Getting the Point

I had saved forever!

It was mine!

It's not fair!

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the early sixties, exciting things came in the mail.

Okay, yes, they still do.

But somehow, getting stuff in the mail is just a bit more exciting when you are eight.

Isn't it a beauty?

At least it was for me.

Probably because it didn't happen often.

Dad would stop at the post office and come out with the usual bushel basket of ranch mail.

Whereupon (good word) I would pounce.

“Dad! Is there anything for me?”

He would look at me, smile and say,” What's your name?”

“Diane!”

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

I got smarter. Or at least more efficient. “Dad! Is there anything for me? My name's Diane.”

But the answer seldom changed.

“Sorry. Nope.”

“Darn.”

But when I was eight, I discovered that you could 'order' stuff.

Free stuff. Lots and lots of it. The back pages of literally every magazine had rows and rows of ads from companies who were just aching to mail it to you.

It was a whole new world.

I scoured every magazine, gleaning offers of free stuff and sent out dozens of requests.

Then started receiving packages in the mail.

Pictures.

Books.

Games and puzzles.

It was like Christmas every time Dad went for the mail.

Now he no longer asked what my name was, he simply handed me packages.

Ahhhh. Valhalla.

Then I discovered something else.

First a little sidenote: Dad always kept a stock of ice cream and ice cream treats in the freezer.

For special times.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

Desserts.

Tuesday.

We weren't allowed to eat them without permission, though.

Bummer.

But that was all right because we received permission a lot.

I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with ordering stuff.

That part comes now . . .

The ice cream treats had wrappers. Normally, we would simply throw them away when they had fulfilled their purpose. Then I discovered that there were offers printed on them.

From 'Popsicle Pete', whoever that was.

Offers for 'free' stuff.

Okay, I realize that they weren't strictly free, being as you had to buy the ice cream.

But I digress . . .

If you collected 'X' number of wrappers, you could order 'Y'.

I studied the selection.

I made my choice.

And hoarded my wrappers.

Eons later, I finally had enough. I could order that super amazing, extra special . . . knife.

Just what every eight-year-old needs, right?

Oh it wasn't just any knife. There was a picture of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman on it.

And it cost me every one of my 14 wrappers.

It was to become the heart of my collection.

Of stuff.

I sent out my wrappers.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, Dad handed me that extra special package.

I tore into the paper and triumphantly held up my knife.

Whereupon (Oooh. Twice in one post.) Mom grabbed it.

“Diane! What are you doing with this?”

I stared at her. “It's mine. I ordered it.”

“You can't play with a knife!”

“I wasn't going to play with it!”

“What were you going to do with it?”

“Ummm . . . cut stuff?”

“Right. Your fingers, probably.” Mom carried my special treasure to the cupboard.

The one above the fridge. Incidentally, the only one in the whole house that I couldn't get to.

“Mom! I bought that!”

“I know, dear,” she said. “And I will give it back to you. After you turn ten.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Ten?!”

“Yes. By that time, you will be old enough to own a knife.”

Ten?

Ten?! That was forever!

I stared up at the cupboard.

Then at my Mom.

She couldn't possibly mean it.

“But . . . I bought it,” I said again, weakly. Maybe it would have more impact this time.

“I know, dear,” Mom said.

“But . . .” I could think of nothing else to say.

That's when the tears started.

Even those failed to move her.

Sigh.

For years, my knife had its home in that cupboard. Not to be discovered until we moved.

“Huh,” she said. “Look, Diane. Here's your knife.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said. I took it from her and looked at it. “Cute.”

“Diane! Can I have the knife?” It was my little brother, Blair.

Age? Ten.

“Sure.”

I handed it to him.

One should never have to wait for their fun.

98

Today is my Mama's 98th birthday!
Last year, I posted an excerpt from her journals that encapsulated her core beliefs.
Today, in her honour, I publish them again.
I miss you, Mom! Happy Birthday!

My Mom's Philosophy in a nutshell:

Happiness is a direction, not a place.

From her journal:

THE GIFTS WE GIVE OF OURSELVES . . .

GIFTS OF THE HEART: love, kindness, joy, understanding, sympathy, tolerance, forgiveness

GIFTS OF THE MIND: ideas, dreams, purposes, inventions, projects, poetry

GIFTS OF THE SPIRIT: prayer, vision, beauty, aspiration, peace, faith

GIFTS OF WORDS: encouragement, inspiration, guidance, praise

Mom, when I grow up, I want to be just like you!

