Eight Seconds

 

I have a secret.

I guess it’s not really that big a secret. I mean, not like I’m a spy or anything…
I love the rodeo! Yes, I know I’m a city girl and always have been. But there’s just something about people and horses doing what they do.
And cowboys in tight jeans?
Who’s with me on that one?
For my sixteenth birthday, Mom and Sally put their heads together and bought us all tickets to Calgary, Alberta for the world-famous Calgary Stampede.
Rodeo at its…dustiest.
Can I just say I was thrilled and leave it at that?
We picked the Hilton, which was within walking distance, or, if one is with Sally, one long sprint from the Saddledome.
Each morning, we dressed in what we fondly believed looked ‘cowboy’ and headed out for the fairgrounds/EVENT.
And each evening returned, dusty and happy for a shower and recaps on the evening news.
For me, exactly as I had dreamed it.
For Mom and Sally? Well…they were gracious in their ‘enthusiasm’.
The first two days slipped harmlessly by.
Then, that third and final day.
You have to know that no experience with Sally ever remains…normal.
Ahem…
We were watching the bull-riding.
For you neophytes, this is the event wherein man is pitted again 2000-pound beast by perching his slender, Levis-clad self atop a muscular, leather-clad behemoth.
Then, in a monumental battle of wills, attempts to remain there for eight loooong seconds.
Interestingly, it is the ONLY event wherein a cowboy uses skills he wouldn’t actually use on an actual ranch, doing…actual cattle stuff.
But it is uber exciting!
Now, because these large, male cattle are, for want of a better word, unpredictable, the powers-that-be decided many, many years ago to add something to the scenario.
Clowns.
Okay, they may look funny to us. And even do ‘funny’ things in the arena, but their actual purpose is really quite serious.
Distract the big guy while the small guy sprints for safety following the ride.
Enough detail…
Sally had befriended one of the youngest bull-riders, Mark.
Because she was…Sally, and did that sort of thing easily.
Mark was the next rider on the program.
So Sally was down by the fence in the warm July sun, watching intently.
Across the arena from us, the chute opened and a brown and white cyclone emerged.
With Mark clinging to its back by a slender rope.
And one hand.
The first few jumps went well.
Bull bucking and twisting.
Mark clinging.
So far so good.
Then the inevitable parting of the ways.
From this point on, things didn’t go smoothly.
Normally, the rope to which the rider clings maintains its tension by his grip. He is actually, physically, holding the two ends together. When he lets go, so does the rope.
Occasionally, this doesn’t happen. The rope, for whatever reason, binds. It’s called getting ‘hung-up’. And the watching audience comes to its feet with a gasp as the cowboy dangles by one hand off the side of a still-miffed and enormous daddy cow.
Now most of the time, the situation resolves itself. Rope lets go. Rider falls. Clowns distract the bull and the man sprints to safety and awaits his score.
But sometimes, all hell breaks loose…
And of course, it did. Here. Now.
Because.
Mark attempted to release.
The rope refused.
And suddenly, he was hanging, quite literally, inches from the hooves and horns of death.
By one hand.
The clowns went into action, dodging and weaving around the bull. One of them tried to move in close and pull Mark free.
But the bull spun, flinging Mark’s body outward like some sort of appendage, and chased the clown off.
And that’s when I noticed that someone else had stepped into the middle of the arena.
A slender fifteen-year-old girl.
Carrying the brightly-coloured scarf that had just moments before been around her neck.
She waved it and the bull’s head went up. Now bulls are colour-blind. But they do respond to waving.
Much like a teen-aged boy…
Mom rushed to her feet, then cleared at least two rows of mesmerized audience members in one leap.
I couldn’t move.
The bull made a couple of hop-steps toward Sally, then charged.
A moan went through the crowd and I noticed several astonished clowns blinking and staring as the bull swept past them.
Just as the bull reached my sister, she glided to one side and, grabbing for Mark’s arm, jerked down on it. His body came loose and he dropped to the ground.
She spun around and stepped a few paces away.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. They do things like this all the time in bullfights halfway around the globe.
But we’re talking about a young girl.
Who has never even SEEN a bull before.
The bull came at her again and, once more, she spun to one side at the climactic moment.
By this time, the clowns had gathered, managing to distract the bull and direct him toward the nearest bulls-only exit.
Sally knelt down beside Mark.
And I collapsed into my seat.
Mom reached Sally about the same time as the guys with the stretcher.
I thought I’d see her smack the back of Sally’s head with a well-timed, well-deserved, mom-precision slap. But instead, she wrapped her erring daughter in her arms.
Whew.
Okay, the excitement didn’t quite end there as we were forced to spend the next few hours in the offices of the event administrators, explaining and apologizing.
For a while, there was even talk of charges.
But finally, they settled for a guarantee that Sally, if she ever thought of returning, wouldn’t.
And we were allowed to return to our hotel room.
I know many of you have experienced a rodeo.
But if you ever want to REALLY experience one…take Sally.
Please.

