Real Time Movies

 

The Kitchen Window

For three years, we lived next to a haunted house.

Okay, it really wasn't 'haunted'.

But strange things went on there.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We lived on a street of tiny, beautiful starter homes. Less expensive and perfect for people living on a lower income.

They were filled with senior couples and young families.

We fit into the second category.

The house beside us, whose front porch I could see from my kitchen window, was home to a little elderly couple.

Sweet people.

Quiet.

Private.

We saw them seldom.

Then, one day, I noticed that two young girls were going in that front door.

I should mention, here, that I spent a lot of time at my kitchen window. It was over my kitchen sink.

Enough said.

For many months, we saw those girls regularly.

Then, suddenly, more people appeared. A young woman with tattoos, piercings, a neanderthal whose whose origins were questionable, and a baby named Levi.

Then I realized that I hadn't seen our elderly couple in quite some time.

In fact I never saw them again.

For several months the two young girls and the couple with their baby came and went.

Then two young boys, similar in age to the two young girls, appeared.

And the two young girls stopped.

Appearing, that is.

Now, as near as we could figure, the young couple and their baby and the two young boys lived there.

Then all activity ceased.

No one came or went.

One morning, I opened my front door to a very tall police officer. “Do you know the people who live next door?” he asked.

“That house?” I asked, pointing.

He nodded.

“I'm ashamed to say that I don't,” I said. “There was a nice elderly couple there. Then two young girls. Then a young couple and a baby. Then two young boys. But that's about all I can tell you.”

“Come with me,” he said. He led the way to the house.

I stopped in the front doorway.

Aghast.

I've always wanted to use that word . . .

The cute little house had been destroyed.

Cupboards had been ripped down off the walls and shredded into matchsticks. Every single wall and door had been punched out. The bannister ripped off the stairway and broken. Toilet ripped off the floor and thrown out the window.

The damage was unbelievable.

Incredible.

The officer was looking at me. “You didn’t hear any of this?”

I shook my head. I really hadn’t. For just a moment, I wondered why. Then I remembered the semi-constant din in my home made by five kids and seven day-home kids.

Yeah, Not so surprising after all.

Moving on...

Obviously someone had been very angry.

Or very, very disturbed.

For six months the little house remained empty.

Then, one day, crews appeared and effected repairs.

And, finally, a sweet young couple and their baby moved in.

Ahhh. Normal at last.

Then the fights began.

Usually in the wee hours of the morning.

One morning, after breakfast, I was again at my post, hands in the sink, when a police car, followed by a van pulled up next door.

Two policeman, one carrying a large camera got out.

Oh, no. Someone's killed someone, I thought.

The two went into the house.

Sometime later, more police cars arrived.

It took me a while to notice because I had the phone and was sitting on the floor calling my husband.

“I don't want to live here any more,” I said, tearfully. “Please move me somewhere else!”

I ended my phone call and stood up.

Just as the front door opened.

A policeman came out.

Carrying two large, beautiful, healthy marijuana plants.

Oh.

He was followed by another, carrying two more.

Then another.

And another.

In all, I counted 16 plants.

Okay, not what I expected.

The officers stowed the plants in the van and left.

I must admit that I was quite surprised when things next door became more or less normal for a while after that.

Then the fights began again.

One particular night, we heard the loud slam of a door.

Then pounding.

Then, “Open this door!”

The husband had pushed his wife outside and locked the door.

Soon we heard the starting of a vehicle and the squealing of tires.

Exit wife.

For a few weeks, the young husband and the baby continued to live there.

Then we moved.

I couldn't take it any longer.

Who needs TV when one has a kitchen window?

That Holiday Weekend

We had a glorious July 1 celebration! For the first time in Covid history, our family was together.

Albeit largely outside, but we were together!

And it reminded me of July 1st's of the past...

We had decided to take our children for a holiday over the long July first weekend.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

But we had made a couple of mistakes.

1. We hadn't planned. 
2. Anything.

Did you know that you need reservations to camp in Alberta over THE long weekend?

Well, you do.

Sigh.

It was getting late on June 30.

We had been through dozens of campgrounds.

All completely filled with people who were better planners than we were.

Or at least had started out on their holiday a bit earlier in the day.

We saw a sign for yet another campground.

Almost hidden in the undergrowth.

Hmmm.

Maybe others would have missed it.

We drove in.

