S.W.T.

YD. Not in a Time Out...

Shopping With Toddlers. A condition frequently and affectionately known by its acronym of SWT is a one-way ticket to adventure.

Via the crazy train.

And that’s just the beginning…

DIL (another popular acronym!) had spent much of her day shopping. Mother of soon-to-be-six, suffice it to say she had her hands—and her day—full.

Between finding the items she had ventured hesitantly from home to find, chasing down fugitives and side-tracking frequent requests/out-and-out-begging, she was on the downward slide toward exhaustion and distinct done-ness.

You’ve all been there.

Just turned two-year-old Youngest Daughter (hereinafter known as YD) was also past finished.

Hungry. Tired. Irritable. All were rolled up into one neat, efficient—explosive—little package.

After a loud bout of screech and flail on the floor of the department store, her mother asked, “Do you need a time out?”

YD looked up at her. “Yes, pease.”

“Fine. Go and sit on that chair.”

YD got to her feet and crossed over to the nearby chair, where she took up a perch.

Once settled, she looked at her mother and sighed. “Sanks,” she said.

If any of you reading this feel the need for some SWT, she’s available to rent ...

When Gramma babysits...

Yuk-M-Aid

Mmm. Candy. The ultimate in gustatory delight for all children.

Well, for most children.

Okay, for me.

That dangled 'apple' that entices obedience. Or commands respect.

And, growing up in the 50's, I had my favourites. Oh, the floors my Mom could get me to sweep, all on the promise of one delicious treat.

The dishes washed the bathrooms scrubbed with the prospect of yet another sweet, tasty . . . something.

And what 'somethings' there were. Chocolate in its myriad forms. Bubble gum. Wax sticks with sweet, tasty juice inside. Suckers.

But nothing quite compared to Lik-M-Aid.

The ads said it all, 'The Candy You Could Pour'.

Eating it was simplicity in itself. You didn't even need utensils. Caveman forebears would have easily been able to figure it out. You ripped open one end. Wet your finger, dipped it in.

And voila!

Tastiness.

The fact that your finger and your tongue ended up the same colour – blue, red, purple – was just a bonus. We connoisseurs could easily spot one another, too, by our discoloured pointer finger.

An added bonus.

It was like a club. (All Lik-M-Aid aficionados point to the sky!)

The only problem was that the end was too near the beginning. Within five minutes of ripping open that wonderful little bag of enjoyment, one was . . . ummm . . . licking the last.

And staring forlornly at the empty wrapper.

Sigh!

But I was undaunted. If the Lik-M-Aid was gone, one simply had to . . . substitute.

Hmm. Mom had packets of Kool-Aid in the cupboard. I had seen them. I had watched her pour them into a pitcher, add water and voila! Deliciousness.

Kool-Aid? Lik-M-Aid? Are we seeing similarities here?

I had a hazy recollection of something else being added to the cool-aid before it was poured out, but paying attention to insignificant details had never been my strong suit.

I headed for the kitchen.

I should probably point out here that finding the kitchen without Mom in residence was . . . tricky, yet I managed it on several occasions.

I was a sneaky little monkey.

I know. I heard Mom say it quite often.

Back to my story . . .

I waited until she headed towards the basement. A-ha! The coast was clear!

I stole into the kitchen, went immediately to her stash of Kool-Aid, and grabbed a purple pouch.

Mmm. Grape. My favourite.

Expertly, I ripped off the top, stuck in my finger and . . . tasted.

Yuck!

What was this stuff?

Someone had poured something different into this pouch. Disguised it as Kool-Aid to fool poor unsuspecting little kids.

The nerve.

I sneaked another one. Cherry this time. Surely it would be better.

Rip. Taste.

Yuck!

Lemon.

Rip . . . you get the picture.

I have no idea how she did it, but Mom was always able to come upon me unexpectedly.

I think she had 'ninja' blood.

“Diane!”

I dropped a packet of strawberry to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down at the . . . let's just call it 'several' discarded packets of cool-aid, then back at her.

Was that a trick question? “Umm . . . I thought it was Lik-M-Aid.”

“Well, it's not!”

Okay, yeah, I was starting to notice.

“Clean this up!”

I stared in dismay at the mess.

Mom sighed and helped me.

Mom was the soul of frugal. I guess the fact that the powder was slightly used really wasn't important. I watched as she poured all the Kool-Aid powder together into a container and capped it tightly.