Fifty Day Wednesday #21

The line-ups were long. I was 9 carts back.

Suddenly the man fourth before me screamed and punched the guy in the line ahead of him, then fell sideways to the floor. His eyes rolled back and he had spittle coming from his mouth.

“New variant!” someone shouted.

Pandemonium.

0

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...

Getting Bouncy

Or something similar . . .

I had just turned four and had recently discovered a new and wondrous activity.

Which I had to keep very, very secret.

Because for some reason, my Mom didn’t approve.

Weird . . .

I was a fresh graduate of my toddler bed (the one with the kitty on the headboard) and had definitely moved on.

My new bed was a big, old, iron monstrosity with heavy bars forming the head and foot boards.

Did I mention big?

And old?

Well, both were appropriate.

It was about six thousand times the size of my old bed.

And a million times taller.

True story.

When my mom introduced us, we eyed each other distrustfully.

Okay, well, I eyed.

It just . . . sat there.

Looking huge.

Mom lifted me and set me on it.

I went very still. Then looked around.

The chenille bedspread was soft and neat.

I lay back. Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

I stood up.

Wait a second. This bed was really . . . bouncy.

Really. 

Bouncy.

Heyyyyy!

I started to jump.

Mom came back into the room and saw me. “Diane, don’t jump on the bed. You might hurt yourself.”

I stopped and sat down.

Mom bustled out again.

I looked at the bed. The big, soft bed. How on earth was it going to hurt me?

I stood up. Waited a moment to make sure she was gone.

Then started to jump again.

She stuck her head back inside. “Diane!” 

I stopped. Man, she was good!

She picked up my laundry basket and headed for the kitchen.

I started to jump.

“Diane!” Warningly from the dining room.

Geeze. That woman was everywhere!

This time, I waited until I heard her doing things to the wringer-washer in the kitchen.

On the second bounce . . . “Diane!”

Okay, that was freaky.

I heard the washer go on. Ha! No way could she hear me now!

I bounced a really, really big bounce.

The biggest bounce of my very short career.

And bounced my nose right into the metal headboard.

Crunch.

You know that pause between the thump and the wail?

It takes that long to discover that one has been injured.

That said injuries hurt.

And to draw a great, big breath.

“Waaaahhhhh!”

Mom was there in a heartbeat.

Holding a cloth to a nose that was streaming blood.

Both from the business end.

And from the bridge, where it had been broken.

I have the scar, still.

There is a moral . . .

When Mom tells you not to do such-and-such because you might get hurt?

Believe her.

Just FYI.

Lost Among the Stars

 Sherlock Holmes and Watson headed out to forests deep,

Thinking they could get away and catch up on some sleep,

They’d enjoyed the forest stillness and expected lack of crime,

And sitting by the fire just delighting in downtime.

 

But finally, they grew sleepy as they stared up at the trees,

And climbed into their tent so they could catch up on some zzzzz’s,

The rustlings of the forest soon lulled both of them to doze,

And ‘In the Arms of Morpheus’, were finding some repose.

 

Then sometime after midnight, Holmes shook Watson wide-awake,

His friend yawned and rubbed his eyes and gave his head a shake.

“Tell me, John, what you deduce by gazing at the stars?

“I know that there are many, but I’m thinking now of ours.”

 

“I deduce just by the number that the universe is vast,

“Containing billions of these stars—quite bright when they’re amassed,

“I’m sure these stars have planets, and deduce, statistically,

“Intelligent life exists as well, on one or two or three.”

But Holmes just looked disgusted as John attempted to sound smart,

So John tried to think of something Sherlock couldn’t take apart,

“I guess that philosophically, when compared with what’s out there,

“We’re really insignificant, far less key than we’re aware.”

 

But Sherlock shook his head, “My friend, you’ve really missed the mark,

“Speculating numbers of the stars there in the dark,

“When trying to impress me with your philosophic bent,

“Somehow you missed (with your remarks) …that someone stole our tent!”

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?

We might have only heard of some,

    But some we know a mite,

PECULIAR PEOPLE, we'll discuss

    Our lives, they do excite!

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!)...

