Pure and Clear

With Sally growing up in our fair city, the long-suffering citizens have had to get used to terms like: Code Red. APB. Emergency. And the host of smaller crises tragedies disasters calamities cataclysms. . . erm . . . misadventures that can plague a community.

To say they’re used to it would probably be an understatement.

Every member of the police force knows her by name. All the firemen. Even the SWAT team.

Maybe it would be easier to say all the city’s emergency response personnel and leave it there, shall we?

The general population also know her as they often see her face—much larger than life—on the marquee at the local movie theatre because let’s face it, she’s a movie star and a celebrity. Which means only that her sphere of ‘influence’ is just that much bigger.

Sigh.

All of this is to explain why Mom, Peter, Mort and I found ourselves as guests at the finest restaurant in the city for the biggest Celebrity Gala of the year. (Biggest because they weren’t allowed until now. Thanks, Covid!) But why we were justly nervous about being there.

I have to admit; it was nice to see Mom all dressed in her best—a simple but lovely floating chiffon in peach. And I probably don’t need to tell you, Peter looks spectacular in tie and tails. Even Mort fancies up nicely.

The evening had been fun. All the city bigwigs were there—including the mayor, though he managed to keep a justifiably wide berth between him and Sally. He seemed to tolerate the rest of us quite well, though. I was actually part of a group wherein he was describing his new, spectacular specs (Glasses to any who may not have heard them so labelled, ie. me). His exact words?  Something to do with the optometrist finally getting his prescription right. And not knowing How he survived without them!

All proceeds were to go to our local women’s shelter—a cause our family believes in very strongly—and people were giving generously.

There had been a fancy meal with subsequent open-ended tables of munchies and drinks arranged about the enormous room. We had been entertained by acrobats, a juggler and two puppet masters, and finally, a famous opera star who nearly shattered my ears during her moment in the spotlight. I have to tell you—that woman can sing. I think she hit notes that haven’t been invented yet. A few of them will likely be named after her, you know like they do those roses that people create . . .

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

I guess the term for a great party is ‘hitting on all cylinders’.

And this one was.

Then . . . Sally.

Now up until now, she had been behaving herself admirably. Chatting with people. Eating. Watching.

You know . . . normal.

The rooms were growing hot, so our group wandered over to one of the snack tables after Madame Voice finished her performance. Several men stood there, serving wine and other spirits, but as we were not wine-drinkers, we made a bee-line for the non-alcoholic side of the table.

A large, delicately balanced pyramid of wine goblets had been arranged in between the ‘als’ and the ‘nons’.

Rather than wait for one of the servers to fetch her a glass, Sally simply helped herself . . .

I’ll bet you were holding your breath there.

I know I was.

Moving on . . .

Then, goblet in hand, she grabbed a bottle of her drink of choice—Grape Somethingorother.

One of the helpful men swooped in and opened it for her, then offered to pour it, but Sally turned him down.

I remember staring at her white dress (yes, she was wearing white) and thinking, ‘Please don’t spill on that. Please don’t!’

And she didn’t.

This really was a great party!

Then Madame Voice swooped in. “Cherie!” she gushed. She embraced Sally with all the enthusiasm (and the mass) of several hundred pounds of ‘woman’. Kissed both of her cheeks several times, then chattered excitedly in French for a few moments.

I gathered she was a fan.

Unless she was some sort of masochist, it really was the only explanation.

Ahem . . .

Sally just stood there, a wide grin on her face, nodding at intervals.

Finally, at a pause in the very one-sided conversation, Sally lifted her glass.

Thinking she was about to propose a toast, the woman gasped, then quickly reached for a glass of her own. From the ‘als’ table. Something thick and red. She lifted it to tap against Sally’s.

There was a musical ‘ping’.

And Sally looked at her glass. “Hey! Is this crystal?” She looked at Mom, who nodded.

“Cool!” She turned to our singer. “Do you know that crystal sings?”

The woman looked at her uncomprehendingly.

Sally lifted her glass, deliberately dipped the end of one finger in her soda, then started running that finger around the rim of her glass.

Immediately, a pure, clear note sang out.

The woman brightened and, copying Sally’s actions, started her own glass singing.

Not to be left out, Mort grabbed a full glass and did the same.

I should probably mention here that the notes were pure, but . . . erm . . . not quite in the same register.

Sally’s glass, the least full, produced the lowest note. The Singer’s, whose glass was a little fuller, was higher.

Then Mort’s whose glass was nearly full, higher yet.

The three of them produced a sound which . . . well does the word ‘discordant’ mean anything to you?

These notes gave that word a whole new meaning.

And they didn’t stop there. Those note-producing fingers went faster and faster and the notes got more and more intense.

Until something snapped.

Or maybe, shattered would be the better word.

Remember that tower of glasses?

The one that had us all shaking in our sparkly shoes just moments ago?

That one.

Yeah, it shattered.

From the bottom to the top.

Every. Single. Glass.

And it didn’t stop there.

Nope.

Every liquid-filled goblet within thirty feet of us simply—ceased to exist.

