Boiled

Newlywed.

That wonderful time when two people are starting out.

And learning so much.

For good or bad . . .

June was a happy bride.

Determined to do everything right.

Unfortunately, her mother had also insisted on doing everything right.

Particularly in the cooking department.

By herself.

So June remained untaught.

Willing and eager. But untaught.

Then: Marriage.

And the aforementioned DER (Doing Everything Right).

June asked her new husband what he would like for breakfast.

Pleased, he told her just something simple. A couple of boiled eggs.

“O-kay,” June said doubtfully, wondering frantically how to make a boiled egg.

Determined, she went into the kitchen. Put the eggs in a pot.

Added water.

Good so far.

Now. How long to boil them?

Most cakes take 30 to 45 minutes.

She’d go for the longer time, just to be sure.

And she did.

45 minutes later, she proudly presented her new Husby with her version of The Boiled Egg.

Now, at this point, these eggs would be suitable for such things as:

Tennis.

Golf.

Baseball.

Perhaps lobbing into enemy territory.

What did Husby do?

He ate them.

With a smile on his face.

Newlywed.

That wonderful time when two people are starting out.

And learning so much.

Getting What You Need

 

Friends are important.

They provide words of encouragement when you most need it.

Suffer along with you during dark times.

Laugh when events call for it.

Sometimes all at once.

Umm . . . maybe I should explain . . .

Roundup.

That exciting time when cowpokes and horses are pushing herds of cows from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’.

If this was a math equation it would be something like: If eight cowpokes on eight horses were pushing 400 head of cows from pasture A to pasture B, how many opportunities would there be for accidents/hi-jinks?

Answer: Yes.

Roy and his crew were pushing cows along their usual route.

A route which included at least 1 (one) muddy-watered, swiftly-moving river.

All sorts of things can happen in a river.

It’s wet. And muddy.

And did I mention swiftly-moving?

Fortunately, most of the cattle had crossed safely.

Then there was that 1 (one).

Who foundered. (ie. Stopped going across and started going down.)

One of the hands roped her and, together with said rope and strong language, towed her to safety on the far side.

This is where Roy stepped in.

Because he . . . stepped in. And loosened the lasso off of the animal.

I should probably mention here that cows aren’t noted for their brains.

But are noted for their sharp and pointy horns.

Did she get to her feet and kiss and profusely thank her rescuers?

Ummm . . . no.

Instead, she lowered her head, sighted on the nearest two-footed person (ie. Roy) and proceeded toward him.

At a run.

In an instant, Roy was high-stepping just ahead of those horns.

Now, remember where I mentioned friends at the beginning of this story?

And how they are always there for you?

That applies here.

Because as Roy was hot-footing it around trees and across muddy river banks and shouting for help in several languages, his friends were right there for him.

Laughing.

Friends. Those people who are yours just when you need it the most.

Running With Rum

The Smuggler and her get-away vehicle.

Before she . . . got away.

Mom was a teetotaler.

I thought I should mention that. It explains so much . . .

Dad had surprised Mom with the trip of a lifetime.

Okay, in the 60’s it was the trip of a lifetime.

Driving down along the scenic 101 through Washington, Oregon, California and into Mexico.

They were going to be gone for weeks.

She was just a bit excited.

They set out.

Visiting every landmark, great and small.

Every roadside exhibit.

Every tree, post and rock along the entire route.

Dad loved to see . . . things.

When they had finally finished with Sea World in San Diego, time was growing short.

They had one day to make a hop into Mexico.

Tijuana was all they would have time for.

They set out.

Crossed the border into Mexico.

And had a day of shopping the family-run stalls and businesses on the streets of Old Mexico.

Mom was in her element.

The sheer amount of purchasable ‘stuff’ was mind numbing.

She set to work with a will.

Picking up such treasures as: Velvet paintings.

Items of leather work.

Jewellery.

And some lovely bottles, encased in clever, hand-woven reed containers.

Happily, she piled her purchases into the back seat of the car and the two of them set off on the long road back to Canada.

Crossing the border from Mexico to the US was a simple matter of declaring that, yes, they had done some shopping and spent ‘X’ amount of dollars/pesos, and no, they weren’t transporting any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

They continued on.

Back through California, Oregon and Washington.

Seeing whatever sites Dad had missed on their first pass.

There weren’t many.

Finally, they reached the border, again declaring how much they had spent and that they weren’t carrying any firearms, tobacco or alcohol.

