Kindness Begins With...

I want to be kind to everyone,

For that is right, you see!

So I say to myself, “Remember this…

Kindness begins with me!”

            -from a favourite childhood song by Clara W. McMaster 

My Mom was the sweet soul of kindness,

She helped everyone that she’d see,

With cooking or cleaning or baking or gleaning…

She was an example to me.

 

If we kids started in with our fighting,

She’d start singing her favourite song,

Even caught in the fight, there was nothing else right…

Except to start singing along.

 

When Big Brother got into some mischief,

She chased him about with the broom,

Rebuke turned to glee—no ‘swattage’ for he…

And happiness replaced the gloom!

 

People are known for their talents,

Athletes, or writers and more,

There are all kinds of fame, people cheering their name…

Mom’s kindness is what I cheer for. 

This month's Theme: Kindness

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:

BakingIn A Tornado

Messymimi’sMeanderings

The song: Kindness Begins with Me. Mom's and my favourite!

(It repeats three times...)

A Little Prayer of Thanksgiving

A little prayer of Thanksgiving today. To honour our Brothers and Sisters south of the border.

"Eyes!"

Dinner time was special in our house.

It was the time when everyone gathered.

When everyone ate.

And everyone visited.

We are a family of expert visitors. Just FYI.

Sometimes, the talk and laughter would go on for hours.

Long after the eating had finished.

It was the best part of our day . . .

And every dinner time began with prayer.

Thanksgiving for the food.

For the blessings of the day and every day.

For each other.

Our children had been raised with prayer at meal times.

It was as important as the food.

As soon as each of them began to speak, they had their turn.

Gently coached in the very earliest days.

Given their freedom as they got more proficient.

And kids can certainly pray. Sometimes those prayers would go on for some time.

Blessing everything from their friends to their toys to their favourite TV programs.

It was . . . sweet.

And went by all too quickly.

Our kids are all grown up now with families of their own.

But prayer is still a big part of their lives.

And especially their mealtimes.

The next generation is being carefully trained up.

Case in point:

Our eldest daughter and her family were sharing the evening meal with my Husby and I.

Everyone sat down.

I looked around. “I think it's Baby girl's turn to say the prayer.”

I should point out, here, that this little girl was just learning to talk. Her vocabulary of decipherable words was . . . not extensive.

And this was her first opportunity to say the prayer.

Everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

Little arms were folded.

“Beloved Heavenly Father,” her mother began.

There was a pause as we all waited for the expected response - the repetition of her mother's words.

Baby girl opened her mouth. “Eyes!” she said.

“We're thankful for our blessings,” her mother went on.

“Eyes!” Baby girl said louder, pointing to her mother.

“We're thankful for safety today.”

“Mama! Nose!” She was making progress.

“We're thankful for this wonderful food.”

“Mouf! (Something unintelligible) Mouf!”

“Please bless it to nourish us.”

“Eyes!” We were back to that.

“In the name of Jesus Christ . . .?” her mother paused, waiting for the obvious answer.

“Elbow!”

Way wrong.

“Amen.”

A chorus of 'Amens'.

Than another chorus of long-suppressed chuckles.

“Oh, Sweetheart, you said your first prayer!” I said. “You're such a big girl!”

She clapped.

Her words weren't 'right'.

But the food was well and truly blessed.

As were we.

A precious moment indeed.

Happy Thanksgiving, my brothers and sisters!

That Place

Charlie's. The dive formerly known as Danny's.
But, in reality, the Canadian Cafe.
All the teenagers in Milk River went there. The little, dark, hole-in-the-wall storefront with the half-dozen booths, a couple of pinball machines, dusty dingy floors, dim lighting and the long glass-fronted counter on the north wall.
It was the 'after-school and sometimes Saturdays' place to be.
To just hang out and be cool.
Maybe get a snack. A bottle of pop. Fudgecicle. Chocolate bar.
Play pinball. I should mention here that this was where I learned there is a fine line between 'encouraging' the pinball game and making it 'tilt'. There's a dime I'll never get back.
Moving on . . .
One could listen to the latest hits on the giant jukebox that greeted you as you stepped in the front door. Those fresh and new and those that instigated a store-wide groan because they had been played a little too much. *cough-Honey!*
It was to Charlie's I went to meet my friends whenever I had a loose nickel.
Or--more often--when I didn't have any money at all.
Of course, at those times, we were at the mercy of the moneyed because they got to choose all the music. *cough-Honey!*
Charlie's was the place to let it all hang out.
The first place I saw someone my age smoking.
Gasp.
Where you snuggled into one of the booths on a vinyl-covered bench with your sweetie-of-the-moment.
Okay, I never got to do that, but I dreamed . . .
It was also the place my friends and I discovered that one could actually square dance to 'Ode To Joy'.
True story.
Also my brother tells me it was the place for the finest chop suey known to man.
Who knew?
What was your Charlie's?