There were exclamations of concern and disgust from several dozen party-goers as the contents of those former glasses suddenly found their way onto dress and shirt fronts, skirts, pants and shoes.

It took a moment for the three instigators/would-be musicians to realize what was happening and stop playing.

And in that instant came the final blow.

The mayor’s eyeglasses.

Our town now has a new emergency code: Code ‘S’. 

You understand.

Use Your Words is a monthly word challenge that I totally love!
Each month, we participants submit words to our intrepid leader, Karen, which she then redistributes.

None of us knows who will get our words or what they will do with them till now.

We're as surprised as you are!

My words this month:  hot ~ helpful ~ open-ended ~ restaurant ~ guest . . . came to me from our intrepid leader, Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Thank you SO much, my friend! 

Now go and see what the others in the group have created!  

Baking In A Tornado 

Wandering Web Designer 

Climaxed 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom  

What TF Sarah 

Fifty Day #1

Oh, how I admire the unabashed, unashamed innocence of the two year old…
Sweet little voice in the background during my and Daughter’s recent phone conversation: “What’cha doing Mama?”

“I’m talking on the phone, Quincy. Want to?”

“Nope.”

Aren’t there times when you wish you, too, could be a ‘Quincy’?

 This is a word challenge from my good friend, Adela of Black Tortoise Press!

Care to share the fun?

Click here to join!

Furry, Cute and . . .

 

Blair in winter. Just add mouse...

Guest post by Little Brother, Blair.

We had little furry critters (mice) that were common around the ranch.

They seemed to be everywhere.

When a grain bin door was opened they scampered away to safety. When we pulled bales from haystacks, ditto.

A little background . . .

Every summer I had the pleasure of baling and stacking hay.

Every late fall and winter I had the pleasure of feeding hay.

Most of the time we baled an alfalfa-grass mix but on some occasions, we baled green-feed (an oat crop that is cut when green and just headed out.) Creative name, eh?

Cows really like green-feed and so do little furry critters.  Consequently, you see lots of them when you feed green-feed bales. 

On with my story . . .

One day in the middle of winter, dad and I were loading green-feed bales.

The snow had just fallen and we had a lovely white blanket everywhere.

I was pulling bales from the stack and throwing them into the back of the truck where dad was stacking them for the trip to the field. When each bale lifted, critters would skitter to the safety of another bale.

Suddenly, I got a funny feeling.

A little warm furry critter had somehow found his way up my pant leg.

Umm . . . yikes.

As the critter was slowly making his way up, I managed to grab him.

Now I had a predicament.

It was inside my pants leg. Which were inside my coveralls.

I could only stop the critter by grabbing it from the outside of said pants and coveralls.

I didn’t want it to bite me so I grabbed and squeezed.

Then I tried to shake it down my pant leg.

It wouldn’t shake. 

I turned to Dad. He of the years of experience and endless knowledge.

Surely he had some wise method to take care of this very unwanted predicament.

His advice? “I guess you’ll have to take off your pants.”

I had only this to say:

Stackyard!

In the winter!

In the snow!

In my underwear!

Yeah. Dad had a good laugh.

Black Saturday

The ranch

Production sale day.

The highlight of the Stringam Ranch year. Black Friday in our ranching world.

The catalogs have been printed, painstakingly hand-addressed (ugh!) and mailed out.

All over the world.

The cattle have been groomed, trimmed, tucked in and kissed good night.

The ranch site has been mowed, scoured, repaired and painted.

Now it sparkles like a new penny in the dawning sun as the crew slowly climbs out of bed.

Some (my parents) might not have seen their bed.

Arrivals start

Breakfast is on the table and Mom is a blur of motion as she tries to do three things at once.

A shout from the barnyard. “They’re here!”

A glance out the window. Sure enough, the first of a long line of vehicles is moving slowly up the ranch drive.

From then on, the day is a series of impressions.

Snapshots.

Greeting and handshaking.

Parking cars and the trickier trucks and trailers.

Handing out catalogues.

Tending the coffee and the all-important donuts.

Making sure the auctioneer staff are comfortable and cared for.

Dusting the bleachers, ready for customer bottoms.

Hearing the shouts and movement from the pens behind the sale barn.

The warm up patter from the auctioneer on the stand as he gathers the chatting, laughing, gesticulating crowd.

An open gate and the first animal, an outstanding heifer, in the ring.

The auctioneer assistant, armed with a cane, moving her about.

Oohs and aahs from the crowd as they thumb their catalogues, looking for this entry.

More chatter from the man with the mike.

Bidding.

The smack of the gavel.

Another open gate and the now-nervous heifer gladly disappearing.

Gates open.

Gates close.

Shouts from the pens as stock is shuffled into catalogue order.

Animals in.

Animals out.

Pounding of the gavel.

Talk and laughter as the auctioneer plays with the crowd.

The final animal, a 2000 pound bull, in the pen.

Final strike of the mallet.

“Mark and Enes Stringam would like to thank all of you for making this day special!” the auctioneer says. “And to invite you to come and enjoy a nice home-grown beef dinner on them!” A grin. “It should be good, it’s out of the neighbour’s bull!”

