Clock Watcher

I have a thing about time.

I am a clock-watcher.

I have to know the time at any given moment.

Day or night.

I didn't realize just how bad I was until I was in hospital after the birth of our third son.

He was born at 9:30 in the evening and I was so keyed up that I couldn't sleep.

All night long.

I'm sure you've heard people say, “It was the longest night of my life.”

Well, that night was.

I kept listening for stirrings that would indicate the coming of day.

But in a hospital, in a maternity ward, there are constant stirrings.

Sigh.

From that day to this, I have made sure that I have some sort of time-keeper handy.

Always.

Moving on . . .

For all of his life, Dad was a rancher.

He was good at it.

After retirement, he poured his energy and meticulous nature into the making of clocks.

Beautiful, inlaid, hand-crafted, gently-chiming clocks.

Which he then sold.

Usually to me.

At one time, I had six of them.

They, together with my tall grandfather's clock, adorned various parts of my living room.

Even their ticking was noticeable.

When they collectively chimed the quarter hours and then the hours, it was pretty nearly deafening.

I loved it.

Had gotten so accustomed to it that I often don't even notice.

Sort of like living next to a set of very busy train tracks.

Sort of.

Oh, I had comments.

“It sounds like a clock shop in here!”

“I feel like I'm in some sort of creepy movie!”

Okay, I'm not sure that the person who made that last statement was totally talking about the clocks.

Ahem . . .

And my favourite, “Could someone please tell me the correct time. I think it just chimed forty-two in here!”

Hey. Love me, love my clocks.

Get over it.

Details

My first purchase in walnut and purple heart

One of the newest in walnut and maple

More details in Rocky Mountain Juniper

There is a codicil:

Daddy is now 89. Over the past year, failing health has forced many changes. The first was the giving up of his beloved workroom. There will be no more clocks from those gifted hands.

Suddenly, my collection has taken on a whole new meaning.

Pointy and Sharp

He sees a work of art. I see a cutting  . . . thing.

My Husby plays with knives.

Really.

I guess you could call him a genuine aficionado.

When he sees a knife, he has to examine it.

Check out what steel it's made of.

Feel its balance.

Grade the overall quality of its construction.

Yep. Aficionado.

Several years ago, he and our second son, who inherited all of his father's love of knives, took a knife-making course.

This merely served to up the ante, so to speak.

Now the two of them are constantly examining and purchasing bits of steel that could be used in the creation process.

We have a forge in our back yard.

My garage is stacked with pieces of specialized woods and animal horns that would be 'absolutely perfect' for a particular knife handle.

And all the tools used in the cutting, grinding and polishing of fine steel sit where a normal person would park their car.

Sigh.

It keeps him happy.

And did I mention that we have very fine knives in our kitchen?

Well, we do.

Every shape and size imaginable.

They are S.H.A.R.P.

Each knife in my kitchen has a specific purpose.

My Husby would be happy to elucidate.

At great length.

I wouldn't be listening.

Because I use only two.

A small, paring knife that he purchased for me in Corsica . . .

I should point out, here, that most people buy souvenirs when they travel. My Husby is the same. Except that said souvenirs invariably consist of something sharp and pointy.

With excellent steel, good balance and a really, really interesting handle.

He bought the first on our honeymoon. 

And continued.

Moving on . . .

My second knife is an ordinary-looking blade.

Just the right size for me.

Both are wrong.

Oh, they are good knives.

Do an excellent job.

Look nice.

But as my Husby is so fond of pointing out, they are not the right knife for whatever job I am requiring of them.

Invariably, when he comes into the kitchen when I am cooking, the first words out of his mouth are, “You're using the wrong knife.”

To which he is rewarded with a heated glare.

Let's face it, he's a brave man to say such things when his wife has something razor sharp and very pointy in one hand.

I have often told him so.

He just laughs.

But I will have the last laugh.

And I tell him that on his gravestone, it will read, “She used the wrong knife!”

No jury would convict me.

Just FYI. 

☺

Demon of a Cleaner

See? Don't you wish you had one?

DMom’s kitchen and dining room floors were amazing.

Gleaming, shining clean.

Perfect for sliding about in one’s socks.

And the most exciting thing about her clean floors was the little demon that came out to clean them.

Let me tell you about it.

Once a week, Mom would move all of the kitchen and dining room chairs into the living room.

