Trading Up

Horse trading.

A term that doesn’t necessarily include horses.

My Father-In-Law, Ray Tolley, hereinafter known as FIL, was a master at the Art.

How do you get to be a master?

Continue and see my young apprentice . . .

FIL, when he left the farm, always wore a fedora. A smart, jaunty fedora.

His old one was getting . . . less than smart.

And a degree off jaunty.

He was in need of a new hat.

A fact that coincided with a 1960 trip into Montana with his wife and kids.

While they shopped elsewhere, FIL went into the local millinery (hat shop) and looked around.

Several possibilities immediately presented themselves.

And quickly narrowed to one.

Choice made, FIL happily carted it over to the salesman.

“This is the one I’d like,” he said.

Or words to that effect.

I wan’t there, so I’m Making It Up As I Go.

Back to my story . . .

“That’s is a fine hat, sir.” (More MIUAIG.)

“Yes. Can we make a deal?”

The salesman looked at the hat and went into his spiel. “This is one of our finest Field hats, sir. Brushed fur felt with a silk-like finish. Notice the new, open telescope shape with narrow sport brim and upper welt edge.” He pointed to the hatband. “Included is the rayon and cotton grosgrain band, with single-wing side bow and feather.” He turned the hat over. “A reeded, roan leather, cushioned sweatband and rayon, acetate lining.” He looked at FIL. “It comes in the two-tone iodeon green, and two-tone brown as well as this gray.”

See how good my imagination is? And how much you can find out on Google?

Ahem . . .

“No, I’m just interested in the grey. How much?”

“Ah. You can see that it is marked with today’s special price of $7.64.”

“Okay. Let me ask you something.” FIL took off his well-cared-for but distinctly used hat. “How much would you give me on a trade?”

A few minutes later, FIL emerged from the store wearing his smart and jaunty new hat.

MIL looked at it. “Nice. How much?”

“Well, here’s the thing. The original price was over seven dollars.”

She sucked in a breath. “Seven?!”

“Yes. But I didn’t pay that.”

She stared at him. She was used to Dad. “Okay. How much.”

“Well, you see, I traded him my old hat for this one.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He gave me $2.00 for it.”

MIL shook her head. “Why on earth would he give you $2.00 for that old hat?”

“Well, I told him that was how we did it in Canada. And he didn’t want to be outdone by some milliner in Canada. So he sold the new hat to me for $5.00 and took my old hat in trade.”

Horse trading.

It doesn’t always include horses.

But it is always entertaining.

Partner Perks

I’m old.

He’s a little older.

We’re happy.

When we married, nearly 45 years ago, I looked into his hazel eyes and thought, “All I want to do is grow old with you.”

It’s happened.

We’ve had triumphs: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work accomplishments. Good health. Peace and freedom.

We’ve had tragedies: Kids and grandkids. Family. Work setbacks. Health problems. Disharmony and shackles.

But we’ve shouldered on. Through good times and bad.

Just in case you are thinking, “Oh, my word, is she going to wade through an exposition of My Wonderful Life?” let me reassure you.

You’re not far wrong.

Because this is my usual long-winded way of getting to a story . . .

I’ve hit the wonderyears that we affectionately call mid-life.

Where nothing in my physical self seems to behave the way it used to.

The way it should.

My nights are spent vacillating between shedding and/or cocooning in my blankets. At times, both. As some parts freeze and others parboil.

Sigh.

Last night, I discovered one of the joys of growing older with someone else.

You have to know that Husby and I used to leap happily into bed without doing much more than donning PJs, scrubbing teeth and saying prayers.

Now, our evening routine is a litany of age-defying/life-augmenting practices. Ending with my careful application of wrinkle-reducing face creams and his donning of his sleep-apnea mask.

I must admit – we are quite a sight. Darth Vader meets Slime-Faced girl.

I see a horror movie in there somewhere.

Back to my story . . .

Last night, I was particularly keyed up. Who knows why.

Awake at 3 AM. Music blasting through my mind. Blankets on. Blankets off. Turn to one side. Turn to the other. Blankets on. Blankets off. Face up. Face down.

