Love, Hugs and Hope

What do you do when scary things happen?

Do you hide?

Fight?

Scream?

What if you’re a child?

Now there is a beautiful new book by Christy Monson and Lori Nawyn that addresses this issue.

With bright, colourful pictures by Nawyn and simple, engaging text by Monson, Love, Hugs and Hope: When Scary Things Happen, is a blueprint of what to do when you’re little.

And frightened by something terrifying.

In a world increasingly shattered by violence, mistrust and hatred, Love, Hugs and Hope is a bright little spot of warmth. A much-needed resource; its easy-to-follow, sympathetic advice and charming pictures will make it a go-to book for generations.

I loved this book! Thank you to Monson and Nawyn for giving us a simple balm for the truly frightening events of our day.

Synopsis:

Written after the tragic shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, Love, Hugs, and Hope: When Scary Things Happen is an invaluable tool for helping children identify feelings that overwhelm them with anxiety and despair. Author Christy Monson guides readers through emotions of fear, sadness, and anger, then lends constructive and practical ideas for how to manage such feelings and seek comfort. Lori Nawyn’s engaging illustrations help young children understand that hope is only a hug away.

Love, Hugs and Hope is available at:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble

 Author Interview: 

Christy Monson

for Love, Hugs and Hope

How did you meet Lori? How did your collaboration work?

Lori Nawyn did the art and I wrote the script for this picture book, Love Hugs and Hope, and we are both very happy about it. However, we didn't start out to work together. Lori and I knew each other from a couple of SCBWI Conferences. We had formed a picture book critique group that met each month so we were friends. But it was the publisher that teamed us up. Lori is a darling, and I love her art. We never collaborated on the book at all. I turned in the manuscript and Lori and the publishers did the rest.

How long have you been writing?

I have been writing about 7 years and loving every minute of it.

Do you have children? If so, did you draw on your own experience as a mother in writing this book?

My experience as a mom has really helped me in writing this book. Children just need to talk things out a lot of times. They want love and reassurance.

You're a retired family counselor. How did your training and/or years of practice help you with this book?

I kind of had a sense about how to process with kids from being a mom, but my training as a therapist really gave me the knowledge I needed to help children heal. In my practice I saw a lot of kids that were dealing with tragedy of some kind or another. Talk therapy is good for kids, but art is a wonderful way for them to release feelings.

How long did this book take to create?

It took me about a week to write the first draft of this manuscript. I felt so sad for those who had experienced loss in the school shooting at Sandy Hook. Shortly after that a gunman shot up the Clackamas Towne Center in Oregon. Our daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters live about three miles from the center. The parents monitored the events carefully, but turned off all media to protect the kids from knowing about it. However, the next day at school the children were all talking about it, so you can't protect children from knowing about tragedies like this.
As I thought about these two catastrophes, I felt something needed to be written to help parents and children look at disasters like these, be able to share their feelings, and find hope in the world around them.

Do you have other book ideas along the lines of children's self-help/picture books?

I love writing picture books. I have many other book ideas I'm thinking about, but right now I'm focused on  a series about children's feelings.

How did you find a publisher for the book?

I am so fortunate to have found my publisher, Christopher Robbins, and Familius. At LDS Storymakers Boot Camp, Rick Walton was conducting  out picture book section. He began talking about Familius and what a great new company it was. When he found out I was a retired therapist, he suggested I contact Familius, and I'm so happy I did.

Free Stuff

It was the most exciting, amazing, stupendous, thrilling, exhilarating, stirring, electrifying, sensational thing!

Ever!!!

Okay, I admit that I lived in the middle of the prairie, at the back of beyond, just past the end of the road, and not quite to that part on the map where it says ‘Here be Dragons’.

Sigh.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Exciting, amazing, (see above) . . .

The mail at the ranch came whenever someone drove into the nearest town, Milk River, and picked it up.

Sooo . . . intermittently.

Whenever Dad would appear with an armload of envelopes and dunners and fliers, I would always be first in line to greet him.

The ensuing conversation went something like this:

Me: Dad! Anything for me?

Dad: What’s your name?

Me: Diane!

