The Love of a Child

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

When he was 19 years old, Husby went to live, for two years, in France.

As a Missionary.

It was an exciting time.  A time of growth, education and change.

And of new and varied experiences.

One of the latter had such a profound effect on him that it defined his life . . .

He and his companion were visiting with a woman teetering on the very brink of disaster.

She had been married. But to an abusive animal of a husband whose daily and favoured recreation seemed to be the use of his very manly fists.

With his wife as the target.

When he finally abandoned them, he left her and their two children completely destitute.

Desperate to feed her small family, the wife, after much tearful consideration, decided the best course would be to send her small son and daughter  to live in the very large and efficient orphanage some ten miles away. Knowing, even as she did so, that she would seldom, if ever, be able to even visit.

This was the situation when Husby came by.

At the end of their call, the mother tearfully begged them to make the ten mile trip to visit her children.

They agreed to do so, covering the distance fairly easily on their bicycles.

Husby clearly remembers his first glimpse of the massive building – a former hospital – now given to the housing and feeding of hundreds of young children.

There were children everywhere. Clothed and clean and obviously well-fed, but almost without adult contact.

He and his companion made their way to the main office and inquired after the two children. They were directed to one of the wings of the building. Carefully, they mounted stairs and counted doors, coming at last to a massive room.

The young boy – about nine – and his younger sister met them in that doorway.

Husby peered into the room and saw literally hundreds of beds placed in regimental order down each side of the huge room.

Here was home.

Clean. Tidy.

Institutional.

Their only adult supervision supplied by the nurse in charge and their daily contact with their teachers.

Husby thought of their grieving mother and his heart melted inside him.

He and his companion spent a few minutes chatting with those children, but in that few minutes, he was changed forever.

Into the loving, giving caretaker of any child – every child - he sees.

Sometimes, our experiences define us.

And sometimes, though the experience is painful, it’s for the good.

Husby doing what he does so well...

The Cake Break

I love hearing about people.

Where they came from.

Who their families were.

Their stories . . .

I have a good friend who was raised in a bakery.

Really.

Her family lived on the third floor of the building. The bakery was on the second, and the ‘workings’ (ovens and things) on the first.

I think it sounds like a small slice of heaven. Or maybe a large slice. Pun intended.

This is a part of her story . . .

Her father immigrated to their small Alberta town as a young man, intent on finding his way.

He took a job at the local bakery and, using skills brought with him from the old country, quickly made himself useful.

There was a girl at that bakery.

A pretty girl.

Daughter of the owner.

Much to the owner’s dismay, the two quickly became an item. I expect it was all right for Papa to be a baker, but he wanted more for his daughter.

Daughter had other plans.

The two made arrangements to be married.

And the father/boss gave grudging permission, both for the ceremony, and for the time away from the shop. But he only gave them enough of said time to perform the actual ceremony. Then both of them were to be back at the store to work.

Yes, it sounds odd to me as well.

Moving on . . .

The two slipped away to be married.

An hour later, they were back, aprons donned and ready to work.

Now the young new husband was very handy at decorating cakes.

Very handy.

In fact, he had been doing most of the decorating in the shop almost since his arrival.

As a gift for his young bride, he had created something really special. A many-tiered cake, astoundingly decorated with angels and trumpets and flowers painstakingly fashioned out of icing.

It had taken him some time.

Upon their return to the shop, he presented his gift.

It was . . . well received.

It was at that moment that another young groom came into the shop, intent on picking up the cake he had ordered for his celebration.

The cake, another decorated by our young husband, was duly handed over and paid for. Then, as the second groom carried his precious cargo out of the shop, he slipped and he and a mound of perfectly-arranged, meticulously-bedecked cake and frosting both hit the floor with a resounding splat.

He emerged unscathed.

The cake . . . didn’t.

The young man scrambled to his feet and stared down at the ruin of what had been a work of art.

And his gift to his new bride.

Dismay writ large, he looked over at the young baker.

Who, in turn, looked at his bride.

Who nodded silently.

Our young groom went into the back of the shop and emerged with his own gift. The one he had spent hours decorating for his beloved. The one she had enjoyed so briefly.

The two of them handed it silently over to the unhappy groom.

The story ends there.

I have to imagine the joy on the young man’s face.

