Fishing for Brothers

Our intrepid camping ally, Ancient of Days.

It's Summer.

Camping time.

Something our family did every year (when the chicks were growing) in a little, blue tent trailer purchased in Calgary, Alberta in January 1978. It was so cold that day that I thought the flooring was a sheet of tin.

In my defense, linoleum can resemble tin when it is frozen solid.

When the planet heated up a bit, we opened our new purchase and discovered a tidy, little world in itself. Three neat beds and a square central floor.

Perfect for a family of eight.

It took our family everywhere.

For many years, we camped for a week each summer in a beautiful campground in Saskatchewan.

Kimball Lake.

We had a lot of adventures in that time.

Today, I'm remembering one in particular...

Our two youngest were napping.

I use this word lightly.

Because there was no 'napping' happening.

Youngest Daughter (YD) was on the bed she normally shared with her older sister.

And Youngest Son (YS) was in the playpen on the floor.

Something he had learned to crawl out of.

Usually, this wouldn't have been a problem.

Let me describe our trailer to you.

It had three wings that folded out to form the beds.

The canvas wrapped around each of these wings and hooked securely underneath with elastic cords.

It was possible to slide through those spaces.

If you were small enough.

And YS, at thirteen months, met that criteria.

He crawled up onto the bed.

Rolled against the side.

And slid through.

Now it wasn't a long drop to the ground underneath, but it would have given the little fellow quite a jolt.

YD, three, had been watching.

She saw him slip through.

And, with uncharacteristic three-year-old speed and fortitude, leaped across and grabbed his hands.

“Mo-om!”

My good friend, Tammy and I were seated just outside, visiting.

Suddenly, we saw a pair of little legs kicking and wiggling out of the side of the trailer and heard my daughter call out.

I ran into the trailer.

YD and the top half of YS were visible.

She had both of his hands and was leaning back, trying to keep him from sliding further.

He was giggling happily and trying to wiggle out of her grip.

“Mo-om!” she shouted again.

I grabbed my son and pulled him to safety.

Then put him back in his bed with stern instructions to stay there.

That tiny son is now a husband and father and that trailer went down the road many seasons ago.

But every year, at camping time, I think of the small boy and his almost escape.

Picture those little legs protruding from the side of the trailer, kicking merrily.

And his sister, recognizing his danger and holding on frantically with all of her three-year-old strength..

It's a good memory.

On Using Protection

Big Sister modelling the new chaps. 

Daddy. Ditto.

In the calving field at the Stringam Ranch was a large patch of bullberry bushes.

Or at least that's what we called them.

I don't know what their 'official' name is.

It really doesn't matter.

Whatever their name, they were deadly.

Spikes – I am not exaggerating – up to two inches long.

Against a tender and unprotected human hide, they could do some real damage.

The cows in the field had learned to use them.

When a *gasp* human appeared, they would charge into the bushes.

And chuckle with their friends.

I’m fairly certain.

Moving on . . .

The first time or two, my horse decided to charge in after them.

I should explain that a horse's hide is equally as tough as a cow's.

A human's? See above.

Inevitably I would emerge from such incidents rather the 'worse for the wear'.

As my mother was so fond of saying.

The second time I showed up at home with bloodstains on my shredded jeans, my mother dragged out Dad's heavy hide chaps.

Now, I should mention here that chaps look really good on a tall slim cowboy.

Really, really good.

And certainly they have their uses.

The chaps, not the cowboys.

Okay yes. A cowboy, too, has his uses.

But that is a completely different sort of post . . .

Back to my story . . .

Chaps provide protection from the ravages of ranch work.

They have saved many a pair of jeans from wear during haying.

And many a cowboy from damage when things get up close and personal.

But they are perversely hard to ride in when one is doing so bareback.

I know.

I tried.

Bareback riding requires balance.

Intuition.

And a good grip with the knees.

Chaps, especially heavy ones, prevent the all-important knee grip.

And actually make balance a bit more difficult.

Sigh.

What to do?

Protection won out.

I wore the chaps.

And they sported the scars to prove it.

Picture leather nearly a quarter of an inch thick.

With cuts that went almost all the way through.

That could have been me.

Years later, I showed them to my children.

Who expressed proper and well-deserved awe and amazement.

One day, Husby and I were wandering through a store in cattlemen country.

Hanging from the rafters just inside the front door were a pair of chaps.

But not just any chaps.

These were made of leather, dyed green and purple and gold and pink.

With silver fringe.