Dad: Nope.

Me: Rats!

As time went by, I got smarter and learned to circumvent his inevitable question and get directly to the disappointment . . .

Me: Dad! Anything for me? My name’s Diane!

Dad: Nope.

Me: Rats!

See how much better that is?

Moving on . . .

Then my friend, Kathy, pointed out the amazing, stupendous (see above, again) activity.

She was looking through a magazine on the school bus on the way home from school and pointed out the rows and rows (and rows) of offers listed in the back few pages.

And many of them were absolutely free! (Their words)

She told me that most magazines had the same listings and that if you sent requests, the advertisers would send you . . . get this . . . free stuff!

What could possibly be better than that?!

When we got home that night, I dove into the stack of magazines that inevitably accompanied Dad’s comfy chair in the front room.

Wow! The Western Horseman was loaded! Even the Canadian Veterinary Journal hosted pages and pages of . . . stuff!

I was set.

For the next few evenings, I was happily closeted with one or more magazines, carefully writing out my requests and enclosing them in their handy-dandy envelopes.

Then I raided Dad’s desk for stamps – would you believe that it only cost four cents to mail an envelope back then? – and handed the pile to my dad for mailing during the next town run.

Then I waited.

And waited.

Finally . . . it happened.

Me: Dad! Anything for me? My name’s Diane!

Dad (just slightly surprised): Yes. This came for you!

Me: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .!

You get the picture.

For months, I got catalogues, pictures, pens, trinkets, the occasional poster and several hair-grooming necessities.

Life was good.

I finally lost interest in the searching and requesting.

Though I never tired of the receiving.

But the one never happened without the other.

Sigh.

Moving forward several decades . . .

Yesterday my daughter came in from getting the mail.

Me: Oooo, mail! Anything for me?

Daughter: Yeah, there’s a package here for you.

Me: Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

eeeeeeeeeeeee!

Some things never change.

Written in Time

Once more, Delores has delivered.

Once more, we put pen to paper. 

So to speak.

This week's words? flirtatious, blurred lines, headstone, vixen, discerning and fish

And off we go . . .

When e’re we fly, my man and me,

To countries near or o’er the sea,

We find the old cem-e-ter-ies,

And take a trip through history.

For neatly 'scribed in work so fine

Or written now in blurry lines

We read of lives, low or sublime,

Upon the headstones, lost in time.

The saddest are the children gone,

Those lives stopped short from living on,

Who made no choices, right or wrong,

Called from embraces firm and strong.

With careful steps we move along,

And find some words inscribed with song,

A life well-lived and days so long,

With courage and with faith so strong.

This one, it seems, had loved to fish,

That one’s flirtatious, quite the dish,

A third thought horses so delish,

The best friends anyone could wish.

Here’s a discerning, bookish man,

The next one’s hard to understand,

I see the words ‘The Best’ and ‘Land’,

Oh, there’s the Grandpa of the clan.

A hunter sure, was this man’s claim,

A vixen’s carved beside his name,

Each one unique, and none the same,

Some unknown and some with fame.

Each tells of life or life-to-be,

It’s written there for all to see.

But when I’m gone, an absentee,

What will someone say ‘bout me?

Here Kitty, Kitty . . .

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.

It was evening. Just before bedtime.
And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.
Something she did a lot.
Especially at night.
We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.
It was . . . annoying.
Finally, I set my book down and got up to see what could be bothering her.
Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby?
A cow bawling?
Water running in the canal?
Wind in the trees?
Crickets?
Dumb dog.
I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport with two walls: one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.
The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip right next to the house.
It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).

See? Carport. Without the cars...

Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.
Something I usually did.
Tonight I . . . didn't.
I don't know why.
I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.
There is nothing quite so dark as as a night on the prairies, with no moon.
And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.
My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.
Still barking her fool head off.
Stupid dog.
I sighed and pushed the screen door open.
Then hesitated.
And did something I had never done before. I turned and made my way, carefully, to the carport, avoiding shovels and other neatly-placed garden tools.
Then I walked between the cars toward my frantic dog.
I paused at the edge of the carport.
Cheetah was just feet away and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased. I could see her clearly now, even in the dim light. Hackles raised. Whole body stiff with intent.
I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.
And I do mean shattered.
It was the scream of a cougar.
Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.
It's . . . scary.
This scream was five feet away.
Above me.
At the very edge of the carport roof.
See? Shattered.
I froze instantly.
Then started to back up, one step at a time.
Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to keep roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.
I called my dog and she came running.
Still barking.
The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and locked it.
Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”
I was staring out the window.
Cheetah was now standing behind me. She continued to bark.
“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.
“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”
“Are you sure?”
I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”
“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.
I stayed by the window, but could see nothing in the blackness.
My dad appeared. Calm as always.
“Where?”
“Well it was on the carport roof a few minutes ago.”
“It'll leave.”
I stared at him. “You're not going to go out after it?”
“Not while it's on the roof.”
Good point.
Dad got a flash-light and pointed it out the window.
The roof was snared in a noose of light.
Empty.
I cautiously opened the door.
Cheetah shot through and into the night. Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and toward the foothills.
Our visitor was obviously headed home.
Everyone present heaved a sigh of relief. With some visitors, that's just the way it is.
Less is more.
Moving on . . .
I will add that this was the first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.
And not being offered a warm meal.
Oh . . . wait.
I guess that's a good thing.

Voices in the Trees

A poem.

Because . . .

Each summer, since the dawn of time,

We’d pack our kids and dogs and gear

With plans to spend a week, sublime

And frolic with the bears and deer.

For camping was our family ‘thing’,

Anticipated through the year,

And, oh, what praises they would sing

When finally, the time was here.

We parents’d sit beside the fire

And eat and laugh and shoot the breeze,

While younger legs who’d never tire

Would charge together through the trees.

With shouts and laughter as they ran,

Or giggles, hopefully suppressed.

‘Hide and Seek’ and ‘Kick the Can’

And ‘Find the Flag’ and all the rest.

When daylight waned, called back to camp

To spend a moment round the flames.

And crown the glowing, happy champs,

And plan for the tomorrow games.

What fun to hear those voices shout,

And watch their progress through the trees.

To see them scurrying about

On fleetest feet; or hands and knees.

Time’s gone by. It’s what it does.

And still we’re camping in the trees.

But something’s missing now, because

There’s silence floating on the breeze.

We parent’s camp, as we’ve always done,

With tales to tell and wood to hew,

But in the trees, there is no one,

No voices yelling, “I’ve found you!”

We tell ourselves it’s peaceful, true,

As restful as someone could wish,

We do the things we want to do,

Like eat and nap and swim and fish.

At night, we stare into the flames

And talk about the times long past.

When woods would ring with noisy games

And summer days forever last.

But now our kids are raising theirs.

And time’s a thing that’s hard to find,

And spending days with deer and bear’s

A priority that’s far behind.

Oh, what I’d give for one more day,

And woods that echoed with the noise,

When games would pass the time away,

When simple fun brought endless joy.

Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Hill?

A guest post by Steven Clark.

Ready . . .?

My oldest daughter has cultivated a new passion this summer: riding her bike.  

As a bicycle commuter, I could not be a happier father than to have my girl be as enthused about cycling as I am.  

Every opportunity she has to ride, she'll take it.  

I used to ride my bike with her, but found that I could keep up with her just as well by walking.

Earlier in the season, she did quite a bit of walking over riding because she had a paralyzing fear of hills.  Didn't matter if the hill was a steep grade or slight enough to barely get a marble rolling on its own, she had to walk down.  

After a couple days of this, I went over braking with her and then encouraged her to try braking to slow her descent.  

She still persisted in walking down hills.  

Before I chided her disbelief in her own abilities, I remembered someone else who had trouble with hills: my sister.

Summer of '86 or so.  

We were living in Petawawa, Ontario at the time and bikes were our vehicles of independence.  Wherever we wanted to go, we went.  

One of the destinations of choice was Petawawa Beach, renamed Black Bear Beach.  For some odd reason, whenever we went there, there was never a lifeguard, which added an element of adventure, but the ride there was what made me think of my daughter.