Right away, we saw an empty campsite.

Things were looking up.

The site wasn't very big.

Just down the street was a second.

Also tiny.

Forgetting the hours we had spent searching, we decided to do a loop and see if there were any better.

We completed the circuit.

Nothing.

A second loop opened off the first.

We decided to give it the once-over.

Grant turned.

We had gone only a few dozen feet before we realized that this was not part of the campground.

The road we were on trailed off into the trees, instantly becoming a small path.

We needed to turn around.

Grant nosed the car into the tall grass on an approach to a farmer's field.

There was a thump.

And the steering on the car . . . quit.

We couldn't turn.

Grant got out and inspected.

A large log had been pulled across the approach.

Presumably to stop exactly what we were trying to do.

The car had rolled over it.

And completely destroyed the power steering.

Grant stared at it, shaking his head.

Finally, he moved the log, opened the gate, and drove our car straight out into the field. 

It was the only thing we could do.

We stopped.

And looked at each other. 

It was seven pm on Friday, June 30.

The beginning the THE long weekend.

A disabled car.

Six hungry kids.

And no options.

We got out.

“Maybe we should say a prayer,” one of the kids said.

Good idea.

We gathered close and prayed.

For help.

For guidance.

For some miracle that would instantly replace our ailing car with a new and pristine model.

Then Grant grabbed a basin and started out for the campground.

A few minutes later, he was back.

Basin brimming with cold, clear water.

But what was even more wonderful was the police car following directly behind him.

The kids and I surrounded Grant, peppering him with questions and turning to stare at the car.

Two officers emerged.

As they came closer, I realized that there was only one officer.

The other man was dressed in 'civvies'.

Grant handed me the water and turned to the men.

“This is the car,” he said.

The second man walked over, lifted the hood and bent over the engine.

Grant joined him.

It turned out that this second man was good friends with the officer. He was a mechanic and the owner of the nearby auto wreckers. He had decided to come along with his friend as the officer ran his evening rounds.

The two of them, Grant and the mechanic, began to converse in 'car'.

Finally, they straightened.

“I'll send someone over in the morning to pick it up,” the man said. “We can fix you up. No problem.”

I could have kissed him.

But there was the fact that we were total strangers.

So I shook his hand instead.

True to his word, a tow truck arrived the next morning at 8:00 AM. Took the car and disappeared.

At 3:00, the car was back.

Driving under it's own abilities once more.

Our prayers were truly answered.

We had been granted a miracle.

My daughter looked at me. “The car's fixed?” she asked.

“It is, Sweetie,” I said.

“It's a miracle.”

“It is.”

She looked at me again. “I wonder what that policeman thought when the mechanic appeared beside him after our prayer.”
I smiled. I wonder, too.

Home Wreck

 

I really wanted to take Shop class.

Working with power tools. Smelling the aroma of freshly-sawn wood as you constructed your first-ever end table.

Making pottery and jewelry.

A handi-girl's dream.

But in 1970 (yes that's really when I started high school) at Erle Rivers High in Milk River, Alberta girls weren't allowed to take Shop class.

I know. Because I asked.

Moving on . . .

I, and the rest of the girls, took Home Economics. Home Ec., for short.

Or Home Wreck, as it was not-so-affectionately titled.

So we were 'Home-Wreckers'.

The place where we 'learned' to sew.

Cook.

Clean.

And generally find our way around running a home.

Once I got past not being able to take Shop, I really had fun.

I sewed a potholder. An apron.

And a little purple linen dress with the sleeves in backwards.

Sigh.

I baked cookies. Made Chicken-a-la-King served in little toast cups.

And Gourmet Hot Dogs.

I learned the proper way to scour pots (and the sink).

Scrub a floor.

And generally make my house squeaky clean.

Sew straight. Cook carefully. And scrub hard.

I did pass. With unremarkable marks.

And, surprisingly, I actually used some of the things I learned.

And still do today.

There is a codicil:

Now my brother . . .

Yes, they allowed boys to take Home Ec. 

For one glorious week sometime during the year.

And yes, I know it wasn't fair . . .

My brother remembers Home Wreck differently. (See here!)

He remembers cooking.

Something he excels at today.

And hunting for mice with frying pans and spatulas.

Boys make everything more fun.

Dine-in Car

I probably don’t have to tell you that Canada is a large country.

In bygone years, the men who manned the trains crisscrossing it spent a long time aboard those trains.

