To Relax

We came to Banff, we always do,

We love it so, though it’s not new,

A chance to hike with kids and packs,
Play games and eat…and just RELAX!

We’re not as many as before,

Just 15 of our thirty-four,

With half the grandkids, (only nine),

But still a busy busy time!

 

We’ve toured the Bow in a canoe,

And hiked for hours not a few,

Climbed walls of stone and played some games,

Saw wildlife to loud acclaim.

 

We’ve talked and shopped and had such fun,

It’s sad to know we’re almost done,

This vacay’s built to its climax…

Soon we’ll go home,THEN we’ll RELAX!

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!

Frog School

Cute. Or slimy. You decide.

Twenty Froggies

Twenty froggies went to school
Down beside a rushy pool,
Twenty little coats of green,
Twenty vests all white and clean.

"We must be in time," said they.
"First we study, then we play.
That is how we keep the rule,
When we froggies go to school."

Master Bull-frog, brave and stern,
Called his classes in their turn,
Taught them how to nobly strive,
Also how to leap and dive.

Taught them how to dodge a blow,
From the sticks that bad boys throw.
Twenty froggies grew up fast
Bull-frogs they became at last.

Polished in a high degree,
As each froggie ought to be.
Now they sit on other logs, 
Teaching other little frogs.                              
                                  by George Cooper

I realize that this sounds like a children's poem.
Because it is.
But I didn't learn it until grade twelve.
Biology class . . .
We were in the 'dissection' part of our school year. The part that I, the daughter of a veterinarian, found most fascinating.
But that many of the other girls (and even some of the boys) . . . didn't.
We were scheduled, as part of the class, to walk down to the 'Fish Pond' and catch our own frogs.
Great! Field trip!
But first, our teacher, Mr. Meldrum, handed each of us a copy of the aforementioned poem.
We thought it was cute.
And clever.
And easily folded into paper planes. Okay, not everyone thought it was as cute as I did.
Philistines!
Then we set out.
The walk down was enjoyable. Beautiful late-spring day. Warm sun.
And boys. (We were speaking of biology . . .)
It didn't take long for us to reach the pond. We spread out and began to pounce on the dozens of frogs who made the peaceful waters their home.
Well, most of us did. There were the inevitable few who couldn't bear to touch the 'slimy' little things.
In no time, we had collected enough of the little squirming bodies to have a frog each.
One strong lad (yes, I meant to use the word 'lad') was elected to carry the precious bucket. The rest of us enjoyed the short walk back.
Then, to work.
We spent the rest of the morning performing various operations on our hapless little victims.
Fortunately, our teacher knew very well what he was doing and instructed us in the proper methods of 'painless' observation.
It was an interesting morning. And far too short.
When it was done, I was the only student who took the poem home.
Or so I thought.
Some months later, when our school yearbook was handed out, I realized that other students in my class were actually paying attention. Closer attention, even, than I was.
There, in the 'Last Will and Testament' page, beside one young man's name, were the words: "Being of sound mind and beautiful body, leaves said body to be dissected by twenty froggies who go to school."
Payback.
And a fitting tribute.

Fifty Day #3

Today is Fifty Day!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

Mom

She swoops, dips on the ice. Spins.

I stare at her and see, for the first time, not the one who cooks delicious meals. Cleans. 

Cuddles and kisses.

Sings.

I see the one who was offered University scholarships. Pro baseball positions.

But who wanted nothing other than that of ‘Mom’.

This is such a fun challenge!

Care to join us?

Simply leave your link in the comments section!

We look forward to reading!