Comparing my memory to Google Maps, the final turn to get to Petawawa - sorry, Black Bear - Beach went down a fairly steep hill.  The adventurous - and scary - part was close to the bottom of the hill where the road transitioned from paved to gravel.  

My step brother and I had no problem getting down the hill.  We just alternated between coasting and braking, never letting our speed get much beyond a crawl.  

My sister went much quicker, and not because she was a daredevil with a death wish, but simply because she was frightened and froze up.  

In retrospect, I'm surprised she survived since this was the time before bicycle helmets were common and mandatory for youth.  

As my sister put it when I asked her about the experience, she only remembered going down the hill and then waking up in the hospital.

My sister made a full recovery, and soon we were off to the beach again.  

When we reached the hill, she was still shaken, but determined to try again.  I demonstrated the safe way to go down the hill, and told her what I was doing as I went down.  Coast, brake, coast, brake, coast, brake... 

WHOOSH!  

She zoomed past me at the bottom of the hill and I realized her biggest mistake.  Closing her eyes when she got scared.  This led to another crash, but not quite as spectacular as the first.  

My memory may be faint, but I don't remember any other bicycle excursions to the beach.  I seem to recall we went with my parents every time afterwards.  

After this recollection of blood and dust, I figured it would be best to let my daughter take hills at her own pace, and not push her to ride down them regardless of the grade.

I am happy to report that my girl now delights in riding down small hills, but still dismounts for steep ones.  

And she has never been to the hospital for any of her crashes.

Go!

A Haunting We Will Go

You see misfortune. We saw 'scary'!

There was a haunted house in Milk River.
Haunted.
Really.
Demons lived there.
Witches.
Hags.
You name it. If it was slimy and scary, it had a residence in that house.
We children in the town skipped past on the far side of the street.
Even in broad daylight.
With our ears plugged and talking volubly, so as to drown out any and all noises that might escape that house.
Even so I'm sure that, on two occasions, I heard screams.
And no, they didn't come from me.
Sheesh.
At one time, Milk River's haunted house had been just another normal, ordinary, rather elderly little home.
Situated about half-way down the block.
A family had lived there.
Mother. Father. Children.
But that was where the 'normal' part ended.
At least that is what my friends had informed me.
One night, the mother had asked her little boy to go down into the cellar to look for the family cat.
It was dark in the cellar.
He had lighted a match to see more clearly.
And dropped it into a vat of kerosene.
What that was and why a vat of it would be sitting in someone's basement, I didn't know, but it sounded dangerous.
Suffice it to say that my facts really didn't hold well under scrutiny.
But I was four.
Who was scrutinizing?
I was too busy shivering in delight.
Moving on . . .
So the little boy dropped his match into the vat of kerosene.
It lit up like a huge torch.
The kerosene, that is.
He and his family barely got out alive.
No one knows what happened to the cat.
The family then disappeared.
Never to be heard from again.
Ooooooooo!
Actually, none of us really knew what happened to start the fire.
It was just one of those terribly unfortunate things.
The family moved away, maybe to a family member's house to regroup.
But reality wasn't as interesting to us kids as the stories we made up.
Once, a group of us actually sneaked into the house and got as far as the kitchen.
Standing in the center of the room was a partially-charred table, still covered with an equally-burned oilcloth and decorated with a bowl of blackened fake fruit.
We were horrified.
And ran from the house screaming.
I know, I know, intrepid explorers we weren't.
The house was eventually demolished.
Mainly to keep us kids from scrambling through it like some sort of ride in a carnival.
But even after another house had been erected and another family moved in, it remained the haunted house.
Where the family lived.
Before the fire.
And maybe they're there still.
Making noises and screaming at odd hours.
The four-year-olds in the neighbourhood would know.

Backing Up

Ah. The good old days . . .

I had to take a couple of horses to auction.

One of the more painful aspects of ranching . . .

In the old days, when I was ranching with my parents, a truck and trailer (chosen from the selection on hand) would appear magically outside the ranch house, loaded and ready to go.

Oh, the good old days.

This new ranching-on-my-own required much more forethought.

I had the horses.

And the pickup.

What I needed was a trailer.