A long time.

In those days, they spent much of the trip and all of their downtime in the little caboose as it clicked faithfully along the rails at the tail end of the train. It became their little ‘home away from home’. There, they did their visiting, sleeping, reading, game-playing, cooking and eating. 

Let’s discuss these last two for a moment . . .

One group, in an effort to be fair, took it in turns to cook and wash up.

They had one rule: If anyone criticized the cooking in any way, their turn was accelerated instantly through the queue and they found themselves with spatula (or spoon) in hand for the next meal.

Yeah. Probably best to keep your mouth shut unless you had a hankering to take over as cook.

So the men silently choked down whatever they were given. No matter how unpalatable. 

They still had to take their turn when it came, but at least they weren’t handed the apron at a moment’s notice.

One man in the group seemed singularly unable to create anything remotely appetizing. Or even edible.

Yeah. We’re definitely not talking gastronomic ecstasy here.

His friends were enduring his most recent effort, silently forking down breakfast.

Or what passed for breakfast.

One man poked disconsolately (real word!) at the blackened bit of char that had started life as an egg.

The cook narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening spasmodically on the spatula.

This is my story. I’ll imagine it how I want . . .

The man looked up and forced a smile at the cook. “Hank,” he said. “You burned the eggs.”

Hank smiled slowly and moved toward him, already extending his cooking utensil of choice.

“Which is truly remarkable,” his friend added, “Because it’s just how I like ‘em!”

Creative criticism.

It’s an art.

P.S. The trains that span our great country no longer pull a caboose behind them. With faster trains and shorter hauls between stops—and with improvements in technology—they simply aren’t needed.

I miss them.

Bubbled Over

I have a thing for bubbles, I could watch them constantly,

I love to see them, big or small, drift off away from me,

Sparkly iridescent—catching sunlight as they float,

They’re so carefree, and friendly-like, not angry, not remote,

And yet, their lives are short, they neither toil, nor do they spin,

But still make an impression—even adults sport a grin!

Sometimes, I’d like to be one, floating up so happily,

A shining, gleaming bubble all would recognize as me,

I’d fly across the neighbourhood, I’d never want to stop,

There’s just one thing, I hope that I would never have to ‘POP’! 

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

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?

Next Week's topic, what a blast!

Bikinis—YES—to clothe your . . . behind.

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

Bubbles (June 28) Today!

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Ice Cream Sandwich Day (August 2)

Cats (August 9)

Tell a Joke (August 16)

Wind (August 23)

Monsters (August 30)

Shoes (September 6) From Mimi

Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from Mimi

Remembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi

Overcoming

 

The hill...

The tiny girl stood looking up the hill that barred her way

From joining her two brothers as they played atop that day,

That hill was huge in her young eyes, and much too big to climb,

But if she didn’t join them, well, to her t’would be a crime!

 

So she began: foot followed foot. She slowly progress made,

And finally, she reached the top—her conquered land surveyed,

She reveled in the goal she’d seized with bravery and hustle,

And realized, in climbing there, she’d also gained some muscle!

 

That little girl is older now, but still the lesson lingers,

As ‘life’ has given obstacles (and just a few big zingers!),

And all those hills she’s had to climb, well, they were not a waste,

She’s gained ‘life’s muscles’ conquering the obstacles she faced!

Today's post was a challenge from the inimitable and totally awesome Karen at Baking in a Tornado. 

Visit her and see what she has done with the theme!

First Romance

Grade Twelve English 30.

My favourite class of all time.

What could possibly be better than reading books and stories and then talking about them?

Or of writing your own?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Our teacher was a veteran of many, many years. She had taught each of my three elder siblings and survived.

And now it was my turn.

Most of the time, I was fairly quiet in her class - choosing mostly to listen as the conversations went on around me. Keeping my opinions to myself, except when they could be submitted in a written format.

My grades were good.

We were working our way through a thick volume of short stories. Some exciting. Some bizarre. Some sweet and romantic.

It was during this last that I came to grief.

Let me explain . . .

We were reading a story about a man who saw a beautiful hand-made doll in the window of a local shop. The doll affected him greatly. It seemed to 'speak' to him.

He purchased it and tried to find out more about it and the person who had made it.

He discovered that the doll and others like it were made locally and that a woman usually brought them in to the shop a few at a time.

He tracked down the woman.