The pain in the heart of the creator.

And that of his darling . . .

The two of them celebrated many, many years together. Took over the bakery and raised several children there.

There were other cakes.

Just as meticulously decorated.

Just as beautiful.

But none more appreciated than the first.

Hand-Holding Music

1965.

The year boys were discovered in Milk River.

Okay, yes, I am assured they had always been there.

I definitely had seen them.

But up until that time, they had been covered with cooties.

True story.

Also true was the fact that, in 1965, I got my first, ever, boyfriend.

A real. Living. Breathing. Boy. Who liked me.

1965 was also the year for miracles.

Moving on . . .

I was finding out about the wondrous world of sitting in a movie with a boy.

Hanging out at recess with a boy.

Talking on the phone with a boy.

Sitting in assemblies with a  . . .

You get the idea.

It was new.

It was unusual.

It was amazing.

Okay, it didn’t last long. Let’s face it, both of us were ten. Attention spans are notoriously short when you’re ten.

But for a while . . .

My boyfriend and I and another friend were sitting in the travel trailer behind his parents’ house.

I should mention here that 1965 was also the year that we realized the radio played . . . music.

Rock and roll music.

I don’t know about you, but my parents’ radio was always played the news.

Yep. The news.

And the stock prices with an occasional foray into weather.

Twenty-four hours a day.

Yuck.

Back to my story . . .

My boyfriend had fallen hard for a newly discovered group, The Beatles. He had bought one of their records and we were listening to it.

They were SO COOL!

It was the fifth or sixth time we had restarted the LP and by this point, all three of us were getting quite proficient with the words to “I Wanna Hold Your Hand!”

“I wanna hold your ha-a-and!” I was singing at the top of my lungs, really not caring who else might be listening. “I wanna hold your hand!”

My boyfriend took the hint. Sat beside me, took my hand and sang along.

It was the best moment of my life.

Then, suddenly, his mother appeared in the open door. “Diane, your Mom is here. Time to go.”

I looked at my boyfriend and grimaced. (Yes. Grimaced.)

Our moment was over.

But that was all right. I was sure there would be others.

Lots of them.

I was wrong. Not long afterwards, my boyfriend’s attention . . . wandered.

As did mine.

That’s the good thing about being 10.

But whenever I hear The Beatles sing, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, I’m back in the trailer behind his house and he and I are singing along at the top of our voices.

And holding hands.

Memories don’t get much better than that.

Strangely Injured

Some of our blessings.
Caution: Lift with care.

I’ve been fairly active all my life.

And I have the scars to prove it.

I had all the usual bumps and bruises learning to walk as a baby.

Climbed and fell off of numerous fences, buildings, and assorted furniture.

Got trampled by an angry mama cow in the barnyard and got a flattened right boot.

Tried to fly using mom’s circular clothesline and almost bit my tongue right through.

Took a high-flier off my brother’s horse and landed on my face, resulting in impressive scratches and bruises.

Got a faceful of hoof from the same horse moments later.

Had an altercation with the arm of the armchair in my parents’ front room which resulted in one remarkable eyebrow.

Tore a twenty-two-inch groove in my leg from ankle to thigh, when I fell headfirst over the barbed-wire fence I was trying to cross.

Nearly lost my right hand in a cattle headgate.

Put all of my lower teeth through my lip when I got head-butted by an angry mama cow whose calf I was sitting on at the time.

And these were just injuries incurred in the course of growing up on a ranch.

I also sprained each ankle numerous times playing basketball, volleyball or baseball.

Sprained every single finger at least once – ditto.

Broke a wrist doing a celebratory leap.

Wrecked a knee running marathons.

Wrenched shoulders.

Sprained backs.

Twisted necks.

My purpose in telling you all of this is not so you will think I’m tough.

Or superwoman.

But because I don’t want you to think I give up easily.

That I can take pain and carry on.

But one day, not all that long ago, I developed a new injury.

Something I’d never had before.

And I really struggled with it.

I went to the doctor complaining of pain in my elbow.

You heard me correctly.

My elbow.

She examined the offending joint. Worked it around. Hemmed and hawed. “You have tennis elbow,” she said decisively, moments later.

“Tennis elbow? How on earth did I get that?!” Since the knee injury, my sports participation has been strictly limited to walking, laps of the pool.

