Clean?

Mark. In cleaner times.

Family reunions.
The renewing of ties.
An opportunity to get re-acquainted.
Catch up on family accomplishments.
Additions.
Losses.
Nestle once more in the warm embrace of kin.
Our eldest son Mark's first reunion occurred when he was eighteen months old.
He was getting around under his own steam very well.
And this outdoor wiener roast/party was a perfect time for him to practice his skills.
For several hours, he wandered around the site.
Exploring.
Eating.
Getting filthy.
All the things that make a little boy so very happy.
He played with the host family's spaniel, Frodo.
Gorged on hot dogs.
Sampled all of the pot luck dishes.
Spit out the baked beans (another story).
Slurped up watermelon.
And laid sole claim to the marshmallows.
He was a happy, filthy little boy.
He toddled over to me, all smiles and dirt.
I dusted him off for the hundredth time and set him on my knee.
Only to discover that his fingers were stuck together.
Really.
I think it was the marshmallows.
Might have been helped along by the watermelon.
I'm sure there was at least one form of chocolate.
But those little, busy fingers were all fused together.
And Mark was happily making his rounds using paddles.
Or flippers.
I will admit they were still effective.
He was managing to accomplish a fair bit of eating and playing.
But I thought that, as a concerned mom, I should probably do something.
I went for a wipe.
But I hadn't counted on his ingenuity.
While I was digging through the diaper bag, he went for the nearest water source.
Frodo's bowl.
I wish I could say that this was shortly after the bowl had been filled.
And was still pristine and untouched by anything 'canine'.
I can't.
By the time I had the antiseptically clean towelette, he had already taken care of business.
In the decidedly unhygienic dog bowl.
Ick.
And was back on his rounds, little fingers freed for business.
He was happy.
And Frodo loved the watermelon/marshmallow/chocolate/hot dog flavoured water. So he was happy.
In fact, everyone was happy.
Except me.

Life. And Death

Getting ready to lead the parade.
With my friend, Janice in the background.

One lives very close to nature on a ranch.

Close enough to get the wind in your eyes.

The dust in your hair.

Or a hoof in the teeth.

It offers the best...and the worst...of experiences.

The short, sometimes tragic lives of the animals under one’s care are very much the core about which the ranch world revolves.

Case in point . . .

Dad had purchased a tall, rangy, slimly-built black horse to add to the family string.

Who was immediately tagged ‘Slim’ or ‘Ranger’.

Okay, so imaginative, we weren’t.

He was beautiful.

Coal black with just a couple of touches of white about the head.

He was also gentle and a good worker, with long legs that could really stretch out and cover the ground.

And important selling point when the average pasture was more than a mile square.

There was only one draw-back to the beautiful new member of our cattle-working team.

Somewhere in his past, he had been abused.

Probably by a man.

Because it was nearly impossible for a man to get close to him.

Oh, once he was properly haltered, he was gentle and compliant.

It was just getting to that point that was the problem.

We kids could walk up to him anywhere and slip a halter over that magnificent head.

But one of the men . . .?

Usually, Dad simply handed me the halter and let me go into the corral to slip it on. Then he would take the lead from me and proceed to tack up.

But if I wasn’t there, only the lariat made catching this horse possible.

This went on for years.

I don’t know what he had against men.

But it went deep.

One Saturday morning, when the horses were brought in, Ranger wasn’t with them. I looked the herd over carefully as they milled about, blowing hard and pretending to be nervous and skittish.

It was my first time in the corral for several days, so I wasn’t sure if he had simply been kept in the barn for some reason.

I shrugged and, slipping a halter over one shoulder, climbed the fence and dropped down inside.

Immediately, the horses turned to look at me.

Now, a neophyte might imagine that it would dangerous to enter a corral with several horses still prancing about, but the truth is, horses are very careful of their feet and legs. And they really, really don’t like stepping on anything squishy.

Like humans.

Oh, they’ll snag the occasional foot with (ouch) star-sparking results.

And sometimes, they’ll let fly with a couple of hooves, especially if startled.

