains.

The man in black was standing directly outside the window, now looking into my room.

I screamed.

I admit it.

He had been mysterious, standing down there in the parking lot.

Standing right outside my window, he was downright frightening.

And really, really creepy.

He made some sort of gesture, but I didn't notice.

I was too busy pulling the curtains shut and crawling under the bed.

Okay, so heroine material, I'm not.

My husby toted his burden of suitcases, etc. into the room a couple of seconds later.

And stared at me as I crawled out from under the bed.

“Ummm . . . looking for anything in particular?”

“No. That guy just frightened me,” I said, as calmly as possible.

“What guy?”

“The one dressed in black. Out there on the balcony.”

“There was a guy out on the balcony?”

“How could you miss him!” I demanded. “He was right there!”

My Husby walked across the room and whipped the curtains back.

I caught my breath.

Isn't this sounding mysterious?

There was no one there.

“But he was right outside! Looking into the room!” I stomped over to the window and peered out.

The man had disappeared.

“Huh. Weird.”

My husband was staring at me. “I think you were down in that cave too long."

I snorted.

I want to point out that it was a ladylike snort. Because I am . . . oh, never mind.

When my kids arrived a few seconds later, I challenged them. “Did you guys see the scary guy in black?”

They too, stared at me. “Scary guy in black?”

“Yeah. He was down there.” I pointed.

“Oh, you mean the one down in the parking lot who was trying to bum cigarettes?”

Cigarettes? Erm. "Yes. That would be the one.”

“Yeah. We just told him we didn't smoke and he left.”

“Oh.”

So much for my scary encounter.

I had been hiding under the bed to escape a . . . broke smoker.

But I learned something.

Smoking definitely causes heart attacks...

Being Branded

I had long, skinny children.

Who always outgrew their clothes in length, far before said clothes fit them in width.

As they grew, fitting them got to be a greater and greater problem. 

Did you know that few companies, back when my babies were growing, created clothing for children who look like they have been shaped in a taffy-puller?

Or on the torturer’s rack.

Well, it’s true.

And, by the way, shaping children in either of those methods is illegal.

Just thought I’d point that out.

So . . . long, skinny children . . .

Ever try to find pants to fit a 28-inch waist and a 38-inch inseam? 

I did what any desperate and decidedly broke mom would do. I started making my children’s clothes.

All of their clothes.

Shirts, pants, shorts, dresses, skirts, blouses.

PJ’s.

I even took a short course in making 5-pocket blue jeans and made them.

Rivets and all.

I made so many and got so proficient that I stopped even needing instructions and could whip up a pair – from cutting to trying on the finished article – in less than two hours.

I had even been known to make them in my sleep.

Of course, they didn’t look quite the same.

But I digress . . .

One thing I discovered with blue jeans was the fact that you are fairly limited in things you can do to make them . . . remark-able.

Oh, you can sew trim into the outer seams.

And use different colours of thread.

But probably the most noticeable of TYCD (things you can do) is to mess with the back pockets.

And yes, I went there.

I embroidered many things on my kids’ back pockets.

Pictures.

Slogans.

Designs.

Then I got the wild idea of using their initials.

Genius.

Only they didn’t always agree.

For example, Erik refused to wear his jeans embossed with the giant letters ‘E’ and ‘T’ on his backside.

I don’t know what his problem was. I thought it would be cute to be called ‘ET’.

Finally, in an attempt at mollification, I added a ‘B’, for his middle name of ‘Blair’.

It passed.

I then used the same idea for his next younger brother’s jeans. Robin Duff Tolley. What could be better than ‘RDT’?

He thought it was great.

Until his father asked what the ‘RDT’ stood for. “Rabbit, duck, turtle?”

“Nooo! Robin Duff Tolley!”

“Oh. Rabbitduckturtle?”

“Nooo!”

Yeah. Those pockets had to come right off.

I replaced them with something a little less controversial.

Like squiggles.

But the name remained. From then on, our Duff was known as Rabbitduckturtle.

Have you ever heard of the consequences of labeling a child?

Well, the stories are true.

Now, at the age of 40, he loves his moniker. He even has a rubber duck picture on his Christmas stocking.

Beat that.

Hand-Me-Down Sayings

Dad, Jerry and Chris
About 3 BD (Before Diane)
But 5 minutes AC (After Coats)

Our kids and grandkids were over for the weekend.

Fortunately for us, spring had finally arrived in Edmonton, Alberta, and they were able to spend much of the day outside.