And bike rides.

I’ve never even picked up a tennis racket.

“Well . . . golf elbow, then.”

Golf?! “Umm, that’s a game, right?”

She stared at me. “Well, what activities do you do?” she asked.

I frowned. “Walk. Swim. Bike. Play with my grandkids.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Grandkids?”

I nodded.

She smiled. “Do you lift said grandkids?”

I scratched my head. “Ye-es,” I said slowly.

“A lot?”

“Well, two of them live with me and one I babysit every day.”

She nodded, once more crisply confident. “That’s it, then.”

“What?” I was confused.

“I’m sure that the pain in your elbow can be directly attributed to the constant lifting of small bodies.” (Doctors talk like that . . .)

“I have . . . toddler elbow?”

She smiled. “In a word.”

Huh.

It’ll never be discussed in ‘Sports Illustrated’.

Never be the topic of concern for professional athletes.

But it’s real.

Toddler elbow.

To be found at many grandparents’ houses near you.

You heard it here first.

Sandwich Dreaming

 I’ve looked around and learned a bit,

‘Bout SANDWICHES that are a hit,

Like TUNA, it’s a place to start,

With cheese and spices in its heart,

A COMBINATION’S got no rules,

A sub or blt are cool!

A SIMPLE sandwich, simple, yes!

Just meat or cheese, but make it fresh!

Or STEAK, I’ve tried it once or twice,

With onions, grilled, it’s very nice,

A HAMBURGER is always good,

I’d eat it loaded, yes I would,

PANINI, that is something new,

Ciabatta bread and grill-ed too!

A CLUB, if I am not forsaken,

Chicken, Lettuce Under Bacon,

A PINWHEEL is a pretty thing,

Tortilla wrapped and cut: a king!

With RIBBON you will get no gripes,

Bread, meat, cheese cut into stripes!

PASTRAMI has some special meat,

With cheese, tomato, lettuce. Neat!

BROADWAY. With crispy, we begin,

Toast, smoked salmon, eggs stuffed in,

A PO BOY, half baguette as base.

Then roast beef, shrimp or gator place.

EGG SALAD: Boiled eggs that are diced

And mixed with mustard, spices—nice!

CROQUE MONSIEUR: add ham, gruyere,

Then dip in egg and grill for flair!

REUBEN: Corned beef, sauerkraut,

With Swiss cheese, what life’s all about!

And PBJ for something slick,

Just spread and eat. Delish. And quick!

GRILLED Cheese, best one of them all,

Beloved by both the big and small . . .

 

With all these choices, what to pick,

When lunch, you need that’s filling. Quick?

And tasty. That’s important, too,

Which would you choose and which eschew?

I know, for me, the answer’s there,

For which one I would say a prayer,

Sooo . . . ‘bout which of all these do I dream?

One made with rusk. Filled with ice cream! 

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 nice,

We'll talk of CATS. (Ma Nature's spice!)

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Ice Cream Sandwich Day (August 2) Today!

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

The Fight That Cheers

Our 4-H beef club, once a year,

Explored the cont’nent far and near,

We all looked forward to that trip,

The highlight of our membership.

 

The year that I was seventeen,

Washington State was to be seen,

A camp like none we’d had before,

With pool, amenities galore!

 

Each day we’d spend the sunlight hours,

Examine caves and trails and flowers.

At night back in our ‘crib’, we’d rule,

And splash and play in that new pool,

 

When we arrived, our convoy found,

When we had parked and looked around,

The campsites all were done just so,

With fire pits ready, set to glow.

 

The grasses clipped, the paths laid out,

Just needing kids to run and shout.

But the pool for us to plunge and caper?

Existed, true, but just on paper.

 

In sweltering heat, we gathered round,

That hole they’d dug there in the ground,

That someday in the coming time,

D’have boards to jump, ladders to climb.

 

None of which did us much good,

N’existe pas from where we stood,

And so, chagrined, we turned away,

To find another place to play.

 

One dad took pitcher—he would fill,

His radiator to the gills,

Another grabbed a nearby hose,

A stream of water from it rose.

 

And suddenly, a breathless pause,

In heat that draped like sticky gauze,

Those men each took the other in, 

And suddenly, they gave a grin.