But if they know you’re there, a well-behaved horse will pretty much mind their manners. I slipped my halter over Peanuts’ head and led him toward the gate.

“Where’s Ranger?” I asked Dad as he moved past me with his own halter in hand.

“He’s gone,” Dad said.

I frowned, but let the remark pass as we led our respective horses to the barn.

Then, later as we headed out toward our day’s goal, I turned to him.

I should note, here, that there was usually a lot of land between us and whatever herd we were expecting to work that day.

It left room for a lot of conversation.

“So, what happened to Ranger?” I asked, fully expecting the ‘I sold him’ response.

It’s a funny thing about animals on the ranch. You get attached, but you don’t get sentimental. It’s a fine line, but it protects you somewhat.

Dad sighed. “We had to work cattle a couple of days ago and you were in school,” he began.

Hmmm. Why did the alarm bells begin to ring?

Dad went on, “I had to rope him.” He paused. Then sighed again. “He went down.”

Uh-oh. Not good.

Dad shook his head regretfully. “When he came back up, his leg had obviously been broken.”

I felt a tingle go up my back. A broken leg on a working horse? That’s a death knell for sure.

Horses are heavy. And their lives depend on their legs. Thus their skittishness about endangering them in any way. Immobilizing a horse long enough for those heavy bones to knit properly? Very nearly impossible. The animal is usually only good for breeding afterwards.

And a gelding? (A male with the ‘male’ parts removed.) Really of no practical use whatsoever.

“What did you do?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“We had to put him down,” Dad said. There was the regret of ‘if only’ in his voice. If only he had done things differently. If only one of the kids had been around. If only . . .

We kept riding while I turned this over in my mind. I knew there was really no other practical solution, but when one is considering one’s friends, it’s not quite that simple.

The horse string on the Stringam ranch changed throughout the years. As horses aged or became unsuitable, they were sold off to perform some other practical use and new horses were brought in to replace them.

But I’ve never forgotten that magnificent, black gelding.

The one that had a history.

The one that was so hard to catch.

He personified the hard, ultimately practical spirit of the ranching life.

Definitely not a life for the faint of heart.

Look-ing

We are in the mountains.

Banff.

We have been coming here for 32 years and, though our timeshare is getting a bit shabby, it’s home.

The weather has been nothing short of glorious. I can’t remember a time when the leaves have simply been falling without first being frozen. Golden. Orange. Some red. Leaving a marvelous carpet that smells of…Autumn.

This trip was a gift from my youngest daughter and my Husby for my birthday.

Makes getting a year older so much more palatable.

The apartment is on two levels. Two bedrooms up, two bathrooms, one up and one down, and a living room and a kitchen, down. Small, but comfortable.

Enough background…

This morning, we had finished our swim and Gramma was in the shower. Erm…showering.

I had remembered underwear, but had forgotten clothing.

Which was sitting in a neat pile on my bed.

Upstairs.

Oops.

Granddaughter #6, ten-years-old and Granddaughter #11, three-years-old, were playing in the front room just outside the downstairs bathroom where I was ablute-ing (is that a word?)

I poked my head out the door and said, “Gramma forgot her clothes, so I’m going to run upstairs in my underwear. No one look.”

There was silence in the front room. Which I took to be consent. (Silence means consent, doesn’t it?)

I dashed toward the stairway.

Just then a little three-year-old voice came from the front room. “Gramma. I looked.”

Well, at least she’s honest.

Well, I tried to get a picture...

Hearing Troubles

In the past couple of years, Husby has developed hearing troubles.

It’s true. 

There was a period of denial.

I mean, this is a man who has worked for the Provincial Government for nearly 40 years. And, in that time, has had to rely very much on his hearing.

He attended countless meetings.

Many, many of which he chaired. 

Hearing was important.

He played a key role in the building of all 19 of the province’s museums.

Hearing, ditto.

Served on countless committees and boards.

Again, the need to hear was key.

But, finally, and after a visit to a hearing clinic, he had to admit…he had a problem. (See above.)