The last few miles to the ranch were covered quickly.

Mom had children to see.

And gifts to bestow.

Their homecoming was noisy and enthusiastic.

Mom handed out her purchases.

Brought all the way from Mexico.

Across two borders.

She had purchased one thing for herself.

The three little bottles in their fancy, hand-woven cases.

She arranged them proudly on the mantle above the fireplace.

One larger.

Two smaller.

Perfect.

For many months, they sat there.

In their place of honor.

Then one of my brothers happened to pick one up as he was dusting.

It was full of liquid.

“Mom! What’s in this bottle?”

“Liquid.”

“What kind of liquid?”

“Well . . . just water, I suppose.”

“Huh.” He twisted off the cap.

Let’s just say that, if it was water, the water in Mexico is vastly different than anything that flows in Canada.

“Mom. I hate to tell you this, but this isn’t water!”

Mom appeared. “It isn’t?”

“Umm . . . no.”

“Well what is it then?”

“I think you have three bottles of tequila here.”

Okay, remember the part where I mentioned ‘teetotaler’?

That would apply here.

 “What’s tequila?”

 “It’s a very strong alcoholic drink. From Mexico. With a worm in the bottom.”

“Oh.”

The ‘liquid’ was duly poured out, worm and all, and good old 100 proof ranch sulphur water poured back in.

Mom went back to the kitchen and my brother went back to his dusting.

All was well.

But I can’t help but think about my teetotaling Mom bringing her three bottles of tequila across, not one, but two borders.

It’s always the ones you don’t suspect . . .

Red vs Big

1. There once was a sweet little girl. Her name’s unknown. Because she always wore a red-hooded cloak made by her mother, she was just called Red Riding Hood.
 
2. Red Riding Hood (or RRH for short and to save words), was always very happy to help her mother. And, by association, grandmother, who lived in the woods.
 
3. One fine day, RRH, carrying a basket of goodies, was wending (Oooh! Good word!) her way to said grandmother’s house to supply aid and/or sweet treats as needed.
 
4. Along the way, she was met by a Wolf who was not only Big and Bad (note the capital letters), but also could converse quite well in human.
 
5. Sooo…not your normal wolf by any stretch of the imagination.
He asked her where she was going and RRH, being a bright, friendly, albeit naive child, told him.
 
6. He smiled and waved her off, then, being Crafty as well as Big and Bad, took a shortcut through the woods, arriving at Grandmother’s just ahead of RRH.
 
7. What transpired when he and Grandmother met is unclear. Perhaps he gobbled her up. Poor choice. Everyone knows senior citizens are high in cholesterol and low in fiber.
 
8. Regardless of what happened, their interaction culminated in his weird wearing of the elderly woman’s nightgown and sitting in her bed when the sweet, unsuspecting RRH arrived.
 
9. There followed a dialogue consisting of questions and answers designed to ferret out the truth. And which ended with BBCW (see above) chasing RRH around the cabin.
 
10. A local woodcutter, heading home for the day, heard RRH’s shrieks, arriving just in time to see her bash BBCW over the head with the aforementioned treat basket.
 
11. Now, normally, this would have been passed over as a fairly amusing attempt to waylay someone as powerful as the BBCW. Except for the fairly heavy honey pot.
 
12. If any of you have had the misfortune of dropping one of those suckers on your toe, you know the damage they can do. Even at low speeds.
 
13. This one laid the BBCW out pancake flat. So flat, the bulge in the critter’s belly became noticeable. Did anyone bet on the ‘gobbled up’ story? You just won.
 
14. The woodcutter, possessing—you know—woodcutting…stuff…immediately slit open that belly and, what do you think? Out popped a very disgruntled and rather untidy, but totally alive Grandmother!
 
15. Then the three of them found several large stones and filled that greedy belly with them. Because nothing says ‘full and satisfied’ like a belly full of rocks.
 
16. Then Grandmother, possessing the skills, sewed that old belly shut quick as a wink. (Of course blood, gore and correct bodily functions have no place in fairy tales.)
 
17. The BBCW, when he awoke, felt full and satisfied (see 15) but extremely thirsty. He made his way to a nearby stream where he bent for a drink.
 
18. But those wretched rocks shifted (they’re quite unpredictable you know, rocks) and pulled him into and underneath the clear water. And there and then, the BB(not so)CW drowned.
 