Which was an adventure itself. (See here. Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .)

And while my brother and I were thus engaged, she would get down on her hands and knees and scrub the floors.

And I do mean scrub.

Never, in the history of the world, were there cleaner floors.

I know, because I spent a lot of time down on them.

Ahem . . .

Following the scrubbing, Mom would bring out the wax.

And this was about the time that my brother and I would abandon our chair play and lay at the edge of the floor to watch.

Because after the wax was applied, the ‘demon’ came out.

It was green.

And had a rounded, wide head and a long, stiff tail.

And, if you looked carefully, little white eyes.

That stared at you.

It also had three sets of interchangeable little pads that snapped on and off.

Dark and ‘bristly’, Steel wooley, or white, soft and ‘puffy’.

It was the latter that created the longed-for shine.

Mom would turn the demon over, snap on the soft pads and then flip it back and hit the switch.

Instantly the wide, white pads would begin to spin.

This was the best part.

As she polished, Mom would move the demon closer and closer to George and I.

Closer.

Closer.

Bravely, we would hold our ground. Daring each other to be the last to head, shrieking, for the nearest couch.

I should point out, here, that I never won.

George has nerves of steel.

Brothers. Pfff . . .

There is a codicil:

Years later, when I was newly married with waxable floors, and my Mom had graduated to kitchen carpeting, I inherited the ‘demon’.

It still had the interchangeable pads.

And still achieved an amazing shine.

And still terrorized small children.

Full circle.

Neither a Borrower...

I love ancestor stories . . .

1854.

The Council House was being built in Manti, Utah, using volunteer labour.

And borrowed tools.

My GGGrandfather Stringam was one of those labourers.

With one of those borrowed tools.

In this instance, a hammer, lent to him by his friend, Augustus Dodge.

GGGrandfather, together with the rest of the crew, was busily laying flooring on the upper level of the mostly-finished building when the call came for lunch.

Setting the hammer down, he happily answered said call.

When he returned, he discovered that everyone had not left when he did, but had continued working.

And the entire floor had been finished.

In dismay, he looked over the beautiful job, knowing that, somewhere under those boards, was the hammer he had borrowed.

Yeah. I know. That happens to things I borrow, too.

Sigh.

Back to my story . . .

He found Augustus and told him his dilemma. He added, “If you’re around when that building is demolished, I guess you can claim your hammer.”

Moving ahead . . .

In 1910, fifty-plus years and a new century later, the Council House was scheduled for removal to make way for a spanking new library.

GGGrandfather, now an elderly man, heard the exciting announcement and went to observe the proceedings.

When the time came for the floor in the upper story to be removed, he was on hand to personally examine the space under every board as it was pulled up.

And finally, there it was.

Augustus Dodge’s borrowed hammer. Safe and sound.

There's a lesson in this.

Always return what you borrow.

Even it it's centuries later.

P.S. I wonder what the fine would be on that 'library book'?!

Heaven, Gustatory

 “‘Tis feasible,” my mother said,

“One day you won’t approach with dread,

The culinary preparation needed.”

“To keep your family fine and strong,

Health’s maintenance. And life prolong!”

I sighed and knew, this once, she should be heeded.

And so she set the gadgets up,

She showed me teaspoon, timer, cup,

And joyfully, she started my instruction.

And while I watched in blank dismay,

Components hybrid on display,

I feared I’d never manage reproduction.

My poor family ached long-term

Gelatinous stews that made them squirm,

And casseroles known only by their toppings.

But still my mother laboured on,

Her lines of duty, clearly drawn,

From morn till night. Without. Ever. Stopping.

Her daughter must be well prepared,

No defeat would be declared.

And suitors would not ever find her wanting.

From soup to nuts and all between,

She taught me her divine cuisine,

And introduced aromas rich and haunting.

And I learned to cook, I truly did.

Discovered secrets ever hid,

Explored the states of ‘Heaven, Gustatory’,

And though I’ll never famous be,

My friends and all my family

Are satisfied. And that, to me, is glory.

Each week, our friend of 'Porch Light' fame,

With praise and glory to her name,

Issues challenges all great and mighty.

With glee writ large upon her face,

She takes us to her happy place

And tasks her minions, aged from nine to ninety.

This weeks challenge? 

