Chickening Out

 Of course you know ‘something’ was bound to happen.

I’m blaming Sally.

Ahem…

 

Sally has been filming near us.

And by near us, I mean in the countryside about an hour from good old home base.

Mort goes with her every day because as her husband, he gets special privileges now.

Go figure.

Mom and Unc…Dad decided they were going off to have a ‘romantic’ picnic-for-two in a park.

So Peter and I went with Sally and Mort.

You know, FOMO.

It was kind of fun, watching the filming, even though it was sweltering out.

It’s a nice little story about a city girl who gets sent to her uncle’s farm to ‘clean up her act’.

Of course, Sally is the city girl.

But between you and me, that act is never going to get cleaned up.

Ahem…

The filming wrapped for the day.

And that’s when things came unraveled...

The filming was happening on a large farm.

Large.

Big old barn.

Chicken coops.

Pig pens.

Horses.

And lots and lots of cows.

Red and white cows.

Okay, yes, I called them ‘brown’ and white.

The rancher, Mr. Banks, immediately corrected me.

Touchy!

Back to my story…

Apparently, the head cameraman wanted some particular shot and the camera he needed had to be fixed or adjusted or something.

Plus, they had to order some kind of different rug.

Anyway, we found ourselves with extra time.

Someone had turned on a radio somewhere and Sally’s favourite song was playing.

She was dancing to the music. And that’s when she proposed her grand idea.

I know. I know. Sally…and ‘grand’ are just a recipe for trouble.

Anyways, apparently earlier, she had seen the farmer’s kids swinging from a rope out of the opening in the hay loft and into a huge pile of straw down below.

Sally though it would be great fun.

I looked at the height of the hay loft. And the depth of the straw and, probably for the first time—ever—agreed with my sister.

First Sally went.

“Heeeyaaaah!” Straight down and into the straw.

She landed and looked up at the rest of us. “That was the most fun ever!”

She quickly scrambled to one side as Mort went next. “Look out belooooow!”

He, too bounced to a stop and grinned. “Rad!”

The rope swung (Swang? Swong? Swinged?) back to me. But I quickly handed it off to Peter.

He winked at me and immediately made Tarzan look like a beginner.

And yes, I am prejudiced.

Then there was me. With the other three looking up encouragingly.

What can I say.

I’m a lemming.

Now I should probably mention that the pile of straw we were swinging down into was immediately adjacent to one of the chicken coops.

A small one. With grey, weathered boards for a roof.

I think it was used as a brooder house in the early spring.

Now, it sat empty.

This is important.

Also, you should know that I weigh about 100 pounds.

Soaking wet.

And carrying an anvil.

I grabbed the rope. Let out my grandest “Hallooo!”

And jumped.

The rope caught up the slack and I found myself swinging down and down and down, then over and over and over.

Then past and past and past.

“LET GO OF THE ROPE, GWEN!!!” Peter shouted. “LET GO!”

But I couldn’t. I actually couldn’t. My fingers were frozen to the line.

Finally, as I reached the far apex of my swing, the rope slid through my hands and, spread-eagled, I sailed through the air.

And that’s when the nearness of the chicken coop comes into play.

I went through the roof, landing on my back in the straw inside.

Now there were a couple of things that made this straw different than the pile I was supposed to hit.

That straw was clean.

And free of chicken dust.

Also…debris.

Ugh.

There was an immediate rain of old, weathered boards.

I curled up into a ball and let them fall about me.

Then, choking and gasping for breath in the dusty air, slowly started to climb to my feet.

Peter was suddenly there. He wrapped his arms around me and plucked my out of the pile of rubble. Then set me gently on a strawless patch of ground nearby. “Are you all right?”

I looked into his worried eyes and managed a smile as I took stock of my parts. “Yeah. All present and accounted for.” I sneezed. “I could use a shower, though.” I looked up at the new skylight feature in Mr. Banks’ chicken coop. “Oops.”

