Scrambled

Scrabble is a Tolley game…

Five months plus forty-five years ago, today, Husby and I were on our honeymoon.

Had been for eight days.

We were in Glacier National Park, enjoying the scenery.

And each other. ;)

We stopped into a store. I can’t remember which, but they had Scrabble games.

One of which went home with us…

From then on, Scrabble was our game of choice. That particular game provided hours (and years) of fun.

I admit it, he was much faster than me. 

Grant's rack of choice.
You probably can't see it, but it says: 'Diane takes a long time.'

But I was determined to create the largest words I could and usually managed to use most, if not all, my letters.

And very often won.

As our children learned to read, they joined in. Playing with them took on many iterations, the most popular of which was 'Scribble', a game in which all letters MUST be used and the words created must NOT be found in any dictionary. Giving rise to such words as: Keeregg--the bright orange egg of the Keer bird which is laid over wires across the highway. You’ve probably seen them. (Note: Those little suckers have to be able to fly right from hatching, or chaos and/or death will ensue!)

As our children moved out, they went with their own game under their arms.

We still play. Oh, the original game is battered and life-weary, much like the two players, but still intact and serviceable.

Also much like the two players…

P.S. I'm still winning...

Almost Arrested

Guest post from Little Brother, Blair!

Mosque in Casablanca

I was almost arrested in Morocco. 

Really. 

At least that’s what I thought... 

When I was 15 years old, I joined a travel club in high school and we traveled to Spain.  Prior to joining the club, I had heard about the trip and the total cost. Way more money than I had. That trip was not in my future!

Then one day my mother asked me if I was aware of the trip. I said yes, but I didn’t have the cash to pay for it. She said that it was the chance of a lifetime, so if I paid for half of the trip with my 4H calf money, she and dad would pay for the other half.

I thought it was a good deal.

I signed up.

Prior to the trip, our travel group had a few meetings where we were instructed on how we should behave and how and what we should pack.

Finally, we were given a very big warning. We should be very careful about the laws in a foreign country.

Otherwise, we could get “thrown in jail and we would never see our families again”.

I didn’t think much about this because: I didn’t break rules.

Finally, the day of departure arrived.  Our travel club boarded a school bus that took us to the Calgary airport.  From there, we flew to Montreal, then to Copenhagen, Denmark.  We spent a day in Copenhagen (I’d sure like to go back there sometime) then, finally, jetted off to Spain.

While in Spain we saw flamenco dancers, ate strange and wonderful food, and toured fascinating places. One day we boarded a ferry and boated across the Mediterranean to Morocco, by far the most fascinating place of all.

I had never seen anything like it. The architecture, the markets, the people, the smells were not at all like anything that I grew up with on the ranch. I stared everywhere in amazement.

As we made our way down one of the streets, a lady dressed in a burka walked between my group and me. I didn’t pay much attention because I was busy gawking.

Then I noticed some police about 100 yards ahead of us. They were looking at our group. I started to wonder why they were interested in us. We were just farm kids from Canada. 

Suddenly, the police pointed at me and said, “There!”

Abruptly the statement “Don’t get thrown in jail or you will never see your family again!” ran through my mind.

I thought, “What did I do? Am I not allowed to look at the buildings or the people?”

I was gripped by fear as the police ran down the street toward me.

As they neared, the lady in the burka suddenly screamed, “NO, NO, NO!”, spun around, and ran right into me.

She was about 8 inches shorter than me but she could have been a star linebacker for high school football.

She ran off down the street as I stumbled backward, off-balance and terrified the police were coming to arrest me.

They ran past me after the women in the burka.

I breathed a sigh of relief…

…but it took me a while to calm down.

Fifty Word Wednesday #9

The box was empty.

Piqued, I called the company, demanding my Minion costume.

The sounds of shuffling at their end. Finally, a voice came on the line. “Madame, we’re sorry about the mix-up. Your Minion costume is on its way. Feel free to keep the Lady Godiva costume already sent!”