You’ve totally been there.

Meanwhile, Husby was peacefully snoozing. His machine breathing quietly.

He rolled over to face me, and my poor overheated self was suddenly enveloped in a soft, cooling breeze.

I looked up at the window, but it was as it had been. Not really doing its part to alleviate anyone’s (ie. my) discomfort.

I turned back to Husby. Then I held out a hand in front of his face.

Ah! The lovely little breeze was emanating from the exhaust port in his mask.

I laid back, smiling, and let the cool air get in its wondrous work.

Soon, I was comfortable and cocooned once more.

You have to know that growing older has its drawbacks.

But growing older with someone else yields definite perks.

Plan accordingly.

(Not Really A) Care Bear

Most of the stories told at a family reunion are of the belly-laugh variety.

Occasionally . . .

My cousin’s son-in-law worked with his dad, a contractor.

Said SIL and a friend were scouting out an area in the remote woods, looking to build a new oilwell site.

Friend was carrying a bow and arrow.

SIL was carrying a rifle.

They were walking through the Great Canadian Woods. They brought the weapons for protection.

Spoiler: They would need them.

As they were hiking, they suddenly smelled something very dead.

The two men stopped. Obviously, they were near a bear’s cache.

Should they back up?

Change course?

They chose to keep following the path, thinking they would simply by-pass the cache.

It didn’t work that way.

Ahead of them, waiting in the bushes, was a very large, very real grizzly.

With a very real attitude.

The bear went for the man with the bow, who immediately commenced running.

SIL fired three shots. Emptying his gun.

With little effect.

In fact, the only thing it did was cause the bear to change course.

From his friend.

To him.

Suddenly, he was staring into the teeth of a large omnivore and all he had to defend himself was an empty gun.

In one panicked movement, and almost without thinking, he shoved his gun, barrel first, down the bear’s throat. Right up to the scope.

It was at that moment the bear keeled over.

Dead.

At least one of the shots had finally found its mark.

The two men called Fish and Wildlife to report the tragic incident.

And received a lecture entitled: Grizzly Hunting is Really, Really Against the Law.

Something, in other circumstances, the two scouters totally agreed with. They didn't want to shoot the bear. If there had been an alternative, they definitely would have taken it.

Fish and Wildlife officers came out and surveyed the area, mapping the men’s tracks through the snow.

Studying the bear’s.

Examining the bite marks on the gun and scope.

And concluded, finally, the men were telling the truth.

The men were then informed that they were free to take the bear and have it stuffed. But once it was done, they weren’t allowed to keep it and, instead must turn it over to the government.

They learned something from this experience.

If one’s job necessitates walking through the more remote parts of the Great Canadian Woods, always, always take a Fish and Wildlife officer.

Preferably one you can outrun . . .

Mowing Smarts

Me and everyone on the ranch who was smarter than me.
(except Dad who was taking the picture. . .)