One more time. Honey.

A Gas

Another of Daddy's favourite stories...

In rhyme again because I love it!

It’s important you know that Emerson Ells loved beans most of all when he dined.

But it’s also a fact that his good wife Elaine, was not one to be so inclined.

It wasn’t the taste or the texture abhorred, but the methane that followed hereafter.

I’m sure you appreciate all her displeasure when gas filled her home to the rafters.

So Emerson, he of the bean adoration, betook himself oft times to lunch,

And happily chose from the menu extensive, a large plate of baked beans to munch.

On this day it was doubly important to him, for his birthday, again, had appeared.

He decided a plate of baked beans would endorse his making it through one more year.

He happily slurped up—not one, but two—plates of his favourite food.

Then laughed when he thought of his unwary wife (and her wishes that he could elude).

When Emerson got to his home after work, his wife met him as he came in.

“I have a surprise!” she said as they kissed. Then blindfolded him with a grin.

She led him, unwary, along the main hall, the dining room clearly her goal,

When someone knocked loudly upon the front door. She sighed and disrupted their stroll.

And parking her husband in a dining chair, she hurried herself off to see,

Who could possibly be interrupting her plans and to knock with such temerity.

Now, remember those beans so happily consumed and their unlucky penchant to gas?

Well, through the drive home, old Em’s  innards roiled and now he had something to pass.

He listened. Elaine was still firmly engaged. He could hear as she spoke from somewhere. 

So Emerson leaned to one side (sneakily) and let loose a blast of hot air.

He felt better at the ensuing release, but his bowels soon started to strain,

And knowing his wife was still there by the door, he tipped himself over. Again.

A third time inflated, a third time released and a third time his needs were addressed,

Then hearing his wife as she closed the front door, decided he’d best keep the rest.

Soon his dear wifey was there at his side. As she murmured her a-pol-o-gies,

Old Em, he just smiled in a secretive way, thanking his three times release.

“And now your surprise!” his sweet wifey exclaimed as she pulled off his blindfold with care.

 Its removal revealed some guests at the board. Twelve of them were seated there.

So to you who like beans, and I’m one, I confess, please beware of the spouse-ly surprise,

Cause the likelihood’s there that you may just end up: the sole cynosure of all eyes.

ThanksScheming

The day before Thanksgiving, Joey’s phone began to ring,

He wondered why his father would be calling his offspring,

They’d talked a day or two before, when Joey told him that,

He’d not be home for turkey. Work just had him right out flat!

“Hi, Dad,” he said. “Is something wrong? Problems on the course?”

His dad said, “Son, I’m sad, but we are getting a divorce.”

“Oh, say it isn’t so, Dad!” Joey moaned into the phone,

“It’s true, but I can’t talk of it. Go tell your sister, Joan!”

So Joey called his sister, then, to give her the bad news,

She called her dad, said, “Dad, we’re coming! This woe we’ll diffuse!”

Her dad hung up the phone and turned and hugged his smiling wife,

“It was a little complicated. Caused a bit of strife,

They’ll be here for Thanksgiving, should be flying in by ten,

Now getting them for Christmas…could we try all this again?”

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're eating yummy stuff,

Come early! There will be enough!

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!)...

Giving Thanks -or- Thanksgiving! (November 21) Today!

French Toast--or Breakfast (November 28)

Mittens (December 5)

Poinsettia -or- Potted Plants (December 12)

Muffins (December 19)

Candy Canes (December 26)

Treasure (January 2)

Stuffed animals (Januray 9)

Get lost (January 16)

Clocks (January 23)

Time (January 30)

Cheap But Expensive

That day.
Missing: The pants

My siblings and I loved to ski.