Sally and Mort appeared in the doorway. “Man, Sis, we can’t take you anywhere!” Sally said.

I think I managed a glare. Probably not a very effective one, owing to grime and dusty air and…the fact that Sally was more interested in the hole in the roof than she was in me.

Sigh.

My legs were a bit wobbly, so Peter supported me as we made our way outside.

Mr. Banks was there.

“I’ll pay for the damage,” Sally said immediately.

He nodded. “Been meaning to replace this coop. I guess now’s the time.”

He went inside.

Sally looked at the rest of us.

“Wanna go again?” 

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post—all words to be used at least once. All the posts are unique as each writer has received their own set of words. And 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.

My words: sweltering ~ farm ~ song ~ park ~ rug

Were given to me by my good friend Karen at Baking in a Tornado!

Now go and see what words the others got—and how they used them!

Baking In A Tornado

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver

Climaxed  

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

What TF Sarah

Not Quite Nude

The cover of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
 And I do mean Cover!

In honour of National Nude Day—an experience...

I had a swimsuit.

I made it.

Long. Old-fashioned. Neck to knees type.

Yes, popular at the turn of the century.

The Twentieth century.

I loved it. It covered me.

It encased anything that might otherwise unexpectedly fall out.

And saved me the aggravation of having to shave my nether regions.

I hated shaving my nethers.

Moving on . . .

Swimming was the only exercise I could do that didn't hurt something.

I swam a lot.

This necessitated my going to the pool.

Usually, I swam in the morning with the other octogenarians.

I fit right in. And no one could see well enough to notice that my swimsuit was different from those found at the local Zellers.

All was well.

But I missed my morning swim one day.

And was forced to go at a later time.

With the younger set.

Who could see.

Sigh.

I strode confidently from the dressing room towards the pool.

And that's when the trouble started.

A group of kids, probably in the 10 to 12 age range was sitting on a large, foam raft not too far from the entrance/exit to the change room.

I entered.

One young girl pointed. And laughed.

I suddenly felt as though I was in junior high again.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

But that's not important.

What is important, was how this young girl was . . . dressed.

Her slender little pre-pubescent body was covered, barely (and I use this term deliberately) by two almost non-existent triangles of cloth on her upper half and only slightly larger triangles on her lower half.

She was as close to naked as one can get and still legally appear in public.

And she seemed completely heedless, sitting there amongst other boys and girls her own age, laughing at someone who was dressed in a far more modest, albeit fairly 'unique' swimsuit.

I remember when near-nudity was a source of embarrassment. When one's worst dreams were of appearing somewhere public . . . in a less than exemplary fashion.

Okay, I have to admit that, that day, one of us was embarrassed.

Me. For her.

My point is this: When has modestly become an opportunity to jeer?

When did society do a complete turn-around? When did the naked start laughing at the clothed? (Not that I'm promoting the idea of the clothed laughing at the naked . . .) But when?

I have to admit that I believe in modesty.

It promotes confidence and self-worth. It promotes respectful behavior, both to oneself and to others.

I still wear a similar bathing suit, and will continue to do so.

I'm comfortable.

And isn't that the point? 

Dating in the Sunset

 

Just the two of us.

My Husby believes in date night.

A least once a week.

He and me.

it's...fun.

In our earlier, more penurious days we got creative.

In nice weather, long walks.

Around town. Along the river bottom.

Sometimes, we'd wander through the mall, just looking.

Occasionally buying a hot chocolate or ice cream cone to share.

Going grocery shopping.

Having an evening picnic.

Wonderful times.

As we near retirement, dating consists of movies, dinners, theatre and concerts.

Still fun.

As long as we're together.

A couple of evenings ago, Husby's truck broke down.

He pulled into the nearest parking lot, called first for a tow-truck, and then me to come and bring him home.

I arrived long before said tow-truck.

Looooong before.

Together, we waited.

Nearby were several formal restaurants.

And an A&W.