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

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 . . .

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

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Easy Mark

There really aren't 20 mule teams inside. I looked.

On the Stringam Ranch, electronic media was in its infancy.
We had one TV channel.
And that only came on for a limited number of hours per day.
Mom would park me in front of the TV just shortly before 10 AM, and I would stare at the 'Indian head' test pattern until the National Anthem.
And then, magically, The Friendly Giant would appear.
He read stories and played music.
Just for me.
Of course there were other programs. The Jack Benny Show. Leave it to Beaver. Lassie. The Wonderful World of Disney. Bonanza. Ed Sullivan.
And Woody Woodpecker, that always came on when I was supposed to be gathering the eggs. (But that is another story.)
Each memorable by itself. And each enhanced by the ads woven skilfully between and throughout.
I loved the ads. Those wonderful, amazing ads that, in 30 seconds or less, could convince me that now, thanks to the additive of the month, I could have cleaner wash.
Or whiter teeth.
Or better coffee.
We weren't actually coffee drinkers, but I was sold by the ad that asked, “How do you like your coffee?” and then answered by, “Why, I like my coffee . . . Crisp!”
How convincing were such ditties as, “You'll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”
Or, “J-E-L-L-O!”
I was mesmerized (and yes, I meant to use that word) by the ad featuring several pickles dancing around, singing, “You can tell a Heinz pickle, by its crunch!” and ignoring the jar, who implored them to get back inside before they got eaten up. And, after all of them were eaten, that same jar lamenting, “You can't tell a Heinz pickle nothin'!”
That was hilarious. And if something made me laugh, I had to have it.
We simply couldn't do without it.
Mom had to buy it.
Or make it. Or do it.
The Kraft ads with the smooth-voiced narrator and the wonderful scenes from the perfect Kraft kitchens?
Mmmmm. Mom could do that.
The housewives in the pretty dresses, pearls, pumps and a miniscule apron demonstrating everything from floor wax to cookware?
Well . . . my Mom always wore a dress, and an apron. And I had seen her in pumps and pearls whenever she and Dad went out.
But for some reason, I couldn't get her to combine them when doing housework.
“No, Mom, you have to do it this way! Like on TV!”
Moms are weird.
She did buy boxes of Kellogg's frosted flakes because Tony the Tiger said they were “Grrrrreat!”
She didn't have to worry about Esso, though.
I had a bit of a problem with putting a 'Tiger in my Tank'.
I wasn't quite sure how Tony would feel about that.
She never bought me the tiny, little chuckwagon I so desperately wanted, that drove through the house carrying . . . ummm . . . whatever it carried. I confess, I never really got past watching the minuscule driver and team.
I begged and begged my Mom for the 'Five Pounds Thinner Girdle' or the 'Cross Your Heart Bra' from Playtex.And I couldn't understand why that made her laugh.
Every time.
I also tried to convince her that she needed to be using Ivory Snow for all things 'baby'. And to add the power of the Borax 20-mule team to everything else.
Actually, I just wanted the mule team. I can't tell you how many boxes I opened looking for them.
Mom probably can.
Moving on . . .
We ate Campbell's soup on occasion and I tried to look plump cheeked and shiny like the Campbell's kids.
I also wanted the bowls they ate from.
Because.
She baulked at that.
She did buy me Kraft Peanut Butter.
Oh, occasionally, she tried to substitute some inferior brand that was on sale, but, inevitably that jar of lowly second-rate peanut butter went stale on the shelf.
I had seen the ads.

I chewed Wrigley's Juicy Fruit Gum because it had better flavour and wanted only Chiquita bananas because the girl had a neat hat and I liked the song.
'Carnation hot chocolate was frothy great – and – so easy to make'. And it went so well with 'Jiffy pop, Jiffy pop the magic treat. As much fun to make as it is to eat!'
Okay, I have to admit it.
Ads worked for me.
It's probably a good thing that we didn't have more channels.
Mom - and me - never would have survived.