Gelatinous, feasible, hybrid, squirm, maintenance, casserole

Go ahead. Try it. It's fun!

Chalkboard Aftermath

Well, it was fun for me . . .

My friend, Cathy's dad had a wonderful job.

Magical.

He got to sneak into the schools after everyone had left.

Wander at will through the empty hallways and classrooms.

And clean.

Oh, man, it was the coolest!

And sometimes, wonder of wonders, he let Cathy and I and some of his other kids (12 in all ) . . . help.

There were times when we got to race the huge, soft dry-mops up and down the hallways.

And I do mean race.

Empty the garbage cans.

Snoop.

Did you know that the teacher's lounge of the sixties smelled like cigarette smoke?

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

And, best of all, he let us clean the brushes.

In the sixties, whiteboards were black.

And pieces of chalk were used instead of today's dry-erase felts.

These pieces of chalk marked the blackboards very effectively.

There were only a couple of drawbacks.

They had the ability to squeak against the board at decibels that could shatter glass.

And they left a lot of chalk dust.

A lot.

Especially when someone tried to clean said chalk from said blackboard.

The thick, black-felt erasers used to accomplish this quickly became saturated with the fine, white dust.

Then they had to be cleaned.

Now a normal person would simply take the vacuum to them.

A normal person.

Cathy and I were ten.

I should point out here that there is nothing normal about a 10-year-old.

Back to my story . . .

Cathy and I would collect the brushes.

Cart them outside.

And bang them together.

Imagine, if you will, a cloud of fine, white dust.

With two little girls somewhere near the center of it.

Giggling.

You get it, right?!

What on earth could be more fun?

The fact that the dust merely got relocated and that the two little girls then had to, themselves, be cleaned, never even entered our minds.

For a brief, wonderful while, we were the center of our very own little dust storm.

I can still remember how it smelled.

And, as it collected on our tongues, just how it tasted.

Magic.

There is an unexpected codicil: Fifteen years later, I was expecting my third child. Another boy.

I craved something. In fact, I could almost taste it. It took forever to figure out what that taste was.

Then it hit me.

Chalk.

I was craving chalk.

And not the light, cheap stuff that had become common.

No.

I was craving the good stuff.

The stuff that Cathy and I used to clean out of those brushes and catch in our mouths all those years ago.

The doctor told me I was lacking in minerals and gave me some pills to swallow.

Sigh.

I wish he would have simply given me some brushes to clean . . .

First Romance

Grade Twelve English 30.

My favourite class of all time.

What could possibly be better than reading books and stories and then talking about them?

Or of writing your own?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Our teacher was a veteran of many, many years. She had taught each of my three elder siblings and survived.

And now it was my turn.

Most of the time, I was fairly quiet in her class - choosing mostly to listen as the conversations went on around me. Keeping my opinions to myself, except when they could be submitted in a written format.

My grades were good.

We were working our way through a thick volume of short stories. Some exciting. Some bizarre. Some sweet and romantic.

It was during this last that I came to grief.

Let me explain . . .

We were reading a story about a man who saw a beautiful hand-made doll in the window of a local shop.

The doll affected him greatly.

It seemed to 'speak' to him.

He purchased it and tried to find out more about it and the person who had made it.

He discovered that the doll and others like it were made locally and that a woman usually brought them in to the shop a few at a time.

He tracked down the woman.

She was not the artist.

Instead, she kept the real doll-maker a virtual prisoner, and forced her to keep making dolls, which were then sold.

The imprisoned doll-maker was justifiably sad and put all of the love she would have given her unborn children into her dolls. Which was why they were so beautiful.

The man fell in love with the captive doll-maker, stole her away and married her.

And they lived happily ever after.

Okay, I admit it, when I read this story, I discovered that I'm a romantic.

I loved it.

Loved the 'happily ever after' ending.

I was excited for the discussion to start . . .

“How many of you liked this story?” the teacher asked.

My hand shot up.

Then slowly lowered as I realized that I was the only person in the class who had raised one.

“This story was drivel!” the teacher said. “Absolute tripe!” She stomped around the front of the class. “Stupid romantic nonsense! Waste of good print! Waste of time!”

She added several more derisive comments, then stopped and stared at me.

My hand was back on my desk.

“Well, I thought it was romantic!” One of the other girls tried to come to my aid.

The teacher snorted. “Hmph! Don't know why it was included in this book! Maybe as an example of lousy writing!”