A rental was indicated.

As an absolute neophyte in this area, I did what one did back then.

Went to the Yellow Pages.

Huh. Did you know there were dozens of companies whose sole purpose was to supply one with the best, biggest, lightest, heaviest, sleekest, cleanest, most-efficient, strongest, easiest-to-pull, prettiest (okay, I added that one), most-amazing trailer in the area?

Well there are.

I chose the nearest dealer.

And a trailer that looked like one of Dad’s.

Better the evil you know . . .

I drove over and, trying to look like I had done this all my life, hooked up to my newly-borrowed piece of equipment.

Okay, that part was easy. Back up the truck as near to the trailer hitch as possible.

Or until the attendant hollered, “Whoa!”

And hook up.

Okay. From that point I was more-or-less comfortable. I had pulled a trailer many times in my life. My real problems arose when I tried something new.

Like backing up with said trailer attached.

This is where I admit that my brother or Dad had always done the ‘intricate’ work.

Have you ever tried this?

Backing up a trailer, I mean.

It’s perverse.

You have to turn the controller vehicle in the complete opposite direction you want the trailer to go.

All the while looking backward over your shoulder.

It’s like trying to write something on a wall behind you by looking in a mirror.

Everything screams at you to turn the other way.

Usually while your spotter/attendant is screaming at you to do it right.

Sigh.

I did make it to the auction.

Horses, truck and trailer intact.

And, after much, MUCH backing up and re-backing up and adjusting and backing up again, and attendants sweating and swearing, finally moved the trailer close enough to the ramp to off-load two confused and rather dizzy horses.

Then I got the heck out of there.

I stopped at the ranch to clean out the trailer.

A nervous horse is a poopy horse.

Just FYI.

And I took the trailer back.

Now, when I had picked up the behemoth, it had been parked among its fellows in a neat line.

Second from the end.

When collecting it, I had only needed to back the truck, hook on, and leave.

Simple.

Returning the trailer wasn’t going to be as easy.

I would need to maneuver it, without scarring its fellows on either side, back into its home.

The key word here is ‘back’.

I was sweating before I even drove into the yard.

The attendant cheerfully indicated my parking spot.

Yep. Right where I expected.

Cue the Hitchcock violin music . . .

I pulled ahead and shoved the truck into reverse.

Then, taking a deep breath, pressed down on the gas.

And slid in as neatly and perfectly as any trailer-jockey out there.

On my first try.

Huh.

The trick then was to try to not look as surprised as the attendant.

And to keep the swagger (mostly caused by relief) out of my walk as I helped unhook.

And to suppress the desire to turn hand-springs on my way back to the truck.

Yep. Sometimes, the planets align.

All things work together.

And one is allowed to feel that sense of accomplishment that goes with a job well (and perfectly) done.

Not often.

But sometimes.

Enjoy it while it lasts . . .

Gossip

Still catching up.
These are Delores' words from last week.
Drugged, scandalous, frying, clerk, entrance, hidden
What would I do without her?!

Gossip

“It was scandalous, I tell you! Scandalous!”

The weekly afternoon tea of the local Ladies’ Aid Society was hitting on all cylinders.

Mrs. Petrie had the floor. Currently, she was making her point by jabbing a tiny, half-eaten petit-four in Mrs. Hall’s direction.

Mrs. Hall nodded solemnly, her own cake untouched as she carefully sipped a fresh cup of hot tea.

I watched as Mrs. Petrie took another nibble of the rich frosting, heavy jowls quivering in delight.

“Do you know what happened?” Timid little Mrs. Barry’s soft voice took advantage of the momentary break.

Mrs. Petrie puffed up importantly and launched in again, crumbs of cake flying. “Oh, my dear, I know everything!” she said. She reached for a second petit-four, then a third, and set them carefully on her plate.

I glanced at the laden tray in the center of the table and sighed, praying silently that I’d made enough.

Mrs. Petrie’s stories do tend to go on . . .

“Well . . .” Mrs. Petrie looked around the table, making sure she had collected everyone’s attention. Her voice lowered. “They found her at the entrance to the park!” she said. “Drugged, they said!”