One grandson, anxious to rejoin his cousins on the pirate ship in the backyard (yes, we have a pirate ship in the backyard) was frantically looking for his coat--discarded when he had come inside.

Moments before.

“Can’t find it!” he lamented loudly.

“Well, Sweetie,” I said. “I don’t know . . .” That was as far as I got.

Because, suddenly, I was remembering my Mom.

And something she said to us every time we were bewailing the loss of some article of clothing.

Which happened often.

Ahem . . .

There would the usual scurry to find said article.

Coat.

Hat.

Boots.

Shoes.

Pants.

And then the inevitable words, “I CAN’T FIND IT!!!”

Followed, if one were really good, by tears. (I was really good. Just FYI.)

Back to my story . . .

Mom would immediately bring the problem into ‘Mom’ focus with the words: “Well, I don’t know where I put it when I wore it last!”

We would frown because adult-sized Mom would never, ever have fit into it.

And this was NOT helpful!

Then she would laugh.

Whereupon (good word!) we would sigh and slump and renew our search.

So, back to my grandson. The three-year-old standing indignantly in the middle of the kitchen.

I smiled. “Well, Sweetie, I don’t know where I put it when I wore it last!”

He frowned at me.

I heard laughter from the periphery. And “I remember Mom saying that to me!”

Good family sayings traverse generations.

What were yours?

Eleven Twenty-Twos

My foot hurts. I don’t know why; it keeps its own council. But this morning when I first walked, it hurt.

Yesterday, it was my shoulder. It—creaked—whenever I moved it. And forget lifting or carrying anything. It was just determined to hurt.

My knees are always ‘iffy’. Most days, we get along. But occasionally, we are at odds. One or the other—or both.

And forget my memory. I mean, really forget my memory. Things from when I was 4 are crystal clear. Breakfast? Never happened.

I used to listen to ‘old people’ talk about their aches and pains. And think, “I will never get to that point!”

I was wrong. Now it isn’t unusual for a bowel movements discussion between Husby and me to take up an entire lunch.

How did I get here? I was young a moment ago. Strong. Elastic. Now I wear wrist and elbow guards to skate.

I worry about falling. What if I break into pieces and all the king’s horses and men can’t put me back together?

Getting old isn’t for sissies. There, I said it. My baby sister posted something yesterday that I think expresses this time nicely:

“I came. I saw. I forgot what I was doing, decided to retrace my steps and got distracted on my way back.

“Now I have no idea what’s going on and realized my hip hurts. And I have to pee.” Yep. This is me.

Today my fellow Word Counters and I are sharing our monthly group post. Each month one group member picks a number between 12 and 74. All participating bloggers are then challenged to write something (or a few somethings, as the case may be) using that exact number of words. Today's number is 22 and was generously donated by Karen of Baking in a Tornado!
Today we all share what we came up with.
Go and see what the others have created!
Karen
Mimi

Sneaky Words

It started out with Dr. Seuss,

And went from there to Mother Goose,

Then Nancy Drew, (clues to deduce),

And any horse tale and excuse.

I loved the mysteries, yes, it’s true,

And romance—some. Well, not a few,

The classics gripped me through and through,

Till Sci-Fi came to my purview.

Distracted when I’d clean or cook,

E’en though I vowed for ‘just one look’,

That’s all it took the get me hooked

To quote my Mom: ‘Lost in a Book!’

But lots of things I did take in,

Some facts and figures, yes, some sins,

Times I’d cry and times I’d grin,

But always magic found within!

But something I can’t say enough,

To whom all books are wondrous stuff,

The what and where of words? Creampuffs!

Pronunciation, though, is tough.

"One way to identify a reader? They know where and how to use a word. They just don’t know how to pronounce it!” *

     *Grant Tolley

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 we've something great in store,
We'll talk about An Ancestor!

Learning Manners

“Well I’m so glad to be able to have this chance to get to know you, Mrs. Townsend!” Mom took a sip of tea and smiled at the red-headed woman sitting opposite her in our living room.

“Likewise, Emma!” the woman winked. “And it’s ‘Mary’, please.”

Mom nodded.

Mary went on. “Of course I needed a behind-the-scenes glimpse of how your family survives when I realized that you, too were the mother of . . . one of ‘those’ kids. Whose mere existence is a life-changing-event.”

Mom nodded sagely and took another sip of tea. “Of course I’ve had mine a bit longer than you’ve had yours.”