Golf as Life

World-famous Golf course
Banff Alberta

I’m cheating today.
But as the theme for Poetry Monday is ‘Golf’, and this is a poem I’ve always loved, I’m sharing it.

I’m not sure who wrote it, That doesn’t matter.
It just makes me happy to read it.
And isn’t that what Poetry Monday is all about? :)

Life is like a round of GOLF

With many a turn and twist,

But the game is much too sweet and short

To curse the shots you’ve missed,

Sometimes your hits are straight and far,

Sometimes your putts roll true,

But each round has its wayward shots

And troubles to play through,

So always swing with courage,

No matter what the lie,

And never let the hazards

Destroy the joy inside,

And keep a song within your heart,

Be grateful you can play,

For the round is much too short and sweet

To let it slip away!

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 have a choice to pitch!

Parties or Thanksgiving. Which? 

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Golf (October 4) Today!

Throw a Party (October 11) (Also Canadian Thanksgiving!)

Meatloaf Appreciation (October 18)

Opera (October 25)

New Lease (November 1)
Puns (November 8) 

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) 

Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)

Pox

The proper wearing of the dress. As seen here . . .

Our (then) five children had a problem.

All of them.

Chickenpox.

Every little body was covered.

Even the baby.

Sigh.

For a week, I spent my time applying the current ‘itch-free’ salves.

Filling the tub with baking soda and water.

Satisfying odd food cravings.

Did you know that warm brownies and/or chocolate chip cookies make chickenpox itch less?

Well, they do.

Moving on . . .

For our eldest daughter Caitlin, aged three, the chickenpox was an adventure.

An adventure that took a little turn.

Up.

Let me explain . . .

Caitlin would lift her little dress and look at her tummy and exclaim, “Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, sweetheart. Put your dress down.”

She was so interested in these spots that she spent most of her time with her dress up around her ears, looking at them.

I would hear her in various rooms of the house, speaking obviously to one or more members of the family. “Look! Chickie Spots!”

Followed by, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Finally, not receiving the excited reaction she wanted, she would return to me.

“Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, Sweetheart. Put your dress down. Have a cookie.”

I should have known that she would require a bigger audience.

I should have realized that, to her, anyone coming into the house must be interested in her current fabulous condition.

I didn’t.

My good friend, Tammy came to the door.

I greeted her as she stepped bravely into the ‘plague house’.

We chatted a bit.

Then Caitlin appeared.

I didn’t move fast enough.

Up came the dress.

“Look, Sis ‘Sin! Chickie Spots!”

She laughed and nodded appreciatively. “Yes. You certainly do have the chickenpox.”

At the same time as I was saying, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Sadly, this was only the beginning.

Long after the Chicken Pox had disappeared, Caitlin was still hiking up her little skirts and exclaiming, "Look! Chickie Spots!"

Two things came from this experience.

1. I always put shorts on under Caitlin’s dresses after that. Little girl panties are cutest when they are hidden.

2. The phrase, “Caitlin, put your dress down!” became immortalized in the annals of Tolley history.

Caitlin is grown and married now, with her own little girls.

She has long since learned to keep herself properly covered.

But her youngest insists on pulling her dresses up around her ears.

No spots, yet, but we’re hopeful.

Full Nest

The nest was clean

            And tidy, too.

There wasn’t much

            I had to do.

It stayed that way

            From dawn to dawn.

Had been like that

            Since the chicks had gone.

But it hadn’t always

            Been just so,

When chicks would come

            And chicks would go,

When clutter ruled

            When ‘mess’ was norm,

When noise began

            With the dewy morn.

I found myself,

            Each day, awash

In dirty dishes,

            Stinky socks.

Up to my knees

            In diapers, too

When days were full

            And the nest was, too.