I stared at them.

Chaps had obviously changed.

Not just for protection any more.

Now they could be worn to scare cows out of the bush.

Or so that their rider could be seen by satellite.

Ranching has come a long way.

Wrong

Now tell me a dark shirt and light tie wouldn't have looked spiffy!

My future Husby and I were preparing for our wedding.

It had been a painless process to this point.

We were standing in the Men's Wear shop.

The best one in Lethbridge.

Husby-to-be was dressed in a new suit.

Light blue.

Spiffy. (real word)

He looked fantastic.

It was the 70s.

Enough said.

I loved this new, light-blue suit.

I thought it would look even more fantastic with a dark blue shirt and a light tie.

Now, I should explain here that Husby-to-be had spent his whole life - and particularly the last two years - in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie.

He never noticed how the rich and famous and photographed were dressed.

Never even caught a glimpse of the 'fashion' ads.

Dark suit, white shirt and dark tie were what a young man wore.

Every young man.

Always.

His wife-to-be was just a touch more daring.

I had seen the fashion ads.

Had glanced through the Movie Star magazines.

I knew Husby-to-be would look amazing in a light suit, dark shirt and light tie.

Like the men in the Godfather.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have mentioned that.

I had gotten him into the suit.

But there, all progress had stopped.

He stared suspiciously at the dark shirt I was holding up.

And the light tie.

Finally, he uttered the words that every husby-to-be learns, sooner or later, NOT to say.

Those fateful words that draw a neat line between pre and post-marriage days. 

“I'll ask my mom what she thinks.”

I sucked in a breath. I'm sure the look on my face spoke volumes.

Volumes.

Because he immediately recognized he had said something wrong.

He wasn't sure what, but . . . definitely wrong.

He did wear the light suit.

With a white shirt and light-ish tie.

All totally without any input from his mom.

Compromise at its best.

Putting the ‘Pooper’ in Party

With all the parties going on in both my country and my sister country to the south this past weekend, it’s put me into a party mood. Oh, not having one. Just telling a story about one...

Jerry. With Mom.
Oh . . . and me.

Jerry is my big brother.

He’s cool

He’s neat.

And he never could be considered a ‘party animal’.

An explanation is in order . . .

One of the best times to host a party is on New Year’s Eve.

Everyone is excited.

Everyone is happy.

And , more importantly, everyone wants to party.

Jerry decided to host his first, ever, New Year’s Eve celebration.

Invitations were extended.

Preparations were made.

And Mom cleaned the house for two days straight.

They were ready . . .

The party started out well.

Forty or so kids, all intent of having a great time.

There was a group in the ping-pong room.

Cheering or competing.

Another group around the pool table.

Ditto.

There were kids dancing in the front room.

Kids playing games wherever there was a space.

Kids circling the snacks table.

And kids visiting with my Mom in the kitchen.

The house was full and the party was, for lack of a better term, ‘hitting on all cylinders’.

The time came for the big build-up to the New Year.

Noisemakers were handed out. Because forty-plus people couldn’t make enough noise on their own.

The countdown.

The cheer.

Or rather, din.

And the New Year was official.

Everybody completed the ritual hugging and kissing.

And went back to what they had been doing.

Well, almost everyone.

Several young ladies were looking for someone specific to ‘congratulate’.

My brother, Jerry.

They searched throughout the house. Staked out the bathrooms until the current occupant emerged. And finally enlisted the help of my Mom.

She did a circuit of the obvious places. Then decided to see if Jerry was, for some reason, in his room.

She knocked.

No answer.

She cracked the door and peeked into the darkened room. Reached in and flipped the light switch.

A sleepy head lifted from the pillow.

“Whazzup?”

He had visited and played games.

He had congratulated and cheered.

He had gotten tired.

He had gone to bed.

Never mind that he was leaving his guests to wind down and find their own way to the door.

Nope.

Bed was the place for him.

My brother, Jerry.

Party host extraordinaire.

“Hope you had a good time! Don’t forget to shut off the lights when you leave!”

On Being Independent

A group of friends anticipating finals Monday morn,

Had spent the Saturday before with friends and ale in horns,

The celebrating went too long, they slept next day away,

And missed their Independence Test ‘cause they had been at play,

When they arrived, they sought their Prof and begged her on their knees,

To let them take the test. They added, “Pretty, pretty please?!”