Use Your Words is a word challenge issued by, Karen of Baking in a Tornado. (She who keeps us all pointed in the right direction.)
Each of us submit our words to her, and she then distributes to the other members of our circle.
It’s totally fun.
Sally fun.
My words this month were:
rodeo ~ glide ~ picked ~ warm ~ exactly
And given to me by Karen (see above). Thank you, my friend!
 
Now go and see what our other friends created!
You’ll be glad you did!
Baking In A Tornado
Wandering Web Designer
Part-time Working Hockey Mom 
Climaxed
The Crazy Mama Llama                                               

It’s Not Over

I love the stories about my Dad’s mother, Grandma Stringam . . .

My paternal grandmother, Sarah Lovina Williams Stringam and her husband, George Lewis Stringam, homesteaded and raised their family in Glenwood, Alberta.

While Grandpa ranched and served in the legislature, Grandma worked in the home and community and as the accepted nurse/doctor in the rural area.

She is credited with saving many lives.

A little girl who was nearly frozen to death. Her own sister with diphtheria.

Several during the 1918 flu epidemic. Subjects of future posts.

But this story is about babies.

The Wood twins had been born four and a half months before to Mr. and Mrs. Glen Wood. The little ones were frail and sickly and still near their birth weight.

And now both of them had contracted pneumonia.

When Grandma arrived, their father was sitting in the kitchen with one of them.

He looked at Grandma and said, “Sister Stringam, I’m afraid you’re too late.” 

Grandma told him not to speak that way. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” she said.

Just then, the little one quit breathing. His father blew in his face and he revived.

Grandma told him to hold the baby for just a moment and she would get a mustard plaster to put on his chest.

The father just looked at her, so she stirred up a weak plaster, warmed it in the oven, and put it on the baby’s little chest until it turned pink.

Then she rubbed in oil and wrapped it in cotton batting. This seemed to make the baby breathe easier and it slept.

Both babies were coughing and Grandma called the nearest doctor half an hour away for instructions, but he told her he had done all he could for the babies and figured there was not much of a chance for them.

Grandma asked him, “Do you think I could give them mustard plasters?”

“Do you think they could stand them?” 

“Oh, yes, if I’m careful.” 

Then, the fateful words: “I don’t think they have a chance in the world. I’ve done all I can. Now it is up to you and the Lord. Do whatever seems best to you, Sister Stringam.”

So Grandma did. She and the babies’ parents took turns through the next days and nights caring for the two little ones.

By the end of a week, they had ‘improved greatly’ and Grandma was finally free to go home and care for her own family.

Though she didn’t agree, their parents insisted that Grandma had saved their babies.

When everyone else had given up, she carried on.

Sometimes, that makes all the difference.

Cookie Monster

 

Daddy was a dessert/sweets aficionado.

Most meals ended with some incarnation of treat—usually homemade and delicious. Or ice cream. Or both.

And…sometimes…those same treats would be re-introduced during whatever evening activity the family was engaged in.

Said introduction was normally preceded by the clearing of a fatherly throat. Followed by, “Blair (or insert name of child), Jerry (insert another child) would like some cake and ice cream and strawberries. And while you’re up, would you be so kind as to bring me some as well?”

Now ‘Jerry’ would not have said a thing prior to this exchange.

Though he/she/they were totally happy to be included.

Spotlighted child would obediently (albeit with some slight verbal remonstrations) rise and fetch treats for the entire family.

Daddy would happily tuck in and all was well.

This went on for the entirety of his life.

Skip a couple of generations…

My second granddaughter (hereinafter called GD2)—bright, red-headed pixie of a girl, was sitting on her grandpa’s knee. Dinner was over and the family had settled in to do what they do best—visit.

Across the room, on the food table, resided a platter of favourite cookies.

Which GD2 had been eying closely.

Finally, the little girl turned to her Grandfather. “Grampa? Would you like a cookie?”

Now she well knew her grandfather’s penchant for all things sweet and delicious. The question was mere flimflam.

Grampa: “Why yes, I would!”

The little girl bounced off his knee and quickly made a return trip. “Here, Grampa.”

She handed him a cookie with a little bite taken out of it.

Her grandfather looked at the cookie, then at his granddaughter. “Umm…thank you?”