I was nine! I made it! I could do anything!
I was supergirl!
As you may have guessed, nine years old was an important time in my family.
The time when one was moved up to the next level of responsibility.
Now I could do all of the cool things that my older brothers and sister could do. Things I'd been waiting years to do.
Wonderful 'adult' things like . . . mowing the lawn.
Odd, isn't it, how exciting and attractive something looks when someone else is doing it?
And how not-exciting and not-attractive it is when suddenly, it is your responsibility?
By the second time, the thrill of mowing our acres and acres of lawn had begun to pall.
In fact, I hated it.
Maybe if there were such a thing as a really cool riding mower, I could have retained my enthusiasm.
But the fact was that we only had a small, electric unit. 
And you had to push that little cretin every square foot of the way...Oh, and watch out for the cord.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
My instructions were very specific. Always start at or near the plug-in. Then work away from it in rows.
And rows and rows and rows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sorry! Got caught up in the memory . . .
Needless to say, my mind didn't stay focused on what I was doing.
In fact, it rather wandered. A bit.
One bright, sunny summer afternoon, when my horse and I could have been a small dot on the horizon, I was, once more, pushing that wretched mower.
But it wasn't all bad. Part of me - the thinking part - was off riding. Suddenly, I was rudely made aware of just why we are supposed to keep our minds at least in the vicinity of what we are doing.
The mower . . . quit.
Just like that.
Dead.
There were some tell-tale sparks in the lawn, if one cared to look, but other than that, the stupid thing had just suddenly become lifeless.
I narrowed my eyes and began my investigation.
Aha! A cord. That just . . . ended. Snapped off as though it had been . . . cut. I searched around for the other end. There it was! Lying in the grass! Now how do you suppose . . .
The truth hit me like one of Dad's yearling bulls. I had done the unspeakable. The unpardonable.
I HAD MOWED THE CORD.
Soon, if Dad found out, I was going to be as dead as this mower.
I had to fix it.
I grabbed the two ends. Maybe if I just put them back together, they will magically join . . .
I sometimes wonder just how many guardian angels I wore out during my growing up years on the ranch. I think I went through them at an alarming rate.
But they were good at what they did.
There was an enormous explosion and a First-of-July amount of sparklers.
I dropped those two ends like they were hot.
Which they probably were.
And headed for my dad.
He just shook his head and followed me to the scene of the crime. Then he unplugged the live end of the cord (funny that I didn't think of that) and with a few quick strokes and some electrician's tape, mended everything.
Good as new.
I sat there in the un-mown grass and watched him work.
He got to his feet. "Okay, Diane, back to work. And watch the cord a bit more carefully."
I stared up at him.
After that traumatic experience he was going to make me get 'back on the horse'? (Something I would loved to have done, in reality.)
He smiled and turned away.
He was! He actually meant for me to start mowing again!
I looked at the couple of swaths I had completed.
Then at the millions of swaths left to do.
I reached out and tentatively flipped the switch. My trusty little cohort hummed into life.
Sigh.
I started pushing.
Okay. Careful of the cord. Always keep it between you and the plug-in. Be watchful. Be wary . . .
Oooh! Look at that hill. Soon my pony and I will be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
And yet another guardian angel sighs as he is called into service.

Being Inoculated

Oh sure, they look healthy now . . . Little beggars.

It gets very cold in Southern Alberta.

Calves need to be vaccinated.

And ranching can be a dangerous business.

These three statements actually go together.

To create one of the scariest experiences of my young life.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was at a neighbouring ranch, on a -40 spring day, vaccinating the new spring calf crop against Blackleg.

I should probably tell you that Blackleg is a particularly vicious and deadly disease, caused by a spore in the ground.

This tiny spore, inadvertently ingested by calves between six and twenty-four months of age can cause death within 12 to 48 hours.

Nasty.

And impossible to treat, once an animal has been infected.
But, happily, almost completely controlled by early vaccination.

Early.

As in 'before-it-gets-warm-in-Alberta'.

So, sometime before July.

That explains Dad, the calves and the cold.

Moving on . . .

The calves were being shuffled down a chute, one by one, to receive their vitally necessary little jab.

All was going well.

One group finished.

Another was being sorted into the catch pen for further shuffling.

Meanwhile, Dad had placed his favourite pistol syringe under his coat to keep it, and the vaccine it contained, from freezing.

Remember? Minus 40?

One of the animals in the pen bumped into him.

The syringe pricked the skin of his belly.

Those needles are sharp for a reason . . .

He could only have taken in a very minute amount of the Blackleg vaccine.

But it was enough.

By the time he finished with the herd, he knew he was in trouble.

He drove himself to the hospital.

And stayed there.

For three weeks.

He was a very, very sick man.

But his strong constitution and normally healthy lifestyle finally tipped the balance and he began to respond to treatment.

At the end of the third week, a thinner, whiter version of my father returned home.

My brave mother hadn't explained, at least to the younger half of the family, exactly what was wrong with Daddy.

We knew he was in hospital, but had no idea why.

Or how serious it was.

It was only years later that I found out the whole story.