They told a story settled on: of back road and flat tire,

And how they waited long for help (for hour after hour),

They told her how the wait’s result was missing her key test,

They simply couldn’t make it back to write it with the rest,

Their prof just smiled, “Of course, I’ll let you take it late,” she said.

“Come back tomorrow set to write.” They grinned and went to bed.

Next morning, bright and shining (all were ready now to write),

Rested and refreshed from dreamless sleep they’d had last night,

The prof put each lad in a room and handed out exams,

Then closed the doors and left all of the earnest little lambs,

They turned the page, found question 1 took very little thought,

They didn’t even have to sweat the answers that they sought!

“For 5%: The date The Declaration had been signed”,

July the 4^th of ’76. Didn’t even need their minds!

This would be a breeze! they thought (their happiness grew higher),

Then question 2: “For 95%...”, it asked, “…which tire?”

Happy Independence Day to all my neighbours from the United States!

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, may be a little hard,

Cause 'Loneliness' is on the card...

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!)...

Independence Day (US) or Sidewalk egg-frying day (July 4) Today!

Loneliness (July 11)

Ice Cream (July 18)

Old Jokes (July 25)

Girlfriends (August 1)

Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night (August 8)

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15)

Be an Angel Day (August 22)

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

A For-Real Canadian

Canada Day.

For those of us who think Canada is the greatest little corner of the earth, a time to reflect on our blessings.
And so, a post about my son, the soldier.

Heading overseas.

In his first career, our second son was a soldier.

Engineer.

Mine/explosives expert.

Not a career his mama chose for him, I should point out. But one that, because he loves his country, he was happy to take on.

He was slated several times to go overseas.

But only did so once.

I probably should explain . . .

There is a good deal of heavy training that goes into a call overseas.

Both physical and mental.

My son’s squad had received their notice.

They were slated to go to Nijmegen, Holland

And were preparing.

Picture men and women running. Climbing.

And lifting heavy objects.

Sitting at desks and puzzling over complicated logic problems.

Okay, that’s how I pictured it.

In reality, their short tour to Nijmegen was one of goodwill.

So their training consisted of marching.

And marching.

The day of departure grew closer.

They were representing Canada.

They needed to be properly outfitted.

They were issued new uniforms.

Including new boots.

Which they were instructed to wear.

While marching.

Now I don’t have to point out to you what the combination of new boots and 8 hours of marching can do.

Our son developed blisters.

Blisters on his blisters.

Which immediately became badly infected.

You’ve heard about a soldier only being as good as his feet?

It’s true.

He was put on the ‘injured’ list and sent back to base.

Somewhat disappointed and rather embarrassed.

But another tour was announced.

A real tour.

To Bosnia.

Real training this time.

Including the aforementioned (good word) running, climbing and lifting of things heavy.

Two days before they were ship out, my son was clearing some brush near the base.

Using a machete.

Which he had just sharpened.

His hand slipped. Slightly.

And he nicked his opposite thumb.

Barely.

A quarter of an inch.

But it was a surgically precise quarter of an inch.

He managed to sever the tendon in his left thumb.

The surgeon assigned to fish out the two tendon ends and put them back together said she’d never seen anything like it.

Is she hadn’t been an eye-witness, she never would have believed that anyone could manage such a delicate and accurate operation with a scalpel.

Let alone with a huge machete.

‘Injured’ list again.

Sigh.

Needless to say, by this time, he was getting quite discouraged.

But I must admit that his parents were secretly happy.

Don’t tell him . . .

His third call came to serve overseas.

He again responded.

Trained.

And this time - finally - succeeded.

For the better part of a year, he served as head of the mine cell on the base.

He did well.

And was commended.

Then came home to us.

I remember that first evening, after he stepped out of our van.

He immediately walked over and stood in the middle of the lawn.

We stared at him.

What had our son been learning overseas?

“I haven’t stood on grass for 10 months,” he said. “You don’t dare. Over there.”

Huh. Something we had never really thought about before.

We had assumed all of his sacrifices were made in the going.

We hadn’t realized the extent of what he was giving up while he was there.

To him and all who serve with him, thank you.

Happy 155th Birthday!

Un-Sneaky

Yep. They’re on their own...

Our eldest son isn't someone who could be considered 'sneaky'.

In fact, I think he swings quite the other way.

Oh, he tries.

In fact, when he was little, he used to fancy himself a ninja.

The master of subtlety and sneak-iness.

But when it came to actually . . . shifting the blame, or obfuscation of facts?

He was lost.

And oddly enough, it was usually because he couldn’t bear to leave things in a disorderly manner.