Now he had two choices. 

Train everyone to look directly at him and speak loudly and clearly.

Forever.

Or get hearing aids.

He broke down and did the latter.

He happily hears nearly everything now.

And that’s not the end of the story.

You see, the band of sound he is missing is that around the pitch of a woman’s voice.

My voice.

Oops.

I don’t want to say I talk a lot but…okay, I talk a lot.

I think I talked him to deaf.

Sorry, Honey.

Name That Car!

Our first, a little Firefly that Husby drove to work,

He drove it through the traffic, which was often quite berserk,

With the vehicles around him—no one’s journeys quite the same,

His little ‘zippy’ car would save him. ZIPPY, it became.

 

Our family was big; when counting all in sum (not weight!)

We numbered 10. So getting ‘there’ required something great,

A van that seated 12 was perfect, dogs could fit in, too,

THE BEAST could take us all, and do it without much ado!

 

Then as our chicks were leaving and the numbers shrank and shrank,

We found we needed something less than our big, outsized tank,

One day, when driving past a dealer, noted something grand,

Our LADY, graceful, beautiful, just fit our smaller band!

 

We’ve had a lot of autos—some for long times, some for short,

Each functioned as was needed at the time—for our cohort,

Each aptly-named, and very much appreciated when

They gave us everything they had. And then did it again!

 

But now, with the just two of us, and Pandy in the back,

Our car is small. And quiet. (No more potty breaks or snacks.)

No bright and lively names for this one. Imagination’s dead,

Cause now the car that we are driving’s simply known as RED!

 

P.S. 

I’m sad because a little pickup bought back in the ‘oughts’,

That hauled our stuff for all these years—I estimate it’s ‘lots’,

Named for a skin condition due to age and heavy loads,

Tomorrow SCABBERS JR. will be heading ‘down the road’. 

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 will be rather fishy,

It's Octopus (or something squishy)!

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!)...

Name Your Car (October 3) Today!

Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

Reboot-ed

I’ve heard this word a lot, of late,

REBOOT. You know I’ve wondered some,

It’s not a word accustomed to,

But I’ve been learning…I’m not dumb!

 

I’ve several sons who rescue me,

When with technology, I fight

They fiddle with a key, or two,

Then hit Reboot and it’s all right!

 

I’ve watched some movies now and then,

Familiar as I watch each time,

I’m sure I’ve seen each one before…

Reboots, all, but that’s just fine!

 

A local business struggled some,

Décor and food were out of date,

They told me they’d Reboot, and they’d

Bounce back. You know, that will be great!

 

A friend was trying to be heard,

She had a presence there online,

Then someone helped Reboot her name,

And last I heard, she’s doing fine!

 

But in my youth, if you messed up,

You’d ‘Get the Boot’—it wasn’t nice,

And if you didn’t learn from that…

To Reboot was to get it twice!

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"

We write because she's the Bee's Knees!

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:

Baking In A Tornado: Reboot

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Being At the Top

You see trees. They see . . .

Being the eldest girl has its challenges.

And occasionally, its perks.

And Gerry was very clever.

And athletic.

These become important later.

Let me explain . . .

Gerry had six younger siblings.

Many of whom were boys. Competitive boys.

And there were 25 neighbourhood children, a large percentage of whom fell into the ‘boy’ and ‘all things competitive’ categories.

Keeping ahead of them took courage, forethought and ingenuity.

All of which Gerry had. In spades.

The Ackroyd family lived in the town of Raymond in southern Alberta in a grand old neighbourhood. A nieghbourhood with many mature trees.

There were fifteen trees on their family property alone.

Trees that offered shade and/or fruit and/or shelter and/or climbing apparatus in the seasons.

And it’s this last that finally brings me to the point of the story.

I know you knew I’d get there. Eventually. . .

These trees were tall. To the kids in the neighbourhood, mountain-climbing tall. Those ultra-competitive (see above) boys began to eye them as their next horizon. Their next ultimate challenge. The next rung on their road to manhood.