Not wanting to leave the truck until help deigned to arrive, Husby suggested that one of us run across the street to the fast food outlet and grab a couple of burgers.

I volunteered.

Between you and I, I'd rather do that then instruct a tow-truck driver if and when he decided to show up.

Ahem . . .

I returned.

We ate.

Have I mentioned that the world looks better on a full tummy?

Well, it does.

We talked and laughed.

Sitting on the tailgate of the truck in the warm sun.

And the cool summer breeze.

Oh, we both had places we needed to be.

Things that needed doing.

But, for that moment, all that was important were a couple of burgers.

The tailgate of our truck.

The warm summer evening.

And the two of us.

Re-discovering the perfect date.

In our sunset years.

Exercising Grannie's Fannies

War chest.

I’ve always been into fitness.

Active ranch life.

Sports in school and community.

High impact aerobics as a young mom.

Running--which I discovered I loved more than anything.

Yep. Running and me, we were friends. I was going to be one of those octogenarians you see out at the crack of dawn hoofing it around the town.

But then my knees got involved. In the worst way. They gave out.

So I slowed my pace to a walk.

Then my hips followed my knees.

I cycled for a time, but that didn’t make my hips any happier.

Sigh.

Finally, on the 5^th of April, 2022, I discovered Aqua Fit.

I have a new fitness love. Seriously. Nothing hurts!

But you have to know that, although it looks like we members of the Grannie’s Fannies (my eldest son’s label for our class) are merely thrashing around. To music. We are actually putting in a lot of effort.

A lot.

Well, according to my watch. (I purchased said watch—an underwater beauty—precisely so I could track my calories.)

So, long story…erm…long, I’ve found my new fitness regimen and I couldn’t be happier.

Of course, I have a few points for discussion…

One of our torturers instructors keeps telling us to engage our core.

And, just between us, my core and I have been more-than-engaged for a number of years. It probably won’t come as a surprise to hear that—about 20 minutes into the workout—me and my core are considering a trial separation. Possibly even divorce. For irreconcilable differences.

Also, the masochist on the deck guide keeps shouting at us to breathe.

Seriously? There are people in the pool who are not gasping loudly and desperately for breath?

Sometimes she instructs us to do a certain move—without actually…you know…moving.

Now I’ve noticed something. When she tells us not to move, that’s precisely when I’m going to.

Oh, I don’t mean to.

It just happens.

Then when we are supposed to move, I don’t. Or even worse, perversely hit reverse.

Call me a contrary.

And sometimes, I just have too many parts.

I’m sorry, but keeping track of all of them? And making them all do something different?

It’s not happening.

And, let’s just say it now: if you’re going to put a floatie device in each of my hands, they’d better be working together. Cause if I have to try and wave just one of them around, there’s going to be serious up-ended-ness.

End of rant…

But I flail with purpose.

That uber-fantastic watch I told you about earlier?

According to it, I average between 300 and 500 calories per workout.

So I’m happy.

Loneliness

A couple of poems I've gotten done...

One is thoughtful.

One for fun!

Finding What You Seek

“Look for the light,” he said to me.
“When all’s a blank and lonely sea,

And life becomes a mystery,

You'll find there's possibility,

Cause those things you seek, you'll see!”

I shine life's flashlight from the lee,

The darkness flies, the shadows flee.

And in its single beam, I see

Trembling there in lonely glee,

A host of possibles for me!

So he was right in his decree,

Cause I was looking...now I see!

                      *  *  *

Never Lonely

I live with people--quite a few,

We all do things that people do,

At times there’s no one in my croft,

(And know this doesn't happen oft),

But for a moment, I despair,

As loneliness breaks o’er me there,

But then I see the brimming bin,

And dirty clothes enclosed within,

And I realize that I,

Will not be lonely by and by,

I needn’t have a ‘lonely spree’,

With endless wash for company!

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, for super, summer fun,

We'll talk of ice cream, everyone!

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!)...

Loneliness (July 11) Today!

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)

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.