Let's face it. Sneaking into other people's possessions, and tidying them before you leave?

Better than they were before?

Not the most subtle of practices.

When ES was 12, his scout group was fund-raising.

He dutifully received his case of chocolate-covered almonds.

I should point out that he was supposed to sell them.

He didn't.

The case of packages rested - for safety's sake and because I knew my almond-loving son - on the floor in my bedroom.

Daily, I lifted one of the boxes on top and rattled it.

Just to make sure it hadn't been tampered with.

In hindsight, I should have dug deeper.

Moving on . . .

The evening came when we had been planning to go door-to-door.

I lifted the case.

It was surprisingly light.

Much too light.

I discovered that the only boxes that actually contained almonds were the four on the top.

ES had been systematically eating the rest.

Then tidily sealing the empties and putting them back into the box.

Sigh.

He also had a thing for ice cream.

The sneaking of which was a family Olympic sport.

But where the other kids would grab a spoon and sneak a bite, then dispose of said spoon into the sink where it would instantly achieve anonymity, ES would get out a bowl.

And spoon.

Sneak his ice cream.

Then rinse the bowl and spoon.

And set them in the freezer.

With the ice cream.

Remember what I said about subtlety?

Yep. Not happening.

Years have passed.

I can't comment about his almond/ice cream snitching ways or their effectiveness today.

His wife and his six kids have to worry about that.

Whew.

Museum Piece

Picture it green. And nickel-plated.

When my Husby was a teenager, he bought an old truck.

Which he painted green.

Forever after, it was known as The Frog. And became a common sight on the streets of Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

The Frog was Husby's pride and joy.

He loved tinkering with it.

Often, his father commented on the amount of time spent with that old truck.

And the dollars.

“What are you doing now?” he asked one day. “Nickle-plating it?”

Husby laughed...but an idea was born.

He bought a small tin of aluminium paint.

Then crawled under the truck.

Scraped the rust and dirt off the chassis.

And painted it.

Shortly thereafter his father took the truck down to the local shop to have the oil changed.

The mechanic slid underneath to begin proceedings.

“Hey!” he shouted. “It's chrome-plated under here!”

Husby's dad had to see it. Then shook his head and snickered. “I knew it!”

Later, Husby and many, many friends were heading to a youth activity down near the river in Lethbridge.

The cab of the truck was stuffed with young bodies. (Pre-seatbelt days—how did we survive?!)

And the back with many more.

A policeman pulled them over.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked my Husby.

“No officer. We are just heading to a youth activity.”

“Well you have a taillight out,” the officer said. “While we're at it, let's give this truck the once-over.”

“Okay.”

The officer and his trusty flashlight began a systematic search for 'things wrong'.

Lights.

Brake lights.

High/low beams.

Horn. Husby pulled out the ashtray.

The horn honked loudly.

The officer swung his flashlight back to the console.

“Do that again!” he said.

Husby pulled out the ashtray.

HONK!

“This thing belongs in a museum!”

He was right.

War by the Bucketful

Not just for food storage any more.

Second Son is tall.

In his stocking feet, six-foot-eight. Put shoes on the lad and . . . well, you get the picture.

I have a close family friend.

I don't want to say that she is short, but . . . okay, she is short.

Her head reaches somewhere between our son's chest and his belt buckle.

She makes up for lack of quantity with excess of quality.

In fact, the word 'feisty' might describe her perfectly.

SS used to tease her about her height.

Or lack thereof.

I should point out that this woman has six children of her own. She could give it right back.

One day, she and SS had been exchanging insults.

After a particularly pointed comment which ended with his pretending to put an elbow on the top of her head and using her as a fence post, she tried something a little more proactive.

“Oh!” she said. Nearby was a bucket of honey.

Okay, yes. When one has six children, plus foster kids, one buys honey by the bucketful.

Moving on . . .

She pushed the bucket close and stood up on it.

I should point out that it only increased her height by about ten inches. Not nearly enough.

“Ha!” she said, looking up into his face. “What are you going to do now?”

SS merely stepped backwards.

“Oh!” She said again. She jumped off her bucket and kicked it over beside him.

Then she stepped up once more.

“Ha!” she said a second time.

He stepped back once more.

“Oh!”

This went on for some time.

She pushed that bucket of honey all over the kitchen.

Somehow, confrontation is a bit less . . . confrontational . . . when one partner has to keep moving their honey bucket to continue with the . . . confrontation.

Hmm.