There was just one problem.

Remember when I mentioned that Gerry was courageous, forward thinking and ingenious?

Yeah, that comes into play here.

Because Gerry, seeing those giant trees, and knowing her brothers and neighbours well, decided there was something she had to do.

And she did it.

Before anyone else could try it, and unseen by the others, she climbed each of those trees.

But that’s not all.

To prove her feat, she carved her initials at the tip top of every. Single. Tree.

Forever after, when anyone would get the wondrous idea of conquering the great Ackroyd trees, they would know that ‘someone’ had already been there before them.

Well played, Gerry. Well played. 

Puppy Love

What's not to love, right?

I was in grade four.

Nine years old.

And at the dawn of a new age...

I had discovered boys. Or more specifically, boy.

KS was smart.

Cute.

Sweet.

Taller than me.

And my neighbor.

He had everything important going for him.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with my newfound crush. I really didn’t know what it was. I had had plenty of boy friends in the past.

Boys that I competed against at every opportunity.

Sports.

Schoolwork.

But none that I just wanted to . . . be near.

Puzzled, I did all the normal things.

Followed him around at a discrete distance.

Hid behind cars and buildings if he looked in my direction.

Stared across the room at him in class.

Avoided him at recess.

What was this weird attraction?

I had suddenly developed mental ‘global positioning’. I could tell you the precise location of KS at any time of the day.

Without ever seeming to look at him.

I’m sure I was pretty obvious in my interest. But when you’re nine - and you wish it - you’re invisible.
And then . . . that day . . .

First, our class had a Box Social.

Okay, I know that dates me, but the fact remains.

All of the boys brought a box lunch for two and then shared it with his assigned ‘girl’ partner.

We lined up and the teacher numbered us off.

I tried to position myself so that I would match KS.

But my counting was off.

I ended up with a boy who brought peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Peanut butter and banana? I had never heard of such a thing.

Nor had my stomach.

And the two of us agreed that we'd be happier with our mutual ignorance.

I looked longingly across the playground at KS and his partner.

Happily munching on whatever KS had brought.

Sigh.

Later that day, tired of listening to my bleating, my friends cornered KS and his friends and wrung a confession out of him.

He liked me!

It was the happiest day of my life!

So what did we do then?

Nothing.

We were nine.

Oh, occasionally, we would . . . you know . . . talk. I called him on the phone once, to beg a ride to church. And once, I sat next to him in Sunday School class.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

But that’s about it.

My family moved. And soon another crush filled my life.

Moving ahead.

I hadn’t seen or thought about KS for nearly fifty years.

Then, one day, there he was in my church congregation.

Now, until that moment, I couldn’t remember what the nine-year-old boy had looked like.

But I knew him as soon as I saw him.

Strangely, he hadn’t changed much at all.

Taller.

And definitely older.

But still that boy.

My first crush.

It made me smile.

Lifted

 Two teachers brought their students on a field trip to the track,

So they could pet the horses; maybe sit on someone’s back.

But all the kids were little and the first thing to be done,

Was a potty-break; that bus ride was a longish one!

One woman took the little girls. The other all the boys…

Then stood outside the washroom while those lads made lots of noise,

Then one came running out in panic, “Teacher, help!” he said,

“The urinal’s not made for kids—it’s higher than our heads!”  

So she was forced to enter; and then, one-by-one, raise up,

Each and every one of all those busy little pups,

Her arms were growing weary and when she fin’lly reached the last,

He seemed heavier and more ‘endowed’ than others in her class,

“Whew, you’re getting heavy!” she said, feeling slightly miffed,

He said, “I’m riding Snowdrift in the third. Thanks for the lift!”

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?

They're with us going near or far,

Sometimes we like to Name Our Cars!

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!)...

Field Trips (September 26) Today!

Name Your Car (October 3)
Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

Unbusinesslike

He and me.

Daddy was not a businessman.

Rancher. Hereford Organization (Federal and Provincial) president, past president and secretary. Church leader. Good neighbour. Veterinarian.