19. I’m quite sure that RRH, her mother and grandmother and even the woodcutter really didn’t want this for the BBCW. What can I say? He made poor choices.
 
20. So, something to think about. If laziness and craftiness try to inhabit the same sphere, laziness will win. Or actually—lose. However you want to look at it.
 

Word Counters is a totally fun word challenge.
This month, the number of words allowed? 28. Chosen by: ME!
Care to see what the others in the challenge have created?
Baking In A Tornado 
Messymimi’s Meanderings  

NEWSworthy

When I was young, occasionally, My Dad would read the news,

‘Twas mostly for the headlines, but sometimes to just amuse,

He’d tell us of disasters far away from prairie home,

Describing things that made Mom gasp, (made me vow ne’er to roam),

At other times, the things he read were wonderful and bright,

Ironically, convinced me what I wanted was to write,

At times, a po-em, he’d recite, all sober (or carefree),

I came to find a lot he ‘read’ came from his memory,

Once he said Sylvester Forrest passed away, t’was true,

Mom said, “Oh that’s sad, who’s he?” Said Dad, “I’ve naught a clue.”

The best, though, were the stories that got more and more absurd,

Until the punch line—WHAT?—he’d dreamed up each and every word!

He didn’t always have the time, cause chores and work would call,

But if he pulled the paper out, we knew we’d have a ball!

It’s many years since I heard Daddy reading out the news,

A choice ‘tween him and sources now? I know who I would choose,

Those mornings when he’d take a break from riding through the herds,

And duck his head behind those crisp new sheets of printed words?

They were the best in memory. And I’d not make a fuss

If just once more, I’d get to hear Dad ‘read the news’ to us!

 

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?

 

This week, from Mimi, we had fun,

Talking Newspapers, everyone!

Next week from SpikesBestMate, in rhyme,

We will talk about ‘SHOWTIME’!

A Too Cozy Cabin

Or something similar...

Okay, the idea of staying for a couple of weeks in a cabin in the woods at the edge of a pristine lake should sound like a specific slice of heaven.
To normal people.
Mom and I are bringing Sally.
What could possibly go wrong?
Things started out…normally.
With a, “This is the place!” Sally dragged her suitcase across the wide porch and into the cabin.
Which was beautiful, I had to admit. A snug, shaggy, little dwelling with cedar siding and wood shakes, it looked to be one with the surrounding forest.
Across a small clearing was another cabin, remarkably the same.
I looked at it, then at Mom, one eyebrow raised.
She smiled. “Don’t worry, Dear. When Sally booked us, the landlord told her the other cabin would be unoccupied during our stay.”
I nodded as my COVID senses stopped tingling.
The two of us followed my sister inside.
Sally had already disappeared into one of the three bedrooms. Her voice floated back to us. “Oh, this is really nice!”
Mom and I looked around at a wide fireplace, comfortable sitting room, tiny but functional kitchen and bathroom and three golden-wood paneled bedrooms, brightened with the addition of hand-worked quilts and folksy wall hangings.

