A Hot Hand

Mabel and Percy (Casey) Jones. 1924
My parents' good friends

Mom and Dad, newlyweds, were out for the evening with their friends, the Jones - their nearest neighbours.

At the Jones’ ranch fifteen miles away.

In a time when the closest thing anyone had to electronic diversion was a radio or phonograph, the two couples and one of the Jones’ eldest sons were engaged in the next best thing.

Parlour games.

Inevitably . . . cards.

They had been playing for most of the evening, amidst much conversation and hilarity.

Casey Jones (yes, that was what he was called) had been fighting a steadily losing battle.

Another hand was dealt.

And Casey loudly voiced his displeasure at yet another 'bad' hand, then sighed heavily and played his bad hand.

Badly.

As it finished, his wife, Mabel suggested refreshments and got to her feet. She bustled (yes, I meant to use that word) into the kitchen.

Mom followed her and the two women happily visited as they sliced cake and set out cups and saucers.

Meanwhile, the men stayed in the parlour, discussing the game and Casey’s apparent inability to win.

“It’s the lousy cards!” he said. “I’ve gotten nothing but bad hands all evening!” He got to his feet. “Something has to be done!”

He gathered up the deck and arranged them neatly. Then he disappeared into the kitchen with them.

Moments later, Mabel appeared in the doorway, tray in hands and announced that their game had officially concluded.

Casey had thrown the cards into the stove.

Yep. Something had to be done.

Good thing he was on hand to do it.

Breaking Bread

Worth fighting for . . .

In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.
Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.
Nothing came packaged from the store.
Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the oven of the large wood stove.
No other option was possible.
No other option was needed.
Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.
But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.
Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.
Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.
But I digress . . .
So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.
And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.
That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.
And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.
Bruised but triumphant, the winner would carefully carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the centre.
Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.
At first, the sacred placing of the bread was all that was needed.
But not for long.
Soon, the instant the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.
Then the next person would do the same.
And the next.
This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.
Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won. Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but tastier.
As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.
The bread was placed under the plate.
Under the napkin.
Stabbed with the owner's fork.
The owner's knife.
Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread. (Okay, remember what I said about manners? Forget it.) Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.
The entire contest came to a screeching halt.
But only for a while . . .

Gramma and Grampa Stringam.
Oh, the bread she could bake . . .

Fifty Day #4

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 . . .

The little girl had been struggling to produce…something.

Finally, with tear-filled eyes, she said, “I just can’t draw a heart!”

I smiled. “Gramma will do it for you.” With a pink marker, I drew an ‘almost’ heart. “Here, sweetheart!”

She handed it back. “Look, Gramma, I made you a heart!”

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Baby Swears

She of the foul mouth . . .

There are creative ways of making one's anger and frustration known.

Even when one is little . . .
My friend's two eldest children were having 'one of those days'. When arguments erupted at regular intervals. And no one was happy.
Periodically, one of them would go to their mother and say, “Sister said the 'S' word!”
Now their mother was an adult.
I probably don't need to point that out.
She knew what the 'S' word was. But had no idea how her children had learned it.
Appropriate punishment was carried out.
A few minutes later, the other child was at her side. “Brother said the 'S' word!”
This went on for some time.
Finally, totally exasperated, their mother pulled both of them aside and asked them where they had learned the 'S' word.
“Well you and Dad say it!”
Now my friend lived in a non-cursing home. Expletives were kept strictly within certain bounds. She knew she had never, in her entire life, said the 'S' word.
She shook her head. “When did I say it?”
“Mom, you say it all of the time!”
“Really?”
“All the time!”
Finally, she realized that there was one question she had not asked.
“Kids, what is the 'S' word?”
Together they chorused, “Stupid!”
Ah. Okay. Not a desirable word, but not quite what she was thinking, either . . .

We, too had our forbidden family curse words.
Mom and Dad had a problem with children abusing each other verbally.
Stupid was a no-no.
But we were raised on a ranch.
With hired men.
Whose language was, how shall I say it? . . . spiced with colourful metaphors. And it was inevitable that we should pick some of them up.
I remember the first time we heard our little sister curse. It shocked my younger brother and I to our toes.
That's a lot of shock.
We stared at our tiny sister in disbelief. Had we heard what we had just heard?
Mom was gonna have something to say about this!
We ran to tell her. Let's face it, getting each other into trouble was the thing we liked doing the most.
Because.
“Mom! Mom! Anita said something bad!”
Mom stopped what she was doing and followed us to where the guilty party stood.
Feet planted.
Chin out.
Bristling with anger and defiance.
Mom knelt next to her.
“Anita, what did you say?”
“Nuffing.”
“Anita, Diane and Blair told me you said a bad word. What was it?”
“Didn't say anyffing!”
“Anita!”
Finally she sighed. "Stupid Poop,” she said.
Her two-year-old ears had heard what the hired men had spouted and processed it to this?
There was hope for the world after all.

Monsters

My childhood monsters used to park

With slavering fang, there in the dark,

And if I carelessly did step,

They’d jump at me. Like Imhotep.

(I’d no idea what he was, 

But he scared me—like Santa Claus!)

As I got older, my mind grew,

And conjured terrors not a few,

Ghosts and cyclops, dragons, trolls,

Zombies, werewolves, vampires, ghouls,

Or the things that scared me most,

(Our country home seemed glad to host,)

Those creepy, leggy, furry bugs,

That spun their webs to give flies hugs. 

These fears that lasted all my life

And made my nights with danger rife

Have been supplanted recently

By something scarier, to me.

And what, you ask could possibly

Be worse than what I do not see?

Things that, though they do not leap,

Excel at making me lose sleep?

Why, those who stand and promise me

A vote for them will set me free.

Ensure my life will be a joy,

And nothing ‘bad’ will e’er annoy,

Do I believe them? Not one bit,

I mostly want to pitch a fit

Each time I see another one,

Who pledges only days with sun.

You know I think that, really, I

Would go back to those other guys,

The ones that lingered out of sight,

And pounced whene’er we doused the lights.

Their fangs were scary. They looked mean,

(I think. If I had ever seen!)

They could not possibly be like

Those scary ones there—At The Mic.

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?

To some the best thing we can choose...

Next week we are discussing ‘SHOES’!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Monsters (August 30) Today!

Shoes (September 6) From Mimi

Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from Mimi

Remembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi

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