Husband. Father. Son. Brother. Uncle. Cousin. Friend.

He was all of those things.

But he wasn’t a businessman.

Maybe I should explain...

Daddy was raised by parents who exemplified the word ‘service’.

And he did the same. Selflessly giving of his time and expertise when asked—and even some times when not.

And he was always ready to help a neighbour—be it relative or friend.

As the only veterinarian for 100 miles, Daddy was much in demand—especially in times of emergency. Whenever there was an epidemic of something among the animals of the area, he was on hand to provide vaccinations. (During several rabies scares, he vaccinated some very, very feral barn cats—and had the scars to prove it!) If someone’s cow was calving, or a horse or bull had run afoul of some barbed wire and needed emergency stitchery, again, he was there.

These animals were the livelihood of these ranchers. Daddy understood and did everything in his considerable power to help out.

And that’s also where he ran into trouble.

Because he knew, first hand, the slim margins for profit these fellow ranchers worked under, and that the loss of even one animal could spell ruin. Also because the cost of medical aid was something they could ill afford, he tried to help there as well.

By not charging full price for his vet services—and sometimes no price at all.

The neighbours loved him.

And many credited him with keeping them afloat.

But, yes. Daddy wasn’t a businessman.

He was a good man.

And I’m forever grateful!

A Knowing Nose

It’s Elephant Appreciation day!

So what could be better than...Mildred!

Mildred, my friend, has a nose that is great.

Not bulging. Or curving. Or big as a plate!

Not crooked. Or flattened. Or shaped like a bean.

The most beautiful nose that you ever have seen.

Can't say it's large. A potato, A gourd.

A crooked ol' carrot. An acorn. A board.

And it’s not like a flower, a rose or a lili,

Yes, nothing to ever make Mildred look silly.

It is shapely and small. In reality – fair.

The grandest appendage to ever draw air.

Fine-boned and slender. With rose petal skin.

The kind that can always draw everyone in.

But with all of its beauty, her friends still make fun.

They laugh and they tease. They catcall and run.

But why with such beauty for them to sightsee,

Would they tease their friend harshly to such a degree?

Because Mildred, oh, she of the wonderful nose.

The beauty, perfection. The colour called 'rose'.

Well there's something about her that I've not disclosed.

Something, about which you need to be told.

Though our Mildred is all she could possibly be,

A good friend and clever. And kind as can be.

Yes, Mildred has one little secret to hold.

Our Mildred's an elephant, truth to be told.

  

Now there’s something that you need to learn ‘fore you’re older,

That you find the beauty, when you’re the beholder.

And when seeing someone who is different than you,

Remember sweet Mildred and all she’s gone through.

P.S. If you think that Mildred's true story's a gaffe, 

You should hear about Harold, the short-necked giraffe.

Painted by the uber-talented Jessica Tolley!

Who blogs at 

Stress Relief

Dad's class.
See the young man standing by the window?
Well, dad is the fourth head down the table from him. Bow tie. Studious.

In April, 1947, Dad and the other veterinarian students at the Ontario Veterinary College in Guelph, Ontario, were hitting the books in preparation for their yearend torture exercise in futility final exams.

But, for some of them, the usual angst and stress were missing.

Due largely to a stick and a ball.

These young men had discovered golf.

Okay, I know that it isn’t always the most relaxing of games.

In fact, I’ve seen golf clubs bent into pretzels by a frustrated player.

But it was exactly what these young men needed.

On the morning of their first test, they reported to the examination hall.

Spent a couple of hours cudgelling their brains.

And left, drained. 

One of them glanced at the golf course, which immediately bordered the school.

“Hey!” he said.

Dad looked.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

If he was considering throwing himself on his bed and waving bye-bye to consciousness for a couple of hours, then yes. If he was thinking . . .

“Let’s go take in a game of golf!”

Then, no.

“Seriously. Playing nine holes would relax us for a couple of hours and we’ll be fresher to get back to our studies!”