Nearly Parenting

Mark, right and Erik, with Grampa Tolley in the background

To complete his master's degree, my husband moved our (then) little family to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.
Also know as Winter-peg or Windy-peg - either one is apt.
And I found myself, for the first time, living in a large city.
There was the usual adjustment period.
Okay, I'm lying, there was no adjustment 'period'.
I never did adjust.
For eight months, my (then) two sons and I hardly left the apartment, unless accompanied by my husband.
Funny how grocery shopping can start looking like a 'date'.
I was homesick for my prairies and open spaces.
I did get a lot of reading and sewing and cleaning done. And my boys discovered the wonder of 'cable TV'.    I soon learned just how much they watched . . .
Grant had taken us for a drive. He had an errand to run and his family was suffering from 'cabin-fever', a common enough ailment in Canada in the winter.
No, really. You can look it up . . .
Grant was making a quick dash into the mall.
Now those of you who know my husband know that a quick dash anywhere, isn't.
Quick, I mean.
The boys and I were sitting in the fire lane in front of the Zellers store long enough to celebrate birthdays.
Yes, I'm exaggerating, but you get the picture. It was quite a while.
Erik was buckled into his car seat directly behind me, happily blowing bubbles and Mark, his older brother by eighteen months was opposite him, with the clearest view of the storefront.
I was reading.
Again.
Mark was chanting something, just loud enough to be heard.
It took a couple of repetitions before I noticed.
I put down my book.
"Mark, what are you saying?"
He repeated it.
"What?" Sometimes, deciphering almost-three-year-old speech takes a Master's degree. And where was the one person in our family with such a degree???!
"Say it once more."
"Zed-E-Eleven-E-R-S."
What on earth was he talking about?
I looked where he was looking.
The front of the Zellers store.
Suddenly, it hit me.
He was reading the letters over the front doors.
Zed. E. Eleven. E. R. S.
Well, almost.
It made perfect sense! If you were two.
What a clever boy!
Genius.
And I had raised him.
Okay, for a very few seconds, I did a bit of back patting.
Very few.
Then reality set in.
The only reason he knew all of those letters was because of his copious amounts of time spent watching Sesame Street. On a good day, he could catch the program twice!
Funny that my son's showing me how advanced he was, showed me, at the same time, what a neglectful parent I had been.
I'd like to say that things changed.
And they did.
Afterwards, when Sesame Street came on, I was watching with him.
Before long, we were nearly on the same reading level.
A few more months in Winnipeg and I might have caught up to him!

SuperDUPErman

The three met in a New York bar, then made a night of it,
Some drinks, some laughs, and, sure enough, did ‘paint the town’ a bit,

Then finally, they found themselves atop the Empire State,

Looked down upon that dizzying height, then started a debate . . .

“The wind is strong up here, you see,” the first guy told his mates,

“That if you jumped, it’s blow you back. You’d not meet Mister Fate!”

The second one, he looked at him, said, “Man, you’ve got to be

“The craziest guy I ever met. To believe I’d have to see!”

The first just shrugged and said,”Watch this!” then jumped right there and then,

And sure enough the wind, it blew, and brought him back again.

The second stared, thought this was great, said he’d give it a try,

Then copying his newfound friend, he leaped and tried to fly.

For him, the wind did not help out, and that, my friends, was that,

The poor man fell the whole way down and landed with a ‘splat’.

The third friend had been watching all along. He shook his head,

Disgusted at what he’d just seen, sad his new friend was dead,

He looked at his companion, said, “That was a piece of work!

And, Superman, when you are drunk, you really are a jerk!”

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 the best one of them all...

We’ll talk of MONSTERS, big or small

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Wind (August 23) Today!

Monsters (August 30)

Shoes (September 6) From Mimi

Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from Mimi

Remembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi

Getting Your Tang Toungled

Coy-Bow. Sans guns . . . 