It made really neat little lines of colour.

Huh. Kool.

Then she put it away. Out of reach.

I didn't point out to her that her belated caution was unnecessary. That stuff really tasted awful.

Her Kool-Aid was safe with me.

Unless mixed with that delicious 'something' that made it so . . . drinkable.

Hmm. Water. Was that the magic ingredient? Maybe the Kool-Aid was worth another try . . .

I'd like to tell you that that was the last of my experiments.

But I'd be lying.

Candy floss and dust bunnies and I also have a history.

P.S. Several of my grandchildren have also tried this experiment. According to their individual results: It was yukky.

The Woes Of the Doze

I think I’m in trouble.

Let’s face it, when one is seated, warm, and comfortable, it’s inevitable.

Okay, I admit, it didn’t used to be. But as I grow older, definitely.

I’m talking about those of us who habitually doze off.

In public places.

Movies. Concerts. Classes. Meetings.

Church.

It is this last that most concerns me.

Let me explain . . .

On February 28, 1646, one Roger Scott, of Lynn, Massachusetts was rudely awakened from a deep and restful slumber.

By the business end of a tithingman’s long, knobbed staff.

Being energetically applied to Goodman Scott’s head.

I don’t know about you, but being roused by being rapped in the head by a heavy wooden cane wouldn’t bring out the best in me.

Heck, I used to get mad when my dad called to me gently from my bedroom doorway.

It didn’t in Roger, either.

Bring out the best, I mean.

Obviously forgetting he wasn’t in his own warm bed, and just a trifle annoyed at being knocked awake (so to speak), he woke up flailing.

Oops.

Mistake number one: Dozing (gasp) in a public(k) place.

And number two: Protesting the meted-out punishment.

This second mistake only caused further punishment.

Sigh.

Roger, for his actions was sentenced to a public(k) whipping.

And the dark designation of: “A common sleeper at the publick exercise.”

(I wonder if they have T-shirts?)

In a Small Town

I’ve been watching a group of people trek across my country loudly proclaiming their need for freedom. 

But all I can see in their actions is a gross lack of care for anyone but themselves.

It reminded me of the first time I was introduced to ‘opinions’ and ‘prejudice’ masquerading as ‘politics’.

It was a very sad day for me...

It was my first exposure to 'small town politics'.

Not a pleasant experience.

And I'll never forget it . . .

When I was in grade five, a new family moved to our town.

Parents, children.

The father had been offered the top position in one of the numerous churches in Milk River.

I first learned of the family when I met their daughter - I'm going to call her Jamie - on the first day of school in September.

She was a sweet, quiet little girl. Funny.

With shoulder-length, soft brown hair.

And freckles.

We started visiting.

And discovered we had many interests (ie. boys) in common.

We started to 'hang out'.

I invited Jamie to my house.

And she reciprocated.

I remember my first visit to her home.

Her parents were very glad to see me.

Almost tearful in their welcome.

It seemed a bit odd that parents would be so interested in one of their children's friends.

But I shrugged it off.

Because they were kind.

And there was a safe, peaceful feeling in their home.

Almost like being in my own.

They asked me about myself and our family.

Seemed very fascinated by every aspect of my life.

Served Jamie and I a piece of cake.

I should mention, here, that this was the first time I had ever seen someone serve chocolate layer cake with a dollop of raspberry jam between the layers.

Jam wasn't my favourite thing at any time.

Though the cake was delicious.

Moving on . . .

As I was preparing to leave, Jamie's mom gave me a hug and thanked me for being her daughter's friend.

I smiled.

I liked her daughter.

I liked the whole family.

After that, Jamie and I were together a lot.

Hanging out at school.

Hanging out at each other's homes.

One day, we were sitting out on her front lawn.

Visiting.

A group of my friends showed up and gathered around us.

For a few minutes, I was happy to have all of my favourite people together.

Then the rest of them got up to go, asking me if I wanted to come with them.

“No. I'm staying here with Jamie,” I told them.

“Why do you hang out with her?” one of my friends demanded. “The whole town hates them!”

I stared at him.

The town hated my friend?

I had never heard of such a thing.

My friends left.

But I sat there and turned that statement over in my ten-year-old mind.

The town hated my friend and her family.

Hated.

Weird.

I looked at Jamie.