She smiled happily. “You’re welcome!”

A few minutes later, she again turned to him. “Grampa? Would you like another cookie?”

He looked at her. “Ye-es.”

Again, she hopped off his knee. Again she ran quickly to the table and returned with a treat.

Again it consisted of just a bit less cookie than when she had plucked it off the platter.

This time, her mother caught the whole operation.

“I told you no more cookies!” she said sternly.

GD2 just grinned.

And suddenly, I was reminded of my dad and his ability to snag treats by getting them for 'someone else’.

Yep. That acorn didn’t fall far…

 

And That's Lunch, Everyone!

When one lives in the country, and rides the bus to school, one learns to take lunch.

I did.
Live in the country, take the bus and pack a lunch, I mean.
Lunch time was the high point of my school day.
The bell would ring.
The scramble for our various lunch boxes would be completed.
The inevitable question, "Whatd'ja get?" would be asked.
And serious eating would begin.
My Mom took extra pains to make our lunches varied and delicious.
With mixed results.
There was always the sandwich.
Which was the mainstay of ninety percent of our lunches.
Thick slices of homemade bread containing one of the following:
Tinned tuna salad. Yum.
Chicken Salad. Yum.
Ground Beef and pickle. Yum.
Peanut butter and honey. Double yum, as long as peanut butter had been liberally smeared on both slices of bread before the honey was added, because otherwise, the honey seeped into the bread and made a sort of . . . crust.
Not yum.
Peanut butter and jam. Easily exchanged for my neighbour's cold hamburger patty and mayo stuffed into a homemade bun. Yum.
Tinned salmon salad. Not in my lifetime. And not easily traded, either.
Sigh.
Hot dogs. The best. The very best.
I should mention, here, that microwaves existed only on Star Trek. And pre-packaged meals, like Lunchables, hadn't even been thought of.

Mom's hot dogs were an amazing feat.
She would cook the hot dogs while we were eating breakfast, then put two of them into our thermoses with a small quantity of the hot water.
Then seal it up.
Add a couple of hot dog buns wrapped in waxed paper, and a packet or two of ketchup and mustard and lunchtime couldn't come fast enough.
She always included some extras as well.
There was the inevitable sadly-bruised banana.
Which had looked perfectly good when it was put in.
Or the un-eat-able apple.
I've decided that the idea of gifting a teacher with an apple came from a student who simply didn't want to eat theirs. And had been taught that wasting food was unacceptable.
But I digress . . .
Mom also included a treat.
Usually something homemade and yummy.
Like squares.
Or her famous butterhorns.

Mmmm . . .
Occasionally, she would change things up a little.
When my thermos wasn't filled with hot dog deliciousness, she would usually put in chocolate milk or hot chocolate.
Either of which just nicely rounded out a lovely lunch.
Once, she put in something different.
But didn't tell me.
I saw the sandwiches, so I knew that hot dogs were out of the question.
So I did what I always did. Grabbed my thermos and shook up what was supposed to be milk and chocolate in some form.
Then I unscrewed the lid.
Pop!
It hit the ceiling hard enough to bounce clear over to the door.
And brought students from every room down the hall to see who was opening champagne in the grade nine classroom.
I looked up from my fizzing-over thermos and grinned.
Sheepishly.
Umm . . . Mom had filled it with Seven-Up.
The first and only time.
Another attempt at variety.
A good one, but wasted on me.
Alas.
Later, when I started making my own lunches, they included fresh tomato sandwiches.
Made from tomatoes that I sliced at school so the bread wouldn't get soggy.
And packages of cellophane-wrapped goodies.
The sandwiches were good.
Though they were made with store-bought bread.
But the treats never quite measured up.
To this day, when I hear someone mention lunch, I think of my Mom's homemade bread sandwiches, home-baked goodies, hot chocolate and my one experience with Seven-Up.
I miss those days.

Mr. Nasty

Today is Be Nasty Day! Let's celebrate! ;)

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

No loveliness in his demeanour,

He lived all alone near the old county dump,

Developed his skills as a screamer.

Whenever he heard just so much as a bump,

His head would pop out of the door,

With a noise that would make almost everyone jump

His displeasure well underscored.

One day to the village known solely as Frump,

(Don’t think it’s for fashion expression!)

Came a strong-minded widow, quite pretty and plump,

With her children that numbered eleven.

Now, when moving, one’s household goods come in a clump

And are carefully sorted out later.

And necessitate more than one trip to the dump,

As they separate lessor from greater.

Now, Horace P. Flee, that old village grump

Wasn’t happy with all of the noise.