The class was silent.

“Asinine garbage! Should be torn out of the book!” She glared around. “Any other thoughts?”

Let me put it this way . . . the discussion following this story didn't take up much time.

The story was given a brief technical reckoning, then dismissed.

And the class moved on to the next story.

I moved with them, reading and responding to my assignments.

Suspense.

Mystery.

Humour.

But I never forgot my first romantic story.

I read and re-read it.

Loving it more each time.

Mmmm.

Romance.

I still think I was right.

Times Table Trouncing

Me: Bottom right.
My Nemesis: Top Left.
Argh! 

I tried.

I really did.

I just wasn't . . . quite/ever . . . good enough.

Maybe I should explain.

Our grade five teacher, Mrs. Herbst, she of the blue hair, was a stickler for math.

And math facts.

Actually, she was a stickler for most school work, but especially for anything to do with numbers.

She devised many and various methods for teaching said facts.

Exercises.

Tests.

Quizzes. (Not to be confused with tests. Quizzes were shorter in length and supposedly carried less weight. And were jumped on you without notice. Yikes! Just FYI.)

Games . . .

And this is where our story starts . . .

Our class sat in desks in several long rows.

Mrs. Herbst would call the names of the front students in the two outside rows.

“Kathy and Margaret, please pay attention.”

Actually, I must confess that I don't know if those two girls were ever actually pitted against each other in Mrs. Herbst's devious little exercise, but they were two of the smartest girls in the class and I thought this sounded good.

Moving on . . .

The girls would take a deep breath and sit up, ready for what was coming.

“Seven times six!” Mrs. Herbst would bark out crisply.

“Forty-two!” Both girls would shout out together, nearly in unison.

The teacher would nod and smile.

And call out the names of the students seated just behind the first two.

“Five times nine!”

“Forty-Five!”

Slowly, she would work her way around the room.

Getting closer and closer to me.

And Kenny.

“Six times eight!”

“Forty-eight!”

“Four times nine!”

“Thirty-six!”

“Five times six!”

“Thirty!”

Finally, she would be looking at the students seated directly in front of her in the two center rows.

One of whom was almost purple with anticipation.

Okay. Me. I was almost purple with  . . . you get the picture.

The other was Kenny.

Mrs. Herbst would inhale.

My heart would stop.

“Nine times nine!”

“Eighty one!” Kenny would say, softly, before she had even finished the last word.

And just as I was drawing a breath, ready to shout.

“Rats!” I would say.

I knew the answer! I did!

That rotten Kenny beat me again!

I would sit back in my chair and glare, narrow-eyed, at the tall young man seated just opposite.

Next time, Kenny. Next time.

Selective Sharing

You want me to what???

Our family spends lot of time together.

Visiting.

In fact, if I were to pick a favourite activity, it would be that one.

My eldest daughter, Caitlin, and her family were over.

We were having a comfortable gab-fest after a hearty and satisfying dinner together.

Don't I sound like an advertisement for something?

Moving on . . .

Her Baby Daughter, nearly two, was busy playing at our feet.

She managed to put a toy train together.

All by herself.

“Oh, good job!” Caitlin told her. “Fist bumps!”

Baby Daughter grinned, doubled up her hand into a tiny fist and punched Mom gently on her knuckles.

“Yeah!” Caitlin said. “Now go and give Grampa fist bumps!”

I should mention, here, that our grandkids adore their Grampa. He plays with them.

Constantly.

Ponies. Troll under the bridge. Pirates.

But fist bumps?

The grin disappeared.

Baby Daughter gave her Grampa a sidelong glance, then, simply tipped full-length onto the couch and lay there.

Her attitude said it all.

'I . . . would rather . . . die!'

“Hey!” Grampa said. “I want fist bumps!”

His only response was a giggle.

“Hey!”

More giggles.

He never got his fist bumps.

I guess you have to be selective about what you share . . .

Hockey For Idiots

The Arena

Ice hockey season, that time feverishly awaited by millions, is firing up.

We have ice hockey in our family.

Both Husby and I have played.

But it's probably not what you think.

It has everything to do with ice.

But nothing to do with sticks, skates, thrown gloves, or referees. (Although we could probably use one or two of those latter.)

And it has everything to do with food.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Waiting for your order in a restaurant can be excruciating.