I looked at her kind, caring family.

Now some of what they had said and done began to make sense.

Their almost tearful excitement over Jamie having a friend.

Their interest in me.

I talked to my parents about it.

They looked at each other.

“I don't know why,” my dad said. “But for some reason, the reverend has gotten off on the wrong foot with other members of the congregation.”

“But I was told the whole town hated them.”

“Well, not the whole town,” Mom said. “And we certainly don't.”

I shrugged it off.

And kept on being Jamie's friend.

I helped them scrub egg off the front of their house.

Wondering, at the time, how on earth they had managed to spill eggs clear up there.

I kept Jamie with me when other kids at school teased her.

I didn't understand any of it.

These were wonderfully kind, sweet people.

Caring.

Considerate.

How could everyone not see that?

One day, Jamie wasn't at school.

I walked over to her house.

It was empty.

She and her family had moved.

Gone back to where they came from.

For weeks, I was sad.

She had been my friend.

I had loved playing with her.

And now she was gone.

A new family moved into Jamie's house.

A new leader for her church.

Someone who didn't 'get off on the wrong foot'.

They stayed.

But I never forgot Jamie.

My friend with the soft brown hair and freckles.

Or my first experience with small town prejudice.

MMMMessages

 Messages so quickly sent,

With flying thumbs, we share. Or vent,

But sometimes, smart phones do take o’er…

Those messages won’t be a bore!

 

And these are actual mistakes,

I promise none made up or fake,

Like singing ‘dead’ for Birthday cheer,

When the word is clearly ‘dear’.

 

And someone saying, I’ll be ‘black’

When what they meant for sure was ‘back’,

And requesting ‘Human’ beef,

When they intended ‘Hunan’. Grief!

 

And one boy ‘killed’ his date out back,

When actually, he ‘kissed’ her. Aak!

Retrieved a pencil from a ‘lover’,

When in his ‘locker’ ‘twas discovered!

 

A friend with ‘red breasts’ from eight grade,

When ‘red hair’ was the course he’d laid,

Admired the ‘dimples’ of his date,

But ‘nipples’ were his sorry fate.

 

Declaring him a ‘gangsta’. Cool.

But ‘hamsta’, less a verbal jewel,

“I hate it when you are so ‘far ’”,

But ‘fat’ is written. Leaves a scar!

 

‘Hermaphrodites’ for ‘Heineken’

 Or ‘Milk’ for ‘kill’, what meaning then?

And somehow going poking ‘beats’,

Instead of ‘bears’—the risk defeats.

 

Messaging’s convenient, true,

But when I type from me to you,

And auto-correct ‘gets ‘er done’,

Somehow the memo’s much more fun!

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 truly will take flight,

Cause we will be discussing kites!

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!)...

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

Kites (February 7)

Valentine (February 14)

Predictions (February 21)

DNA (February 28)

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

Genius Day (March 14) 
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

Friendliest

The favourite childhood TV show,

Of Mama’s ‘Diane Dynamo’,

Was one that I’d anticipate,

Forever. ‘Cause it came on late,

My breakfast had been hours before,

(I’d bothered Mom for three or four),

Just wond’ring when would be the time,

My TV world became sublime.

She was crafty, dear old Mom,

Hit ‘start’ before my show came on,

She knew that I would happ’ly wait,

If all she did was lay the bait…

The TV in the corner, there,

Would capture me within its glare,

The moment that she turned it on,

Her little girl was truly gone.

The test pattern was on till ten,

Our anthem started playing then,

And after that, the thrill of thrills,

A big boot standing ‘mid the hills,

And looking up, I’d fin’ly see,

Him drop the drawbridge just for me,

And take me there inside his home,

He’d present Rusty and Jerome,

Then read me books and play his fife,

And make me happy with my life.

Throughout my childhood, he was there,

I’d curl up in his ‘little chair’,

And listen to the tales thereof,

From this person that I loved…

Of childhood shows from coast to coast,

The Friendly Giant, I miss most.

Once a month, Karen's friends participate in a Poetry Challenge on a Theme.
This month’s theme? Our favorite Childhood TV Show!

Enjoying yourself?
There's more!
BakingIn A Tornado
Messymimi’sMeanderings

The Obvious

 While we're still . . . slightly . . . on the topic of dinosaurs . . .

You see animals. They see . . .

Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .

Two of our grandchildren were playing.