Sleep (January 3)Today!

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. 

Kites (February 7)

Valentine (February 14)

Predictions (February 21)

DNA (February 28)

The BBB and Me!

 

Once more, it is my awesome opportunity to host the Best of Boomer Bloggers!

This week, our beloved Boomers discuss everything from overthinking, travel, financial planning, and economic inequality to falling asleep. With a new blog thrown in! Enjoy!

I love my people!

Are you prone to nervous spells? Overthinking? Sweating not just the small stuff but everything? Then like Laurie Stone, you may be neurotic. Over the years she’s learned certain situations trigger the anxious, jumpy rabbit in her. Yet the good news is she’s recently learned this fascinating coping technique.

 

When CarolCassara was diagnosed with sleep apnea, she was told to have a sleep study. Since a home-based study was impractical, she had to sleep in a lab for a night. And, as usual for her, it did not go quite as planned. Here's her humorous take on that night, with more to come. 

Rebecca Olkowski, with BabyBoomster.com, has been busy setting up a new blog expressly for her adventures in Los Angeles called BoominginLA.com and has moved some of her posts from her main blog there. She will continue to write on both sites but wanted her local stuff to stand out more.  Please give it a visit here.

The holiday season was subdued again this year, at least for Meryl Baer of Beach Boomer Bulletin. She stayed home and spent time doing…not much worthwhile. On the last day of the year, she took a walk, as she recounts in this week’s post Year End Interlude. 

Rising prices? Supply chain issues? Vaccines? Poor customer service? Climate change? Check out Rita R. Robison’s consumer and personal finance blog to see what she’s picked for the top 10 stories of 2021.

Tom fromSightings Over Sixty has done some homework over the holidays. Now ... does he want to Blame the Upper Middle Class for all our economic woes? It's not clear whether he does or not. But two recent books do take on the professionals in the upper middle class for their smug self-righteousness and their role is perpetuating economic inequality. Check out his blog post and see if you agree.

 

 

And now me, Diane. Happily writing fiction about the scariest woman in the neighbourhood. Who just might not be that scary after all.
A story very much based on my Aunt Emily. 

Starting Out Bad

This wretched ol' pandemic has our mood a little low,

And if it lasts much longer, we'll know nothing else but woe,

It behooves us to remember: others, too were just as down,

But because they didn't give up, soon, success erased their frowns!

Things progressed as normal, as the bright sun sailed that day,

And then we watched in awe as Mister Moon got in the way,

And isn’t that a bit like life? Our plans flow normally,

Then all at once, there’s something comes that we did not foresee . . .

Percy was an engineer, known for brains, not brawn,

Was fiddling with some microwaves from a magnetron.

Then the chocolate in his pocket melted there, right where it was,

His discovery? The microwave. To worldwide applause.

Play-Doh: It was made to clean the paper on the wall.

But poor results and sales had the business in free-fall.

But when kids started using it for their crafts and games,

It gave the struggling company cash and quite a bit of fame.

Harry couldn’t get cyanoacrylate to work.

Instead of forming what he wished, it stuck. ‘Twas quite a quirk.

Then suddenly he realized that he’d made a breakthrough,

And what he had invented would be known as Super Glue.

Teflon wasn’t what Roy Plunkett started out to make,

He wanted different CFC’s, but he made a mistake.

Instead of gas, he found white flakes, intriguing little bits.

You’ll love it on your non-stick pans for when you’re frying grits.

Velcro was an accident, invented via dog.

When George took his pet hunting: picking burrs, the epilogue.

When closely studied, George could see the tiny little ‘hooks’.

He experimented and he won. It’s there in all the books.

So just because the sun is hidden for a tiny spell,

You simply do not have to fear that things aren’t going well.

And just ‘cause life is different than what you may have planned,

Sometimes, it is the unforeseen that truly makes it grand

Welcome to our Monthly Poetry Challenge!

This month's topic? Moods

Did I help lift yours?

Excited for more?

Read what the other challengers have crafted!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado 

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Grave-y

It's tougher than it looks...

Mom was an excellent cook.

She could make almost anything taste fantastic.

Almost.

She did have her weaknesses.

Her soggy boiled spinach was consumed only with copious amounts of vinegar or butter.

And we won’t even mention her disastrous attempts at lutefisk (specifically prepared cod).