Okay. Much too late to panic now.

But I did learn several things from this experience:

1. Vaccine for calves should really only be given to calves.
2. People don't respond well to it.
3. Never hold one's syringe under one's coat.
4. Don't vaccinate in the cold. And...
5. If there's ever a blackleg outbreak, Daddy's had his shots

Bottom's up!

To all my faithful readers, I have something to confess,

This poem is recycled, 'case this life's in such a mess!

Though some things are not hap'ning, there are others car'ying on,

And somehow those replacements make sure all my time is gone! ;)

Your Favourite Potable’s our subject and I must admit

My favourite drinks have morphed around. And not a little bit.

When I was young a chocolate milk would satisfy my wants,

And was the first thing ordered when we hit the restaurants.

From there, I guess I’d have to say that soda pop became

The chosen drink at movies or when cheering at the games,

In orange, grape or lime the flavours all would satisfy,

With na-tur-al ingredients (not one additive or dye).

Then Mountain Dew took over and I couldn’t wait to see

Who bottled it: from Ann and Bill to Harriet and Zee.

It claimed that it would ‘tickle yore innards’. So this I will state,

It seemed to make the grade and Wow! It tasted really great!

I must admit about that time, I started mingling things,

Discovered brand new tastes that mixing orange pop could bring,

Before you try to guess, I’ll take this time to clarify,

Swamp Water’s made with root beer—goes with Teen Burgers and fries!

From Seven-Up which took a hefty portion of my wealth,

I moved to fresh, fruit juices and their claims of ‘improved health’,

The juice of vegetables then beckoned. I was so surprised,

That I was drinking something I, in younger years, despised.

And now I stick to water. When I do, then nothing hurts.

And bodily functions can’t be weighed in ‘small’ or ‘mega’ hurtz.

No extra shots are needed from a glass or in the vein,

And no one bothers me or asks my actions to explain.

But . . .

I must admit that if I had my ‘druthers’, I would choose,

Another drink with calories, and not a hint of booze,

And strange enough, the one I loved from birth, now to my grave

Has followed me Full Circle. Again chocolate milk’s my fave!

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

(And Karen for a special treat!)
We've posted poems that we have wrought.

So...

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, I hope we won't be frantic,

From Mimi, we've: A High School Antic!

Fizzled Sizzle

  

“Our life needs more ‘sizzle’,”

Said Husby. To me.

And I wondered just what in the world could he mean?

So I went to the lexicon,

Searched the word there.

I admit that the things that I found made me stare.

It said ‘sizzle’s a hissing sound,

Water—hot steel.

Which happens whenever I’m making a meal.

It also suggested

To burn up or sear.

Sounds to me like a branding iron on a calf’s rear.

Or the hissing sound made

When burning or frying.

That happened last night. He thought something was dying.

And lastly, to seethe

With deep anger: resent.

Now I’m really unsure just what my Husby meant.

So to my dear friends,

Use a whisper. (Don’t shout.)

Can you tell me what life with more ‘sizzle’s’ about?

Daddy/Daughter Dating

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of one's life.

Or the best.

Just saying . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped into my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. I think . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to your father being good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader, so I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line by whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation. “Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas. “Go on."

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much. “Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant. The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music playing. Quiet talk and laughter around us. Gentle chime of silverware on china. Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, buttered, ate and perused.

Dad was studying his menu. “Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match. Then used its light to read his menu.

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.
Truly the time of my life. In the best of ways.

A Short Trip

Ready for town . . .