 

I’m sure there’ve been more epic fights,

That really have put out the lights,

For us, there’s none that can compare,

As 4-H’ers defeat despair.

 

With buckets, pails and kitchen pots,

We flung lots of water. LOTS,

Till few were left e’en somewhat dry,

(To find these few, we sent out spies.)

 

Some moms had gathered by a tent,

And laughed as children came and went,

Secure that no one in the troop,

Would soak the mothers of the group.

 

My brother spied them sitting there,

With pleated dresses, curl-ed hair.

Twitt’ring like some little birds,

“No, George, NO!” were their last words.

 

An hour or so of laughing din,

Saw everyone soaked to the skin,

Then happ’ly cooled and tired from play,

We set up camp to end the day.

 

I learned that day there in those woods,

Some things don’t work out like they should,

But don’t despair, it’s not the end…

Cause ‘better’s’ just around the bend!

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

Visit her and see what she’s done with the theme!

Holiday Smash

 

Getting ready for the LONG trip . . .

It was the late 1950’s and Dad was in Toronto.

With 15 friends.

Twelve hairy chaps with four feet each.

And three not-so-hairy fellows who were . . . more like Dad.

Intrigued? Stay with me . . .

During the 50s, the government had programs encouraging people to raise bigger and better cattle. They even sponsored ranchers who were interested in hauling a few of their best cattle to agricultural shows around the country. They reasoned that said ranchers, eager for some first-place ribbons, would selectively breed bigger and better animals.

It worked.

Ranchers arrived at shows with trailer loads of their very best animals, hoping for a trophy or two and some recognition.

And that was what had brought Dad to Toronto. He and young friends Mike, Leroy, and Patrick had driven from Alberta, carting a ‘carload’ (twelve steers) halfway across the country to the agricultural show there.

They learned a few things.

Some of which were unexpected.

Maybe I should explain . . .

The four friends arrived with several days to spare.

After unloading and settling their stock, they found they had time for some sightseeing.

And the great Niagara was where they wanted to do it.

Renting a car, the four of them set out. They toured, first, the Canadian side of the falls, then crossed over the border to the American.

After several hours of ‘tourist-ing’, they decided that the next item on the agenda should probably include some sort of sustenance.

They began to scout around for a likely place.

Only to discover that the restaurants nestled close around the falls were of the ‘posh’ variety.

Uh-oh.

Now these boys were all from the ranches of Southern Alberta. They were good boys. Polite. Respectful.

They just hadn’t been out and about much.

And never had any of them eaten at such high-class establishments.

They wandered around a bit, looking for a place where four young men--clean, but with calloused hands and traces of real manure on their boots--wouldn’t feel quite so out of place.

Finally, they picked a likely-looking prospect and walked in.

And discovered that the quiet exterior was slightly misleading.

This restaurant was definitely 'five-star'.

Taking a collective deep breath, they hailed the Maitre’D and secured a table. Then further hiding their discomfort, proceeded to order, trying to sound as blasé about their surroundings as the other patrons appeared to be.

They did well.

Until Patrick was asked how he’d like his potatoes prepared.

“Smashed,” he said clearly.

The waiter stared at him. Finally, “Smashed?” he said.

“Smashed,” Patrick repeated.

The waiter nodded and, making a careful note on his pad, collected the menus and disappeared into the kitchen.

Leroy punched Patrick in the arm. “Smashed?” he said.

Patrick started to giggle.

Leroy joined him.

Then Mike.

All of their pent-up nervousness and discomfort burst out of the three of them in a joyous bubble of sound.

That they vainly tried to suppress.

This went on for some time. One of them would nearly gain control. Then look at the others and start again.

Ever try not to laugh? Seriously. In church or school or somewhere people aren’t supposed to laugh?

Yeah. It’s impossible.

Certainly, it was for them.

Before long, the four friends were the cynosure (real word) of all eyes. And that just made them more nervous.

And less able to control their laughter.

They managed to make it through their painful meal.

Paid and finally escaped.

Oddly enough, none of them can remember what they ate. Apart from the smashed potatoes, of course.

But each of them learned a few things.

1. When in ‘Rome’, act as the Romans do.

2. When in ‘Rome’, speak as the Romans do.

3. Avoid potatoes in public.

And, most importantly . . .