Our Dad had introduced us to it the winter I turned eight and it had become a . . . habit.

Well, actually more of a fixation, but we'll go with habit.

We went every chance we could get.

And scoured the catalogs for new and wonderful accessories for our grand passion.

I had just made my first official 'ski' purchase.

New ski pants.

They were expensive.

But gorgeous.

Dark brown.

Perfect fit.

I was going to wow everyone on that hill! I couldn't do it with my skiing. This was the next best thing.

I should explain, here, that ski pants in the 60s weren't the stretchable remarkable cloth that we have now.

Something which will figure largely in my story later.

But they had little side zippers at the ankles and dark elastics that slid under your foot.

They were nifty (real word).

Happily, I donned them and my brother and I were off.

Now, I should explain, here, that Big Mountain in Whitefish Montana was a wonderful place to ski.

There were numerous slopes.

Each with its own particular brand of ski tow.

I always chose the expert slope.

Not that I could actually ski the expert slope.

For two other reasons.

1. It had a ski trail that wound around behind and through the wonderful forest, and
2. The trail came out at the top of the Intermediate slope, allowing the skier to then ski to the bottom. Oh. And . . .
3. Be comparatively unharmed.

It was the best of all worlds.

I made my first run to the top of the expert slope.

Disembarked.

Got my limbs more-or-less together and headed for the mouth of the trail.

It was stunningly beautiful.

The sun was shining.

There had just been a fresh fall of snow - over a foot of sparkling, fluffy whiteness blanketed the landscape.

I took a deep, satisfying breath of the spicy air, slid onto the trail and for the next 20 minutes, was in heaven.

Finally, the trail ended.

I slid quickly out onto the slope only to discover that it hadn't yet been touched by . . . anything.

It was still in it's pristine, just-been-snowed-on condition.
Breathtakingly beautiful.

It took me a few moments to discover that this could also present a problem.
Let me explain . . .

The trail I had been on had been fairly packed and my skis were still on that level.

They hadn't yet adjusted to the extra foot of fluffy snow.

I was sliding along with everything below my knees hidden in the fresh stuff.

For a second, it was fun.
Then, it wasn't. 

I hit something.

I never discovered what it was. Rock. Lump of ice. Tree stump. Yesterday's skier.

Whatever.

It stopped me.

Instantly.

And I wasn't prepared.

My body, already bent forward in my best 'snowplow' position, bent further. In fact, I whacked my forehead painfully on my knees.

Something I wish I could do today.

But I digress . . .

My glasses popped off into the deep snow.

Oh, rats.

I rubbed my head and scrabbled around in the snow, finally, triumphantly, extracting my glasses.

Then I straightened. And felt a draft.

Oh-oh.

Remember what I had said about my ski pants being not stretchy?

This would be where that fact comes into play.

When my body had done its 'fold-in-half' trick, it proved to be something my new pants had been completely unprepared for.

They split from waistband to waistband, right along the crotch.

I was now effectively wearing two pant legs.

Held up with a narrow strip of cloth at the top.

I definitely needed a longer coat.

Or a loincloth.

And this was the first run of the day.

Sigh.

I made the run down the slope as carefully and unobtrusively as possible, then sneaked to the car and my suitcase.

The change from my new, albeit flimsy, ski pants to my usual jeans was accomplished in a minimum of time and a maximum of scrambling. In the wide rear seat.

I mean the wide rear seat.

Not the wide rear seat.

Never mind . . .

And I was back on the slope.

I learned something that day.

Expensive can sometimes mean cheap.

It just costs more.

Finding One's Manners

Q teaching manners to Uncle.

Manners are important in youngest daughter’s family.

Something she and her husby are trying to instill in their children.

One of the words they are trying to limit/purge from their family vocabulary is ‘stupid’.

Their success is…patchy.

Case in point:

Youngest daughter of youngest daughter (hereinafter called Q) was talking to her mom. At some point in her discourse came the phrase, “Mom is so stupid”. Wherein, a horrified look crossed her little face and she instantly and loudly juggled in the word, ‘SILLY’.

Then Q, still obviously dismayed, stared at her mom. She blinked. “Ummm….I don’t know what happened,” she said at last. “My manners fell out of my head!”

Running over to the garbage, she flipped back the lid. “There they are!”