A little background here . . .

Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.

Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.

Animals from every continent of the world.

And from every age.

Yep. Extensive.

He bought them for his grandkids.

Or so he says.

Said grandkids love playing with said animals.

They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.

And, due to durability and indestructible composition, will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.

Countless scenarios had been acted out.

Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?

Well they can.

(Maybe we can take a little lesson from this vis-a-vis the conflicts in today's world. Just sayin'.)

Back to my story . . .

Three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.

The theme of the day was dinosaurs.

Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.

Thorin, the same for the triceratops.

The two had set up housekeeping and were currently deciding whose turn it was to go for groceries.

Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself. And being a child who could accurately pronounce dihydrogen monoxide before her third birthday, she was well-qualified to teach.

Ahem . . .

“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”

Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.

“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin frowned.

Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.

Rini smiled, too. And nodded. Encouragingly.

Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.

“Pokies!” he said happily.

Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

Un-Art

 

I'm not a visual artist.

Really.

I'm not being modest or anything.

I'm really not. Oh, I can paint with words, but that's it.

But in elementary school, everyone was an artist.

Because the teacher said so.

I should probably mention, here, that my painting of a tree looked . . . ahem . . . nothing like a tree.

Oh, it had a trunk.

Or more accurately, a TRUNK.

One large swath of brown paint.

Straight from the bottom of the page to the top.

Then there were leaves.

Okay. Well, I thought they were leaves.

My teacher was kind.

She merely smiled, tucked my painting away, and gave me something else to work on.

A lump of clay.

This was more like it!

She handed out more lumps of clay. “Now class,” she said, “I want you to make me a dinosaur!”

Oooh! That would be so much fun!

I tackled my lump of dark grey clay with enthusiasm.

Around me, dinosaurs of all shapes and sizes began to appear.

Triceratops.

Tyrannosaurus.

Looking more and more realistic.

I looked at my clay.

It closely resembled . . . a snake.

I worked some more.

Molding. Pressing.

Then looked around again.

Next to me stood a Brontosaurus.

Next to him? Stegosaurus.

I turned back to mine.

A snake.

But with legs.

I made the legs thicker.

Now I had a snake.

With thicker legs.

I kept at it.

My teacher walked by and nodded encouragingly.

I thickened the body.

Accidentally pressing down on the back end.

My sculpture sat up.

Yup. Sat up.

Huh.

Suddenly, it looked like a bear.

I smiled and made a large pot-shaped lump and put it between the four feet.

It really did look like a bear. Hugging a big honey pot.

My teacher stopped beside my desk.

“Diane, I thought I told you to make a dinosaur.”

“Ummm,” I said.

“That's definitely a bear.”

I looked down at my sculpture and nodded.

“A remarkably good bear.”

The teacher sounded as surprised as I was.

Again, I nodded.

“But you were supposed to make a dinosaur.”

“Do you want me to start over?”I asked, my hand hovering uncertainly over my work of art.

“No!” she said quickly. Then, a little more calmly, “No. You just keep working on that and we'll see.”

I shrugged and bent the legs a bit more around the honey pot.

Then I flattened them slightly at the bottom to form paws.

Then I stared at it.

A bear.

Where had that come from?

My teacher was just as astonished as I was.

She entered my sculpture in the local elementary level art fair.

My family and I moved before I found out how it did.

And definitely, before I got my sculpture back.

But I've often wondered . . .

Both where it came from.

And where it went.

Pining for a Dixie

 I'm dreaming of a . . . warm summer . . .

Summer. Say ahhhh!

It was summertime in Northern Alberta.

The snow had finally gone. (It was nearly July. No self-respecting snowbank would dare stay past the middle of June.)

And the people had emerged into the glorious, life-giving sunshine.

That’s exactly what we were doing.

Emerging.

It was the final day of school for three of my grandkids and celebrations were in order.

A school picnic with friends and family on the school grounds.

We talked and laughed and reminisced about the past year.

Ate hot dogs and bags of chips and drank small containers of chocolate milk.

And then they brought out the Dixie ice cream cups.

My daughter handed me one to feed my granddaughter, seated on my lap.

I pulled off the cardboard lid and, just for a moment, I was remembering all of the times in my childhood that celebrations ended with those little servings of creamy deliciousness.

In a paper cup.

With a small, wooden spoon.

Special school events when I had finished eating whatever Mom had packed in my lunch kit.