Much laughter. The crowd is well aware of the almost fanatic fence maintenance required by the ranch owner.

And the unlikely possibility of anything four-legged crawling through with mischief/romance in mind.

Everyone moving down the hill toward the long tables set out in front of the ranch house.

Tables groaning with mountains of Stringam beef, salads, rolls, and every other good thing.

A buzz of contented ‘people noise’ as food is consumed.

Sounds of vehicles as buyers take turns backing up to the loading chutes.

Visiting. Laughter.

The crowd slowly dwindling, along with the sunlight.

Finally, peace.

The mercury-vapour barnyard lamp shining on the faces of a family of people, collapsed in chairs in front of the house.

Tomorrow the whole process begins again, from the beginning, with breeding, calving, culling, choosing, feeding, grooming and all the processes within the processes. But for this minute, everyone is quietly, happily exhausted.

It’s been a good day. A good year.

Communication ‘50s Style

As I was driving to the city for an appointment, I saw two trucks stopped on a frontage road paralleling the highway.

They had been travelling in opposite directions and had pulled over next to each other in the centre of the road so the drivers could chat.

It brought back memories . . .

In the fifties, in the sparsely-inhabited and phoneless outer ranchlands of Southern Alberta, neighbours didn’t see each other much. Busy with ranch demands and family life, they only got together at county shindigs and the occasional branding or barn dance.

Oh, they travelled the same roads to and from the nearest towns, but the chance of running into one another on those long trails was slim to nil.

When it did happen, it was cause for excitement . . .

A cloud of dust appears on the horizon, slowly coalescing into a dark spec. Then into a vehicle.

As it draws closer, said vehicle is recognized – a friend or person who is not yet a friend.

The vehicle slides to a stop in the middle of the road.

Your car does the same and you look out to see that the other person is already leaning on his crossed arms out his open window – ready for a chat.

Everyone in each vehicle crowds around their driver for a peek and a listen.

Inevitably, there’s a few minutes of chatter, beginning with: “Well, Enes! I haven’t seen you in dog’s years! How are you? The kids? And how’s Mark?”

And Mom’s answer: “Oh, everyone’s fine. Busy. You know.”

“Heading into town?”

“Oh yeah. This crew never stops eating. And I have to make a call at the hardware and the shoemakers.”

“Yeah, the missus sent me on much the same errands. Oh, she’d like to drop by sometime, if that’s okay.”

“I’m always happy to see her! Tell her to bring the kids down for an afternoon. They could go swimming.”

“Had any rain at the ranch? We’re so dry, the birds are building their nests out of barbed wire and the trees are bribing the dogs.” 

“You still have birds? And Dogs?”

“Good one.”

This goes on for some time. Until one or the other realizes that they have to be somewhere . . .

Then it ends with: “Well, better get back. I’ve got ice cream and we all know how much it likes this hot weather! Could you please tell Mark that I’ve got those bulls that need testing and we still haven’t done our vaccinating. Maybe have him stop by?”

“I’ll do that.”

“And you and the kids come by any time! The pot’s always on and you know you’re always welcome!”

The driver shifts into gear and, with a wave, heads off down the road.

We continue our trip, with us kids all swivelled around to watch the truck disappear into another cloud of dust.

Communication.

On the prairies. 

In the fifties.

It was always personal, neighbourly and eye-to-eye.

And you took it when you could get it.

Where you headin'?

P.S We kids often re-enacted the whole visiting-on-the-road scenario. When playing with toy cars, we would inevitably stop beside someone else and discuss plans - which usually included going for groceries.

P.P.S. It was even funnier when we were playing with model planes. Did you know those guys can hover? Well, when they see someone they know, they can hang there for inordinate amounts of time and discuss the weather.

Cat's Tail

You’ve heard this tale before, you have,

I thought I’d tell it one more time,

Perhaps it’ll be less scary when,

The whole darn thing’s put into rhyme?

‘Twas evening on the Stringam Ranch,

The cows were fed, tucked in for night,

The cowboys all were TV bound,

T’was Friday—time to watch the fights.

But Cheeta, our small terrier,

Disturbed the joy we 'hands' pursued,

Her barking (loud) drowned out the sound,

Trust dogs to bark and spoil the mood!

I went to see what had her miffed,

I walked beneath the carport there,

And just as I was stepping out,

My foot raised to the evening air . . .

A scream rang out above my head,

A cougar, sure, was on the roof,

Like us, he’d had enough of noise,

Was offering his best reproof.

I spun around and headed back,

Then called my dog. The errant waif

Came like a shot. The two of us

Determined to find somewhere safe!

Dad looked. By then the cat had gone.

And Cheeta, barking once again,

But moving t'word the hills, for sure,

No longer skulked on our terrain.

There is a moral here today,

If, a cat, you'd like to own...

Before you make your final choice...

Make sure it'll fit INSIDE your home!

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, for all you special folks...

Please come. For you we'll Tell A Joke! 

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Cats (August 9) (Today!)

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 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