Learning to be well-mannered isn’t always measurably successful.

But it sure can be entertaining!

Halloween PSL

A guest post by Blair Stringam. 

It was Halloween and I was the mature age of 12. 

Too old to go house to house for treats.

So my friends and I were down on main street in our small town, trying to figure out how much mischief we could get into without it being too much.

We were likely remembering the stories of Halloweens past when our older siblings got thrown into our local jail and then broke out (a great story that Diane has told).

We were trying to find our own unique expression of mischief when some kids from our group thought of hauling junk from the back alleys and piling it in the middle of main street.

A really good idea (NOT!).

Two of my hockey buddies and I went into the back alley and found a large, empty wooden spool. We thought it would be a great candidate for our growing pile.

Now I should point out here that said spool probably weighed 200 lbs. or more so the only way for us to move it was to get it rolling.

Which we did.

When we neared our growing ‘art project’ (we were enlightened in our small town!) we thought simply adding the spool seemed a bit boring. So we decided we would wheel the spool up the street to the north. There was a slight slope and we thought it would be great to let the spool roll down the street and crash into our collection.

Once we pushed the spool up the street about 400 yards, we let it go.

The spool slowly started rolling.

About then, we assumed that we wouldn’t get the spectacular crash that we hoped for, so we started pushing.

The spool really started to pick up speed/momentum and we could see that the weight of it was going to provide a spectacular crash when it hit our community youth art project. However, as the spool got closer, I realized it was starting to veer off to one side.

It was heavy and moving fast by this time and I couldn’t figure out how to steer it back to our intended target.

Sure enough, when the spool arrived at our sculpture, it just skimmed the side and continued down the street.

We stared in horror. It was now headed for a muscle car sporting an amazing paint job that belonged to one of the guys who worked on the local oil rigs and who was presently imbibing at the local bar.

At this point, I realized we were in a great deal of trouble. The spool had picked up quite the momentum. My two buddies were not making any effort to try to help.  Perhaps they were just as surprised as me.

I ran down to the spool and tried to stop it. But it had too much momentum. There was no way I could, even if I (ouch) stood in front of it.

I decided to try to give the spool a hockey hip check. I bent my knees and pushed my hip into the side of the spool as hard as I could.

Remember where I said the spool weighed about 200 lbs? I weighed about 120 lbs. Soaking wet. And holding an anvil.

I bounced lightly off the side like a gnat.

However, I did manage to alter its trajectory.

It was once more running down the center of the street.

Some of my hockey buddies joined me and we were able to (finally) slow it down and stop it.

We then rolled it back to our sculpture and tipped it over.

Once, I was sure that the spool was not going to cause any unscheduled modifications to the motor vehicles, I went home to bed.

I may have not had the wild Halloween story to tell like my older siblings, but at this point I was too emotionally drained to care.

Halloween is hard.

Sleeping Through the Exciting Part

As with many things, the roots of this story go way, way back. To the joyous and much-anticipated birth of a baby.

A planned ‘welcome to the world sweet, precious girl’ party.

And real/imagined slights.

So here we go… 

Way back in the 1400’s, Princess Aurora was born to goodly parents. These parents, the king and queen of the land had been awaiting this birth for what seemed forever.

And they were just a tad…excited?

Overenthusiastic?

Obsessive?

Happy.

Assuming that the rest of the country would want to celebrate their glorious news with them, they announced a grand party where there would be much…erm…celebrating. Games and contests. Food. Dancing. Talk and laughter.

And, of course, gift-giving.

 

Invitations were sent to nearly every household. And, amazingly, RSVP’s were soon pouring in.

I know what you’re thinking. Few people RSVP any more. They just show up.

But go with me on this. It is a Fairy Tale… 

The day arrived and so did the crowd. Soon, the party was hitting on all cylinders.

Oh, wait. This is the 1400’s.

The party was hitting on all hooves.

More accurate?

People were playing. Dancing. Eating. Doing ‘party’ stuff.

 

Then the all-important gift-giving time arrived. I don’t know about you, but I love that time!

And cake. I love cake.

Ahem…

There were the usual gifts.

Baby dresses enough for 1000 babies.

A boatload of silver spoons.

 

At least one set of sheets. (Who invited that kid?!)

And then the Fairy Godmothers showed up.

Now one really never knows when this will happen. They’re kind of on their own schedule.

Thus the lack of anticipation/preparation.

 

Now the first Fairy endowed sweet Aurora—magically—with beauty.

Cause who wants a plain princess?

Okay, that’s a whole other issue—moving on…

The second FG endowed her with the gift of song.

No sour notes there. 

Whew.

 

The third had just pulled out her wand when the ‘oops-oh-dear-really?-you-didn’t-get-your-invitation?-how-did-that-happen-it-must-have-been-addressed-wrong’ guest arrived.

Just a mite vexed at the oversight.

 

‘Mite vexed’. *snort*

You should see her when she really gets going!

Despite not receiving an invitation—whatever the reason—this uninvited guest (UIG for short) pulls out her wand and, with a sly smile, bestows her own gift.

 

Something that would actually be delivered by spindle on little Princess Aurora’s 16^th birthday.

Death.

Yes, I know. Hardly an appropriate gift at a gala celebrating ‘life’.

Maybe there really was a reason her invitation went ‘astray’.

Just sayin’…

 

Then she vanished.

Huh. Didn’t even stay for cake.

Ummm…I’ll have her slice if no one minds.

Back to my story…

Needless to say, the party was pretty much over at that point.

A death sentence can do that.

 

The third FG stepped up.

She couldn’t stop that gift. It had already been ordered.

But she could…change…it.

Instead of ‘death’, she could commute it to ‘sleep’.

Not so different!

I know people who sleep like the dead already!

 

No sooner said than done.

Then, in order to ensure no one (ie. disgruntled UIG’s) could sneak in and cause further unannounced complications, little Aurora was sent with her FGM’s deep into the forest.

And all spindles were burned.

 

I guess cloth would be ordered in for the next 16+ years.

That night, Aurora and her three guardians left the castle to take up lodgings in the ubiquitous ‘somewhere’.

Without magic or anything else that would call attention.

 

And there the four of them stayed.

The three FGM’s who couldn’t ‘magic’.

And one royal personage who couldn’t ‘princess’.

Strangely enough, the girl thrived.

No real word on how the FGM’s truly did.

But at least they survived.

 

Of course there’s also the little side story of incognito Aurora meeting and falling for a bona-fide prince hours short of her all-important 16th.

And said prince thereafter being captured and imprisoned by that same UIG.

Sigh.

 

The 16 years passed. The three dutiful FGM’s brought her back to the castle and her pining loved-ones.

A word on her parents through all this.

Miserable.

I know for sure I would have been.

What are your thoughts?

 

But, unbeknownst to everyone else, the UIG was waiting.

With a spinning wheel she had been saving for just such an occasion.

She coerced Aurora into touching the nasty spindle.

And the curse/counter curse clicked into place.

Ugh.

 

The FGM’s discovered her apparently-lifeless-but-only-sleeping body and ensconced her in a soft-and-comfortable bed.

Hey you picture it how you want.

Me? If I’m going to be there a while, I want soft and comfortable!

 

Then, to derail (oops 1400’s!) sidetrack any more pain and heartache, they put all the rest of the kingdom to sleep as well.

Because the only thing that could break the IUG’s nasty spell was true love’s first kiss.

 

And who knew how long that would take?

I’m sure I’m not giving away too much if I remind you of Aurora’s sweet prince imprisoned in the IUG’s ‘guest quarters’.

He’s not getting out of there any time soon.

 

Well, not without a little interference from the aforementioned FGM’s.

Something you should probably know: Never underestimate FGM’s.

And their trusty—not rusty despite 16 years of being stuck in a closet—wands.

Those beggars are made to last!

 

The FGM’s manage to break the prince out of said prison.

Endow him with power to destroy the UIG.

Then watch as he fights said UIG and then leaves her as a moldering heap of sword-skewered former greatness.

Ick.

 

The prince, again led by the FGM’s, finds his way back to Aurora’s castle where his true love lies somewhere in an upper chamber.

Dreaming of True Love’s kiss.

I’m assuming. I was unsuccessful in finding any personal interviews.

 

The prince sees her lying there looking…totally attractive…

Okay, here is where I wonder about the whole ‘beautifully asleep’ scenario.

Does no one in Fairy Tales drool?

Awaken with lines completely spider-webbing one cheek? And really bad breath/hair?

 

The prince, overcome with love, gives Aurora Love’s First Kiss.

Whereupon (good word) she awakens.

I should point out there was none of the expected screaming, “There’s a MAN in my room!”

Wherein her father appears, sword in hand.

 

Nope.

Just a sweet smile.

The reaching out of a soft hand.

And two young people—together at last—appearing at the top of a great staircase…

Another thing. What’s with great staircases in Fairy Tales?

One word: Arthritis.

 

The spell is broken. The young sweethearts are together at last.

The UIG is a rotting heap at the bottom of a nearby cliff.

What else could we add here?

Oh, you’re right.

And they lived happily ever after.

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 that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their posts either once or multiple times. 

This month’s word count number is: 39

It was chosen by: ME! 

Here are the links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out! 

BakingIn ATornado                    

Messymimi’sMeanderings    

Pickles Becoming

 I love pickles, yes, I do, you know they make me smile,

Cause they add ‘zip’ to sandwiches; and to my snacks, add style,

I find it quite amazing though, that plain cucumbers can

Turn into something so much more than what they first began,

And there’s a lesson for us all from those modest beginnings,

And we can learn that there’s a step ‘tween fa-il-ing and winning,

It isn’t always easy, turning ‘meh’ into delish,

Likewise, it’s usually difficult becoming what you wish,

So just remember what I say: 'cause here is my two cents…

Becoming perfect pickles takes a ‘jarring’ experience!

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?

In, or eating, come and see,

Which 'Pickle' topic there will be!

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!)...

Pickles (In or eating!) (November 14) Today!

Giving Thanks! (November 21)

French Toast--or Breakfast (November 28)

Mittens (December 5)

Poinsettia -or- Potted Plants (December 12)

Muffins (December 19)

Candy Canes (December 26)

Treasure (January 2)

Stuffed animals (Januray 9)

Get lost (January 16)

Clocks (January 23)

Time (January 30)

A Sweet Target

You know, the person who coined the phrase ‘easy like Sunday morning’ obviously never lived in our house.

Sally is home.

I could probably just end there.

Sigh.

It had started out as a normal, sleepy Sunday. Mom and Dad up in their room at the top of the house. Sally and Mort in their apartment in the basement.

And me in my little room down the hall behind the kitchen.

It even stayed that way for an hour or two.

Normal. Sleepy.

Then Dad got…ambitious. He and Mom have been redoing the room next to theirs for their anticipated arrival and he was antsy to get to a hardware store and pick up some paint and other stuff designed to organize their disorganized mess.

Dad loves a hardware store!

Must be something left over from his mine engineer days.

Sally volunteered to drive over and get the stuff, but Dad refused. Something about Sally not knowing what equipment he would need. It’s a ‘guy’ thing.

So he and Mom left.

Sally, Mort and I were sitting on the front lawn. Just watching the neighbours do normal, Sunday things. Mrs. Michaelson was in her garden.

The Baginses had dressed their boys in white shirts and ties and packed them off to church.

Scary Gary and his brother were dragging something across the park.

Sally perked up. She jumped up and started across the yard with Mort right behind her. I followed slowly.

“Hey, Scary Gary!” Sally hollered. “I haven’t seen you in dog’s years! We need to catch up. Need a lift somewhere?”

The brothers stopped and looked at her. “Naw, we don’t need a lift, Sally,” Gary said. “We’re here already.” He indicated the park in general.

“K. What’cha doing?”

“We’re going to put this up on a tree and have some target practice.”

“Oooh!”

I closed my eyes. Did I want to look?

I did.

Gary and his brother had been towing a target.

It was then I noticed the bows each boy had slung across their bodies. And the little quivers of arrows.

Let me point out the dangers, in case you missed them:

Bows.

Arrows.

Target.

Gary.

Sally.

Did you just hear an air-raid siren?

Well, you should have.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said in my strongest voice. Which may well have been a whisper as much as it was heeded. Gahhh! Why did Peter have to choose today to go and help his Grandmother?! “Sally! Seriously! Bows? Arrows? Small boys? You?!!!”

The group, chattering happily, carried—now that Sally and Mort were helping—the target to the line of trees on the far side of the park.

I stood well back and chewed my nails while they set up the target and discussed where to stand for ultimate effect.

Madagascar flashed into my mind. That sounded like somewhere far away enough.

Then Gary stood at the line, pulled his bow off his body, strung it—okay, yes, he looked like he knew what he was doing—and nocked an arrow. Then shot.

It fell short.

He and Sally discussed trajectory and force and lots of other words I didn’t know. Then Gary shot again.

This time, his aim was better. He actually hit the target.

Then it was his brother’s turn.

He did better right from the start. Bigger. Stronger. I guess those qualities make a difference when one is flinging projectiles into the heedless unknown.

Then Mort took Gary’s bow and stood on the line.

His shot went wide—landing somewhere in the trees behind the target.

His second shot, too, went wide. This time on the other side.

Smiling, he handed his bow to Sally.

Sally?!

Oh, dear.

Sally stood there, calm and unruffled.

I was the one sweating bullets.

She drew the string back and let fly.

The arrow went straight to the center of the target. I am not making this up!

Robin Hood would have been proud!

Then she shot another and it did the same!

A tiny spurt of pride—and relief—went through me. Well done! Well—

She nocked a third arrow.Oh, wait, aren’t we tempting fate?

This time, just as she shot, the target—none too steady to begin with, fell over.

Suddenly I was remembering the first day we met Scary Gary. When Sally and the two boys had sent a rocket through their family’s front window.

Happy times.

This time, the arrow sailed past where the target had been and disappeared.

We waited for the expected screams. And they came.

My heart stopped.

Sally dropped her bow and started toward the sounds. Say what you will about Sally, she’s no coward.

I started forward as well.

Reaching the edge of the forest, just in time to see a disgruntled woman, covered in frosting, heave a cake with an arrow sticking out of it at my sister’s head.

Dark chocolate.

It looked delicious.

It hit with a wet ‘splat’ and split in two. My sister managed to catch one of the halves before it dropped into the leaves at her feet.

I tried to put the scene together. It looked like Sally’s arrow had found someone’s celebration, just as they had gotten to the ‘sweet’ part.

It had sent the cake end over end and into the woman’s face.

Whereupon she had returned the favour. Or flavour. *snort*

Now both of them were staring and/or glaring at each other. It was kind of hard to tell through the frosting.

Then Sally apologized, citing the faulty target, and pulled out a bill I’d never seen before.

It looked like it had a lot of zeroes on it.

She handed it to the woman, whereupon (that word again) the woman threw her arms around Sally and hugged her.

Huh. Didn’t see that coming.

Sally retrieved her arrow and, still clutching half of the cake, started back into the park.

The rest of us followed.

And all I could think was:

Someone killed the cake, oh, what a pain!

I don’t think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it, but a thousand dollars makes it right agaaaain…

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:  disorganized ~ equipment ~ sleepy ~ catch up ~ need a lift ~ easy like Sunday morning, were sent to me, via Karen, from my good friend, Tamara! Thank you!

Now see what my friends have done with their words!

BakingIn ATornado     
TheDiary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver 
Climaxed  

Part-timeWorking HockeyMom                            

                             

 

Letters home

Winding up to Remembrance Day...

Erik, right and a colleague, Larry.
 On the back of the picture, it says: 'I'm the one in green'.

Remembrance Day.

A day set aside to think about all of the people who have served us by laying down their lives.

And who are risking their lives today.

The ultimate sacrifice.

My thoughts are turned to the times when my husband and I have toured memorials around the world.

The military cemetery in Cambridge, England, where we had to leave because I was crying.

The Vietnam memorial in Washington. DC, when we watched a worker do a 'rubbing' for the brother of a fallen soldier, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The bunkers on the beach in Normandy, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The tiny military museum in the English countryside that we had to leave because . . . I think I'm beginning to see a pattern.

My second son served for eight years as an engineer/mine specialist in the Canadian army.

Including a peace-keeping mission in Bosnia. (When he returned home, he walked over to the lawn and just stood there. When asked why, he said, "I haven't been able to simply walk over and stand on grass for 10 months. This feels wonderful!)

I thought it particularly appropriate to include excerpts from some of his letters home . . .

Be warned, he was a soldier and had a very wicked sense of humour and . . . opinions . . .

14 June

Greetings, Earth Dwellers,

The average temperature is currently hovering around +34C, which it has been all week. My secretary, Aida, was translating the radio for me and told me that these temperatures are the hottest in 68 years. Boy, are we lucky. The humidity is about 10000000% on top of that, so as you towel off from your freezing shower, the water droplets are replaced by sweat droplets as fast as you can wipe them off. I'm drinking 10 litres of water a day. 4 of them during my workout alone. Just crazy.

*  *  *

I forget what the date is, July something.

Hi, everybody!

I hope you all had fun at camp this last week, You'd better have. I had a lot of fun diving on the island of Vis. Even without the diving, the scenery was unbelievable. Except for the old ladies on the beach without tops on. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! That sort of thing could scar me for life. It should be illegal. Fortunately, I spent lots of time under water. I even held an octopus. He wasn't impressed. His suction cups felt really neat, though. The laser vision burns, though. Who knew octopus could cook their own food? National Geographic had taught me nothing!

NOTHING!

Calm now.

*  *  *

I'm doing well, since you asked. I just drove here for the first time yesterday, and I had a lot of fun. The road signs are just a vague suggestion to the motorists here, so I had to adjust my driving doctrine to suit the conditions. Basically, we speed everywhere, and pass when we want to. Even driving like a maniac, my boss, Major Thelwell, says that I'm the safest driver she's seen here. I can't wait to drive around with her at the helm. Apparently I'm in for an exciting trip.

Later this week, I get to drive to Banja Luka on Tuesday, Zgon on Wednesday (it's right beside Kluc on the map, if you're looking for it), and then we go to Sarajevo by way of Tuzla on Thursday, returning on Friday by going through Kakanj. Basically, I get to see the whole country in a week. Sarajevo will be fun, I think.

Please send pictures of the dogs. I told my assistant, Aida about them and she wants to see them. There are a lot of dogs around here, but most are the end result of decades of hasty, unplanned dog sex. There was a cute little puppy who lives in the entrance bunker at the camp in Zgon, though. He was there with all the guards who were dressed in their fighting gear, and he was inspecting our vehicle while we talked to the guards. What a little cutie. I think he was a little Doberman without a docked tail, and no doubt he gets away with murder at the guard bunker. Fortunately, everyone seems to like Canadians.

*  *  *

The Book of Bosnia

Chapter One

1. And it came to pass that the soldiers of the Queen did go forth into the land of Bosnia, to bring a lasting peace unto the land.

2. And the soldiers did look about them and did see many peoples throughout the land, and behold, the land was bountiful, and beautiful to be seen.

3. And it came to pass that there was a spirit of contention throughout the land, causing much death and destruction.

4. And the soldiers dwelt in a tent.

5. Now the soldiers went forth unto the people, saying:

6. What is wrong with you people?

7. Lo, these words were heard by many, and the people did listen. But the people did not speak English, so they did continue to fight, and ignored the Queen's soldiers.

8. And there was no air-conditioning to be had.

9. Now the soldiers were angry, because the people were fighting among themselves, and many people had died. Plus one leg had fallen off their fooseball table, which did enrage them.

10. Therefore, the soldiers did cry out to their Lord:

11. "Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken this land?"

12. And the Lord did hear the cry of the soldiers, and did pity them, and did say unto them:

13. "Quit whining! For crying out loud. You sound like a bunch of little girls!"

14. And many great and glorious things did the Lord speak unto the disgruntled soldiers in this manner, until the soldier's hearts were softened and they did fall to the earth in amazement.

15. Lo, their parachutes had not opened.

16. Now the soldiers were of the mind that the Lord had played a rotten trick on them, what with the parachutes and all, so therefore the soldiers did decide to bring peace unto the land of Bosnia by circumventing Him.

12. And it came to pass that the soldiers did cry unto a false god.

18. And this false god was called Chrétien, the father of lies, the ancient enemy of all men.

19. And Chrétien did speak words unto the soldiers, but the soldiers were deceived, and did misunderstand his words, since Chrétien cannot speak any mortal language.

20. And it came to pass that the soldiers began to wander aimlessly throughout the land, and their faith did diminish, and they forsook the false god Chrétien, and did end their days as wanderers, eating berries and kittens and other nasty stuff.

21. And peace was brought by Superman, and there was much rejoicing.