And the teacher brought out the large box of little cups with the long strip of paper-packaged wooden spoons.

Church socials when my tummy was groaning with all of the good things I had just stuffed into it and I was sure I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.

Until the Dixie cups showed up.

Family reunions.

Track Meets.

Cattle tours.

All of them ended with those little paper cups of cool, creamy, deliciousness

I looked down at the cup in my hand. White. Vanilla. Just starting to melt around the sides.

Perfect.

I took the little wooden paddle and dug in, then handed it to my granddaughter.

I know what you’re thinking and no, I didn’t take the first bite myself.

Though I wanted to . . .

That slightly rough feel of the wooden spoon on your tongue.

That sweet cream melting and filling your entire being with joy.

The bottom being just slightly too near the top.

Sigh.

That occasional ecstatic moment when a second round appears.

Perfection.

Oh, there were differences.

The cup I held was plastic, as opposed to the light cardboard that used to be.

And the product inside didn’t have quite the ‘cream’ that I remember from my childhood.

But still, it was delicious. (Yes, I did finally sneak a taste.)

And satisfying.

And memory-dredging.

And when the man came around and offered us two more?

Heaven.

Almost Done...

 

His training had been going on for more than just a day,

And ‘learning with the master’ all of his mysterious ways,

From battle tactics, to control, his drills went on and on,

Until his coach admitted that his job was nearly done,

His master set a challenge that would test him fore and aft,

And let him know for certain that the boy had learned his craft,

He leaped from pole to pole that had been set around the room,

Where just one miss would surely spell the perky young man’s doom,

The boy made it look easy, as he leapt like a gazelle,

Not one misstep to make him have to bid this life farewell,

His master smiled and even gave his back a little pat,

“I’m glad you didn’t fall and leave this world as a splat!

“Now one more thing to test you, and your schooling I’ll acquit,

But nothing should be easy and I do like opp-o-sites!

You’ve made this task look easy as you leapt from pole to pole,

So now just do it backward and I’ll say you’ve met your goal!

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'll publish our mistakes

And share the typos that we make!

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!)...

Opposite Day (January 24) Today!

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

Kites (February 7)

Valentine (February 14)

Predictions (February 21)

DNA (February 28)

Telephone (or Say Hello Day) (March 7) 

Genius Day (March 14) 
Celebrating Poetry (March 21) 
Respect Your Cat Day (March 28) (Richard II's 1384 edict forbidding eating them.)
Imperfection (April 4)

I’ll Be Here

I'll be here!

Every day, while Mama went to work, Tinesy Girl came to stay with Gramma.

Something all of us loved.

There was much hugging and kissing as Mama prepared to go out the door in the morning.

Many ‘I love yous’.

And not a few ‘see you soons’.

Then Mama was off and we were on our own.

We had fun.

There were toys and games to play with.

Books to read.

Plays to enact.

And yummy things to eat.

But Tinesy Girl still missed her Mama.

Now one of TG’s favourite toys was a musically interactive, eminently portable activity board.

On wheels.

There were buttons and keys to push, gears to spin, doors to open and close, and a small, purple phone.

To . . . umm . . . carry around.

And which, until that day, had been MIA.

A cursory and completely fruitless search had been conducted.

And the toy written off as one of those things that ‘will just show up later’.

Our daughter was (and still is) a theatre carpenter. Arriving at work and opening her toolbox, she finally discovered TG’s little purple phone.

Tucked neatly among the hammers and drills of her Mama’s tools-of-the-trade.

Arriving home from work, our grinning daughter triumphantly held up the phone.

TG grabbed it and refused to let go.

It went into the tub with her during her bath.

And ditto when she went to sleep.

The next morning, there was the usual ritual of hugs, kisses and ‘I love yous’.

And her Mama was off for another day of noisy measuring, cutting and piecing together.

As lunchtime approached, she drug out her backpack and zipped it open.

There, on top of everything was TG’s little purple phone.

Our daughter pulled it out and stared at it.

Then she laughed.

The message was finally clear.

“Call me!”

Cockroachless

I love Alberta. 

It's beautiful.
Wide, grassy prairies.
High, majestic mountains.
Blue skies.
Clear air.