Everything was scoured and clean.
Mom sank into a chair in front of a crackling little fire. “Now the holiday can begin!” she said.
Looking from the large windows, I could see we were perched on the edge of the lake. The porch wrapped around to a wide deck on the back, which, in turn, led to a dock. A small rowboat dragged from a rope tied to one of the dock posts.
The rest of the day passed relatively peacefully.
If one of your relatives hadn’t been Sally.
After supper, in true ‘Sally’ fashion and holding an enticing bit of enchilada, she coaxed the neighbourhood cat inside. The ‘cat’ that turned out to be a possum. Needless to say, Mom and Sally and I had an entertaining time chasing the wretched creature around until it finally found our pile of ‘enticings’ out on the deck and vacated the premises.
Exhausted, Mom and I headed for bed the minute we got things set right again.
The next morning, just as the weak morning sunshine was beginning to light my room, I was shocked awake by a loud “AAAAHHHHHH!!”
Sally had just seen a rat.
A bit bleary-eyed, Mom and I searched until we found a store of traps while Sally sat on the kitchen table hugging her pantyhose-encased feet.
Mom baited a trap with a bit of peanut butter and set it.
A while later we heard it snap.
As I carried the trap to the garbage, Sally studied it carefully.
Then she shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s not him.” 
Though we didn’t see any more, Mom and I were rather twitchy for the rest of the holiday…
Other than those little hiccups, we really had no disasters until the last one.
The ‘Sally’ bomb that must detonate.
Let me tell you about it…
Sally had gone out for a walk.
Which was, to the rest of us, a clarion call to batten down the hatches.
Sure enough, a short time later, she returned with something under one arm and breathing hard.
“Quick, close the door!” she shrieked.
I did so as she moved to the kitchen table and set something down.
Something furry.
That squalled.
Sally stepped back. “Ta-daaaa!”
Mom and I were staring at the cutest little baby bear.
I felt my heart stop.
A baby bear here meant that a mama bear was…
Somewhere outside, we heard an ear-numbing roar.
The front door may be water tight, but it obviously allowed for sound leakage.
“Uh-oh,” Sally said, rather breathlessly. “He was all by himself and I …”
Another roar. This one just outside.
“Quick girls!” Mom shouted. “Head for the back!”
Pushing us ahead of her, and grabbing up the car keys and poker as she ran, Mom hustled us toward the back bedroom. Hers in fact.
Just as we reached the entry, the front door blew in, accompanied by yet another roar. This one within the confines of what was becoming an increasingly tiny house.
Mom slammed the bedroom door.
Sally and I looked at her. “But Mom. There’s no back . . .”
That was as far as I got.
Mom swung the poker with purpose and shattered the large back window.
The one that had heretofore looked out over nothing more than the other cabin. And peace.
She threw her colourful quilt over the slivery remains of the panes and gave us another shove.
“Out we go, girls!”
The three of us scrambled over the sill and dropped to the ground.
We heard another roar as we dove into the car and slammed the doors shut. Mom started the car and we backed up the drive.
My last view of the cabin included a large bear’s head poking out of the window of Mom’s former room.
Sally was looking sad. “I thought I’d found a real live teddy bear.”
“You found a real live death!” Mom muttered.
“How can you get a real, live dea . . .” Sally saw the look on Moms’ face and let her voice die away.
“Mom, that bear is going to trash that nice cabin,” I said after a few minutes. “Will their insurance cover that?”
“I’m sure it will, honey.” Mom made a face. “They used to call it ‘Act of God’ insurance. Dunno what it is now.”
“‘Act of Sally’ insurance,” I whispered into her ear.
“Now THAT would be expensive.”

Use Your Words is one of my favourite challenges!
Each of us participants submits words.
And our intrepid leader, Karen re-distributes those words.
To hi-jinx and hilarity!
My words this month were: cabin ~ edge ~ leakage ~ pantyhose ~ specific
And were generously donated to me, through Karen, by my amazing friend, Rena of https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog
Thank you, Rena! This was SO MUCH FUN!
 

Now go and see what the other participants have created!

Baking In A Tornado 

Wandering Web Designer  

Climaxed 

The Crazy Mama Llama

Part-time Working Hockey Mom 

Singing As We Go

'Slithery-Dee'

With grandchildren

Our family was camping.

With our good friends, the Boyd family.

Something we had done every year.

For Over 30 years.

Rain or shine.

Usually rain.

It involved work.

Setting up trailers and tents for nearly thirty people inevitably included some sort of exertion.

 1.  There were the usual ‘tarp wars’.

Won by whichever family could set up the best, tightest, most wrinkle-free campsite covering.

 2.  The leveling of the tents/trailers.

Highly important if some members of the tribe were susceptible to the headache inevitably brought on by sleeping with one’s head tilted below one’s feet.

 3.  And the choosing of the ‘Boydolley’ camp song.

This was very important. It had to be the most aggravating, annoying, ‘stick in your head’ song imaginable.

We’d had such treasures as: ‘Oh, How I Love to Stand’.

And: ‘Hi! My Name is Joe!’

Plus the ever-popular: ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Non-Alcoholic Beverage on the Wall’.

And who can forget: ‘Jon Jonson’?

Seriously, who can forget it . . .?

And then there was the year that the Grandkids were finally old enough to get involved.

And vote.

What did they choose?

What classic would take its rightful place in history?

Was it something momentous?

Heart-warming?

No.

It was ‘Slithery Dee’.

The classic song featuring a monster that comes out of the sea and eats everyone.

Perfect camp fare.

For a family camped beside a lake.

Moving on . . .

There were various versions.

Depending largely on the age and capability of the singer.

Megan, the eldest could sing it quite well, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”

Right behind her was Kyra, “Oh, Swivery-Dee!”

And then there was the youngest talker, Odin, “Oh, Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee!”