My Dad had a speech impediment.
Sometimes, he said things backwards.
Oh, he could control it.
He just chose not to.
An odd trait for someone who was such a stickler for proper pronunciation at all other times.
And don't try to tell me that doesn't have any effect on a young child learning to talk.
For years, I thought the song, Rock-a-Bye Baby went like this:
Rock a bay bybee
On the tee trop.
When the blind woes,
The radle will crock.
When the brough bakes,
The fadle will crawl.
And down will bum caby
Adle and crawl.
You're right. That's not even English. But that's how I thought it went. And Dad said it made just as much sense his way.
I heard some kids singing it the right way and totally confronted them. Our conversation was as follows:
Me: What are you singing?
Them: Rock a Bye Baby.
Me: That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Them: Let's play somewhere else.
As years went by, I realized that we really didn't put the dirty dishes in the washdisher.
Or that salt didn't come out of a shakesalter.
And that my favourite ice cream wasn't scutterbotch.
Others had to find out for themselves.
My nephew, two-year-old Michael was staying with us while his parents prepared to receive his little brother. The imminent arrival scheduled for, at most two weeks, stretched to six, leaving little, impressionable, just-learning-to-speak Michael at the mercy of his grandfather.
It was a happy six weeks . . .
Michael was playing cowboys. And had dressed accordingly.
He had his gun and holster.
His boots.
His overlarge hat.
And his training pants.
He was ready.
Grandpa had just come in from outside and was sitting in his easy chair, waiting for lunch.
Michael stalked up to him in his best 'gunman' style. "Stick 'em up!"
Oh, he was good.
Dad looked at him. "What are you? A coy-bow?"
Okay, for years, I thought that was how it was said . . .
"No, Crumpa, gow-boy!"
"Coy-bow."
"Gow-boy!" He stuck to his guns, so to speak. And his pronunciation.
Dad, one last time. "Coy-bow."
Michael was starting to get a little confused, however. "Gow-pot!"
That's when I broke in. "Michael, do you have to go potty?"
"No! No! Gow-boy!"
Dad laughed. "You're right, Michael, Gow-boy."
Michael had outlasted his grandfather.
A noble feat.
I don't want you to think that my Dad bombarded us with twisted talk all of the time. It was the exception rather than the rule.
And he always correct us afterwards.
But it was fun while it lasted.

Fifty Day #2

The phone rang.

She waited for her slumbering husband to answer, then, disgusted, climbed out and walked around the bed.

“Hello?”

“Hon? I went outside for some air and accidentally locked myself out. Could you come open the door?”

Slowly, she turned to look at the still figure lying there.

Today is Fifty Day.

A word challenge from my good friend, Adela of Black Tortoise Press!

The challenge? Write a story in exactly 50 words!

It's more difficult than it sounds. 

But totally fun!

Care to share?

It's easy... Just leave your link in the comments section!

Charmed

Former Maid Hits the Jackpot!

Diane Stringam Tolley, Fiction Reporter

Beaumont —   It’s true. Occasionally, everything just works out!

 

Daughter of a late, well-respected local businessman, Cindy was raised with wealth but had fallen on hard times.

 

Though we couldn’t get an interview with the girl, herself, neighbours report that she was unfailingly sweet and cheerful.

 

She had to work hard, but she did so willingly, her positive attitude a positive inspiration to co-workers.

 

“She was always so kind to all of us!” said one of her co-orders, known only as ‘Jack’.

 

“Y-y-yes!” another co-worker, Gus-Gus put in. “Even the new arrivals, like me. She treated us all real special!”

 

Her co-workers couldn’t comment on the exact order of events that lead to her good fortune, saying only:

 

“Everyone chipped in to make it possible. We were just so happy to help her. It was well-deserved!”

 

One co-worker, on condition of anonymity, hinted that Cindy’s life had not been very easy. Citing “Family troubles”.

 

“Apparently, she didn’t get along with immediate family members,” she said. “A surprise, because she was so sweet!

 

“We were all quite flabbergasted that she and the other female members of her family experienced such animosity.

 

“I guess it’s just a fact that not everyone, no matter how kind, gets along with everyone else!”

Apparently there had been a bit of consternation and some hair-pulling over an invitation to a much-anticipated party.

 

“But Cindy was made of tough stuff and determined to attend, despite hints of ‘unsuitability’ from her relatives.”

 

Those ‘female relatives’ appeared to have made Cindy’s attendance difficult—even conspiring to ruin a new party dress.

 

“She was quite distraught,” says our source. “Fortunately, I had the foresight to plan for such an event.

 

“I was able to provide our girl with something suitable—maybe even superior—as quick as a wink!”

 

And those efforts certainly paid off. Cindy made quite a remarkable—one could almost say a ‘royal’— impression.

 

“She had to leave before the party wound down, and in so-doing, lost a personal item or two…

 

“But still, when answering her co-workers questions, she was glowing with praise for the party and the organizers.”

 

Praise that she continued to spout, even as her regular work-a-day world was once again thrust upon her.

 

“I’ve got that in my pocket,” she is quoted as saying. Though some speculate she meant something else.