We lived 70 miles from the nearest city. Thus, a 'trip to town' was more of an event.
Inevitably, I got car sick. Not a pleasant thing for anyone stuck in the vehicle with me.
And, being four, I sometimes confused being excited with being sick.
Let me explain . . .
On the ranch, the most exciting thing our Dad could say was, “Everyone get in the car, we've got to go to the town!”
It was equivalent to being told we were going to Disneyland.
All right, I admit it, sophisticated world travelers, we weren't.
We would then pile into the car (And I do mean 'pile'. Seatbelts hadn't been invented yet.) and head up the gravel road towards the great white lights of Lethbridge. The trip took an hour and a half. Or more, when Diane was one of the passengers.
Invariably, at some point between the ranch and the first town, Milk River, a small voice would pipe up from the back seat, “I'm sick!”
The car would slide quickly to the side of the road. Mom's door would fly open. Diane would pop magically to the top of the heap of humanity in the back seat and . . .
I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
Every trip.
Every time.
But then . . . something changed.
The little voice would speak up sooner.
And sooner.
Until the car wouldn't even have made it out of the driveway before the fateful words were heard.
Mom and Dad tried to puzzle it out. Why was Diane getting sick so quickly after getting into the car?
They must have figured something because they certainly came up with an effective solution.
On that fateful day, Dad announced that he had to make a trip into town.
With much talk and laughter, we kids piled (that word again) into the car.
Dad got in. His door closed.
A pause while he found the key and jammed it into the starter.
He turned the key.
The motor roared to life.
He reached for the gear shift.
“I'm sick!”
His hand hovered there for a split second. Then dropped down and shut off the key.
“Then, you'd better stay at home with your Mom.”
What?! No! I stared at him, horrified.
“Go on. Get out.”
The tears started.
I should mention here that my Dad is a real push-over for tears.
Any tears.
Except, obviously when his small daughter needs to be taught a lesson.
“Diane. Get out.”
“Daaaadddyyy!”
Suddenly, Mom was there, opening the car door.
“Nooooo!”
She carried me, by now crying bitterly into the house and set me down on a kitchen chair.
Over my sobs, I heard the car start up and pull out of the driveway.
They were really going to leave me! It was more than my little four-year-old heart could handle.
I lept off the chair, ran to my parent's room and crawled under the bed.
Now, I should point out here that, never before or since have I crawled under my parent's bed. Maybe because never before or since has anything been that traumatic. But I digress . . .
I lay under there, sobbing for hours. (Or more probably five minutes – it's all the same when you're four.)
Suddenly, a banana appeared at the side of the bed. A fresh banana, with the peel still on, but just slightly opened to reveal the yumminess underneath.
It stayed there, just temptingly out of reach.
I looked at it. I love bananas.
And it really looked good.
I slid towards it. Just a little.
It stayed there.
A little more.
I could almost reach it.
More.
There! I could touch it.
And I was out from under the bed.
“Are you feeling better?”
I looked up. Mom was sitting there on the floor, holding the banana.
I nodded and crawled into her lap. She held the banana for me to take a bite, then handed the rest to me and snuggled me tightly.
I munched my way through the treat, still sniffing occasionally.
Mom waited until I was done.
“Was it good?”
Nod. Sniff.
“Would you like something else?”
Nod.
She stood up, taking me with her and carried me into the kitchen.
Where she fed me a cookie.
Then another.
Why does everything look better on a full tummy?
Then she sat down. “Diane, in the car, were you really sick?”
I stopped chewing and looked at my cookie. Then I stared at her, wide-eyed.
“I don't think you were, were you?”
Slowly, I shook my head.
“So why did you say you were?”
I looked at the cookie again, my mind working frantically.
“Were you excited about going to town?”
I nodded.
“Okay, I want you to think about this . . .”
Great. Thinking. My forte. Not.
“When we go in the car, I don't want you to say that you're sick. Unless you really are sick.”
I turned that over in my mind. I nodded.
“Can you remember that?”
Another nod. I started chewing again.
Mom smiled and stood up. “Good.”
And, oddly enough, that was all it took.
Never again did I pipe up from the back seat for anything less than genuine illness.
Or the potty, which Mom kept under her car seat.
But that is a whole other story.

'Twenty' Winks

The real reason Rip slept for 20 years?

Tell me what you think of this…
A man, married to a distinctly unpleasant woman (His words—not sure what the full story is, but I don’t want to judge…) disappears for 20 years, then returns and gives an astonishing performance of…astonishment…when he finds his family gone and his house in ruins. He later meets up with his daughter, now grown, and goes home with her.