She was not the artist.

Instead, she kept the real doll-maker a virtual prisoner, and forced her to keep making dolls, which were then sold.

The imprisoned doll-maker was justifiably sad and put all of the love she would have given her unborn children into her dolls. Which was why they were so beautiful.

The man fell in love with the captive doll-maker, stole her away and married her.

And they lived happily ever after.

Okay, I admit it, when I read this story, I discovered that I'm a romantic.

I loved it.

Loved the 'happily ever after' ending.

I was excited for the discussion to start . . .

“How many of you liked this story?” the teacher asked.

My hand shot up.

Then slowly lowered as I realized that I was the only person in the class who had raised one.

“This story was drivel!” the teacher said. “Absolute tripe!” She stomped around the front of the class. “Stupid romantic nonsense! Waste of good print! Waste of time!”

She added several more derisive comments, then stopped and stared at me.

My hand was back on my desk.

“Well, I thought it was romantic!” One of the other girls tried to come to my aid.

The teacher snorted. “Hmph! Don't know why it was included in this book! Maybe as an example of lousy writing!”

The class was silent.

“Asinine garbage! Should be torn out of the book!” She glared around. “Any other thoughts?”

Let me put it this way . . . the discussion following this story didn't take up much time.

The story was given a brief technical reckoning, then dismissed.

And the class moved on to the next story.

I moved with them, reading and responding to my assignments.

Suspense.

Mystery.

Humour.

But I never forgot my first romantic story.

I read and re-read it.

Loving it more each time.

Mmmm.

Romance.

I still think I was right.

Choking It Down

Chokecherry syrup.
Delicious in so many ways.

The digging out of the 'berry pails' wasn't always a reason for celebration.

When Mom headed towards the saskatoon bushes, yes.
But when the car turned to the chokecherry patch.
Not so much.
Don't get me wrong, we loved the end product of both enterprises.
But the picking of saskatoons also involved interim rewards. ie. the eating of said berries.
Chokecherries?
Again, not so much.
Fresh from the bush, they were . . . how shall I say this genteel-ly . . .?
Icky.
In fact, before any of the bright red berries passed our lips, they had to be cooked and treated.
And added upon.
And poured into jars.
As jam.
Or even better, syrup.
You have to know that there was nothing quite like homemade chokecherry syrup on Mom's fluffy pancakes.
Mmmmm.
Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Syrup.
It was a great family favourite.
My Husby's mother made fabulous chokecherry syrup as well.
Every year.
She then dispensed bottles of it to eagerly awaiting offspring.
It went fast.
As soon as one bottle emptied, another took its place.
And therein (good word) lies a tale . . .
We had been using one bottle of syrup.
Then, as often happens in a household where ten people are sharing the fridge, our little bottle got pushed to the back and hidden behind a bottle of pickles.
I should explain, here, that we always purchased everything edible in gi-normous (made-up word denoting humongous-ness) sizes.
Because mealtime for our bunch strongly resembled the feeding of a threshing crew.
So the idea of a quart-sized bottle being hidden behind a monstrous jar shouldn't be too much of a surprise.
Moving on . . .
There our little jar remained.
While I opened another.
Which was subsequently used.
And replaced.
Some months later, when I finally reached the back of our fridge, I discovered our forgotten, woefully neglected little bottle of chokecherry syrup.
Dismayed at the thought of lost deliciousness, I opened the lid.
And sniffed.
Huh.
Weird.
Probably, I should mention that neither of us drinks alcohol.
What follows makes more sense if I do . . .
“Grant, what's wrong with this chokecherry syrup?” I asked. “It smells . . . funny.”
“Funny, how?”
“Well, funny.”
I handed him the jar.
He sniffed. “I think you've created chokecherry wine, honey,” he said, grinning at me.
“What? How did I do that?”
“Fruit. Sugar. Neglect.”
Huh. So that's how it's done . . . “So what do I do with it now?”
“Well, I know someone who would probably enjoy it!”
We took it to our friend, who looked at it.
Swirled it around in the jar.
Sniffed it.
Then finally tasted it.
He looked at us. “Best chokecherry wine I've ever had,” he said, grinning.
Trust the two teetotallers to do it up right.
From the chokecherry patch, through Mom's kitchen (and fridge), to a tavern near you.
Bottom's up!

Charged with Stupidity

Perhaps you’ve heard of the Darwin awards?