When every evening

            Prayers were said,

And kisses, hugs

As they went to bed.

Then flopped, exhausted,

            In the chair,

And contemplated

            Life from there.

And though it seemed

            It’d never end.

Somehow it did,

As all things tend.

And the nest that never

            Took a bow,

Echoed with

            The silence now.

But then, one day

            The door swung wide,

And chicks and chicklets

            Stepped inside.

“We’re here to stay,

            If that’s okay.”

And there was action

            every day.

Once more I lived

            With clutter, there,

And no bare spaces

            Anywhere.

And noise? Whoo-boy!

            You have to know,

That lungs are THE first

            Things to grow.

The toys were spread

            From here to there.

And chicklets playing

            Everywhere.

And meals to make

            And clothes to mend

And schedules to

Draw and blend.

And, still, with all

            The noise and strain

And problems bouncing

            In my brain,

With things to do,

            And time to share,

And chicklets falling

            Down the stair.

That I would never

            Want at all,

The spotless house,

The quiet halls.

Exchange the action

            That did reside

Or change the love

            That dwelt inside.

I’ve learned you don’t need

            Silence, no.

When people come

            And people go.

There’s peace in every

            Busy day.

When chicks and chicklets

            Come your way.

With hugs and kisses

            You abound

And love is shining

            All around.

And never can your

            Life be dull,

When (for a time)

            The nest was full.

Fifty Day Wednesday #8

 Supper had wound to its fortune cookie conclusion.

‘Be happy!’, mine read.

“Can we tell our fortunes?” Cara asked.

“Nope. They won’t come true,” Max replied.

“Hmmm…”

“What?” I asked.

“I think mine should be told.”

“Why?”

She held it up. “‘Help I’m a prisoner in a Fortune Cookie plant!’”

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 . . .

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

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

From Daddy's Plate

Mom and Dad with her parents, Gramma and Grampa Berg and a few of her brothers.
Daddy's wearing the tie. And on his plate? Deliciousness...

Our youngest daughter and her family were staying with us for a while.

It almost made up for the long days and weeks when they were living in another part of the world.

Almost.

One night, during dinner, Tiny Girl (hereinafter known as TG) was having her first taste of life as a grown-up. She had spurned her high chair and was sitting like a big girl on a booster seat.

The best of times.

She also discovered, during this exciting experience, how much better everything tastes when it is eaten from someone else’s plate.

Happily, TG let her own (exactly the same) food cool while she gobbled whatever her mother was eating.

And it reminded me of something . . .

My Mom made wonderful breakfasts.

Most of the time, they included eggs. In some incarnation.

One of my Dad’s favourites was eggs fried.

Mom would place two perfect little white-jacketed yellow orbs on his plate and he would happily proceed to take fork and knife and slice through them, cutting them neatly into uniform bits.

Then he would scrape them carefully back together, sprinkle the resulting mixture with salt and pepper, and voila!

Breakfast.

I had watched this same process since I could remember.

His food always looked soooo good.

“Dad? Can I have a bite?”

He looked at me. “May I have a bite?” Dad was always correcting my grammar.

“May I have a bite?”

Mmmm. It was soooo good.

“Can I have another?”

“May I . . .?”

“May I have another?”

Mmmm. Even better.

Then Mom would set my plate in front of me.

Carefully, I would copy Dad’s technique to the best of my ability.

Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice.

Gather.

Sprinkle.

Eat.

Yum.

Hmmm.

Wait. I’m sure it tasted better off his plate.

“Dad? Can I have another bite?”

He looked at me. “May I have another bite?”

“May I have another bite?”

He gave it to me.

Mmmm. I was right.

It did taste better.

I had made a momentous discovery.

Everything was better off Dad’s plate.

Later, I discovered that this was also true with Mom’s plate.

Or my Husby’s.

I did draw the line there.

Total strangers do regard you oddly when you ask.