Especially if you're hungry.

And let's face it – if you're sitting in a restaurant, ordering food, you're probably hungry.

Moving on . . .

There are many things to keep you occupied while you wait.

Studying the other diners.

Visiting with your dinner companion/s.

Reading the dessert menu.

I should point out, here, that whoever designs the dessert menus is a certified genius. Everything – everything – looks and sounds stickily, creamily, chocolately, divinely delicious. Mouth-watering descriptions merely add to the pictured perfection of chocolate upon chocolate upon chocolate.

With caramel.

And whipped cream.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Where was I?

Oh, yes . . . waiting for food.

My Husby uses the time to watch the people.

But when he starts to receive a few too many irritated, uncomfortable glances, or when his reputation precedes him and we have been seated in a non-viewing zone, he must come up with some other form of entertainment.

That's how he invented 'ice' hockey.

In this activity, one uses the chunks of ice from one's glass and tries to flick them, using finger and/or thumb at one's dinner companion.

Ie. Me.

Whereupon (good word) said companion retaliates.

Because who wants to sit there and merely become a target?

We try to keep the mess to a minimum.

But don't always succeed.

Case in point . . .

We were waiting for pizza.

It was taking a long time.

Something about the cows needing to be brought in so they could be milked so the lengthy process of turning the milk into cheese for toppings could begin.

It.

Was.

Taking.

A.

Looong.

Time.

Husby was bored.

He got a chunk of ice out of his glass and flicked it in my direction.

I caught it and flicked it back.

He returned fire.

This went on for some time.

He simply couldn't get it past my ultra deft defence.

Finally, he stopped and sat there, frowning at me.

I grinned back at him.

Ha!

Then he raised his eyebrows in challenge.

Uh-oh.

He picked up his glass, which, by now contained only ice chunks and . . . upended it onto the table.

Then he fired every single piece – using both hands – at me.

It was an onslaught.

A deluge.

“Excuse me, folks, here's your pizza.”

An embarrassment.

We looked up.

The waiter was standing there, holding our pizza and staring at us.

He looked . . . frightened.

“Oh,” I said.

Grant grinned. “Put it here,” he said, swiping a spot clean.

The waiter gingerly set the hot pan down on the wet table, then beat a hasty retreat.

The pizza was great.

There's nothing like pizza after you've worked up an appetite playing a good game of ice hockey.

Especially when it's served with a large dollop of embarrassment.

Nothing.

Saying It

Two things you need to know for today’s story: 

1. We have raised a family of movie-watchers. 

2. And quote-ers. Who are now into the third generation.

On to my story . . .

       Grandson#2 (hereinafter known as GS2) was sitting at the kitchen table. Colouring. You have to know that this boy has aspirations of becoming one of the truly greats in video game design. He was understandably absorbed.

Only Sister (OS) was running around the front room. With nothing between her tender tootsies and the big, bad furniture. Nothing.

She miss-stepped.

Two somethings collided.

The solid, wooden something remained impassive. The soft, flesh-covered something let out a screech of pain.

OS proceeded to roll about on the floor.

Holding one foot.

And crying.

The busy household came to a screeching halt.

Everyone stared.

Well, almost everyone.

Without turning or interrupting what he was doing, six-year-old GS2 said, deadpan, “There goes our last female.”

Ultimate precision.

In craft.

In speech.

It’s a gift.

For those who may not have seen it: 'Our last female' from Ice Age

Dance With Me!

By request, more Bruce and Clara.

Wherein nothing is explained . . .

Her hair was down.

It was never down. Usually, she kept it scraped tightly back into a rusty, greying bun on the back of her head.

I admit it. I stared.

“It’s you!” She cooed.

Did you know people can coo? Well, they can.

“Umm . . . yes. It’s me. The same person as yester . . .”

“Don’t speak!” Her large, surprisingly statuesque body slipped around the end of her desk. She slid red-tipped nails across its gleaming surface and her fairly prosaic print dress actually swirled provocatively as she floated toward me. “Just . . . be.”

I felt my eyebrows go up. “O-okay.” I glanced around. “Umm . . . be what?”

She laughed. A soft, throaty little burst of sound. “Yourself, darling. Just be yourself.”

“Oh. That. I think I can . . .”

“Don’t talk.”

“But how can I be myself if I can’t . . .”