So he shouted out something that made them all jump,

Just to silence those girls and those boys.

Then Abigail, she who was pretty and plump,

But possessed of a lively, bright spirit,

A piece of her mind, she gave that village grump,

And forced him to stand there and hear it.

Then something strange happened that day at the dump,

With all of those parties together,

For Horace’s heart hit his shoes with a thump,

While Abby’s beat light as a feather.

Their marriage was viewed by the Village of Frump,

With the two of them there in the heather,

The minister stood on a great old tree stump,

With a smile, he joined them together.

Now the villagers using the Frump Village dump,

(I know this will just make you smile!)

Find the happy noise now from the home of the ‘grump’,

Can be heard for full many a mile!

Horace P. Flee was the Frump Village grump,

Until life with his Abby began,

When you least expect it, you’re knocked on your rump,

There’s a sweetheart for ev-er-y man!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, 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? 

It will be small, but that's okay,

Next week we'll talk about 'Pi' day!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Be Nasty Day (March 8)
Pi(e) Day (what else would it be?) (March 15)
World Poetry Day (March 22)
Something on a Stick Day (March 29)
Read a Road Map Day (April 5)
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12)
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

Bob and Murray

 

Before you read any further, you have to be able to accept two facts:
1.      That cats can talk.
2.      That a cat would walk around in a pair of fine boots.
I know what you’re thinking. No cat would ever submit to wearing an item of clothing.
Go with me on this…
A wealthy miller had three sons. A very good thing, except when it comes time to divide an estate. Then all sorts of complications arise.
And so it would prove with our story. When the miller died, his eldest son, Harold, received the mill.
His second son, Jerrold, a fine pair of mules.
And the third son, Bob, a cat.
I have to admit, here, that Bob, though he loved cats in general and that particular cat…particularly, was just a bit perturbed. I mean, what on earth was he to do with a cat for an inheritance?
I had the same thought.
As he was sitting with his head in his hands contemplating that very thing, the cat (let’s call him Murray) spoke to him. “Master?” it said in a very cat-like purr. “Bring me a pair of boots and I shall make your fortune for you.”
Of course the astonished young man (when he got past his astonishment) did exactly that—purchased a pair of fine boots that perfectly fitted his fur baby.
Because who is going to deny their cat such a simple request?
Ahem…
Murray, the cat proceeded to go out and bag a rabbit. (Hunter talk for hunter-ing and killing.) He then presented said rabbit to the king. With the Marquis of Carabas’ compliments.
O-kay.
You’re probably wondering where Bob got his new name.
I have only this to say: Murray is one clever cat.
For the next few weeks, Murray performed a similar service—delivering dead, but succulent animals to the king. In the Marquis’ name.
Let’s just say that, after about the second day, he had the king’s attention.
One bright and sunny day, the king decided to take his sweet and intelligent daughter out for a carriage ride/tour of the kingdom.
Because it was bright and sunny.
Murray, who in this story appears to be omniscient, (It’s a short leap from cat wearing boots to cat knowing everything. Am I right?) noticed.
And quickly devised a plan.
He instructed his young master to shed his clothing and dive into the river.
I’m quite sure there was a bit of conversational back-and-forth-ing, but the up-shot was that Bob, clothes-less, ended up in the river as his cat requested.
Murray then took his master’s rather ragged attire and stuffed it somewhere unfind-able.
Then ran out on the road and flagged down the king’s carriage.
“Help,” he shrieked in his loudest cat voice. “My master has been robbed!”
Of course, Murray was recognized. And of course, the king ordered his servants to fish Bob/the Marquis out of the water and dress him in the finest clothes. And invite him to join the cheerful touring party.
Where the king’s daughter (we’ll call her Jill) took one look at the sweet and intelligent young man and fell heart-first in love.
Good so far.
But the story’s not over yet.
Murray then ran ahead of the carriage and, stopping anyone in the vicinity of the road requested they tell the king the land they worked belonged to the Marquis of Carabas.
Which they did.
Finally, Murray came to a great and handsome palace.
Owned by an ogre.
Now, this ogre was the actual owner of all the lands that had just been ‘claimed’ by the 'Marquis of Carabas'. He ruled his lands with an actual iron fist because this ogre had one quite remarkable ability: He could change himself into anything.
No wonder the people were happy to accommodate Murray in his request to claim a different landowner.
Yikes.
Murray, more brave than…well…anything, marched straight into that palace and demanded a meeting with the owner.
The astonished servants complied and soon Murray and the ogre were face to face.
Well…sort of…
“I can change into anything,” said the ogre.
Probably not the way I would have started the conversation, but then I’m not an ogre.
“Interesting,” Murray replied. “Can you change into a lion?”
“Pah! That’s easy!” And he did.
A rather scary one with sharp teeth and claws.
Murray took a couple of steps back. “Very realistic. And rather scary.” He stroked his kitty chin. “Can you change into something very big?”
“Pah! Child’s play!” And suddenly an elephant was standing there in the ogre’s front room.
Murray frowned. “That is very good. But it’s easy to change into big things. How about something very tiny? Like…erm…a mouse?”
“Pah…!”
And that’s the last thing the ogre said. Because as soon as his furry little mouse body appeared, Murray was on it like a…cat on a mouse. And devoured it.
Just then, the king’s carriage arrived.
Quickly, Murray ran to the front door to welcome the king and his daughter (and Bob) inside the newly-acquired palace of the Marquis of Carabas.
I know you’re wondering how Murray got the servants to fall in with the scheme.
Let’s just say they were infinitely more excited about serving sweet and kind Bob than they had ever been serving an ogre and leave it there, shall we?
The king was properly impressed and, a short time later, when Jill and Bob announced their engagement, happily gave his blessing.
The country prospered. Largely due to the fact that Bob/Marquis put Murray in charge of everything.
Because doesn’t life always go a bit smoother when the cat is in charge?