If not, allow me to educate you . . .

These rather spectacular awards do not involve any kind of prize because most, if not all, of the people who achieve top status don’t live to brag about it. ‘Darwin’ awards are for those who, through their own foolish actions, take themselves out of the gene pool.

Most are cringe-worthy. Some downright shocking.

Some, fairly laugh-able.

This is my favourite:

Larry decided he wanted to witness life from a few feet in the air. Say 30 or so.

With this in mind, he roped a folding, aluminum lawn chair to the ground then tied 45 weather balloons to it. He buckled himself in for ‘safety’ with a BB gun to shoot at the balloons when he was satisfied with defying gravity and wanted to come back to earth . . . and cut his anchor rope.

He definitely went up.

But not to the 30 feet he had been anticipating.

Nope. He zoomed up to 15,000 feet.

Justifiably terrified, Larry hesitated shooting out any of his balloons, not knowing how quickly such an action would bring him back to earth. Thus, shivering with cold in his lawn chair, and clutching his gun to himself out of fear and the fact that his cold hands simply wouldn’t let go, he drifted into LA airspace.

And was reported by passing aircraft intent on landing.

I can just picture the cockpit conversations: “Erm, base? We have an armed interloper floating through our airspace in a lawn chair. Response?

Helicopters were sent out to investigate/rescue the hapless man.

Sadly, they couldn’t seem to get close. Every time they approached, their whirring blades blew him away from them.

Finally, they decided to try coming down on him from above and managed to get a line to him and pull him in.

Back on the ground, he was immediately arrested.

What was his crime? Trespassing? Posing an armed threat? Unconventional use of weather balloons and/or lawn chairs?

Myself? I think he should have been charged with stupidity and leave it at that.

Today is National Stupid Guy Thing Day. Seriously.

What an untapped treasure trove!

Go and see what the other entrants have concocted!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

The Father Hood

 

The Originals

It starts out with a snuffle--a voice he's never heard before,

And suddenly, he's a Father. With a whole new world in store.

The time goes by, he's changed a thousand diapers, maybe more,

His hair's grown grey along the sides, his back is bent and sore,

Knows feeding, changing--s'expert on most 'baby' stuff that's sold,

Imagine how much more he'll know when his child is two days old . . .

The years fly past, his baby's reached the great old age of three,

That wondrous time when head and hands reach *ouch* above the knee,

The scars have healed from babe's first tooth, the child can even talk,

The tiny hard hat's put away--his little one can walk.

The child is toilet-trained, survived each illness, scratch and sore,

Dad knows it all. (Good thing because his wife just had two more.)

His babes grow tall--or he grows small--there's quite a shift in size,

He's not as smart as he once was, through his adolescent's eyes.

He's older now and he can see both sides of any fight,

But it matters not 'cause, like his child, he knows that he is right.

And as he watches, painfully, the sometimes good and bad,

There's one thing that will never change--the fact that he's their dad.

And so it goes, he does his best, survives on little rest,

He goes the round t'ween work and home and simply does his best.

There is little recognition for the work he does each day,

A baby hug, a chocolate kiss may be his only pay.

But he strangles his impatience as he watches tiny hands,

And he gently speaks when teenage heads just do not understand.

His prods and pushes--anger, too, he tempers, 'cause he cares,

His one reward, his children's love, he'll treasure through the years.

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

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?

Next Week's topic should be fun...

It's BUBBLES. Please tell everyone!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

Fathers (June 21) Today

Bubbles (June 28)

Bikinis (July 5)

Cheer the Lonely (July 12)

Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)

Parents Day (July 26)

Ice Cream Sandwich Day (August 2)

Cats (August 9)

Tell a Joke (August 16)

Wind (August 23)

Monsters (August 30)

Unexpected Lessons

 

Dads. There's no one quite like them.

An animated series aired several years ago, to great praise and equally great censure.

Because of the negative and very vocal comments, I chose not to watch.

For three years.

One evening, while working in my office, next to the TV room, I caught a few snatches of conversation coming from the program presently airing.

Two older children were asking their father why there were no pictures of their third and last sibling.

"Didn't you want her?" one of them asked.

It caught me because I am guilty of snapping thousands of pics of our eldest. Hundreds of our second, and then, progressively (or is it de-gressively?) less as each child made an appearance.

I made up for it with the last, when we were back into the thousands, but those in the middle . . . lost out.