“No!” someone gasped.

“Yes!” Mrs. Petrie’s voice slid up a notch. She stuffed her second cake into her mouth and chewed quickly. “She was wobbling about, hardly able to walk!” She swallowed and reached for more cake. “Her brains are absolutely fried!” She shook her head woefully and pushed in another bite. “They say she’ll never be the same!”

“But that’s awful!” Mrs. Barry said, shocked.

“Oh, my dear, you don’t know the half!” Mrs. Petrie said, her voice lowered again. “They’re saying it was the clerk she’d been seen with! He did it to her!”

Mrs. Harris looked quite shaken. “Do you mean to tell us that that boy gave her . . . drugs?”

Mrs. Petrie nodded, her face grave.

“Oh, but that’s terrible!” Mrs. Butterfield dabbed at an imaginary tear. “What on earth will Margery do?”

“Well I know what I’d do if it was my daughter!” Mrs. Petrie said stoutly. “I’d put her on bread and water for a week!” She stuffed in another cake.

“But her brain!” Mrs. Butterfield said.

“I know!” Mrs. Petrie said. “She’s been absolutely ruined!”

Seven heads shook in sympathy.

I sighed and reached for a cake. The tray was getting perilously empty.

Just then, the door opened.

Seven heads swung around. Seven pairs of eyes speared the newcomer.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Mrs. Beaker said, breathlessly. “I had to . . .”

She got no further.

“Marjorie!” Three of the ladies had risen to their feet. “We just heard!”

Mrs. Beaker paused in the act of removing her coat, frowning. “Heard what?”

“About your daughter!”

“Oh, that!” Mrs. Beaker laughed. “What a mix-up!”

Several people glanced quickly at Mrs. Petrie, who calmly claimed the last cake and started eating.

“Umm . . . what happened?” Mrs. Barry asked.

“Well, that boy Abby’s been seeing took her for a walk in the park,” Mrs. Beaker said. “Apparently, he’d been planning on surprising her with a proposal.” She smiled.

“What was he proposing?” Mrs. Hall asked suspiciously.

“Marriage!” Mrs. Beaker said.

“What?” Someone drew the question in with a shocked breath.

All eyes turned to the now-silent Mrs. Petrie, who continued to chew solemnly.

“But it was sort of a disaster,” Mrs. Beaker said, seating herself at the table. She glanced briefly at the empty tray, then nodded her thanks as someone filled a cup for her.

I slid my untasted cake in front of her and she nodded again.

“Really?” someone said. Everyone leaned closer. “Do tell!”

“Well, he had hidden the ring somewhere in the park, but, as they were walking, it began to rain.” She took a sip of tea. “Oh, lovely!” she said, smiling at me.

I smiled back.

“Then what happened?” Mrs. Butterfield asked impatiently.

 Mrs. Beaker frowned. “Well, as far as I got the story straight, he had to run to the spot where he’d hidden the ring because he was afraid that the rain would wash it away and Abby ran after him and broke the heel off her shoe!” She laughed. “I guess she went down in a heap! By the time he had rescued his ring and his future fiancée, both of them were a little worse for the wear!”

The ladies at the table were silent.

“They staggered out of the park, their arms around each other . . .” Mrs. Beaker laughed again. “I guess it was quite a sight!”

“So . . . no drugs?” Mrs. Hall asked.

Mrs. Beaker frowned. “No. Well, Abby took a couple of painkillers after they had collapsed onto the bench outside the park,” she said. “She had given her ankle quite a turn.” She looked at me. “This cake is divine!”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“And now, Abby is engaged!”

There were several rather forced expressions of congratulation and, for a few seconds, the other ladies silently sipped and nibbled, casting the occasional accusing glance in Mrs. Petrie’s direction.

Suddenly, the visibly un-repentant woman sucked in a breath. “Oh, girls!” she said. “Did I tell you about Old Man Gunnar?”

All eyes turned toward her.

“Apparently, someone is trying to murder him!”

“Do tell!” someone said.

Phil

Okay. Picture him even smaller and glued to a dog...

Phil was a tiny boy.

Not yet two.