Daddy's Girl

We have a dog.

Hmmm…that doesn’t quite cover it. Let me start over.
A fur baby owns us.
Better.
This fur baby came to us at the age of 8 weeks almost two years ago. A little black and white, bear-cub of cuteness.
And immediately captured our senior hearts.
A little background…
Something told me we needed a dog.
We had always had dogs. But our Aldo had crossed the rainbow bridge a couple of years before and we assumed our glorious dog-days were behind us.
As were our walks outside.
I realized that if we didn’t have an excuse to get us into the great outdoors, we’d become hopeless couch-seniors—TV remote fused to one hand—rooted and unable to move.
There was also an added incentive. Apart from his family’s sweet little Banjo when Husby was a teenager, he had never had a dog that was ‘his’.
Oh, our family had tons of dogs. Usually Old English Sheepdogs. And usually a plethora (good word) at the same time.
But none were ‘his’.
With his retirement and subsequent ‘being-at-home-all-the-time-now’ this was his chance.
It took a couple of weeks of convincing. But Husby finally relented.
Sooo…Pandy.
Did you ever have a plan that worked? Where all the planets aligned and balls dropped into their proper places and order?
It happens occasionally.
And it did here.
These two are inseparable. Where Husby is, Pandy is not far away. Under his desk in his office. Lying beside his chair in the family room. Watching closely from an acceptable (dogs aren’t allowed in the dining room) distance at mealtimes. Out in the yard when yard-work is indicated. Riding in the truck with him to appointments or run errands. Waiting patiently while he does whatever it is humans do when doggies are told to ‘stay’ and not allowed out of the truck.
Yep. Where he goes, Pandy is…ahem…underfoot.
Then…yesterday.
Husby was out at the Agriculture Grounds taking some measurements. A member of the Ag Board, he has been organizing the restoration of a period barn on the property and needed to take some measurements.
Pandy was along.
Because.
For some time, she had followed him around, keeping a watchful eye on his doings.
He set up a ladder and climbed into the loft.
Pandy sat and stared up at the hole that had swallowed her daddy.
Then he pulled the ladder up and into the loft so he could look at the ceiling some forty feet from where his little girl sat.
His last glimpse of her was big, brown eyes looking up at him from the ground so far below.
He finished his tasks and returned to ground level.
His fur baby had disappeared
He walked around, calling her.
No Pandy.
The featherings of alarm.
Then he looked toward the truck.
There she was, waiting patiently as she does whenever he takes her somewhere she isn’t allowed to follow. She knew that, at some time, he would return, so this was the safest—and surest—place to wait for her daddy.
Smart doggins.
I just watched the two of them disappear on yet another jaunt. Husby with the leash around his neck. Pandy hopping and jumping with excitement.
Yep. You know that ‘something’ which told me we needed a dog?
It was right.

Melty Deliciousness

                          

                                                          The Pass Dairy as it looks today. 

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) loved ice cream.

Maybe I should re-word.

My FIL LOVED ice cream.

Better.

Nearly every meal ended with the creamy deliciousness.

No matter how large the portions had been.

In his words: “Ice cream just melts and goes in the cracks.”

Snack times must always include some form of the treat.

If one was traveling, one could always find someone, somewhere, who could provide a scoop or a spiral.

And that is where this story starts . . .

FIL knew the best places in all of Southern Alberta to buy ice cream.