The premise intrigued me.

I went to check it out.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that what was playing was an episode of 'that cartoon'.

But I was hooked by the subject matter.

I sat with my teenagers to watch.

The father reassured his children that he had, indeed, wanted their baby sister. Then he proceeded to tell the story.

He had left a terrible job in a nuclear plant and had been working at his dream job in a bowling alley. His work was appreciated and made him, for the first time in his life, happy.

Then his wife announced that baby number three was on the way.

He knew that what he earned at his dream job couldn't possibly support another child.

He would have to go and beg for his old job back.

Have I mentioned that it was horrible?

That he hated it?

Well, it was.

And he did.

Moving on . . .

When one faced the front entrance of the nuclear plant, they were presented with two doors.

One for new workers.

One for returning.

The 'returning' door was small. So small that anyone entering through it was forced to do so on their hands and knees.

Thus, on their knees, they could beg for employment.

It made quite an impression.

I kept watching.

Of course he was given his old job back.

And, of course, humiliated with every step.

Finally, seated once more in his old office, he was presented with a plaque which read: 'Don't Forget. You're Here Forever.'

This was fastened permanently to the wall directly in front of his console, where he wouldn't fail to see it.

Back to the two elder children and their conversation.

"So why are there no pictures?"

And his reply, "Oh there are pictures, kids. Lots and lots of pictures. They're where I need them!"

And then you get a view of his office as it looks now.

On every wall and, indeed, all available surfaces, are pictures of the little girl, in every stage of development.

And they cover much of the plaque.

Which now reads, 'Do It For Her'.

I cried.

It made me think about all of the fathers who go, every day, to a job they hate, just to feed and care for their families.

They are our unsung heroes.

We need to do more singing.

The Real Thumb Wars

Oh, sure. It looks harmless enough now . . .

Washing and scrubbing and blow-drying and trimming.

And brushing and brushing and brushing.

And clipping.

And trimming again.

And no, this isn't the local hairdressing salon on Prom day.

It's the local barn, as the local ranchers get their local cattle ready for show.

Oh, there are a few differences. The cattle have hair in more places, for one thing. They are a fair amount larger. They seldom cooperate.

And said grooming is sometimes dangerous.

Not things the average hairdresser worries about.

Moving on . . .

The first thing that must be accomplished before grooming can begin, is restraint.

Not us. Them.

Oddly enough, most cattle don't like the idea of getting wet.

And soapy.

And they like, even less, the sound of electrical gadgets in their vicinity.

They tend to head for the nearest far-away place.

With enthusiasm.

On the Stringam Ranch, restraint was accomplished by running them into a 'head-gate'.

A contraption designed to snap shut just behind the head and hold the animal, in an upright position, ready for grooming.

Picture a hairdresser, when she has tilted her patient back over the sink to wash . . .

Okay. Know what? Don't think of a hairdresser at all.

Because none of that applies here.

Back to my story . . .

With the animal thus confined, grooming can begin.

Simple.

But the fact is that when one gets up close and personal with something that outweighs one by 15 times, things can sometimes get . . . interesting.

Case in point:

We were grooming the two-year-old bulls.

For those who might not know, they are the male cattle.

Don't be mislead but their age.

Toddlers, they aren't.

Most of them weigh anywhere from 1500 to 2000 pounds.

Most of that muscle.

And bone.

With just a touch of aggression.

And a bit of stupidity.

I should explain, here, that a head gate works because the animal coming towards it can see daylight through it.

They lunge for what they see as freedom.

Now I'd like you to imagine the force 2000 pounds of solid muscle and bone can create when it is properly motivated.

Force which is brought to a crushing, bruising halt by the solid head gate as it snaps shut.

I know what you're thinking.

Probably best to keep one's hands and feet and appendages out of the way.

I didn't.

Remember the 'dangerous' part?

It comes in here.

Unthinkingly, I had rested my right hand on one of the uprights of the head gate.

And was watching as the next victim customer approached.

With alacrity. (Oooh. Good word!)

The bull hit the gate.

Then, realizing that he couldn't get out that way, immediately pulled back.

It was the pulling back that saved my hand.

Which had been caught between the upright and the metal plate that it snapped against.

Absorbing the entire force from 2000 pounds of mass.

On the run.

If the bull hadn't reacted as he had, my thumb would have been neatly and completely removed.

With surgical precision.