Though I have to admit I have yet to find anyone who can make that eat-able.

Moving on . . .

Mom taught me how to cook.

Of course I was always a better taste-er than cook-er.

But let’s not go there.

She showed me how to make a pot roast.

And how to use the drippings for smooth and delicious, gravy.

Yum.

Mostly, my forays into the heavenly land of roasted meat and gravy were acceptable.

Sometimes, they weren’t.

But it was one of those ‘less-than-satisfactory’ occasions that gave rise to a new family tradition . . .

On Sundays, before leaving for church, Mom had taught me to put a roast in the oven. Thus, when the family returned from services, the smell of deliciousness would be wafting through the house, making mouths water and giving the impression that food was forthcoming.

Which it was.

Eagerly, the family would perform such tasks as: Changing out of ‘Sunday’ clothes. Setting the table. Drooling.

While Mom (me) whipped up the accompaniments to the main dish.

In short order, everyone was seated and shoveling.

Until Mom (me, again) brought out the gravy.

Now, up until now, my gravy had been a little on the thin side.

On this auspicious day, it was . . . thick.

Really thick.

Eat with a fork thick.

Husby took the bowl, obligingly spooned some of the contents onto his potatoes and beef.

Spread it around with his knife.

And made an unfortunate comment of which the words ‘wallpaper paste’ alone were discernible.

Can I say it? It made me . . . crabby.

Let me get the turpentine to thin it out crabby.

After that, when the smell of roast beef drifted through the air, Husby was the person at the stove, making the gravy.

It has become a family tradition.

And his gravy is legendary.

He doesn’t flaunt his superiority.

Okay, maybe he does.

A little.

But it’s well-deserved.

Isn’t it amazing when traditions are started for the sole purpose of not endangering lives?

His.

Fifty Day Wednesday #20

Because I felt like telling a joke on this fifty word Wednesday...

I need you to tell me something because it’s really bothering me…

Does this sound fair?

Why is it that when Venus lies around naked in a clamshell, she’s worshipped and considered a goddess.

But when I do it, I’m considered drunk and am ‘no longer welcome at the aquarium’.

0

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...

The Scary One

This story is fiction, but largely based on my beloved Aunt Emily. The original Miss Ernestine.

Her name was Miss Ernestine.

And the kids in the neighbourhood were terrified of her.

We all called her Miss Scare-estine.

Miss Ernestine was a maiden lady.

A tall, slender person. Always impeccably groomed.

She had many talents.

For thirty-five years, she had taught home economics to hundreds of young girls at the local high school. Now, in retirement, she spun and wove. Was a seamstress extraordinaire. And worked in her garden - a cool, wondrous place that could sometimes be glimpsed through the slats of her back fence - with carefully laid-out tracks and flowered borders. 

But her greatest talent was her ability to stare at kids through reading glasses that magnified her eyes to unbelievable proportions. 

And see into their souls.

At any time of the day, you could see her sitting beside her great front window, spinning.

And watching.

Soaking up the intimate details of the actions of the kids on the block.

Obviously recording them in her steel-trap brain to tell our parents later.

The moment any of us stepped out through the front door of our homes, we felt like little insignificant insects under the careful watch of a giant, bug-eyed scientist. 

Whenever her sharp, magnified blue eyes turned toward me, I could feel my face turn crimson and my heart speed up. Or my face drain of colour and my heart stop. In fact, I was always in a state of mottled anxiety: red, turning white. Or white, turning red. 

Fear does those things to you.

Sometimes, we would see one or more of the adults on the street stop and chat with her. 

But it was obvious that, when it came to the art of jovial conversation, she  . . . struggled.

Okay let’s face it; she was as stiff as last year’s Christmas tree.

She would spend her time correcting any hapless person who chanced to make a comment that fell within her areas of expertise. And said areas of expertise included any and all topics.

She was sharp, critical, outspoken and downright scary.

And the bane of the entire block’s worth of children.

And then my mother got sick.

At first, it was ‘just the flu’, and would be over and done with shortly.

But it stayed, and worsened.

Finally, the doctor diagnosed it as pneumonia.

He assured us that, with proper care, she would recover and continue to live a full and happy life.

But she did need that proper care.

And how she was going to get it as a single lady with six kids - and the eldest only ten - was anyone’s guess. 