 

There was some mention of a dust-up over the return of her belongings by ensigns from party organizers,

 

But with what she had pocketed, all this was soon sorted and Cindy was quickly on her way.

 

Now a new life and a new home awaits her—along with a beautiful, budding romance (wink, wink)—

 

And all this reporter can think to say is: Hooray, Miss Cindy! With your co-workers, I congratulate you!

 

From cinders to a crown! Surely the stuff of magical fairy tales! Every woman's dream. Well...mine, anyways.

Today’s post is a writing challenge! 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: Karen 

 

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them out!

 

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

First Day

My good friend Hank had worked a job for most his adult life.

It supported all his family—his children and his wife.

But Hank decided he’d begin with something else this year,

Yes. Even at his age, he’d try and start a new career.

So Hank shed uniform. So happy! Gladly traded for

A job a lot less boring than the one he’d had before.

Yes, Hank became a Taxi driver, certain he would find

His clients much more charming than were those he’d left behind.

His first day started normally, with sunrise and a fare,

He wisely quizzed his passenger, then started off from there.

He caref'ly weaved through traffic, even whistled as he went,

Singing with the radio and feeling most content.

When suddenly a hand reached up and touched him on the arm,

His client had a question. Didn’t mean to cause him harm.

But Hank, he screamed and spun the wheel. Just barely missed a bus,

Scared people on the sidewalk. One or two tossed him a cuss!

When finally stopped, Hank pushed his door and left it there, ajar.

For just a moment, both sat convalescing in the car,

And then a tiny voice spoke up from somewhere in the back.

“I only tapped your arm,” it said. “It wasn’t an attack.

"I merely had a question. I didn't mean to scare!

"If I'd known I'd frighten, I'd have taken greater care!"

"You have to know I'm new," Hank said. "Cab driving? 'Tis my first!

“But you simply need to understand, for years, I drove a hearse!”

New is good, you know, but when beginnings are discussed.

Remember, as you’re switching jobs, good mem'ry is a must.

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? Thrown away or Pinned?

The topic we'll discuss is WIND!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Tell a Joke (August 16) Today!

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

My First Best!

Best of Boomer Blogs!

I'm way past excited to be included in this amazing group of bloggers.
I mean, I've been reading them--some for years--but never thought I'd be considered one of them!
Cover your ears and picture my little girl squeal of delight...

And now this week's Best of Boomer Blogs!

Carol Cassara
Never in a million years did Carol Cassara ever think that her ex-fiance's mother would become her best friend. But that is, in fact, what happened and she's sharing that story this week. It appeared a few years ago in one of the Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies.

*  *  *

Laurie Stone
Laurie Stone of Musings, Rants & Scribbles knows the feeling: you spend much of your life thinking something’s wrong. You’re alone a lot, usually with your nose in a book or daydreaming. But then someone puts a label on it, and everything falls into place. You’re an introvert. You’re wired differently. And even better, you realize this trait comes with 6 great benefits…

*  *  *

Rebecca Olkowski

It’s hard to believe 50 years can pass by so fast and for Baby Boomers, we were in high school half a century ago. Rebecca Olkowski with BabyBoomster.com just attended her 50^th reunion and was able to see old friends she hung out with then. It’s weird how life takes you down so many different paths and then you come back full circle as if nothing ever changed.

*  *  *

Meryl Baer
Summer means travel. And travel, in many places, means traffic. Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin experienced a too-long road trip this past week, as she describes in this week’s post, Summer Road Trip - A Daytime Nightmare.

*  *  *

Rita R. Robison
Since prices on some items are going up, Rita R. Robison, consumer and personal finance journalist, writes on how to cut your expenses. Let’s hope that Jerome Powell, chair of the Federal Reserve, is correct when he says it’s temporary. Powell also says it is transitory, meaning the increased prices aren’t going to go back down right away, they’ll linger.

*  *  *

Diane Stringam Tolley

Born and raised on one of the last of the great old ranches in Southern Alberta, Diane is remembering communication in the phoneless, isolated '50s. It was personal, neighbourly . . . and eye-to-eye.

Thank you for visiting with us today. I hope you enjoyed it as much as we enjoyed bringing it to you!

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.