By the sharp, metal plate.

As he reared back, I gasped and jerked my hand away.

Then slumped against the fence as blackness threatened.

Dad looked at me curiously.

Everything had happened so fast that he hadn't seen it.

Wordlessly, I held out my hand.

The imprint of the plate could be plainly seen in the heavy, leather glove that I wore.

Which glove was also instrumental in saving my thumb.

Gently, Dad removed the glove.

As I gasped and swore breathed heavily.

The skin hadn't been broken, though there was a lively line of red where the plate had hit.

I was rushed to emergency, but subsequent x-rays showed that the bones hadn't even been broken.

A miracle.

When the pain and swelling subsided several weeks later, I was left with a numb thumb (something that continued for the next two years), and though the skin hadn't broken, a scar, which I carry to this day.

I learned some valuable things.

1. When a piece of equipment carries the warning: Please keep hands clear, there's a reason for the warning.
2. Inattention begets injury.

and

3. Two-year-old bulls look just fine the way they are.
4. Fussing not required.
5. Or appreciated

Mom always told me, and I quote, “You have to suffer to be beautiful.”

She never pointed out that I would suffer.

And something else would be beautiful.

I probably should have paid attention.

Carbon for Breakfast

 

Daddy at 5.
Background: his brother, Bryce.
Ignore the gun . . .

Dad was the youngest in a family of 11 children.
He had never been anywhere.
When Dad was five, his father decided he was old enough, finally, to go along when he took supplies to one of the family cow camps - about 35 miles away over roads that were mostly trails across the prairie.
The two of them started out.
Though the day had started out beautiful, the weather quickly turned sour.
As often happens in Southern Alberta.
And before they could start for home, a blizzard had blown in.
Travel quickly went from difficult to impossible.
Granddad decided that he and his youngest son would have to bunk with the rotund keeper (who also served as cook, bottle washer, chore boy, range rider and chief spinner of horrendous tales) of the camp.
Dad was beyond excited.
It was his very first time sleeping away from home.
The next morning dawned bright and clear.
Something else that often happens in Southern Alberta . . .
And Granddad decided that travel home would be attempt-able.
Before the two of them left, however, they were offered breakfast by the keeper.
He made bacon and eggs and, because the old, wood-burning, camp stove was rather unpredictable, biscuits that were burned black.
At first, Dad turned up his nose at the sight of the large, black lumps, but, after seeing his father eat a couple, he decided to try.
They weren't too bad.
He even got through a second.
Safely back at home a few hours later, as they were sitting down to lunch, his mother asked how he had liked it at the camp.
Dad was quite excited about the whole experience and talked about it enthusiastically.
He wished he could have stayed.
His Mom asked what he had eaten for breakfast.
It had been great, he enthused.
And he had eaten all of it!
"What did you have?" his mother asked.
"Bacon 'n eggs 'n coal!" Dad said proudly.
No wonder people were hardier back then.

Friction

 

The room of learning.

One of my favourite classes in high school was Biology.

We did exciting things in Biology.

Dissected worms.

Hid the teacher's notes.

Dissected deer eyes.

Checked each other's blood pressure.

Dissected frogs.

Typed each other's blood.

Gassed a bat and then drowned it, mistakenly thinking it was already dead. (One of the more traumatic days in Biology.)

Watched our teacher try to blow up the lab.

Slept through informative movies.

Watched our newly-engaged teacher try to remember what he was supposed to be teaching.

Dissected rats.

Grew weird things in petrie dishes.

We had fun.

And we were a good class.

Didn't cause too much trouble.

I will admit that we had a 'lost and found' board in our Biology lab.

But I'm sure that everyone has at least one of those.

Where else would you tack the frog tongues, frog legs, rat tails, and other things guaranteed to gross out the more squeamish members of the classroom?

But there is one thing that I remember vividly from all of my years in biology.

And only because of the unfortunate way in which my teacher chose to say it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were studying something very pithy: friction.

Did you know that friction is responsible for a lot of things?

Traction, for one.

Gripping.

Stopping.

In fact, if it weren't for friction, we would simply slip and slide around everywhere.

I know that sounds like fun, but it's really not. (Think Canadian streets for 9/10ths of the year.)

Our teacher explained it very well.

And yes, this was the teacher who was newly-engaged and only visited our planet for very short periods of time.

He told us, and I quote, “Friction is caused by two bodies rubbing together.”