Said daughter, now the wife of a wealthy landowner and mother to two children, tells him everything that has occurred in his absence. Including the death of his wife and nearly all of his drinking buddies. The man—oh I forgot to introduce you, his name is Rip—then proceeds to tell his part of the story, which includes entering a cave and falling asleep for twenty years.

Now the genius part of this story is the fact that Rip had no proof. None whatsoever. Other than his newly-long-grown beard, similar outfit to the one he was wearing when last seen, and decaying rifle. Tales of a group of tiny people, happily bowling inside the mountain where he slept are, sadly, inconclusive. And unprovable. And why on earth did he include them in the first place? 

So here is a man who conveniently disappears, leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves. Then, when enough years have elapsed for every possible problem to have resolved itself, he returns to reclaim his life with a plausible/not-so-plausible story. See? Genius. My question is this: Where did Rip actually spend those twenty years? And doing what? Sleeping? Really? A good story, Rip, but we’re watching you. 

And by the way...where is this cave?
Asking for a friend.

Today's post was brought to you by the number 68 and by the letter 'M'. For Mimi 

See what the other participants have created!

BakingIn ATornado
Messymimi’sMeanderings

Happy Word Counters Day!

'Die' With a 'T'

When I was young, my parents said

To clean my plate—from soups to bread,

I was a skinny chicken, then,

With every food that’s known to men.

 

As I grew older, diet changed,

From meat to chocolate, it ranged,

And, as a teen, it wasn’t odd

To lunch on Mars bars when abroad.

 

‘Twas then I started diet fads

To keep my weight from getting ‘bad’.

It started with my Nutri-shakes,

Nutrition, some. And flavour, fake.

 

From there, I moved to Watching Weight

With guides to track just what I ate,

It worked for years—I even taught

‘Bout only eating what I ought.

 

Now I’ve seen diets come and go,

‘Eat Only Meat!’ ‘Eat Only Roe!’

‘Away with dairy, eggs and cheese’,

OR ‘Breads are evil! Cause disease!’

 

I have tried Keto, I admit,

It was a satisfying hit,

And I’ve considered trying Noom,

(I learned about that one on Zoom!)

 

Will it, like others, come to naught?

(Though I lost the same 10 pounds a lot!)

Think I’ll return to being eight,

Eat everything. And clean my plate!

 

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, from Mimi, join us here

For ‘Favourite Potables’. Teas to Beer!

 

 

 

 

 

I (Don't) Spy

Ray Tolley, my father-in-law (hereinafter known as FIL) was a man of integrity. Honest, forthright and industrious, he worked the land on his farm near Fort Macleod, Alberta with skill and patience, gleaning a good crop from the dry land every year but one until his death at the age of seventy.

FIL was a man of faith. Of deep thinking and wisdom.

He was also a man with a wicked sense of humour. Because, let’s face it, how could one have endured the hours he did sitting on a tractor, without one?

From using a ruler to measure ability (which was inevitably ‘nigh onto nothing’), to posing the conundrum, ‘which would you rather be – dumber than you look or look dumber than you are?’ to which the forgone conclusion was always, ‘How could you?’ (Yeah. Try to get out of that one . . .), FIL personified the image of weather-beaten farmer, tanned of face, hard of muscle and clever of tongue.

He had many sayings, most gleaned from family, neighbours and reading, but my personal favourite was when he’d come home and dramatically exclaim to his grandkids that, “I almost saw a coyote today!”

Inevitably, one or more of the younger kids who hadn’t heard this one before would get caught up in the conversation. “Really, Grandpa?” Then the reality of the statement would sink in. “Ummm . . . how do you almost see a coyote?”

The slow grin. The uh-oh look. The sure sign that someone had taken the bait and was about to be ‘had’.

Then, the punch line.

“If he’d been there, I’d have seen him!”

FIL left us nearly 40 years ago and, if he were still alive would be well past 100. But when one of his sayings crops up in a conversation, we know he’ll never truly be gone.