Troubled by Bubbles

My brother and me.
I'm the criminal on the right.

Okay. I confess. I stole something. 

Once.
I have no defense. I did it. I'm guilty.

I was four. Is that an excuse . . .?

Mom and I were doing the weekly grocery shopping. A very exciting time for both of us. 

Well, for me, at any rate. 

We had driven in from the ranch in the family's late-model Chrysler (Dad always drove a Chrysler), which was an adventure in itself.There were no seatbelts. They hadn't been invented yet. Apparently no one had yet seen the wisdom in fastening small, easily-launched bodies into a safe place while hurtling down sketchy gravel roads at 60 miles per hour in a two ton vehicle.

My mom used to hold out her arm when she applied the brakes.

I was safe.

We pulled up to the curb across the street from the grocery store and proceeded inside.

The check-out desk, usually manned by a woman, stood in the center of the store, surrounded by the magical world of the grocery.

Directly behind the desk was a bank of cubicles, in which one could find the most amazing things of all . . . the penny candies.

It was there that I would park myself, after the cart got too full to hold me.

I admit it was difficult to leave the treasures that my mom had been adding to the cart. Treasures like canned peas. Baked beans. Tinned salmon.

The all-important Spam.

But I found comfort in just looking at the myriad possibilities behind that main desk.

A whole family of chocolate. Straws of sweet, flavoured powder. Licorice and JuJubes formed into the most amazing shapes. Wax figures which could be nipped and sucked dry of their wonderful, sweet juices. Lick-M-Aid. Lollipops. Suckers. Bubble gum in two sizes of colourful balls. The choices were truly endless to a four-year-old.

And my mom's purse offered the gateway to this bounty.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I ran to her. "Mom? Can I have a bubblegum?"

"Not today, dear."

What? What had she said? Had she really used those three words? I stared at her, aghast. Did she realize that her small utterance had shattered my hopes and dreams. Had barred me forever from the bliss that all of that candy represented?

My life was officially over.

At four years old.

It couldn't be.

"But Moooom!"

"Not today, dear. I don't want you to be eating any candy before dinner."

What kind of excuse was that?

"Just one?" I turned. My eye was caught by the bin full of bright orange bubble gums. The big ones with the little, rough bumps on the surface.

And the total deliciousness inside.

I pointed. "Just a bubble gum? I'll eat my dinner. I promise."

A smile from my long-suffering parent. "No, dear. Not today."

Huh. I pouted for a moment. Then smiled. Well, we'll just see about that.

Mom brought her purchases to the desk and she and the woman behind it were distracted as they added and bagged.

I would just take one gum. No one would ever know. My hand crept into the bin of orange bubble gums, wrapped itself around one tempting morsel and popped it into my mouth.

Ha. Mission accomplished.

I began the wonderfully arduous task of breaking down the hard, candy shell.

Mom finished paying for her groceries and was following the young boy carrying them to our car.

I fell in happily behind her.

The boy set the bags in the trunk, smiled at my mom and me and left.

Mom opened the door for me and I jumped inside. Still chewing.

She got in. And took a deep breath.

Then her head whipped around and she skewered me with a gimlet gaze. "Diane! Is that gum?!"

I froze. How did she know? The gum was in my mouth, completely hidden. I decided then. Moms were definitely magic.

Clever prevarication was in order.

"Ummm. No?"

"Diane, did you steal a bubblegum?"

I stared at her. Moms could see through cheeks!

"No."

"Diane!"

My head drooped. "Yes."

She sighed. "Diane, you know that stealing is wrong, don't you."

I lifted my head. Tears were already starting to pool. "Yes."

"What should we do about it?"

Tears started to slide down my cheeks. "I don't know."

Mom opened her purse and reached inside. Then she handed me a penny. "You will have to go back inside and pay for it."

I stared at her in horror. Go inside? Face my victim? Confess my guilt?

"I - I don't want to."