I wonder if we could market this idea on a global scale . . .

Sing With Me

My Hero.

Born and raised in China
And studied in Beijing,
She was considered brilliant
In most everything!

 

Fine malariologist,

Found artemisinin,

Won the Nobel prize in ‘15

For the fight that she did win.

 

Millions have been saved by her,

The road she walked was rough!

But singing Happy Birthday to

Tu Youyou? Well, it’s tough!

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 Monday's Independence Day!

You really cannot stay away!

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!)...

The Happy Birthday song (June 27) Today!

Independence Day (US) or Sidewalk egg-frying day (July 4)

Loneliness (July 11)

Ice Cream (July 18)

Old Jokes (July 25)

Girlfriends (August 1) 

Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night (August 8)

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15)

Be an Angel Day (August 22)
Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

Worked Out

They told me I’d improve my health, if I exercised,

So I thought I’d join a club, just as they advised,

Yoga? Tai Chi? Boxing? Barre? Zumba? Boot Camp? more?

The choices are so vast, it seems, with types and toils galore,

I chose aerobics. Seemed like fun. I showed up at the gym,

And ducked into the change room, more than ready to get slim!

Then what a workout! Jumping, twisting, gyrating an hour,

I tell you when this all was done, I’d clearly earn a shower!

Flushed with success, quite sure that I’d burned calories en masse,

I’d fin’ly got my leotard on...then found I’d missed the class!

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"

We write because she's our Big Cheese,
And we love her, you know that’s true,
So this is what we writers do . . .
We craft a poem based on a theme,
With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,
Each month we write and have such fun
We can't wait for another one,
Sooo...this month, how well did I do?
Please go and see the others, too.

BakingIn A Tornado                 

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Wanted: Men

This . . .

Will get you this . . .  Maybe . . .

For over twenty years, we ran a family business.Mikey's Music Machine.

We were DJs, specializing in family dances.

We had . . . fun.

Running a family business is wonderful in many respects.

Dealing with telephone solicitors isn't one of them.

With my apologies to anyone reading this who may have 'telephone solicitation' on their resume.

Ahem.

One particularly persistent individual had been on the phone with me for longer than I cared to talk to him.

Which was more than five seconds.

He wanted to sell our company some pens.

Pens with 'Mikey's Music Machine' printed in a number of different fonts.

On an even greater selection of backgrounds.

In an attempt to convince me of the need for said pens, he told me his company would guarantee that, by placing an order for a mere 1500 of the rascals, I would receive one of the following:

• A new car
• A new, big-screen TV
• A six-man hot tub.

It was there I stopped him.

“Wait!” I said. “Six-man hot tub? Does it come with the men?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

“Ummm . . . no.”

“Darn,” I said.

Then the unexpected response. “Are you married?”

It was my turn to say, “Ummm . . . yes.”

And his turn to say, “Darn.”

I really don't know what path the conversation had taken, but it was definitely not the one that we had started out on.

Time to get off the phone.

Which I did.

Without my pens.

Yep. Running your own family business.

Tons of fun.

In so many different ways.

Uninvited

Picnics are a fixture of the great Canadian summer.

Something anticipated throughout the long, dark winter. The reward for spending months huddled around the wood stove.

Okay, I'm exaggerating.

But Canada does have winter.

And Canadians definitely look forward to summer.

And picnics.

The trouble with picnics is that they are so dependent on so many factors.

Weather is a biggie.

For instance, it's rather hard to picnic in the rain.

Though it has been done.

Wind, too can play havoc with one's plans.

As well as one's picnic blanket, napkins, paper plates.

And smaller guests.

But one of the most insidious of picnic problems is the uninvited guest.

And, believe me, they show up for every picnic.

They show up if a picnic is merely being contemplated.

I'm sure they have poked their noses in at your picnics.

And I do mean poked.

I'm talking mosquitoes here.

Those little, lighter-than-air messengers of doom.

Irritators extraordinaire.

High-pitched precursors to prolonged itch and expressive words.

Known to achieve sizes heretofore only seen in the pre-Cambrian days.

With the ability to carry off unsuspecting small animals.

The reason Canadians wear their winter gear year round.

And learn to eat quickly and with one hand.

While the other hand feverishly stands guard . . .

My friends were picnicking.

Their entire family had turned out.

They were visiting.

Eating.

Laughing.

Enjoying the beautiful day and fresh air.

And generally doing those things that make a picnic so enjoyable.

Grandmother was seated at one of the many picnic tables.