He would be driving and suddenly turn off the main road.

When questioned, the answer inevitably contained some form of the words: Ice cream. And Need. Some. Right. Now.

Many, many places catered happily (and satisfactorily) to his passion.

But his particular favourite was The Pass Dairy.

In the Crowsnest Pass.

More specifically in the town of Bellevue in the Crowsnest Pass.

For a dollar, they would give you an ice cream cone that was truly heroic in size.

In fact, they took pride in the fact that theirs was the largest, best cone anywhere.

Something FIL challenged them on regularly.

On this particular day, he had gone into the little shop.

And emerged with a cone piled high with a perfect spiral of soft, melting deliciousness.

High.

I think we could properly insert the word: Massive.

Mother-in-Law stared at it, wide-eyed. “Ray,” she said. “If you eat all that, you’ll be sick!”

FIL just looked at her and smiled. “You know better than that!”

He was right. 

Travel Signs

We had spent a few days with our coastal son.

The one who lives in paradise.
He is fun, funny and a deep, deep thinker.
He is also the one who remembers everything.
At the top of his list of memories during this visit?
His Dad’s Dad-isms. The strange things his dad told him during his upbringing that he realized, belatedly, really couldn’t be true.
But now are an integral part of his childhood.
If not a part of reality.
First?
A few road signs:
The ‘Deer en pointe’ sign.

A sure warning that there are deer practicing—or performing—ballet in the vicinity.
Occasionally in the middle of the road.
Hence the sign.
Next?
The Snakes on Road sign.

Which gives a warning and also a estimate of number.
But you have to look closely to find them.
When they aren’t slithering down the middle of the road.
Just FYI. We’ve never seen them slithering down the road.
Those signs are erroneous.
Then the Sign which, to the rest of the word says: Loose Gravel.

To Dad, it said “Loo-Che Gravel-lay”.
An Italian fellow who obviously haunts roads in poor repair.
Enough signs . . .
Now we move on to a couple of animals that only Dad knows.
The first and foremost: The rock gopher.

A small rodent-appearing animal that bores holes through solid rock.
I know you’ve seen the holes.
Now you know how they occur.
And, finally, the side-hill gouger.

These are cows seen grazing on the sides of steep hills or mountains.
Their legs are shorter on one side than the other.
Thus their ability to walk comfortably on those steep sides of mountains.
Their only draw-back is their inability to turn the other way.
That would be—a disaster.
And would cause the inevitable, but rarely seen, rolling cow slide.
Dad-isms.
What your kids remember instead of real facts.
And that’s just fine.

Snack of Choice

When Bro and I got home from school,

For both of us, the standing rule

Was finding something good to eat,

A goodie, nosh, a snack, a treat.

 

When mom was there, we were so glad,

She’d something warm (and never bad),

With cookies, cakes, to name a few,

To savour. Smiling as we’d chew.

 

But, sadly, when our mom was out,

We had no treats to talk about,

And Bro and I were on our own,

Our snackless state we two’d bemoan.

 

 But soon we learned to seek and find,

We knew our mom would never mind,

His choice was sardines. In a can.

I’d shudder. Try a different plan.

 

Soft bread. I’d toast it just a bit,

Light brown was best, I do admit,

Then quickly, ‘fore it cooled (what dread!),

Some peanut butter, thickly spread.

 

It melted finely to my toast,

T’was just the way I liked it most,

And, to this day, I do recall

That first taste, best one of them all.

 

I love it still. Just yesterday,

Some peanut butter came my way,

Via bread and knife and jar,

Still my favourite snack by far.

 

But now I ask of all of you,

Given choice, what would you do?

A sardine tin (like my dear Bro),

Or peanut butter. How’d you go?

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle 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, for fun (and not dismay),

We'll celebrate Be Nasty Day!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Peanut Butter Day (March 1) TODAY!
Be Nasty Day (March 8)
Pi(e) Day (what else would it be?) (March 15)
World Poetry Day (March 22)
Something on a Stick Day (March 29)
Read a Road Map Day (April 5)
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12)
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

Germ Warfare

You can almost see those germs...

Germs are a big thing right now.