She placed gentle fingers against my mouth.

“. . . talk?” The word came out justifiably muffled.

“Feel the music, darling.” She was starting to sway.

I frowned. “Music?”

“Hush.”

“Hushing.”

Her arms came out, one wrapping itself about my shoulders, the other reaching for my wrist. For several seconds, we swayed to some music that only she could hear. I could feel the heat of her plump arm where it touched my back. Her hand felt slightly moist on the skin just above my hand.

“Oh, this is it, darling!” she whispered.

“What?”

Just then, showing more moves than a mime and catching me completely unawares, she sent me into a dramatic dip.

I admit it. I screamed.

Chuckling, she set me on the floor and stepped across me, heading back toward her desk. “Bring me something exciting today, Bruce?”

“Umm . . .” I thought about that one. “Well . . .”

She picked up the package I had dropped when she grabbed me. “Oooh! I’ve been waiting for this one for a long time!”

I laid my head back against the cool granite tiles and thought seriously about asking for a transfer. Then I lifted the hand still carrying my clipboard. “Don’t forget to sign . . .”

The challenge has been issued.

And accepted.

This week, Delores of Under the Porch Light gave us a choice of 'word-isms' to solve.

Sneaky, sneaky, Delores.

I chose the phrase 'more moves than a mime'.

Oh, this is fun!

Dance on over and see what her other followers have created.

Or, better yet, join us!

Teaching the Boys

We have four sons.

From the time they were born, my Husby taught them to honour women.

His approximate words?

“In the creation process, Heavenly Father made the earth and everything on it. With each day, the things He made were more and more beautiful. His final, greatest creation? Woman. How are you going to treat God's greatest creation?”

He also told them that their Father would find someone very special for them to marry.

But they had to pray for her now.

All of them took his teachings to heart.

They treat women – all women - with a kindness and respect that is, unfortunately, seldom seen in the modern world.

Even as small boys, they were gentlemen.

And they did pray.

When our third son, Duff, was eight, his Sunday School teacher asked her class of seven boys if they prayed.

Each of them nodded.

She handed out pieces of paper and pencils.

“I want you to write down the things that you pray for,” she said.

Dutifully, the boys took their pieces of paper and began to make a list.

When they had finished, their teacher gathered them up and glanced through them.

I should probably note here that the first Nintendo play system was just new.

And wonderful.

And greatly sought after.

Certainly by the small boys in this class.

Back to my story . . .

At the head of every list, each of them had carefully recorded, 'Nintendo'.

Except for one.

At the top of one little eight-year-old boy's list was, 'wife'.

Our son's.

His teacher stared at it.

Then she looked at Duff.

“You're praying for a wife?” she asked, somewhat sceptically.

“Dad told us if we started praying now, we would get someone special,” Duff told her. “Like he did.”

With tears in her eyes, the teacher told us the story.

And brought tears to mine.

I had heard my Husby teaching our children.

But it was at that moment that I realized just what he was teaching them.

And that they were learning it.

Pantie Pansies

Okay, yes, I’m on a ‘panty’ kick.

But yesterday’s post reminded me of something . . .

For four years, I had the assignment to lead the music in the children’s organization in our church.

My dream job.

Every Sunday, I got up in front of a group of children, age three to eleven and sang with them.

Have you ever heard a group of three-year-olds singing “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”?

If you can do it without tears, you are super . . . person.

There is nothing cuter in the world.

And I got to do this every Sunday!

For four years!

Sigh.

Inevitably, there were extra perks.

Because what dream job doesn't come with unexpected bonuses?

Each week, we invited the child or children who was/were celebrating a birthday, to come to the front so the rest of the group could wish them well.

Musically.

Everyone enjoyed it.

The singers.

And the sing-ee.

Afterwards, I always asked the birthday child what their favourite song was.

And then all of us would sing it.

Normally, this was fairly routine.

They would pick a current favourite.

The pianist would launch in.

The children would follow.

Occasionally, we would encounter a hitch.

Perhaps a song that was a current favourite.

But somewhere other than the church . . .

Let’s face it, launching into ‘Stairway to Heaven’, though it sounds appropriate, would be anything but.
Ahem . . .

Sometimes, they merely got the name wrong.

Case in point:

We invited little Emily to the front of the room.

Everyone wished her a happy fourth birthday.

At the top of their voices.

