Real Estate

Going through some old posts and found this one written in 2014 just after I had relocated Daddy from his condo to the Senior's Lodge a block away.

He lived there eight months before he moved again. Home.

I miss him so much!
Such bittersweet memories . . .

It's done.

Following several thousand man-hours of sorting, packing, hauling, mistakes, searching, finding, more packing, more hauling, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, Daddy is safely installed in his new home.
It was not an easy decision to make.
He loved his condo.
And his independence.
But though he remains clear mentally, his once-robust physical self grows steadily weaker and frailer.
He's better off in a place where his meals are provided and help is always very nearby.
It's bittersweet.
We know he will be cared for.
But the memories of what used to be crowd close.
Bringing tears.
Life on the ranch was an adventure.

Every day a blur of what needed to be done and what happened while doing it.

From this...

... to this.

But Daddy's favourite saying is: Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened!

Life isn't over.

Only his piece of real estate is smaller.

Here's to new adventures.

I love you, Daddy!

The Stop on the Way Home

Future skiers/blessed people

I love winter.

I just don't like bitter cold.

I love snow.

But not on roads which then become icy and slippery.

And, being born and raised on the prairies as I was, I have a hard time with high places.

So explain to me why I would drive, weekend after weekend, on slippery, snowy roads, up into the mountains, to slide repeatedly down high slopes.

I know. It makes no sense to me, either.

But I loved it.

My brother, George, and I would rise at the unbelievable hour of 4:00 AM on a Saturday, drive to West Castle, and spend the day going up and down.

Then drive home again.

Yup. 'Nuts' pretty much describes it.

Most of the time, the roads were fairly passable. Plowed and sanded.

But occasionally, they weren't.

And therein hangs a tale.

So to speak.

George and I had happily spent the day on the slopes.

We were starting the drive home in a pleasantly exhausted state.

All was well.

I don't quite remember what happened next.

It pretty much a blur.

Perhaps I should describe the scene . . .

I'm not sure about now, but 40 years ago, the road to West Castle was narrow.

Occasionally, the road twisted and turned amongst a heavy growth of trees.

But in many places, a sheer drop to the bottom of a rather tall mountain was the only thing awaiting anyone who ventured out onto the non-existent shoulder.

And I do mean sheer.

And non-existent.

Remember what I said about heights?

That would be here.
Now back to my story . . .

Someone lost control of their vehicle.

George reacted with his usual skill, twisting and correcting all in one smooth movement.

But our little blue Toyota truck decided, arbitrarily, to go for a spin.

And not in a good way.

Not an advisable thing on a narrow winter road, high up in the mountains.

I closed my eyes as we slid towards the edge.

Then, miraculously, we felt the crunch of gravel under the tires.

Gravel.

Not air.

Strange.

The vehicle stopped abruptly, facing the wrong way and definitely on the scary open-space side of the road.

I opened my eyes.

George was staring straight ahead, his hands still in a white-knuckle grip of the steering wheel.

I looked to the left.

We were definitely off the road.

So what could we possibly be sitting on?

I cautiously turned to the right.

 Nothing but open space.

Okay, that didn't look good.

George looked at me. "Did you know there was a little pull-out here?"

I stared at him. "Pull-out?"

His question was answered.

He opened his door and . . . stepped out.

I watched him.

Then he indicated that I should open my door.

I stared at him like he was a lunatic.

He indicated again.

Cautiously, I opened my door and . . . stepped out onto solid earth.

Huh.

I hurried around to the safer side of the scene.

And glanced back.

Sure enough, there was a little jut of shoulder, just big enough for our little truck.

And we had slid onto it sideways.

With perfect precision.

We collected our thoughts and calmed ourselves a bit, then climbed back into our truck and continued the drive home.

A bit more slowly and with a great deal of gratitude.

Yep.

Skiing requires snow.

And high places.

And driving.

We do our best to stay safe.

But it's nice when Someone Else is in charge.

Fifty Day Wednesday #15

It began with a startling, “Hon, let me do the dishes.”
He rattled and thumped in the kitchen, then joined me in front of the TV. “Done!”

Unwiped cupboards and stove. Sink full of pots.

But table cleared and washer loaded.
Conclusion?
‘Done’ doesn’t mean what I think it means…

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 . . .

Sooo fun!

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

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

 

Laughter

This story is about laughter.
Oh, and a few other things . . .
There were once three brothers. Two great, hulking brutes and one small, but kind.

One day the eldest went into the forest to chop firewood. At lunchtime, while eating, he was suddenly joined by a little old man, who begged a morsel.

He refused, claiming he had to keep his strength up. There wouldn’t be enough for him. Bla-bla-bla. The old man disappeared and moments later, the brother injured himself.

Yep. He chopped an old tree right down on his own arm, breaking it cleanly. Okay, maybe a bit of Karma at work here? What are your thoughts?

The second brother, (also great and also quite hulking) went out the next day in the elder’s place. I mean that wood wasn’t going to chop itself, right?

Lunchtime saw the same little old man appear to beg a morsel. With equal or lessor results. (I’m starting to wonder if we should question someone’s parenting skills.)

Again the elderly man disappeared and again, the chopper became the choppee. Wherein he chopped; the tree landed on him, breaking his leg, and he went, “Eeeee!”

That sounded better in my head . . . The young man hobbled home, spilling tales of woe and everyone was suddenly looking to the smallest for rescue.

Being the good boy he was, he duly shouldered his brothers’ axe and headed out to where the trees lived. Lunch/Elderly Gent/request for food. Same scenario. Different outcome.

The boy happily shared his meager (with two hulking brothers, you can’t expect there to be much…) meal. Pleased, the old man indicated a certain tree, then disappeared.

Obediently, the boy put the axe to the roots of said tree with vigor. The tree toppled, disclosing a shining, golden goose. Admit it. You weren’t expecting that.

The boy picked up the goose, heading immediately to the city. Hey! If I was poor and gold fell into my lap (figuratively) I’d be heading there, too.

As he passed the local inn, the innkeeper’s eldest daughter, intrigued by the solid gold feathers with which said goose was covered, reached out to pluck just one.

Her fingers instantly stuck. Fast. We’re talking ‘early days of Crazy Glue’ fast here. Like, to get those fingers unstuck would mean, at the very least, skin loss.

Her next younger sister, seeing her plight, tried to unstick her by the patented grab-hold-and-pull method. I probably don’t have to tell you it didn’t work.

Nope. Younger sister’s hands were stuck also. And it didn’t stop there. Youngest sister, thinking it some sort of silly game, grabbed her sibling’s apron strings. Oh, woe.

Now all three sisters were stuck fast to the goose. And each other. Oblivious (and pretty supremely task-focused) the young man strode on. Ridiculous? You know it.

The young man and his goose and his little parade duly passed in front of the church. In plain view of the vicar—sitting, enjoying his afternoon tea.

Now, this particular vicar was quite attentive to his flock. Seeing what could quite easily be mistaken for tom-foolery (Google it), he decided to . . . step in.

He grabbed the youngest daughter’s free hand and was instantly stuck fast to it. Don’t you hate when that happens? The young man continued. With the girls. And the vicar.

Before long, the vicar’s drinking buddies (yes, he had drinking buddies) happened to notice the unusual procession. Red-faced, the vicar frantically beckoned them. “Get me out of here!”

Doing what any good buddies would, they each grabbed a shoulder of their stalwart friend. And were instantly part of the insanity. Now there were girls/vicar/buddies. Oh, my.

You have to know this kept happening. One buddy’s wife. Her friend and friend’s daughter. Two young hikers. Three minstrels. At least one mule. And the milkman.

When the entourage reached the city, it numbered nearly as many people as the city. If our young man noticed them at all, he certainly didn’t let them distract him.

Meanwhile . . . don’t you just love the sound of that? Meanwhile. So mysterious. Meanwhile, in the city, there was a king. And a king’s only daughter.

She lacked . . . laughter. I know what you’re thinking. A golden goose and a laughter lacker in the same story? Don’t blame me! I’m just the teller.

The king had promised that whoever could make his daughter laugh would earn her hand in marriage. (I know why the laughter was lacking.) Ahem . . .

Now, as our merry band passed the palace, this laughter-lacking daughter happened to be out on her balcony gazing in a luster-lacking, laughless way at the gleaming city.

She spotted our friends almost immediately. I mean, when fifty ‘stuck-to-each-other’ people trail gracelessly past your window, it’s bound to attract attention. Am I right?

The girl stared, then clapped a hand over her mouth and snorted. Yes, princesses snort. The snort was followed almost immediately by peals and peals of princess-ly laughter.

Her father, seated in the next room doing . . . ‘king-ly’ stuff, leaped to his feet and strode with purpose to his daughter out on the balcony.

At first, he just had eyes for his only offspring as she guffawed, chuckled, chortled, howled and roared with long-suppressed laughter. Then he, too spotted the ‘train’.

Well, what would you have done? The king joined right in. Now I have it on good authority that laughter heals. And shared laughter can cure almost anything.

Certainly, it did here. From that moment—and following years of moments—the princess was smiling and laugh-y. Even when the king insisted she marry the young man. 

Of course, she fell in love with the kind, rather quirky young man. Even though their courting included—out of necessity—numerous citizens, animals and assorted tradespeople and musicians. 

Once the ring was on her finger, the spell (Yes, it was a spell) was broken. Everyone immediately started for their almost-forgotten homes and/or places of residence. 

Good thing, too, because, if three’s company, what on earth would 50 be? Besides awkward, I mean. Everyone lived with much love—and laughter—ever after. The End.

Today’s post is a writing challenge! Each month one of the participating bloggers picks 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: 28

It was chosen by: Karen!

 

At the end of this post, you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Keep the party going!

 

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

Clean!

This poem’s short. I’m terrified,
I think I’d rather run. And hide,
The time has come, I hope you know,
Unwanted things will have to go,
I have to open up that door,
Ignore the pain and do the chore
That once or twice a year is done,
And cannot qualify as fun.
But…
I find when more time has elapsed,
Can really help me in my task,
Make cleaning out the ‘fridge okay
When I do it another way…
I ope’ the door and order hence
All foods that have gained sentience.

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?

Have you a fav’rite tune/machine?

Out of your past. From what has been?

Then you‘ll have fun, next week, with us,

Please join us while we all discuss...

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) Today!

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

Chia Pets (November 29)

Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6)

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Peculiar People (January 10) 

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

Opposite Day (January 24)

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes.

Third Best

Once again, it’s my turn to host my amazing blogging buddies.

So many good things here!

Carol Cassara

Sitting over a cup of coffee the other day, Carol Cassara considered how the world's changed over the past two years. She's always tried to see the best in everyone, but these days, she is finding compassion for some hard to come by, as she reveals in her short post "How I'm Falling Short of My Aspirations, These Days"

Laurie Stone

Money is one of those subjects we don’t discuss in polite society. But the other day Laurie Stone of Musings, Rants & Scribbles found herself doing one of several bizarre cash rituals and wondered if anyone else did them. (Already, as she lists these, she imagines the look of horror on her husband Randy’s face).

Rita Robison 

To get ready for her holiday company, Rita spent the afternoon – and into the evening – organizing her garage. Why?

Rebecca Olkowski

Have you ever thought about writing a children’s book? Diane Campbell Green did but what is unique about it is that it’s written about childhood memories that most of us Baby Boomers can relate to.  The Sparkling Adventure of Becky and Friends.

 Baer

Meryl Baer

Decluttering, painting, new floors, this is what Meryl Baer of Bech Boomer Bulletin is going through. Two bedrooms are now clean, spacious, light and airy. Now she must sift through boxes of stuff packed away before the work began and decorate the rooms. However she is currently prone on her couch nursing a bad cold, as she describes in this week’s post, Confined with Clutter.

Jennifer Koshak

There was a birthday to celebrate last Monday, as Jennifer of Unfold and Begin turned 60 with a reflection back on all the new things that she tried in As So This is 60.  

Tom Sightings

Tom from Sightings Over Sixty has consulted the experts to discover the single most important factor influencing happiness and well-being in retirement. Check out his post to find out other answers to What Makes Us Happy in Retirement?.

Diane Tolley

A trip to the UK 20 years ago to view travel museums as part of her Husby’s work changed Diane’s life.

She will never be the same.

Thank you SO much for joining us!

I hope you enjoyed your visit as much as I enjoyed bringing it to you!

Covered

Now before you say what we’re all thinking, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So just bear with me . . .

I think I’ve mentioned before that we, Mom, Sally and me—oh, and Mort—all live in Sally’s house.

The one she bought with the money she got when she did the movie Nosedive just before Covid hit.

You have to know that some actors are really well paid.

Ahem . . .

Well, even though it is technically Sally’s house, Mom looks after its care and upkeep.

Because . . . Sally.

Am I right?

So Mom decided that said house was due for a fresh coat of paint on its ‘painty’ areas. All those not covered in stone.

Now Sally could have easily paid to have some professionals come and do the job in half the time and a quarter of the effort, but that’s not how Mom works. She’s all about creating opportunities for us to learn and grow through hard work and perseverance.

Or something like that.

So Saturday morning found Mort, Peter and me—brushes in hand—swiping an oily coat of primer onto freshly scraped walls.

Mom was just ahead of us, doing the scraping.

Sally was lounging on a lawn chair twenty feet away. Supervising.

In an effort to reassure Peter and I and to ensure herself of our help, it was the only job Mom could allow Sally.

So far it was working.

Work was progressing.

Scraping was happening.

Paint was being applied.

All was well.

You, who know Sally, also know that this is the place where things usually get . . . erm . . . sticky.

Mom finished with the wall before us, then disappeared around the side of the house. A moment later, she reappeared carrying the large, wooden ladder.

The one tall enough to reach the second story.

Keep breathing . . .

Moving said ladder back to the corner, to a place just above where we had all started, Mom clambered up it like a monkey and again started scraping.

Mort, Peter and I kept on painting, moving forward steadily.

Just then, a car pulled into our driveway.

Now you have to know that due to—I’m going to go with ‘Covid’ but it could just as easily be ‘Sally’— we don’t get many visitors.

Intentional ones, that is.

This was cause for all of us to turn for a look.

Mom, came down from the ladder and stood there a moment, squinting into the sun and wiping her hands.

Sally got up from her chair and hurried toward the ladder. “I’ll give it a try, Mom, so the painters don’t have to stop.”

“It’s okay, Hon,” Mom said absently, her concentration on the person climbing from the car.

I guess none of us really noticed when Sally, instead of taking the scraper Mom had been using, nabbed Mort’s paint can and a new brush and scurried up the ladder.

A man was coming toward us, a broad smile on his handsome face, the sun glinting from his ‘just-a-little-gray’ hair.

A man who looked remarkably like Peter.

I looked at Peter, who was sporting a wide grin and an extended hand. “Uncle Pete! When did you get back?”

The man ignored Peter’s hand and, instead wrapped him in a great bear hug. “It’s a surprise, Favourite Nephew!” he said. He stepped back. “I just got home last night.”

Peter laughed and looked around at all of us. “Everyone! This is my Uncle Peter, or Pete to the family. I was named after him. He was just pulled out of Afghanistan.”

Uncle Pete looked around at all of us, finally settling on Mom. Moving toward her, he held out his hand. “Peter Gunn,” he said. “No relation to the private eye.”

Mom laughed self-consciously. Her cheeks went pink. “Oooh!” she said, taking his hand. “I’m . . .”

But that’s as far as she got.

Sally. Ladder. Paint.

You know it had to happen. And it took . . . seconds.

“Oops! Look out below!”

Mom and Uncle Pete were suddenly drenched in a fresh coat of primer.

Head to toes.

Side to side.

Remember when I said things were about to get ‘sticky’? I was right.

Just as a side note, Mom had asked for the paint with the best coverage.

She got it.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.

 

At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them. 

My words this month? reassure ~ hand ~ try ~ seconds ~ primer ~ create              
They were submitted by my good friend Jenniy at https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com   
 
Are you up for more fun?
Baking In A Tornado
Wandering Web Designer
Climaxed
What TF Sarah
Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Friends at Last

Tangmere. History makes me cry.   (bbc.uk.co picture)

For over thirty years, my Husby worked for Alberta Culture. Specifically building the great museums for which Alberta is famous.
The last two museums had been announced by the powers-that-be.
One to house a collection of cars and trucks and thing that go. Or fly.
The other to showcase the horse-drawn vehicle era.
Both having to do with transportation.
In preparation for this, my Husby was sent to the UK.
They have museums.
And could offer insights.
Thus, twenty-five years ago, he went. Taking me.
Because.
It was a wonderful, informative, exhilarating, exhausting, emotional trip.
We saw farm museums. Transit museums. Air museums. Automobile museums.
We even went to the mews at Buckingham palace and got up close and personal with the gold coach.
But one visit stands out above all of the others.
Oh, we had seen exhibits expertly assembled.
Cunningly and beautifully displayed.
Extensive, professional artwork in beautiful buildings.
And trained, informed staff.
But none of them could compete with the (then) little museum, Tangmere.
Near Chichester, England, on the site of the old RAF Tangmere Airfield, this museum was almost exclusively manned by airmen who had served there during WWII.
Perhaps that is what made the difference.
The displays came to life when your guide, who had known the showcased men personally, described them.
He had many stories to tell.
And no few tears were shed in the telling.
One, in particular, I remember most vividly . . .
The worker/veteran, I'll call him Michael, described a gentleman entering the museum.
Alone.
This man wandered from exhibit to exhibit, reading the hand-lettered cards and information.
Studying the artifacts.
Finally, he approached the desk. "Have you a cemetery?" he asked Michael in heavily German-accented English.
"Why yes, sir. It's just through there." Michael pointed him towards a door.
"Thank you." The man went outside to the small cemetery directly behind the main building.
There rests everyone lost during the August 16, 1940 raid on Tangmere during WWII.
Everyone.
The visitor stayed outside for a long time.
Finally, he re-entered the building and returned to the front desk.
"Please excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you have buried the German dead with the English."
Michael got a bit teary-eyed in his telling at this point. "Why yes, sir," he told the man. "They were each and all someone's son."
The German visitor began to cry. Finally he whispered, "I was in the wave of German fighters who bombed you."
The Englishman put out his hand.
"Well it's nice to actually get to meet you!" he said heartily, shaking the other's hand. "And I should tell you that you and your boys made one hell of a mess!"
Michael looked at us. "I don't know what we were when he came in, but we parted friends."
I cried all of the way back to our hotel.

P.S. Most of us can never know the agony: physical, mental and spiritual. We can only thank those who take our places there . . .

50 Day Wednesday #14

Truck trouble.

He was waiting for a tow.

She came to meet him and take him home. 

The A&W was right across the street so she bought supper to go while they waited.

There on the tailgate of the truck in the setting sun, they had the nicest date ever.

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 . . .

Sooo fun!

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

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Noticing

 

It had been a good walk.

Granddaughter #9 (hereinafter known as Miss E), and her family were exploring the neighbourhood.

They had remarked upon the crisp, fall air.

Endless blue skies.

Sunshine.

NO SNOW.

The geese were flying, getting higher and more numerous as the babies gained strength and experience to be ready for the Great Flight South.

Dozens of people were out on the city paths, walking themselves (and, more interesting to the little girl, their dogs).

Transparent ice was forming at the edges of the ponds.

Crispy, colourful dead leaves were everywhere, inviting running and stomping and flinging one’s small self into.

For a few moments, the little girl had been quiet.

Then they walked past a small shrub which, unlike its larger neighbours who were just beginning the leaf-shedding of the season, had completely lost its green, leafy summer coat.

Miss E stopped.

Pointed.

“Oh look, Mom!” she said. “This one’s naked!”

Everyone turned.

“How embarrassing!”

Punny

Puns, I love, they’re so much fun,
What follows are some favourite ones!

 

My funeral? NOT an A.M. spot,

A mourning person, I am not!

 

A balance check, of me, required…

I pushed him over—now I’m fired!

A thief stole all the precinct’s johns,

Police have nothing to go on.

 

My kleptomania hurts a bit, 

But now I take something for it.

 

Boiling water, RIP,

You will be mist, we all agree.

The restaurant, Karma, strikes a nerve,

No menu. Get what you deserve!

 

The word ‘many’, explained when sought?

I’m grateful. Know it means a lot.

I took a pole. Know what I found?

All campers grouse when tents fall down.

My dog ate coins. “Wait,” said the Vet,

I’m waiting, but there’s no change yet.

Zero’s author – on behalf of banks,

We salute you. For nothing, thanks.

A man lost his left side. Oh, wow!

Not to fret--he’s all right now.

Cartoonist was found dead. Poor guy! 

Details are sketchy, please stand by.

 

The silkworm race? Well by and by,

It ended in a total tie.

High-voltage fence around my house?

My neighbor’s dead against it. Louse!

A new mechanic. Here’s the scoop…

They’re a highly wreck-a-mended group.

A hippo’s a really heavy blighter,

And a Zippo is a little lighter.

A clown, he held my door just yester- 

Day. It was a lovely jester.

 

An ad for burial plots. Agreed,

It is the last thing that I need.

And there you have it, that's the lot

I've finished doing what I ought,

But please, before this day is through,

I'd love to hear some puns from you!

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're cleaning out the 'Fridge,

We're apprehensive, just a smidge...

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Puns (November 8) Today!

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) 

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

Chia Pets (November 29)

Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6)

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Peculiar People (January 10) 

Ditch Your New Year's Resolutions (January 17)

Opposite Day (January 24)

Typo Day (January 31) Celebrate those funny (autocorrect) mistakes.