There it is!

Salloween

Have I ever mentioned that living with Sally is like permanently cozying up with Charon in a small corner of Hell?
Well, it is. And it is.
I wasn’t sure if I should share this story. After all, neighbourhood children (and one mayor) were terrorized in the unfolding of this tale.
At least one of them is considering opening a Special Victims’ Unit for Sally alone.
Moving on…
Sally, Mort and their new sidekick, Scary Gary (my title) had been whispering and giving each other significant looks for a week.

Now, this alone should be cause for alarm.

And being that Halloween is approaching, doubly so.
We were right to fear.
And I have the film footage to prove it…
We have a gazebo in our back yard.
Large.
Open.

Perfect for a carefully-controlled Halloween celebration, right?

Sally is involved.

Yeah, I can see your perspective shift.

Anyway, this morning, Sally and Mort informed Mom and me they were having a small, socially-responsible get-together tonight in said gazebo and we were invited. 7:00. Costumed. And masked.

Mom and I looked at each other. I could see ‘I’ll-be-under-the-bed’ written all over her face.

We nodded at Sally.

They turned happily and disappeared.

Later, a large truck backed into our driveway and unloaded some tables and other paraphernalia, a boatload of pies, and two people in masks to set everything up.

A few minutes before seven, I peeked into the backyard to see it transformed into a Halloween postcard.

Tables had been set up in the gazebo and loaded with pies and snacks of every kind, with a huge, steaming tureen at the end of the nearer one.

Various figures with glowing eyes stood sentinel around the perimeter of the gazebo, emitting puffs of smoke and alternately shivering or moaning. A chair was positioned in front of each.

The rest of the yard was wreathed in swathes of fog.

The two masked attendants stood on one side of the far table, serving utensils in hand, obviously prepared to…you know…serve.

Sally was dressed as a griffin because, as she had painstaking told me, she wanted angel wings (but really didn’t want to be an angel).

Personally, I had my own opinion about the whole ‘angel’ bit. Some costumes are simply too unbelievable. Who’s with me?

Ahem…

She was holding what looked like a large cherry pie and chatting with the servers from across the table.

I adjusted the skirt of my pirate wench costume, touched the gold hoops dangling from my ears and wished, not for the first time, that Mom was beside me.

She had—probably wisely—opted for her usual spot under her bed.

As I stepped into the yard, the rest of the guests arrived en masse: the kids from the neighbourhood. Seven of them at any rate.

With Scary Gary, dressed rather appropriately as a zombie, in the lead.

At first, the others hovered uncertainly near the gate. Then as Gary, in his best ‘zombie’ fashion, dragged himself across the yard, a witch, a warlock, and a ghost or two quickly followed.

Soon everyone was happily shouting to each other, taking plates of food, finding a chair, and/or chowing down.

Sally, still clutching the pie for whatever reason had stepped back to give them all room.

Her back was to the house.

It was at that moment Mort emerged.

At least I’m assuming it was Mort. But there aren’t many who could pull off the ‘skeleton’ look quite like Sally’s tall, gangly boyfriend.

I remember watching an old movie from Mom’s bygone days about a party that ends in complete and total disaster. Someone at the end asks how on earth it all started and no one knew.

Not so here.

I think I could totally pick the point where disaster first reared its masked and ugly head.

Mort crept up behind Sally and… “Sally!”

She gasped and threw up her hands protectively. Hands that, until very recently, had been holding the pie.

Said pie went straight up.

And stuck to the ceiling of the gazebo.

Stuck.

Did you know pies could do that?

I didn’t.

For just a moment, both Sally and Mort looked up at the pie expectantly. I mean what goes up must come down, right?

It didn’t.

Sally shrugged and turning, punched Mort in the shoulder.

For some reason, I decided I needed to start filming that pie. I took out my phone, pointed, and pressed ‘record’.

A car pulled up just outside the garden gate and four people got out and approached Sally.

“Miss Hart?”

Sally turned to a short, rather squat man dressed in a beautiful tuxedo with matching black mask. She waved. “Hello, Mr. Mayor!”