Then came that knock on the front door.

My older sister answered it.

And there was Miss Ernestine, loaded down with boxes and bags.

Without even waiting for a ‘come in’, however timidly it might have been offered, she swept into the place and . . . took over.

For the next week, she cooked for us, cleaned, did laundry, helped with homework, kissed boo-boos and nursed my mother.

Bedtimes, though strictly enforced, were a relaxing time of storytelling and learning about bygone days as Miss Ernestine regaled us with tales of growing up in the mad, wonderful city of San Francisco in the roaring twenties. Of her wish for marriage and children that never came to fruition. Of her careful watching of the neighbourhood children to make sure they were safe and happy.

The day that I woke up to see my mother once more installed in the kitchen was both the best – and the worst – of my life.

And later, when Miss Ernestine disappeared out the front door, laden again with boxes and bags, I thought my heart would break cleanly in two.

After that, things on our street were different.

Gone was the fear. The dread. The ignorance and uncertainty.

Armed with the knowledge and understanding of a different perspective, we discovered there was something else that Miss Ernestine excelled at.

Love.

Fruitcake Friends

There are many kinds of fruitcake, true,

Some are sweet (kids like them, too!)

Others nutty, lots of crunch,

Some have alcohol—pack a punch,

Some are firm and never spoil,

All are made with love and toil,

You must admit, they can’t be beat,

Firm or sauced or nutty, sweet,

Hmmm… 

So great to have mid joy or strife…

My friends are the fruitcake in my life!

 

Thank you for being my friends!

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, come, we’re counting sheep,

Cause our new topic will be SLEEP!

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!)...

Fruitcake (December 27) Today!

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. 

A Christmas Story Beyond the Statute of Limitations

A guest post from little brother, Blair!

 

I tell this story with a certain amount of hesitance because it demonstrates how hard headed I can be.  A number of years ago when I was in grade school, we were rapidly approaching Christmas.  When I talked with my friends, the main topic that ruled our conversations was what we wanted.

 

This one particular Christmas season, all of us seemed to be having trouble with a member of our class.  This person did not come from the best home life and I believe acted out because of what was happening there.  As young kids in elementary school we didn’t understand this. We just thought this person was annoying because it was their desired behavior.  Unfortunately, we were not kind in return.

 

During the beginning of the Christmas season, some of my friends and I were in Sunday school class, engaged in a conversation that involved our frustration with our classmate’s negative behavior.  We were not saying very kind things about this person.  Kind of ironic to talk about this in Sunday school.

 

Our dear kind and gracious Sunday school teacher didn’t begin her lesson like usual, but let the class talk for a few minutes.  As I think about it now, I’m sure she was disappointed in our attitudes.  She probably asked herself, “have any of these kids heard anything that I have been trying to teach them this year?”  

 

Finally, she called the class to order and she said that we need to be charitable to other people.  We all agreed.  Then she said that we are going to put this into practice by preparing a Christmas package with special treats and gifts for the family of our troublesome classmate.  We immediately protested.  Somehow we forgot the lesson about charity.  Thankfully, our wonderful teacher persisted and we all agreed to contribute and picked an evening where we could take the package to the doorstep of our classmate’s home.  

The idea was to set the package on the doorstep, ring their bell and then run away so they could not see who had left it.

Finally the day came and we all brought gifts and placed them in the package.  Luckily, our classmate’s family lived 2 houses from the corner of the block so our getaway would be easy. Our Sunday school teacher parked her car around the corner and we took the package to the house of our classmate.  Our little caper worked like clockwork which is amazing for young elementary age school boys.  We set the package on the step, rang the bell, ran down the street and around the corner to our Sunday school teacher’s car and piled in.  

 

Our Sunday school teacher immediately drove away and we waited for a few minutes a block away.  Then, we drove by our classmate’s home and saw that the father was still looking out the front door onto the street.  

The feeling that we had after that experience picked us all up and filled us with joy.  From that point, Christmas began to take on a new perspective for me.  

 

I also started to see my classmate from a different perspective as well.  I started to realize not everyone had a wonderful home like I grew up in and I should be more considerate of other individuals because their challenges were MUCH worse than the ones that I had.  I also learned that the best Christmases were the ones that I was able to do something for others.  That brings the greater joy.