Did you know that?

We didn't.

But you can be sure that we, and especially the boys in the classroom, never, ever, forgot it.

After that, not a day went past without someone making the selfless offer to help someone else study friction.

True story.

Biology class.

What would school life be like without it?

And . . . ahem . . . where would life be like without it?

Shoed

 

Okay, yes, modern housing has reached the heights of ridiculous-ness. But, you know what? Things have been worse…

Years ago, a couple lived in a fine house in the countryside and were blessed with many children.

But one semi-average day, their lives were forever changed when a giant destroyed their beautiful home with a club.

And to add insult to injury he took the father/husband, who was a talented wood-cutter, as his prisoner.

I know what you’re thinking. Rude. Cause they weren’t bothering anyone with their quiet lives and 18 children.

But he did what he did and left the poor wife/mother with no home and lots mouths to feed.

Now he did leave something behind. A shoe. Strange, and can I just say: weird? Nevertheless, it’s true.

The shoe, being about size 1,000,000EEEEEE was the right size for a poor fatherless family of 19.

They added a roof, a couple of amenities like a window and doors. And a boatload of deodorizer.

And moved right in. I totally get their reasoning. Giant takes father/breadwinner. Family takes shoe. Completely equitable. Right?

Now other versions of this story suggest the mom had tyrannical tendencies. All those are simply not true.

She was kind and just and her children did all they could to contribute to the family fortunes.

One day, the eldest son and his eleven brothers decided it was their duty to rescue their father.

Armed with swords none of them knew how to use, they started off. Following in the Giant’s footsteps.

Let’s face it, the print of a 1,000,000EEEEEE shoe is definitely not going to be hard to follow.

Soon they came to a huge castle. (Because, why not?) The eldest brother banged on the front door.

A strange man with a big head answered. (I know, it’s an unkind description. It’s all I have…)

The young man demanded his father. The doorman nodded and took the young man to the dark dungeons.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? If it was this easy, why didn’t they do it months before?

The man with the big head (sorry, again) disappeared and the young man went alone into the dungeon.

There he found a great, sleeping dragon. What happened next was a direct result of dozing on duty.

The young man stabbed that sleeping dragon right through the heart. (Hands up all you who guessed it.)

The dragon died without a whimper and the young man moved on and, of course, found his father.

(This story practically writes itself, wouldn’t you say?) The young man returned with his father to his brothers.

You’re right. The siblings didn’t have much to do in this story. The eldest brother just needed company.

Meanwhile, a witch/confirmed Giant hater, stopped by the shoe. Over tea, she convinced the Mom to come a-giant-ing.

Not quite sure how. I guess the Mom was still a bit miffed over the whole destroyed-house-abducted-husband scenario.

The two of them started out, only to find said Giant sleeping in a field not far away.

Probably he needed the rest after crushing the hopes, dreams and dwelling of yet another family. Seeing a pattern here?

The witch, being very powerful, cursed him with corns and tender feet. (Because what could possibly be worse?)

When the giant awoke, he groaned in pain. (Anyone feeling sorry?) and thought of his uber-comfortable lost shoe.

A short time later, he found it. Because it’s rather hard to hide a 1,000,000EEEEEE shoe. Right?

Ignoring the large number of children fleeing and running for their very lives, he put it on.

I don’t know about you, but I always shake my shoes before donning in case there’s anything inside.

Something disgusting like spiders. Or crawly bugs. It never once occurred to me to check them for children.

Just then, the boys/dad arrived and started shooting at the giant with the bows and arrows they carried.

…?! The bows and arrows that haven’t been mentioned till right now. I guess we needed the surprise?

Wounded, the giant fell to the ground, where he was quickly and easily dispatched by Eldest Son’s aforementioned sword.

Father, Mother and children were reunited to the joy of all and began plans to re-think their housing.

Because, how on this green earth were they going to pry giant shoe off said corn-y giant foot?

And who would want to. Ewww. Nope. Their exciting new plans were for something a little more conventional.

The witch faded quietly/happily into the landscape, her own personal vendetta against the giant well and truly over.

Now you know the real story of the woman/children who lived in a shoe. You’re welcome . . .

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 50. All bloggers taking part that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times.

 

This month’s word count number is: 18

It was chosen by: Mimi of Messymimi’s Meanderings           

Check out these other participating blogs!

BakingIn ATornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings