21,667 Days Later

Denver made good.

Maybe I should explain…

This first part, most of you have heard before. But I’ll recap…

When I was 10, the big thing was the Superball.

Everyone wanted one.

I wanted one more than I wanted my first ‘big’ horse.

And you have to know I wanted that horse a lot!

But for some reason, I just never got one.

The Superball, that is.

Though I did pester.

I did.

Then, without warning, the stars suddenly aligned.

We were on our way to the National Western Livestock Show in Denver, Colorado to…you know…show cattle.

We had stopped briefly—truck, trailer and all—to pick up something at a local mall.

And when Daddy came out he was carrying (I am not making this up) a SUPERBALL!!!

For me!

Forgive me while I remember briefly how I felt: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I unwrapped it in truly record time and held my holy grail carefully while we drove the last few miles to the fair grounds.

Then, still clutching it tightly, I walked into the vast caverns that were the show barns.

Picture it: Rows upon rows of short walls with cattle tied and bedded down on each side.

Here’s a picture so you can really grasp it...

I stood there in the center of the first alley and looked way, way up to the distant ceiling.

This was the place where I could really get some height for my new little wonder.

I raised my hand, grinning at the thought of just how far this little miracle would go…

Then threw it down with everything I had.

It did go far.

It bounced off the cement floor and I think it very nearly touched that aforementioned distant ceiling.

Then it came down.

And this is where I should probably mention a thing called: forethought.

Erm…I didn’t have any.

That ball came down.

And landed in one of those vast piles of straw.

In that equally vast building.

Somewhere.

In order to shorten this already overlong story (too late), I’ll mention, here, that I never did find it.

Though I did invade numerous ranchers’ spaces to search.

Sigh.

Tears were shed.

And life went on…

Recently, Husby and I were on a sailing in the Mediterranean.

It was perfect.

Perfect weather. Perfect food. Perfect sights.

Perfect new friends.

Two of them, Steve and Carol were from (this probably won’t come as a surprise) Denver!

I told them my woeful little Superball story and they shed figurative tears of sympathy.

Then the conversation shifted to other topics.

But they hadn’t forgotten.

A day or so later, they came back from exploring the Greek Countryside and accompanying town wearing big grins and handed me…wait for it…a SUPERBALL!!!

59 years, 3 months and 26 days OR 711 months, 26 days OR 21,667 days (give a day or two) after I lost my first one.

Yep.

Denver made good.

Nearly Scammed

From my Husby!

Okay, it’s not true. I just thought it was funny . . .

A deep thinker, this man . . .

Subject: Scam warning! Home Depot

A 'heads up' for those men who may be regular Home Depot customers. This one caught me by surprise.

Over the last month I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. Simply going out to get supplies has turned out to be quite traumatic. Don't be naive enough to think it couldn't happen to you or your friends.

Here's how the scam works: Two seriously good-looking 20-21 year-old girls come over to your car as you are packing your shopping into the trunk. They both start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their breasts almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts. It is impossible not to look. When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say 'No' and instead ask you for a ride to McDonalds. You agree and they get in the backseat. On the way, one of them climbs over into the front seat and starts hugging and kissing you, while the other one steals your wallet.

I had my wallet stolen May 9th, 10th, twice on the 15th, 17th, 20th, & 24th, 29th. Also June 1st, 4th, twice on the 8th, three times last Saturday and very likely again this upcoming weekend.
So tell your friends to be careful.
P.S. Walmart has wallets on sale $2.99 each.

Bridge. Mixed

Portion of a painting by George Hughes . . .

 My parents were having a Bridge party.

Something that was very popular in the Sixties.

The house had been cleaned, top to bottom until everything sparkled like a new penny.

I should mention here that I’ve always wondered why, when company was coming over, my Mom felt it necessary to clean absolutely every surface in our home.

Was she really expecting her guests to go wandering into the storage rooms or laundry room?

Were they actually going to notice the fingerprints on the downstairs bedroom wall?

But, already, I digress . . .

Several card tables had been set up in the front room.

Each with four chairs.

A deck of cards.

Pad of paper.

Pencil.

And the all-important, easily snitched from, dish of treats.

Usually mixed nuts.

Or (cue exciting music . . .) bridge mix.

Mmmmm.

Have you ever eaten bridge mix?

The chocolate-coated voyage to tasty yummy-ness?

It’s an adventure in itself.

There are mint, orange, and Irish crème flavored pieces coated in dark chocolate; peanuts, raisins, caramels, and Turkish delight in milk chocolate.

The adventure comes in finding one that you like.

Because some of them can fool you . . .

My favourites? The orange, Irish crème, peanuts and caramels.

The others? Ick.

At first, the only way to tell was by size and shape, but that can be deceiving. The raisins, for example, can fool you into thinking they’re peanuts.

Taste was the next option.

But Mom and Dad protested, sometimes violently, when they discovered treats with little nibbles taken out of the sides.

Then returned to the dish.

I know. Parents are weird.

But there was no way I was ever going to chance my taste buds coming into contact with something as icky as Turkish delight.

Or mint.

Raisins and I also have a history. (Seehere)

Finally, I came up with a solution.

If you squeezed the candies gently, they cracked just enough for you to get a glimpse of their soft centre.

If the colour denoted icky-ness, you could, by squeezing in the opposite direction, return them to their original shape.

Genius!

Caution: May contain icky pieces

We won’t go into the fact that we kids weren’t even supposed to be in the front room.

Let alone snitching from the candy dishes.

Moving on . . .

I don’t know if people still have bridge parties. 

Judging by the cries of excitement or dismay that emanated from the room, they were an immense source of fun and dismay in equal parts. 

Myself, I never learned to play the game.

But I do remember the treats.

Medieval-ly Yours

First things first: Happy Independence Day to all my American Brothers and Sisters!

I hope you have a wonderful day full of celebration.

And I hope the weather gods smile upon you!

Our own national celebration was a few days ago.

July 1.

Canada Day.

For years, our family celebrated with a grand Medieval Feast.

The one in which everyone dresses up...erm...medieval-ly, and then has a great feast wherein everyone gets a bread trencher (that serves as both plate and sop), a bowl of gravy (for something to sop), and a knife.

And also plays really old games--some with a new twist.

Covid put the brakes on it.

But this year, we broke out and decided to have a go.

The weather was 'iffy', but we had a few minutes outside to joust and ax-throw.

It was just SO FUN to be doing this again!

This was the result...

Everyone having a marvelous time! (erm...)

Your utensils, Milady. (Okay, yes, I cheated this year.
In years past I made the trenchers. This year, we got pitas...
Bread is bread. Right?)

This is a photo of feasts past.
The weather didn't cooperate this year!

Another shot of everyone!
Note the two little dragons...
(Please excuse the lack of focus. Medieval cameras can be so capricious!)

Yes, there are two grandchildren in that 'horse'.

The dragons were the first to give out.

Despite the rain and the fact that not everyone could come, we had a grand time.

This Grandma was very happy!

Stay tuned for bigger and better next year!

Mirror'd

My mirror told me that I had an entertainment ‘glow’,

Then it clarified: I have a face for radio!

A mirror will never lie. Let’s face it, it would be uncouth,

But, trust me, it can be selective how it tells the truth!

I think my mirror needs glasses, ‘cause it fills me with distress

To see myself there looking like a big ol’ blurry mess!

“Wanna see something scary?” said my mirror (once) to me,

Showed a reflection of my bank account. More scary cannot be!

My mirror advised more makeup on my face. Said, ‘Just because’,

I said to stop reflecting back so many of my flaws!

I really love my mirror, cause without it I’d not see,

Reflections of the happy girl I really want to be!

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, there's no muss or fuss...

When Teddy Bears, we will discuss!

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!)...

Mirrors (July 3) Today!

Teddy Bears (July 10)

Emojis (July 17)

Cousins (July 24)

Avocados (July 31)

Moonshine (August 7)

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Unhelpful

The two men stood there, staring,

Their task quite beyond their ken,

It would have been so easy,

With a ladder. And a pen.

Tasked as they were with gauging

Just how tall the flag pole was,

But lacking proper tools, you know,

The task had given pause.

Then finally, a passerby,

She noticed how they stared,

She thought that she could help them both,

This girl had come prepared!

And taking wrench and muscle,

She loosed a bolt or three,

Then laid that pole upon the ground,

And got down on her knees…

Then carefully, she measured it,

T’was twenty-six feet, just,

She nodded to the men and left,

They stared back with disgust.

“She didn’t help at all, you know!”

One, to the other, said.

“What we needed what the flagpole’s height.

She gave the width, instead!”

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,

With FLAGS this month, how did I do?

Please go and see the others, too:

Baking In A Tornado: Seeing Red

Messymimi’sMeanderings

Shooting

In honour of International Camera Day: Cameras

I received my first camera the Christmas I was nine.

Together with one film.

A twelve exposure.

I hoarded those pictures judiciously. Carefully.

Only taking pictures of very, very special occasions.

And then, only when conditions were especially perfect.

Not.

I used up that first film in 32 seconds flat.

We had pictures of wrapping paper.

Kids admiring just-opened gifts nestled in a pile of wrapping paper.

And Mom stuffing more of said wrapping paper into the trash.

Okay, I admit it. Wrapping paper was the most exciting thing I could come up with.

Which says something about my life.

I should also mention, here, that my camera also came with a packet of little bulbs that you could press, one by one, into the flash. After they had been used, you pressed a little button and they would be forcibly ejected. This was an especially handy feature when brothers were hanging about. It’s amazing just how fast a brother can move when he has been shot with a little bulb of flaming-hot, molten glass.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

For the next few years, I snapped pictures of friends.

Doing . . . stuff.

Of pets.

Mine and other people's.

And vacations.

Most of them blurry and unrecognizable.

“Okay, this is a shot of Great Aunt Maud. Or of Old Faithful. Take your pick.”

In college, I was handed a ‘real’ camera.

With dials and buttons and switches.

And sent forth into the hinterland to ‘take some shots’.

Yikes.

I will admit that my picture-taking had improved.

Vastly.

Now, people were easily differentiated from, say, cakes.

And my basketball players looked like basketball players.

Not the LCC square-dancing team they were usually mistaken for.

On or off the court.

*snort*

In fact, my picture-taking skills had improved so much that I was given the position of official photographer in our Journalism class.

A promotion that came with its own dark room.

Yessiree. On any given Tuesday evening, I could be found in my darkroom.

Developing.

Now why does everyone smile when I say that?

It’s true.

I was developing.

Okay, yes, I usually had a young man in there with me.

But, inevitably, their idea of what goes on in a darkroom and mine were vastly different.

Hmmm. I think I know now why they looked so surprised when I told them to, and I quote, “Sit over there and stay out of my way!”

Back to my story. . .

Following college, I was given a ‘point-and-shoot’. A camera that guaranteed perfect pictures. Without any input from me.

Perfect.

For several years, it faithfully recorded early years of marriage. Baby arrivals. And family life.

With one ore two side trips into ‘someplace green’.

Until that momentous occasion when it died.

Never to go again.

After a normal grieving period, I got another point-and-shoot.

Digital.

No more films.

No more trips to the store, picking up or dropping off.

That little camera and I were inseparable.

Until that day.

When I got my new phone.

This was why.

Edmonton, Alberta at sunset.

Of course things have continued to improve, but I will stop there for now.

I admit that I sometimes think back to my little flashbulbs.

And the ejector that was so effective.

But only fleetingly.

On Being Vain

Ready to work.
If you look closely, you'll note the absence of glasses.
And the presence of the band-aid.

     Before I get Started: 1. My new boyfriend had a medical condition I wasn’t aware of.

           2. The world refused to coalesce into remotely recognizable shapes when I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

           3. I was vain.

There. I think I’ve covered all of the bases.

Would you care to try to convene these statements into a story?

I’m almost sure it would be better than mine.

Fine . . .

My new boyfriend was ‘working’ for my Dad.

Which meant that he spent a lot of time on the ranch, following me around, and occasionally did some actual work.

On this bright summer afternoon, we had been assigned the arduous task of moving the milk cow from her pasture on the east side of the buildings to the more convenient pasture on the west side.

We were on foot.

He was heeling.

I was heading.

Which meant that I was in the front to get in the way if said cow decided to turn in the wrong direction.

He was behind in case she suddenly felt that she couldn’t bear to leave her former pasture.

I should probably mention here that I always wore glasses. There’s nothing more embarrassing than discovering after a lengthy, one-sided conversation, that the person you are talking to is actually the neighbour’s mule.

I will say only that he was a good listener.

Back to my story . . .

On this bright and sunny afternoon, I had removed my glasses because I was trying to improve my tan lines. Large, white, goggle-shaped circles on one’s face weren’t conducive to beauty.

Oh, I also had a band-aid on my nose for the same reason.

Let's not talk about this any more . . .

At first all went well.

Then, they didn’t.

I ran ahead to stand as a human shield when the cow crossed over the entrance to the ranch buildings.

Once I was in position, I turned to ascertain progress.

The cow had turned and was heading back to familiar ground.

Boyfriend had disappeared.

Whaaaat?

I quickly ran up the road, got around the retreating animal and turned her back in the right direction.

Then spent the next twenty minutes sweating, hollering and cursing.

Oh yes. I cursed. For the whole story, read here. It’s not a pretty tale, but we’ll wait till you get back . . .

Finally, I had the stupid, perverse, ornery, cantankerous, belligerent, of-questionable-heritage, stupid (I repeat the word, deliberately) animal where she needed to go.

Daddy picked me up for the short ride to the ranch buildings.

And that’s when I remarked that my boyfriend, he of the dubious intelligence, had abandoned me.

Had just disappeared.

Dad frowned.

He turned into the drive to the ranch.

Then stopped.

Shoved the truck into reverse.

And, tires squealing, sped back along the main road.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Your boyfriend,” Dad said, coming to a skidding stop.

“Oh.”

And there he was. My boyfriend. Lying in the ditch.

How had I missed that?

Oh, right. Glasses.

Turns out that he had a medical condition that caused him, at times, to faint.

Who knew?

Fortunately, he had simply slid down into the soft, thick grass that lined the ditch and slept peacefully in the warm sun until we discovered him.

Dad got him up and we helped him make his woozy way to the truck.

By the time we reached the ranch buildings, he was well on his way back to normalcy.

After we had gotten him seated on the couch and supplied with drinks and eats, Dad turned to me. “Glasses,” he said simply.

 I nodded sheepishly and went to fetch them.

I learned something from this:

         1. When acquiring a new boyfriend, always ascertain possible health concerns.

         2.  Don’t ever try to outguess your optician.

         3. Don’t be vain.

       You learned it here.

A Monday Groaner

My surgeon loves canoeing,

He does it all he can,

He says it helps him with the stress

As surgeries, he plans.

I find his language peppered,

With ‘canoeist’ words and terms,

We’ve all come to expect it,

As he juggles knives and germs.

But now I’m having worries,

At the choice he’s offer-ing,

I wonder if the time has passed,

For changing everything.

Cause he gave me the option,

(I would call it a monition!)

The gas or canoe paddle…

It’s an ether/oar condition!

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's a time for deep reflection,

And mirrors! (If there's no objection!)

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!)...

Canoes (June 26) Today!

Mirrors (July 3)

Teddy Bears (July 10)

Emojis (July 17)

Cousins (July 24)

Avocados (July 31)

Moonshine (August 7)

Roses (August 14)

Sea Monsters (August 21)

At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28)

Sister's Dolly

See? Adorable!

How come my sister had one?!

And why couldn’t I?!

Life wasn’t fair!!!

Maybe I should explain . . .

For my first Christmas, my big sister got a doll.

Well, to be honest, so did I.

But hers was amazing.

Dressed in a gorgeous pink satin dress with tiny white socks 

and adorable little shoes, she was the most beautiful thing 

I had ever seen. She had Auburn hair, like my sister and a 

cute little face with eyes that opened and shut.

AND SHE COULD WALK!!!

No word of a lie. If you held onto her hands, she could walk!

She was perfect.

Now, I must admit that I recognized none of this when the doll 

first appeared in our household.

My recognition of her perfection happened a few years later.

When I discovered this treasure sitting in lonely glory on my 

sister’s bed.

Did I mention lonely?

Now there’s something I should probably point out here: there 

were two things I could not stand to see when I was little.

1.      A naked doll. (Just imagine how cold they must be!)

2.      A lonely doll. (Oh, the poor thing!)

Okay, yes, I had issues, but I was nothing if not sympathetic. A 

lonely doll was just asking to be played with. Even if one had 

been told – many times – to LEAVE MY DOLL ALONE IT'S JUST 

TO LOOK AT!!!

Pfff. That was just silly. Why would anyone have a toy they 

didn't play with?!

I scoped out the neighbourhood, than scooped the treasure 

off the bed and proceeded to walk her all over.

Do you know how many baby steps it was from one side of 

my sister’s room to the other?

A lot.

We played happily for some time.

Or at least until discovered by my sister.

Usually said discovery was in the form of: “Mom! Diane’s got

my doll again!”

Whereupon (good word) I would answer from somewhere 

under the bed: “Do not!”

This went on for months.

Until I discovered that one could actually buy horse 

models.

Of every colour and breed.

And in all different sizes.

After that, my sister’s little beauty remained in lonely glory 

on the bed.

And the sisterly conversation in her room changed to: “Mom! 

Diane’s got her horses all over my floor again!”

And me, again from under the bed: “Do not!”

Sigh.

Mostly Magic

He looked at me. “So? What’s your wish?”

I scrunched up my face into my most impressive I’m-thinking-about-it form and . . . thought about it. 

So many options. 

So much to choose from. 

I opened my mouth, expecting something of import to emerge. What came out was, “Ummmm . . .”

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

He sighed heavily and started tapping on the palm of one hand with a . . . Rats! I knew what it was, but the word ducked around the corner before I could bring it forward. I finally settled for calling it a wand. He tapped on one hand with a wand. “C’mon, lady. Make a wish. I really don’t have all day!”

I blinked and gulped and nodded. Maybe I could try . . . or . . . no . . . what I really wanted . . . Suddenly a brilliant suggestion presented itself. “Could I have a combination? A mixture?” I whispered hopefully.

He shrugged. “Please keep in mind I’m not a wizard,” he said. He scratched his ear and glanced toward the window.

Not a wizard? But I thought . . . I looked toward the window, too. The streetlights had come on and were casting pools of gold on a black street; shining bravely in a dark and moonless night. It appeared that a wind was starting to kick up. I could see bits of litter being blown around. I shivered and turned back.

He was watching me. “Well . . .?”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll have a Double Magic Burger with everything on it except the cheese. And a side order of Onion O’s and . . .” I again glanced outside “. . . a Wizard-size mug of chocolate.”

He dropped the spurtle (I finally remembered the name of it!) he had been fiddling with to the counter and punched some buttons in the cash register. “Fine. You’re order number 16.” He took the ten from me, efficiently made change and then nodded and looked past me.

I stuffed my change into my purse and quickly shuffled to one side.

“Welcome to Magic Burger,” he said to the person in line behind me. “What's your wish?”

That Season of the Year

Buffalo cocoons. Ready to hatch...

It is buffalo season.

I know this may come as a surprise to you. Certainly it did to our granddaughter.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were driving to Banff, Alberta. It was time for our annual week at the Banff Rocky Mountain Resort. The place that has been our summer home for nearly 30 years. 

That year, it was our eldest granddaughter’s turn to spend the week with Grandma and Grandpa, a privilege hotly contested amongst several of the grandchildren. Okay . . . well . . . amongst two of them.

The drive was perfect. Slightly cloudy but not raining or stormy. So the sun wasn’t a problem, but neither were the road surfaces.

Now, I should explain that our route takes us invariably through farm country. Some of the richest in Alberta. Long stretches of rolling hills heavy with nearly-ripe grains. Swaths of luxurious green, newly-mown hay, drying in the late summer sun until it’s ready for baling.

Fields of cocoons.

Cocoons?

And finally, we’re to the point of our story . . .

In many of these fields, there were dozens—even hundreds—of buffalo cocoons. Great cylindrical shapes of uniform size, some covered in plastic or mesh, and all simply sitting there in the fields, waiting to hatch.

Yeah, my granddaughter didn’t believe her grandfather, either.

And he described the day of hatching to her so well. When the long-dormant cocoons burst apart and fully-grown buffalo appear. 

“It is quite a sight.  The great, shaggy beasts, hungry from their developmental slumber move off in a herd, grazing, Running in the sun. Happy to be alive . . .”

I’m quoting her grandfather, of course.

Our 14-year-old granddaughter stared at him, skeptically. Obviously she wasn’t about to swallow her grandfather’s ‘this-is-how-things-happen’ story whole like the rest of her siblings and cousins.

Skepticism turned vocal. “Grampa, that’s not right. That isn’t how buffalo are made!”

Her grandfather looked at her in the rear-view mirror. “It totally is! The mother buffalo weaves her cocoons out of grasses, then tenderly inserts a seed into each one. You should have paid attention in Biology class.”

She gave him a disgusted look. “I did.”

Oops. They’re on to us . . .

Newly-hatched. Isn't he magnificent?!