“How old is Sally?” Mary asked.

Mom sighed.

I broke in. “I’m quite sure she’s been with us for—oh—a thousand years or more, right Mom?”

She smiled. “At times, it seems so.” She looked at Mary. “Sally is eighteen.”

Mary pushed the fingers of one hand through her fiery hair. “Eighteen. And Gary is eleven.”

Mom smiled sympathetically. “You have lots to look forward to.”

Now it was Mary’s turn to sigh.

“By the way, how did your family end up here?”

Mary took a bite of a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s kind of a strange story, actually.”

Mom smiled and settled back in her chair. “I like strange stories.”

“Well, my husband, Emmett, had been out of work since the pandemic started. He’s an auto mechanic. A really good one. But with no one using their cars, his boss simply laid everyone off.”

Mom nodded sympathetically.

“Anyway, he sent his resume to a company here and apparently they liked his profile and it didn’t take much convincing for them to invite him here for an interview.”

“That’s pretty exciting!” Mom said, offering Mary another cookie.

“Well, when you’ve been out of work for as long as he has, with COVID and everything, it sure is!” She smiled. “He got all his ducks-in-a-row and came. Sadly, he didn’t get that job. And to top things off, his car literally laid down and died just after his interview. Transmission.”

Mom winced. “So what did he do?”

Mary smiled. “The tow truck took him to a nearby repair place and Emmett got to talking with the guys there, and, before he knew it, he had a job offer.”

“Well, I’m glad you ended up here. And even more glad you chose our neighbourhood!”

“We like it. And now with our Gary finding a kindred spirit in your Sally . . .” She frowned. “By the way, where did they go?”

Both women looked at me.

I shrugged. “They said something about teaching Old Man Smith’s dog, Tanner, some manners . . .”

Mom snorted. “Gwen! You rhymed.”

I shrugged. “Don’t worry it won’t go to my . . .” Something moved on the front lawn. I leaned closer to the great front windows.

“What is it, hun?” Mom asked.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would guess it’s Old Man Smith’s dog, Tanner. Running for all he’s worth. And crying . . .”

“And learning some manners?” I could hear the smile in Mom’s voice.

“Well, learning something. He’s got clothes on.”

“Clothes?”

“Yeah. He’s . . .”

Just then a small, flesh-coloured streak zipped across the yard behind the dog. “Taaaaner! Taaaaaner!” a boyish voice screamed. “Come back here. Bring me my paaaaants!”

Just then another, larger streak appeared. “It’s okay, Gaaaary! You can have miiiiine!”

Then the much slower figure of Mort, carrying something in a bundle. “Saaaally! Don’t give away your paaaants! Use mine! Use miiiine!”

I glanced back at the two women seated together in the front room. "Ummm . . . there are three people outside, none of whom are wearing any pants."

Mary’s hands were on the arms of the chair as though she was about to get up.

Mom reached for her tea and took a sip. "So, a normal day, then."

Mary settled back and took a bite from another cookie.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers submit 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.

At the end of this post 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. 

My words this month? behind the scene ~ transmission ~ life-changing event ~ profile ~ convincing ~ ducks in a row

They were submitted by my good friend, Tamara at: Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Thanks so much, Tamara!      

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

Baking In A Tornado

Wandering Web Designer

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Climaxed

The Crazy Mama Llama

A Four-Footed Character

Just driving ‘round the backwoods in his trusty Chevrolet,

Ol’ Art spied him a sign that made him turn another way,

Cause ‘Talking Dog for Sale’ would catch the eye of anyone,

And Art, he figured sure a dog that talked could be so fun!

He drove into a yard and asked a man just sitting there

If he’d a dog for sale and if so, could he point where?

The man, he shrugged and told him that the dog was out in back,

Then pointed. Art, he thanked him, and the man said, “No prob, Mac.”

In the yard, ol’ Art, he found a black Lab sitting there,

"You talk?" he asked the dog. And the dog said, “Mid to fair.”
After Art recovered from the shock, while still a little dazed,

He said, “What's your story?” and prepared to be amazed.

The Lab looked up and said, “Well, I discovered pretty young

“That I could talk and so I thought that I could help out some,

“I told the CIA. And soon they flew me cross the skies,

“And sat me in some rooms with world leaders and with spies.”

“I was their most valued spy for eight years running, true!

“But the jetting around got to me and I figured I was through.