Dad frowned. Maybe it was sign of how fried his brain was - it almost made sense. But he was too tired. He opened his mouth to tell them he was heading back to the dorm. What came out was, “Okay.”

Yep. Tired.

They actually had a great time.

And his friend had been right. They were more prepared to tackle the books afterward.

And the next day.

And the next.

For the entire nine days of final exams.

I wish I could tell you that there was an unforeseen benefit to all of the golfing. Maybe that one or more of them discovered an affinity to the game. Or even went on to become a star in golf heaven.

I’d be wrong.

Mostly they spent their time trying to get their score under 100.

And that was counting only the strokes that connected . . .

So many skills and talents are discovered at college.

Most of them fun.

Not all of them bankable.

The Merry Cole

Not quite how I pictured it. But almost as good...

Old King Cole was a merry old soul,

And a merry old soul was he,

He called for his pipe, he called for his bowl

He called for his fiddlers three.

Every fiddler, he had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he.
Oh there's none so rare, as can compare

With King Cole and his fiddlers three. 

Published: 1708 

I love this poem! It’s cheerful from start to finish.

And, let’s face it, a bit of cheerfulness right now is sorely needed.

I’m quite sure everyone reading will agree… 

But let’s discuss. Okay?

First of all, what do you think of Old King Cole? For me, the thought of a merry old man leading my country sounds hugely appealing. 

I’ve heard of kings sober, ummm…un-sober, stupid, intelligent, reckless, precise, war-like, peaceful, avaricious, giving, disgusting, polite, cruel, kind, greedy, generous…and a host of other qualities too numerous to mention. 

But ‘Merry’? Merry just sounds…merry! And teaming it up with the fact that good ol’ Cole was also musical. Merry AND musical? Okay, I’m voting for him. If one voted.

Okay, let's address the ‘musical’ part of the rhyme. Because Cole calls for his pipe. What sort of pipe do you think he played? Flute? Recorder? Fife? Something reed-y? 

And then Cole called for his bowl. Now I haven’t tried them, but I’ve heard that some drinks are offered in a ‘bowl’. Like rum punch. And mead. Sound yummy? 

I’m picturing a little impromptu recital with four individuals, at least one of whom was happy enough to be labelled ‘merry’, enjoying the company of friends who love making music. 

Friends in this increasingly friendless world. Who support you in your interests--even happily play along with you. Does it get any better than that? I’m thinking maybe not.

Thank you, friends.

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Each month one of the participating bloggers picks a number between 12 and 50. All bloggers taking part are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times. 

This month’s word count number is: 30

It was chosen by: Karen! 

Links to the other Word Counters posts:

Baking In A Tornado  

Messymimi’s Meanderings   

Say Arrrrrrr!

Our ships were berthed right side by side,

There in the Bay of Leeman,

Ours filled with vacationers,

 And theirs with crusty seamen.

 

And through the day, as our group played,

And spent the hours relaxing,

They were busy scrubbing decks,

And labours e’en more taxing.

 

We sat on deck, enjoyed the sun,

And listened to our neighbours,

We often heard the captain

Shout out “Arrrrr”, through all their labours.

 

“Listen, guys!” I whispered to

The folks around me, dozing,

“He’s talking ‘pirate’ to his men!”

I found it quite imposing!

 

A couple hours sailed by,

And still our ships remained there,

And many times I heard the captain,

‘Arrrr-ing’ to his sailors.

 

Why did the captain speak this way?

A ‘pirate’ form of Latin?

Or just communication

While their hatches they did batten?

 

Getting slightly braver, I

Decided to move closer,

And get a better look

And try to figure out this poser.

 

Then I heard a sailor say,

“That we be!” to Skipper,

And Captain then responded with…

“Arrrrr! You little Nipper!”

 

And then it hit me tween the eyes,

T’was almost like a hammer,

‘Pirate speak’ is nothing more

Than just correcting grammar!

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?

Field Trips are the very best 

Next week, join us--be our guest!

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!)...

Talk Like a Pirate Day (September 19) Today!

Field Trips (September 26)

Name Your Car (October 3)
Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)