Warm temperatures.
Okay, I know that it gets cold in Alberta.
And yes, -40 (C or F) is not uncommon.
But, probably because of the extreme temperatures, Alberta is missing a couple of very important things.
And I'm not complaining.
1. Alberta is the only place on earth that has no rats.
None. They are stopped at the borders, asked to produce a current passport, then turned away.
Let's face it, have you ever seen a rat with any passport, let alone a current one?
There is even a designated rat un-welcome committee stationed at every border.
An effective one.
Equipped with guns and traps.
And lots of cheese.
I don't know about you, but that would certainly indicate to me that I wasn't wanted.
Moving on . . .
So . . . no rats.
2. Alberta also has no big bugs.
Okay, we have bugs.
Just not big ones.
I've seen the pictures of people holding cockroaches that reach to their elbows and spiders that could easily carry off small children.
I know what big bugs look like.
And we don't have them.
That makes me happy.
We know how blessed we are.
Case in point:
Our son was preparing to go out to milk.
It was cold.
Alberta cold.
He was layering up at the back door.
Long johns.
Jeans.
Cotton socks.
Wool socks over cotton ones.
Heavy shirt.
Sweater.
Jacket.
Scarf.
Heavy coat.
Touque. (Warm Canadian winter hat)
Gloves.
Mittens.
Boots.
Yep. In Canada, we pretty much invented layering.
And going outside isn't something you do at the spur of the moment.
It takes thought.
And time.
I was preparing breakfast and I could hear my son moving around at the back door.
And mumbling to himself.
I dried my hands and walked over to him.
What I heard was, " . . . cockroaches."
I moved closer.
"We don't get cockroaches," he said.
As he pulled on one sock.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Second sock.
"We don't get cockroches."
Shirt.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Jacket.
And so it went.
The same refrain with each and every layer.
Psyching himself up to open that door and get the blast of cold air in the face.
We live in Alberta.
It is beautiful.
And cold.
But we don't have rats.
Or get big bugs.
Sometimes it takes the one to appreciate the other.

Out Bumperd

Or something similar...

That day, I lost my crown.

There was no ceremony.

Few tears.

And an audible sigh of relief.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the main drive of the ranch, there was a light/electricity pole.

A large one.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to place it thus, but there it stood.

In the centre of the circular drive.

Any drivers had, of necessity, to be vigilant when negotiating our driveway.

Even though said pole had stood there, unmoving and in the exact same place, for years.

Years.

As a permanent resident of the ranch, I had always known of its existence.

I knew the exact place where one had to turn the wheel in order to miss it.

And just when to swing around when parking.

But this one day, I was . . . distracted.

Have you heard the ads on TV where they caution you not to drive while distracted?

Listen to them.

Ahem . . .

Without thinking, I shoved the gear shift of our large red and white Chevy Beauville 12-passenger van into reverse.

And started backing up.

After a few feet, I felt a rather large thump.

And the van made a sudden stop.

Frowning, I turned to look behind me.

Oh, right.

Pole.

Sheepishly, I pulled ahead.

Then got out to inspect the damage.

The bright silver bumper had been neatly creased just to one side of the center.

A deep enough crease to force both the top and the bottom of said bumper . . . umm . . . out. Quite effectively preventing the back door from opening.

Sigh.

I must admit that when my Husby saw it, all he could do was laugh.

Then saw the top point off the crease so the back door would open.

And laugh some more.

That was nearly thirty years ago.

He has been laughing since.

Then one day, I heard another bumper story. A better bumper story. Told by my good friend, Jen.

Jen was backing out of her garage. It has been sleeting and freezing and her drive way was a sheet of ice.

She backed out cautiously.

After a few feet, the vehicle stopped moving.

Stupid ice.

She pressed harder on the accelerator.

Still no progress.

Harder.

Nothing.

Just a bit more.

Suddenly, the bumper of her vehicle popped off.

The whole thing.

Right off.

And it was at that precise moment that she realized she hadn't, as she had thought, been slipping on the ice.

No.

Her bumper had snagged on the garage door.

The door had won.

She stopped the car and got out to survey.

Then, abandoning her travel plans for the afternoon, she went back into the house and stayed there.

Some time later, her Husby and his dad came to inspect.

Jen watched them as they shook their heads and muttered to each other.

Finally, they picked up the bumper and refastened it.

With cable ties.

It had been 10 years.

They were still driving that car.

And that bumper was still attached.

I happily passed the crown to her.

She’d earned it.