They sang it by the hour.

And I do mean By. The. Hour.

Until . . . THE EVENT.

It was early afternoon.

Lunch had just finished.

Grandma (me) was lying on the bed in our tent trailer, telling stories to as many of the grandkids as would lie there and listen.

At nearest count – several.

Then they asked to sing ‘Slithery-Dee’.

Sigh.

I complied.

We were just getting through the first verse, wherein (good word) Megan had been eaten, when we were interrupted.

I should tell you, here, that our little tent trailer consisted of a central square block.

With three wings/beds.

Each wing was covered by the main canvas, which folded around and hooked under said wing.

Canvas that could be . . . un-hooked.

Without the person, or persons, on the wing knowing anything about it.

Back to my story . . .

Where were we?

Oh, yes.

End of the first verse.

Unbeknownst (another good word!) to us, my Husby had unhooked the canvas immediately below us.

Just as we started to sing, “Oh, Slithery-Dee!”, a hand and arm reached up through the wall of the trailer and grabbed the nearest grandchild.

Who promptly screamed.

Inciting an immediate riot.

Grandma and grandchildren boiled out of the trailer like angry bees.

Realizing what had happened, we started to laugh.

Then we fed Grandpa.
To Slithery Dee.

Friendship

My heart was aching, woes amassed,

I’d trauma in my recent past,

So when she called to see if I

Could watch her babies by and by,

I turned her down, while pleading woe,

“Give me a year for good to grow,”

And so she did, and called again,

(I was doing somewhat better, then)

I took her girls, tow-headed pair,

They joined with my kids then and there,

Two families became as one,

Us—family herd, her—single Mom,

I learned from her, she learned from me,

But most, she taught what friends could be.

Sometimes I think of days long past,

When hearts were heavy, woes amassed,

And how I could have turned her down,

Allowed myself—through grief—to drown,

And what I would have missed, if I

Said no, when she, to me, applied,

Through her service, love and ‘time well spent’,

I learned what ‘Friendship’ really meant!

 

This poem has been an exercise

If, from a theme, we could devise

To craft a poem, both wise and new,

And present our labours here, to you!

So tell us what you really think

Of what we've hewed in pen and ink,

We’d like to hear (if you don’t mind),

Be truthful now. Or else be kind! J

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Lydia at Cluttered Genius

Dying Right

Tomorrow is Remembrance Day. There are so many stories of the courage and bravery of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for those of us who followed.
Here is one.

Richard Rowland Kirkland was eighteen when he enlisted in the Confederate Army in 1861, shortly after war had been declared. 
By 1862, Richard had seen many of his closest friends from Kershaw County killed and had fought in some of the largest battles. 
In December of that year, his unit found itself in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

This is the story of that battle...

Richard Rowland Kirkland

Just eighteen when he enlisted,
Richard offered his support,
Of Confederates, his group consisted,
They, the Union army’d thwart!
 
Within a year, from Kershaw County,
To closest friends, he’d said adieu,
In battles, large, they’d paid the bounty,
And death’s dark veil they hurried through.
 
In Fredericksburg, there came that fight,
8,000 Union soldiers shot,
Though some were dead at Marye’s Heights,
There’re many hundreds that were not.
 
Their cries and moans of pain and thirst,
Assaulted ears of South and North,
T’ween this and battle, this was worst,
They needed aid. Someone go forth!
 
For hours those cries were unrelenting,
But no one hearing, offered aid,
For fear they, too would be consenting
Targets. If from their lines they strayed.
 
Then Richard, he could stand no more.
Defied the band of army ‘law’,
Behind the lines of his own corps,
Approached his gen’ral Joe Kershaw.
 
“I’ve got to help!” young Richard told him,
“A flag of truce to bring me home?”
The older officer just looked grim,
And told him he was on his own.
 
So Richard packed what he could carry,
Blankets, canteens by the pound,
Crossed that ‘No Man’s Land’ so scary,
Reached the first, then started round.
 
No one fired as our young ‘fighter’,
Dealt compassion by the hour,
Making wounded’s burdens lighter,
Serving with empathic power.
 
Kindnesses are oft found missing,
When we tell the tales of war,
One fact, we should not be dismissing,
Of Richard Kirkland’s we need more.
 
Our Richard took a fatal blow,
During Chickamauga’s fight,
"I'm done for," said the 20-year-old.
“Tell my Pa that I died right."