“So I went to an airport. Thought I’d do security,

“Standing near suspicious guys who never noticed me.”

“I uncovered some amazing stuff. Rewards came thick and fast,

“Then I got married, had some pups, and I'm retired at last.”

Ol’ Art was just amazed. He stumbled to the owner then,

Said, “How much for the dog?” “Oh, a tenner,” said the man.

“Ten dollars? Are you sure? This dog's amazing! Why so cheap?”
“Because he never did those things. The dog’s a lying creep!”

So just a note, in ending, s’not how talented you ‘ere’,

But whether you’re a man (or dog) of greatest Character.

Each month, for fun, and on a theme, we two write poetry,

Tell me what you think of poems from Karen and from me! 

Smells Like Employment

Who would you hire?

To a cowboy looking for employment in the 50s, the Stringam spread proved enticing.
Many times, someone would ride in with everything he owned on his back and in his saddle bags.
Usually at mealtimes.
Invariably he would be invited to put up his horse and stay to eat.
The interview had begun.
During the meal, everyone seated around the table would ply the newcomer with questions:
Where are you from?
Where have you been?
Where are you going?
But the boss would be watching for answers to the unasked questions.
By the end of the meal, his decision would be made.
And the cowboy would be directed to the bunkhouse.
Or the highway.
We often wondered how Dad did it.
How could he tell what kind of a man/hand this stranger would be?
He finally let us in on his secret.
Or secrets.
By the way the man swung into the saddle and handled his horse, Dad could tell he'd had lots of experience.
The fact that he treated his horse with affection and respect told Dad he was trustworthy.
He carried very little tack, so Dad knew he wasn't a thief.
He'd worked at the Bar K/Night Ranch/Q Ranch for two years and Dad knew their standards and expectations, so the man had been well-trained.
And last, he wasn't flamboyant in his dress. No ten-gallon hat or silver, big-rowelled spurs. The man had his needs and wants under control.
He was hired.
My Dad was seldom wrong.
Although once, some . . . refining was needed.
Let me explain . . .
Luke rode into the ranch yard, looking for work.
He was invited to loosen his girthstrap and join the boys for dinner.
He complied.
Talk was general as the boys got to know him.
There seemed to be a broad consensus that Luke was okay.
Everyone looked at Dad.
Who nodded.
Luke was directed to the bunkhouse and given a bunk.
The door closed.
And that's when everyone got the first whiff of Luke's one . . . drawback.
Luke didn't like water.
More particularly, washing in it.
At first, the boys were subtle.
Opening the windows.
And then the doors.
Then they started making comments.
“Whew! It sure smells in here!”
“I think someone needs a bath!”
Which got more pointed.
“Yak! I'm choking to death!”
With looks directed at the offending party.
Luke remained stubbornly oblivious.
Finally, the rest of the boys grabbed their bedrolls and toted them to the big ranch house.
“Morning, Ma'am,” the first one said. “We're moving into your attic!”
“Yep. There's poison gas in the bunk house,” the second one said.
“We're choking to death!” said a third.
“Dying!”
And they did.
Move in, I mean. Not die.
Mom turned to Dad, eyebrows raised.
Dad shrugged his shoulders. “I'll talk to them,” he said.
He must have.
Because that evening, the boys moved back into their bunk house.
Then roped Luke, hauled him down to the river and scrubbed him down themselves.
All was quiet for a week.
Till glances and remarks indicated that the next 'bathing' was being contemplated.
This time, Luke hauled himself to the river and scrubbed off.
From then on, all one of the boys had to do was take down his rope.
And Luke would scurry for the shower.
Oh, he complained. “Too much water is bad for the health!”
His words, not mine.
But he did it.
And the sweet, clean air of the Alberta prairies once more wafted through the bunkhouse.
Hiring is a tricky business.
But with discernment, skill . . .
And soap . . .
It can be done.

The Kitchen

Where no one likes a witch in,

Ingredients are switched in,

And chores are sometimes ditched in

The kitchen.

Where my mom found some britch(es) in,

And sometimes swung a switch in,

While all of us would pitch in

Mom’s kitchen.

Occasionally a glitch in,

And recipes hit a hitch in,

But only scents are rich in

My kitchen.

So Sing Along with Mitch in,

And try whatever’s ‘kitch’ in,

To satisfy your itch in

Your kitchen.

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 when you’ve ready what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, stop and take a look,

We'll talk of what we love, our BOOKS!

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.