"But you have to."

I sat there, my four-year-old brain working frantically to find another solution.

Any other solution.

Finally, I sighed. Mom was right. I would have to go inside and pay for my ill-gotten bubblegum. I opened the door and got out.

For a moment, I stood there on the curb, wiping my cheeks and staring across the street at the grocery store. Which, incidentally, had assumed the proportions of the Mississippi (whatever that was) since Mom and I had left.

Suddenly the orange deliciousness in my mouth didn't taste very good. I spit it out into the gutter and looked down at it. It still had bits of the hard candy shell embedded in the softer gum. I hadn't even broken it in.

I sighed and looked at Mom through the window of the car.

She nodded towards the store.

I started across the widest street ever known to man, feet dragging.

At long last, I reached the store and went up the steps.

The door jingled happily. The woman behind the desk turned and looked at me. I approached slowly and tried twice to produce a voice. Finally, "I forgot to pay for a bubblegum," I said, sliding the penny across the counter towards her.

She nodded and looked at me gravely.

"Thank you, dear," she said. "You know it's not right to steal, don't you?"

I nodded.

"Don't do it again."

I shook my head.

"Thank-you for being honest."

Another nod and I was free. I ran back to the car.

Mom didn't lecture. She knew I had learned my lesson.

I still love gum balls. Especially the orange ones with the little rough bumps. But every time I chew one, I remember being four years old.

And gently—but effectively—learning about being honest.

Saying Something Stupid

 

Could not think what to write and so I Googled: Questions: Dumb,

A list of them came up. Just stick with me, I’ll tell you some,

 

1.     If an ambulance is on its way to help when help is due,

And it knocks someone else down, does it stop to help them too?

 

2.     If e-lec-tric-it-y is caused by small e-lec-t-rons,

does it follow that morality is caused by small morons?

 

3.     They believe you when you say: Four billion stars. (I bet!)

but check with doubting fingers when you say: This paint is wet?

 

4.     Why is it when you drive—and looking for place unknown,

you turn down the volume on the blameless radio?

 

5.     If you have to “put your two cents in”. (This bothers me a bit.)

but it’s just a “penny for your thoughts”? Where’s that last cent fit?

If your cabbie drives you backward—to get from A to B.

does that mean when you get there that it’s he who owes mo-ney?

Why do people say they “slept just like a babe”? (It’s true!)

when babes are known wake up nearly every hour or two?

 

8.     If an orange is orange, then I think that this should follow,

That a lime be called a green or a lemon called a yellow?

 

9.     If, in a published dictionary, a word’s somehow misspelled

For those of us then reading it . . . how would we ever tell?

 If veggie oil’s from veggies and all corn oil’s made from corn. 

Where does baby oil come from, friends? And should someone be warned?

Why, when your remote control is dead as dead can be . . .

you push harder on the buttons. When you know, could you tell me?

When women don mascara (and most do it round their eyes . . .)

why do their mouths hang open? The result is a surprise?

And Donald Duck. He wears a towel when from a bath he steps

But’s never seen in pants. Is it to hide his ducktraceps?

While on the topic of bath towels, we use them once we’re clean,

so why the frequent washing? (‘Cause we don’t know where they’ve been?)

When most of us, on waking, look exactly like a troll?

why on earth would it be called our ‘Beauty Sleep? How droll.

Why is it that the gentle rays of sun lighten our hair,

but darken exposed skin? (Okay, I’ll stop and leave you there.)

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?

I think I'll struggle just a bit

It's something I don't get...

But we'll tackle 'GOLF' next week,

Don't miss our Tête-à-tête! 

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

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

Ask a Stupid Question (September 27) TODAY!

Golf (October 4)

Throw a Party (October 11) (Also Canadian Thanksgiving!)

Meatloaf Appreciation (October 18)

Opera (October 25)

New Lease (November 1)
Puns (November 8) 

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) 

Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)