When I was growing up, germs were something that lived in dog’s mouths.
Or cats.
Or any animals.
I was cautioned to avoid them.
Living on a ranch, that was a lot of avoiding.
It didn’t occur to me that there could be germs in someone else’s (human) mouth.
That paranoia didn’t show up until a few years later. When one of my friends wiped my germs off her pop bottle before she took a drink.
Hmmm.
On with my story . . .
Supper time.
That special moment in the day wherein everyone gathers at the table to enjoy a home-cooked meal.
And some great visiting.
Okay, well, that’s what happens in the Tolley household.
Notice I didn’t say a great home-cooked meal.
Because, let’s face it, some of my experiments fail to jell.
Ahem . . .
On this particular night, I had made something that passed the ‘yummy’ test.
But also crossed the ‘sloppy’ barrier.
Most of us did well.
Four-year-old granddaughter (or GD4 for short) didn’t fare as well.
And needed tidying.
Her mother licked her finger and swiped at the little girl’s cheek.
The rest of us thought nothing of it.
We were obviously wrong.
GD4 looked passively at her mother in the midst of her cleaning. “You know, Mom, you just got germs all over my face!”
Her mom stopped. “Oh.” She looked at me. “Oops.”
I should probably mention here that GD4’s face failed to fall off.
Or turn green.
But we had been informed.
Germs.
Coming from a four-year-old near you.

Equally Bad

 

Across the land, to one and all, the famine had a grip,

And rich and poor alike were in the famine’s membership,

And Widow Bette and teenaged son (named Jack, for all who care…)

Were skating rather closely to the edge of starved despair.

 

In desperation, Bette told Jack, “Take Emily...” (their cow)

“…and sell her.” (with the proceeds, they would get along somehow),

Obedient, the young man took the cow and started out,

Not knowing that the strangest tale was just about to ‘sprout’.

 

A stranger stopped the lad a mile or so along the way,

And asked him ‘whither, he was to’ on such a lovely day,

Jack indicated Emily and told him what was up,

And why Jack had embarked upon this personal ‘roundup’.

I’m sure you’ve heard the story: how our Jack endorsed the sale,

A cow for ‘magic’ beans. You know, a mistake of grandest scale.

How his disappointed mother threw those beans out on the lawn,

Then cried herself to sleep believing all her hope was gone.

 

You have to know those beans grew up. A stalk into the sky,

And Jack thought he'd explore (and have adventures by and by),

He climbed up to another land, where all folks were immense,

And there he pilfered lots of stuff--in situations tense.

 

That boy, he needed stealth, because you know, our little Jack

Was just the size and shape to be a giant’s midday snack,

It didn’t stop him stealing, though it kept him on the run,

Whene’er he heard the giant’s voice say, “Fee! Fie! Foe! And Fum!”

 

Then finally, he took the item Giant treasured most,

 (For evenings when relaxing or when parties he would host…)

A magic harp, the player of the sweetest music e’er,

Whose loss would surely fill our giant’s heart with deep despair!

 

The harp cried for his ‘Master!’ as Jack began to bear him hence,

It spurred our giant on to a more feverish defense,

He followed our young thief right down the beanstalk growing there,

And where the boy did lead, he neither thought about. Or cared.

 

But Jack was quick and reached the bottom. Turned and grabbed his axe,

Kept nearby for such things. (Now we've reached the tale's climax!)

When swinging frantically, he fin’ly chopped the stalk and all,

Not even mighty giants could survive that nasty fall.

Then Jack and Mom were happy as a family could be,

With all the stuff Jack stole they both could live quite comfortably,

Now I’ve heard theories claiming that the Giant stole them first,

The larger thief or small, opinions? Who d’you think was worst?!

Today is Fairy Tale Poetry Day!

Hop on over to my friend Karen to see what she posted!

You'll be happy you did...

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: The Moral is Morals

Reflections

Husby and I were on a holiday on beautiful Vancouver Island.

Our son lives there and as often as we could, we’d go out to visit.
To...ummm...see our son.
Not to walk the beaches and watch the ever-changing ocean or hike the endless woodland trails and visit the centuries-old trees or take a boat and deep-sea fish or gorge on freshly-caught cod and hand-made fries at our favourite restaurant...
Which incidentally makes the best coconut-cream pie I’ve ever tasted.
Just FYI.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Island. Holiday.
Husby.
One night, we were returning with our son from a day of rambles.
Our car was following the twisting, turning road into beautiful Courtenay.
A last long curve.
A curve marked by a line of reflective poles.
That lit up brightly as our car lights caught them.
One. Then the next. Then the next.
Each going dark as we passed them.
Watching them, I remembered something . . .
I was four and traveling with my family.
Nose pressed against the glass because I had been looking at a book but it had grown too dark to see anything.
Oh, and also because seat belts hadn’t been invented yet.
Every so often, we would pass by some small posts that lit up as we approached.
It was magical.
First one.
Then another.
I stared at them long and hard.
How did they do that?
How did they know to light up just as we were passing?
I thought about it.
Then finally figured it out.
Somewhere inside, there were little people who waited until we approached.
Then lit them just for us.
It was very kind of them.
And I was sure to thank each one.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Mom looked at me. “Who are you thanking?”
I pointed. “The little pole people.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t ask.
She was used to me.