4.  Don’t laugh.

Make a note in your guidebook.

Worrying About Worry

I remembered something while talking to my baby brother.
A quote from Daddy:
It ain't no use to grumble and complain.
It's every bit as easy to rejoice.
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain . . .
Rain's my choice.

It reminded me, that, not only can't we control the weather, sometimes it does precious little good to stew over much of what happens in life.
So, whatever life chooses to dish out, that's what I'm going to go with.
Thanks, Daddy!

Daddy. See him there in the back? Raining...

Taking Bunnies to Church

As a rancher, during the work week, Dad was usually seen in work shirts and pants.
Heavy boots.
Leather gloves.
But on Sundays, all of that changed.
He would appear, dignified and tidy, in 'church' attire.
Suit.
White shirt.
Polished boots.
And a tie.
Usually, Dad chose his own ties.
He had good taste.
Well . . . conservative taste.
No garish patterns.
No fluorescent colours.
Yep. Conservative.
But one of his ties stands out in my memory.
One that . . . wasn't conservative.
It was a quiet, dark tie.
With tiny, white polka-dots.
His favourite.
He wore it for three years.
And that is hilarious.
Maybe I should explain . . .
One day, just after church, I was giving my dad a hug.
Something I did often.
But now I was getting tall enough that his tie and my eyes were pretty much on the same level.
I buried my face in his clean, white shirt.
Then I opened my eyes.
And saw . . . dots.
No . . . wait . . . they weren't dots.
They were . . . something else.
I grabbed his tie and examined it closely.
Huh.
“Daddy, do you know what's on this tie?”
“Polka-dots,” came the ready answer.
I lifted the end of the tie up to his face and held it there.
He looked. Then took the end of the tie from me and looked again a bit more carefully. “Oh,” he said.
That tie he had been wearing for the past three years, teaching and/or officiating in church before lots and lots of people.
That tie.
Well, the tiny, regular pattern?
Wasn't polka-dots.
No.
It was playboy bunny heads.
Tiny little white playboy bunny heads.
My dad had been a leader in our local church congregation for three years . . .
Wearing a tie with playboy bunny heads on it.
See? Hilarious.
I think he thought it was funny, too.
But the tie never again made an appearance at church. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
Where it ended up, only big brother, George, knows.

When he passed away, Daddy still had quite a collection of ties.
Long.
Cork.
Bow.
Feather.
Bolo.
But not one of them had polka dots.
Real or imagined.

For Our Parents!

 I know you’ve read this one before,
‘Bout my dad, whom I adored,
And as today is Parents Day,
I thought I’d share it once again!

Daddy’s Footsteps

December. My four-year-old mind was a haze,

I’d been locked in the house as it snowed for three days.

Then quite suddenly, magically, sunlight appeared,

And my Daddy was pulling on snow boots. And gear.

I just couldn’t stand the house one minute more.

I had to get out. I’d help Dad with the chores!

So I zippered and buttoned and pulled on and tied,

Then stood by my Daddy with little-girl pride.

“I’m ready,” I shouted. “Let’s go milk the cows!”

I was set for adventure, quite done with the house.

He smiled and then, turning, stepped into the snow.

And I walked alongside. It seemed quite apropos.

At first the bright sparkles and crisp winter air

Made our walking, adventure, and senses aware.

But then I discovered as most children do,

That snow, though quite pretty, was hard to get through.

I struggled and grunted, broke into a sweat,

Then looked for the barn that we hadn’t reached yet.

My Daddy smiled down at my efforts inept,

“It’d be easier if you tried to step where I step.”

So I did. And my progress was much better then,

Soon we two reached the barn, and the cozy cow pens.

I sat perched on a stool and watched Daddy do chores,

Then followed him home, just like I’d done before.

I learned something that day, as we walked through the yard,

If I stayed in his footsteps, then things weren’t as hard.

His skill and experience, and his guidance, too,

Would make everything easier my whole life through.

Now, to my own kids, when there’s woe to be had

I give bits of advice that I learned from my Dad.

When Life dishes out dollops of good or of ill,

I find that I’m walking in Dad’s footsteps still.

 

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, We hope you’d like to try...

An ICE CREAM SANDWICH, please drop by!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Parents Day (July 26) Today!

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