With the dubious honour of being both the youngest of the ‘Three Musketeers’ and of his family of seven.

He had been dropped off at Auntie and Uncle’s place for a few days while Mom and Dad took a brief holiday.

For the first few minutes, he followed sisters and brothers around the unfamiliar house, whimpering and trying to make sure they didn’t disappear.

Like his parents had done.

Then he saw his Auntie’s three Old English Sheepdogs.

Tears were forgotten as his face brightened.

His small world . . . changed.

For the next two days, Phil attached himself, quite literally, to the big male, Chiefy.

Whom, in his baby way, he thought was called ‘Chiefy-Sit’.

During that time, whenever Chiefy moved, it was with two small hands clutching fistfuls of long, grey hair and a little man toddling along as fast as he could, babbling, “Chiefy-Sit! Chiefy-Sit!”

When Chiefy finally did ‘sit’, Phil would pounce on him. Burying his little face in the soft, gray hair.

If Phil was distracted and moved away, Chiefy followed.

When the little boy slept in his crib, it was with one small hand through the bars, still clutching the long, soft hair.

They were quite literally, inseparable.

It was a short, sweet, two days.

But it ended.

Phil’s family moved away and visits were few and far between.

He grew up and Chiefy grew old.

They never saw each-other again.

Moving ahead twenty-plus years . . .

Tomorrow, my Husby and I are travelling down to Portland, Oregon.

We are going there to witness Phil and his bride marry.

He’s all grown up now.

But when I see him, I will be thinking of that little boy.

And his short-term furry best friend.

It will be a wonderful, happy time.

I can feel the tears already . . .

Catching Up

Each week, my good friend and fellow blogger, Delores issues a challenge to her neophytes. 'Use these words, my Hardy Wordsmiths!' And we do.
But I am playing catch-up. These are last week's: Crystallize, morbid, fragrance, cling, instant, blueprint.Oh, what fun I had . . .

I sniffed. “I smell it again!” I said.

Norma looked up from her newspaper and frowned, confused. “What?”

“That fragrance! That weird fragrance!”

She pursed her lips and sniffed, audibly. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Come over here. It seems to . . . cling to this exact spot!” I stepped to one side and indicated with both hands. “Right here!”

Sighing, Norma set down her paper and heaved her bulky self to her feet. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m only doing this because you’re my sister.”

“You’re a true friend,” I cooed, giving her just a bit more space.

Obligingly, she manoeuvred herself into the designated spot. “Okay. Here I am.”

“Now sniff!”

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Then frowned and did it again. “Huh,” she said.

“Right?” I watched her.

She stepped to one side and sniffed once more. Then stepped back and repeated the procedure. “Huh,” she said again. She looked around, then slowly dropped to her knees. “I only do this because I love you,” she said, glancing up at me.

“And I love you,” I said. “So what’s making that smell?”

She bent down and sniffed the carpet. “Huh. Nothing.” She sat back on her heels and stared thoughtfully upwards. Her eyes brightened. “Maybe it’s the spirit of some former resident,” she said.

I gave her my best ‘tell-me-another’ look. “Right. A former resident who haunts only this spot?”

“Well, maybe she died right here.”

“Don’t be morbid,” I said, moving a step away.

“No! I can see it! Her body laying here, crystallizing slowly.”

"Ugh!" I said. Then grinned and picked it up. “Her spirit hanging around till her mortal remains are discovered, then deciding in that instant that it must always stay . . .”

“Exactly!”

“Pfff! What will you think of next?!”

Norma made a couple of shuffling movements, then sighed and held up her hands. “Could you?” she asked.

I shook my head and reached out to help her to her feet.

Both of us sniffed the air again.

Suddenly, a whisper of sound. A . . . hissing. It burst inside my head. “Blueprint!” it said.

I spun around, then looked at my sister. “Did you . . .?” I said no more. The look on her face told me everything.

For Greater Things

Tristan and his wife, Jess.