Tap-Toeing

Shoes hide.

They do.
Especially when there is something important that they need to be at.
School.
Church.
Movie night.
Going outside.
There are solutions.
Some of which are—creative—
Little sister was getting ready for Church.
She had been scrubbed shiny.
Groomed.
Dressed.
The only thing keeping her from heading out the door to the waiting car was a pair of Sunday shoes.
Oh, she could find her ratty every day sneakers.
Her manure-y boots.
Even her tall, black rain boots.
But nothing that resembled (or smelled) like it could be worn to church.
She had asked everyone.
Including—as a final act of desperation—Mom.
Who had responded with her patented: “I have no idea where I left them when I wore them last.”
In tears of despair, she sat down on the floor.
And that’s when she saw them.
The shiny tips of her black tap shoes.
Hmmm . . .
Not smelly.
Gleaming with care.
Definitely church-approved.
She grabbed them and put them on, jumped to her feet and headed for the door.
And that’s when their one drawback became apparent.
Remember when I said ‘tap’ shoes?
Well, that comes into play here.
In church generally, we are, for want of a better term, quiet.
And tap shoes...aren’t.
Let’s just say that Mom and Dad could keep track of everywhere she went.
And everything she did.
As could the rest of the congregation.
Yep. Creative solutions.
Sometimes more creative than solution.
But definitely memorable.

Looking At It

 

They had all been at their cousin’s birthday party.

It had been a much-anticipated opportunity for fun and games.

And had delivered on every level.

They had played in the pool.

Dashed through the sprinklers.

Had a water fight.

Screamed and laughed through several games.

Gorged on food and treats.

Sang and stuffed their faces with rich, gooey birthday cake and meltingly-creamy and delicious ice cream.

Tired, but entirely satisfied, they were lined up, ready to go home.

It was then they received the last perfect surprise to what had been a perfect day.

A large, loaded—identical—treat bag.

Brimming with anticipation, they dashed out to their car and their waiting Mama.

Submitted to the mundane but necessary process of seating and buckling.

Then, at last, the opening of that last hurrah.

That sweet, final cap on the day.

The icing on the cake, so to speak.

Sister dipped in her hand and emerged, holding a large, hand-frosted cookie.

“I got a flower!” she exclaimed.

Brother did the same.

Pulled out the same.

 “I got a flower, too!”

Little sister reaching eagerly into her bag of treats.

Grabbed her flower cookie by the other end and pulled it out and held it aloft excitedly.

“I got a squid!”

Life.

It’s all in how you look at it.

Dancing

I love poetry, I do!
The rhythm and the cadence, too. 
Like dancing, but with words. And find
It brings my poem-loving Dad to mind.
And something else, taught long ago,
Before this girl'd begun to grow.
At long last to our topic. See?
My favourite word that starts with 'D'!

Dancing!

When I was four, my dad adored, and followed him around,

The things he did (to this small kid) did fascinating sound.

From ‘doing chores’ and things outdoors, to office work. With pens.

Well, I’d appear, interest sincere, and lots of time to spend.

Our barn, it burned, all were concerned, that year that I turned four.

Soon things were bought and experts sought. A barn was built once more.

Then we ranch folk (in a masterstroke) with this new elbow room,

Thought we’d have fun, perhaps some sun would clear away the gloom.

We’d have a dance. Some wheel and prance were what was needed now.

Our neighbours, too, would gloom eschew, and our new barn endow.

We hired a band who took command, and music did ensue,

We ate and twirled and stomped and whirled from hello through adieu.

I don’t recall that much at all, I do remember this:

My dad was there, in shined footwear, and nothing was amiss.

He took my hands and had me stand upon those shiny toes,

Then slowly lead (my fears all fled), and love for Daddy rose.

The days have passed, the years amassed, I don’t remember much,

Though far I gaze, that’s day’s a haze, of people, stuff and such.

I know they had both good and bad, some happiness and woes.

One thing that’s best above the rest. I danced on Daddy’s toes.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle 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? 

Of course, it must be recognized,
Its flavour has us hypnotized,
So this next Mondy, you'd won't dread,
Cause on it PEANUT BUTTER's spread!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Peanut Butter Day (March 1)
Be Nasty Day (March 8)
Pi(e) Day (what else would it be?) (March 15)
World Poetry Day (March 22)
Something on a Stick Day (March 29)
Read a Road Map Day (April 5)
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12)
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)