Did I mention that the city’s mayor lives in our neighbourhood?

Probably not.

Well, he does.

“I’ve brought my kids. Thank you for inviting them!” He turned to the angel and devil beside him. “Taylor? Tyson? Make sure you keep your masks on!”

The boys nodded and headed eagerly toward the far table.

“I must run,” the mayor said. “I’m hosting an international press conference in a few minutes!”

He turned.

And that’s when the pie stopped defying gravity.

Right onto the mayor’s balding head.

Have you seen the damage a very large cherry pie can do to a pristine tuxedo?

I doubt it.

But I probably don’t need to describe.

The mayor was in midstride when it hit and, thrown violently off balance landed heavily on one end of the closest table.

The legs under him collapsed, catapulting the large, smoking tureen at the other end into the air, along with anything else that had been on the table.

Pies began dropping like bombs all over the yard and screaming neighbourhood children boiled about like angry bees.

The great tureen shot with uncanny accuracy right through the garden gate.
Landing with the rather sickening crackle of breaking glass on the front windshield of the mayor’s car.

Where it upended and poured whatever it had contained all over the interior of the formerly spotless vehicle.

I pressed ‘end’ on my video. I mean, who could top that?

Sally turned to the mayor. “Well, you don’t want to be late for your press conference…”

Each month, Karen's Klub joins together to exchange words. Well, actually, we supply the words and Karen shuffles and distributes.
It's totally fun.
And none of us knows who is going to get our words and what they will do with them.

My words this month: witch ~ warlock ~ ghost ~ hell ~ hello, came from the maestro herself, Karen at https://Bakinginatornado.com 

Thank you, dear friend! GREAT words!

Now see what the others in the group have created!

BakingIn ATornado
WanderingWebDesigner
TheCrazy MamaLlama
Climaxed  
Part-timeWorking Hockey Mom

So Now We Know...

The children’s organization in our church begins when the children are three.
Watching those little ones come into the room for the first time to join the older kids is quite a treat.
They look so tiny.
In an effort to get to know each of the children, a survey is distributed at the beginning of the year.
These are the answers my three-year-old granddaughter (hereinafter called GD3) supplied.
Enough background . . .

Primary Spotlight 2015
I came down to__[earth]__ from my Father above.
My home has __[five]__ people and __[1]__ animals to love.
I like to __[go on doughnut dates]__ with my family.
If you see someone with __[hazel]__ eyes and __[curly brown]__ hair, it could be me.
I like learning about __[the alphabet]__ when I go to school.
When I grow up, I want to be __[four years old]__ (I think that would be cool)
In my spare time, I think __[watching movies with mom]__ is fun.
And I like to eat __[cucumbers and marshmallows]__ when the day is done.
I like the color __[pink, purple and green]__ when I am making art.
On Sunday __[Sunbeams]__ is the class I go to
Singing __[Popcorn Popping]__ is one of my favorite things to do
On __[October 11]__ you can say “Happy Birthday” to me
Thanks for getting to know me!
Each week, one child is selected and the answers are read out one by one.
Then the other children in the room try to guess who the ‘spotlight’ is.
When GD3’s was read, things went something like this:
Teacher: I came down to earth from my Father above.
GD3 (loudly): Hey! I came down to earth too!
Teacher: My home has five people and one animal to love.
GD3 (more loudly): Hey! That’s the same as me!
Teacher: I like to go on doughnut dates with my family.
GD3 (louder yet): Hey! Doughnut dates! That’s what we do!
Teacher: If you see someone with hazel eyes and curly brown hair, it could be me.
GD3: Wow! I have hazel eyes! Look!
I think you can see where this is heading . . .
For every answer read, GD3 was deafeningly ecstatic that someone else liked/did/had the same things she did.
By the time the survey was done, every other person in the room had their hand up.
The first time, ever, that had happened.
Primary. The most entertaining part of Sunday Church attendance.
P.S. I can see a future in theatre, but I do hope GD3 never tries to go into politics.