She was smiling broadly by the end.

I leaned down. “Emily, what is your favourite song?”

She looked up at me. “Little Purple Panties!” she said excitedly.

“Oh, I said. “Umm . . . yes.” I looked at the pianist, who was staring back, wide-eyed.

“I think what she means is “Little Purple Pansies,” I said.

The woman’s face cleared. “Ah!” She nodded in relief.

We made it through.

Though I must confess that the temptation to sing the wrong words was very strong indeed.

And who knows, maybe a song, ‘Little Purple Panties’ is just what is needed when things get a bit . . . boring . . . in church.

The real words:
Little purple pansies touched with yellow gold,
Growing on one corner of the garden old.
We are very tiny, but must try, try, try,
Just one spot to gladden, you and I.

The Dreaded Panties

Me - at my best . . .

I hated them.
Maybe it was the color. Yucky green.
Maybe it was the fit. Tight elastic on the legs.
Whatever.
I only wore them under duress, when there was simply nothing else in my drawer. And following a highly intellectual and diverting argument with my Mom . . .
"Put them on, Diane!"
"Mo-om!"
"Put them on!"
Sigh.
Being the semi-obedient four-year-old that I was - and because 'going commando' hadn't been invented yet - I would haul my little green panties out from under the bed where I had hidden them and . . . shudder . . . pull them on.
Quickly, I would then hide them under a pair of blue jeans and try to put them out of my mind by heading outside to play. 
They itched.
They crawled into unwanted places.
They made me sweaty.
Sighing, I ignored them and joined the group of kids on the corner.
Now a couple of points of background . . .
In 1959, as in every neighborhood in Canada, weather permitting, we local kids gathered. Play commenced. As our mothers were working busily in their homes, we kids ran up and down the street, engaged in one of a thousand different imaginative schemes. At lunchtime, we were called home. We ate as quickly as we could, then returned to the street. Our mothers cleaned up and went back to their ironing or canning or one of hundreds of other chores. We kids played until supper was announced. 
When the lunchtime scenario was again enacted.
Actual physical parental supervision was unheard of. We policed ourselves. Tattled on each other. Looked after each other. When Kenny fell and broke his arm, an army of kids ran to his house and brought his mother. When Brenda got sick on the merry-go-round, same thing. 
It was a wonderful, carefree way to grow up.
Also, at this particular time, my Dad and older brothers had put up our family's brown canvas tent in the back yard.
I know this doesn't sound like an actual part of the story, but wait for it.
Now, back to my story . . .
My best friend and next door neighbor was Laurie. A sweet-tempered, agreeable girl just a bit younger than me. 
She followed me in everything.
Not always a good idea.
By early afternoon, I had been wearing the dreaded panties for much of the day. They had been my largely unwelcome companions while running, climbing, crawling, doing gymnastics, climbing, rolling, spinning, climbing . . . okay, I did a lot of climbing, but that is another story. 
They were really starting to bug me.
But there was no way I would ever be able to sneak into the house to remove them.
And then it hit me! 
If I ducked into the tent, I could shed the dreaded panties and my Mom would never know!
It was a brilliant plan. Awe inspiring.
Completely fool proof.
I acted immediately.
"Were are we going?" Laurie was right behind me, as usual.
"Into the tent."
"What are we going to do?"
"Take off our panties."
"Okay."
Did I mention that I often got Laurie into a lot of trouble?
In a few seconds, the deed was done. I wadded my cast-offs into a little ball and stuffed them down into a hidden corner of the tent.
Laurie did the same.
Then I pulled on my jeans and headed back outside.
Laurie followed.
Hah! Mission accomplished. No one would ever know.
Our friends were sitting around in my front yard, breathing hard from yet another race up and down the street. I pranced to the middle of the circle with Laurie close behind.
"We're not wearing any panties!" I sang out.
Okay, so, secret agent material, I wasn't.
"Panties!" Laurie echoed.
And suddenly, Laurie's mom was there, grabbing her little daughter and running with her towards their house.
I watched them go, wondering at the shocked and dismayed expression on Laurie's mom's face.
What on earth was wrong with her?
Maybe I should point out here that Laurie's mom always dressed her in frilly, feminine dresses.
Short-skirted dresses.
I got a lecture. Something about modesty and being a good example.
Who listened.
Parents are so weird.