When we were teenagers, my husby and I got involved in theatre.
And stayed involved.
This year marks 44 years for me.
And slightly more for him.
I know, I know. Do the math.
That makes us both . . . old.
But we love it.
We raised our children on the stage.
All six of them.
Our most recent production, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers closed recently.
To a standing ovation.
Our youngest son, Tristan was singing the role of Adam.
And as I watched him, I couldn't help but remember his first time on stage, at the age of 5.
We weren't sure if he would remember lines, so we made him a mute.
Big mistake.
He hasn't stopped talking since.
Then I thought about all of the roles he has had in his short lifetime.
And other experiences he has had on the stage.
Let me tell you about one.
We were setting up the stage for a production of “I Hate Hamlet”.
Look it up. It's funny.
We were trying different configurations with our set pieces.
One piece, a double glass door in it's own frame, was built by a home builder.
He hadn't understood that set pieces were supposed to drag around easily.
And be . . . light.
He had built it according to building code requirements.
So . . . definitely not light.
We had stood it up and were discussing where it should go in the grand scheme of things.
My son, Tristan was sitting innocently in a chair on stage, waiting for his parents to finish moving furniture around.
We stepped away from the door, intent on another piece of scenery.
And that's when it tipped.
The door, I mean.
Forward.
Towards my son.
It was one of those things that you could see happening.
But were powerless to stop.
For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.
The door dropped.
Down.
Down.
And smacked the back of our son's chair off.
Really.
A large, heavy, wooden chair.
Broke the back right off.
Our son turned and looked.
The door had missed him, quite literally, by a whisker.
I watched him singing last night.
And thought about that wall falling towards him so many years ago.
Obviously preserved for greater things.

Vanity, You Heartless Wench

   

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

     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 point out 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.

Lets’ 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.

Trevor 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 health concerns.

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

         3. Don’t be vain.

       You learned it here.

Tough to Say Goodbye

For over twenty years, we've spent part of each summer roaming the trails and mountains around Banff, Alberta.
The most beautiful spot on earth.
I'm not prejudiced . . .
Our kids learned to swim in the condo pool.
Saw their first bear while hiking those trails.
Scrimped and saved for their annual trip to the Rocks and Gems Shop.
Or the all-important Candy Store.
Watched the elk and deer saunter through from the second-floor balcony.
Laughed at the squirrels as they chattered and scampered.
Learned to play horse-shoes and croquet on the lawns.
Played games, watched movies and slept in.
Till Seven.
Now the next generation is experiencing those same wonderful things.
It's tough to say goodbye.
Even though we know it isn't forever.
This is why . . .

First hike.

Hiking's HARD work!

When you run out of trail, keep going!

Old Husby of the Mountain.

Umm . . . no comment . . .

How can we leave it behind?

Till next year, Banff, farewell!

Driving Under the Influence

Oh, sure. She's smiling now . . .

There are about thirty miles of smooth, fast highway between Claresholm and Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

And Mom was a strict teetotaler.

These two facts will become significant.

Later . . .

Mom was heading home.

She had been out running errands and attending meetings and doing various ‘Mom’ things and supper was beckoning.

Another ‘Mom’ thing.

She was also DUI(C).

Driving under the influence of children.

Between glances into the backseat and numerous yoga-moves to reach and supply her various and sundry children’s needs, her concentration on the road, and her straight-driving-ness (my term), were sorely hampered.

From time to time, the car . . . wove.

Said weaving was noticed.

A flashing light appeared in the rear-view mirror.

Mom frowned. A ‘what-on-earth-is-this-about?’ frown.

And pulled over.

A young policeman appeared at her window.

“Ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice that you were weaving a bit in the lane,” he said. “Have you been drinking?”

Mom sucked in a deep, indignant breath and glared at the young man. “I SHOULD SAY NOT!!” she said.

Her voice was . . . let’s just say ‘firm’.

With just a bit of fire behind the words.

The poor policeman turned red and literally crumbled. “Sorry to have bothered you,” he mumbled. Then, bidding her a hasty good-night, he left.

Or rather, retreated.

Mom nodded resolutely and, putting the car in gear, continued on.

The police car made a U-turn and fled.

The reason I’m thinking about this right now?

Where was Mom when another young policeman was handing me my speeding ticket for doing 40 in a 30?

I guess some people have it.

And some people don’t.

Sigh.