Enjoying a hamburger.

With a sesame seed bun.

In the company of one of her young grandsons.

That's when the uninvited guests arrived.

One particularly determined individual was making life miserable for said Grandmother.

She lifted a hand and grabbed at it.

Now the normal hand motion is: Grab. Look. And if one is successful, Smash.

She completed the first two manoeuvres.

Grab.

Look.

Rats. She had missed.

But she did see a sesame seed, stuck to her finger.

Which she then, happily, licked off.

Now I should probably mention, here, that the grandson was seated opposite, watching his beloved grandmother.

I probably don't have to describe what he thought he saw.

But I will.

Grandmother grabbing mosquitoes.

And eating them.

His horrified expression and the words 'Grandma! Yuck!' which burst out of him alerted her to what he was seeing.

She quickly explained.

And peace and appetite were restored.

But she raises an important point.

Instead of making mosquitoes the uninvited guests at a picnic, why not make them the picnic?

Who's with me?

Let me know how it goes...

Type A

 . . . or you could just throw it at someone . . .

In high school, amid the myriad choices, there was one class everyone was expected to take.

None of us could understand why.

It was a useless class.

What on earth would we ever need it for?

It's not like it had any practical applications.

Yep. Typing 10.

The colossal waste of time.

But we were, if nothing else, dutiful.

Daily, we would report to our teacher.

Then scurry to get the best machine.

I should explain, here, that the machines we used were all elderly 'Olivetti Underwoods'.

Non-electronic.

Totally manual.

Capable of jamming if any two keys approached the action zone at the same time.

Heavy, cast iron.

And able to take whatever abuse we chose to mete out.

And, believe me, that was Abuse with a capital 'A'.

One friend would systematically pound on her machine for every mistake she made.

It was quite entertaining.

And made the typing of the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog not quite so mundane.

And repetitive.

Daily, we were taken through exercises designed to improve our accuracy.

Our ability to type while looking anywhere other than our keyboard.

And our speed.

None of which were my forte.

Our teacher would stand at the front of the room with her trusty little stopwatch.

And holler 'Go!”

Dozens of keys would begin clicking.

Okay, another thing I should mention is that manual typewriters, at least the ones we used, were noisy.

All of us typing together would constitute what could only be considered a 'din'.

With the sound of my friend periodically rising above as she stopped to punch her machine. “Stupid, useless . . .!”

“Stop.”

Hands in our laps.

Then we would roll out our paper and check for mistakes.

This is where I always came to grief.

Well, one of the places.

I could type fast.

I just didn't ever hit the right keys.

Of all the kids in the class, I probably scored the worst.

Oddly enough, I'm the only one who now makes her living . . . typing.

The irony is just sickening.

P.S. Every time I see an old Olivetti Underwood, I get all misty and nostalgic. Go figure.

The Price of Flight

We see them every day, the headline news and on our screens,
Those people fleeing tyranny by any ways and means,
Then landing on the shores and borders weak and in distress,
Hoping that some kindly souls will help them gain redress.

 

But there are those too ill-disposed to give them any thought,
Who simply say, “It’s not my charge. ‘Cause, your lot is your lot.
“Go home and work it out,” they say. “Don’t clutter up our land!”
Then turn away from those in need—ignoring outstretched hands.

 

We have been blessed to grow up in a land that’s free and clean,
Choose what to do in life. And set our very own routines,
And do those people want to take those things that we call ‘mine’?
Or do they simply want to work for something just as fine?

 

There’s something I’ve been thinking of for quite a little while…
What would it take for me to grab a suitcase and my child?
And flee forever all I know and all that I hold dear?
I have to say it’d need to be a ‘something’ very drear.

 

Our own ancestors fled their lands so many years ago,
And they were taken in by friendly hearts and hands and souls,
 Just where, I ask, would we be if rejected when they asked?
When they were fleeing tyranny in generations past.
 

We have so much, our land is wide, we’ve plenty and to spare,
For sure we have enough that we could help and we could share,
So maybe we should think of that before we turn away,
And with compassion look into those anxious eyes today. 

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 shall celebrate

The Birthday song! I cannot wait!

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!)...

World Refugee Day (June 20) Today!

The Happy Birthday song (June 27)

Independence Day (US) or Sidewalk egg-frying day (July 4)

Loneliness (July 11)

Ice Cream (July 18)

Old Jokes (July 25)

Girlfriends (August 1) 

Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night (August 8)

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15)

Be an Angel Day (August 22)
Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)