Barbeque With Spirits

I have to admit that I really never know what my sister is going to do next.

There are probably those of you who would label her ‘Cuckoo’.

And I’m not disagreeing.

But I prefer the term: interesting. And since I moved in with her a couple of years ago, life has never been dull . . .

Reggie and I were sitting, enjoying the first sunshine in four days as it poured like warm honey through the picture window and across the hardwood. For once in what seemed like forever, my feet were warm.

I was absorbed in my latest mystery thriller and Reggie? well he was just absorbed, slowly swaying back and forth as he stared at the wall.

You never know with Reggie . . .

Norma bustled into the room.

I glanced up at her, then dropped my book and stared.

She was wearing a helmet. Old fashioned. Leather. Hockey, I think. Or football. It was obviously too large and had slid down until it almost covered her eyes.

Oh, and did I mention she was clutching a jar of relish? I probably should have.

I felt my eyebrows go up. Likely the most exercise I get in this household.

She was talking to herself. “Now if I just dispense it properly—” Her voice dwindled to a mutter.

Okay, those of you who know Norma are thinking this really isn’t unusual behavior. You’re probably right. But I simply couldn’t leave it alone. “Norma.”

“Hmmm?” She shoved her helmet up and looked at me.

“Ummm—what are you doing?”

“We’re having a barbeque!”

“We are.” Okay, yes, it probably should have sounded like a question, because this was the first I had heard of it, but with Norma, everything ends up a statement of fact.

“Oh, yes! She’s coming and I’ve told her to invite her friends!”

“A barbeque.”

“Yes!”

I wasn't even going  to ask about the guests. “Okay, the relish is explained. But why the helmet?”

She pushed up on her headgear. “Well, you know we need to be cautious when dealing with open flames and a helmet will certainly decrease—” Her voice faded again.

I propped my head on one hand and stared at her. “You’re—planning on sticking your head in the barbeque?”

“Pfff! That would just be silly!” She waved one hand and started forward once more. Then she stopped. “What do you suppose ghosts like on their hot dogs?”

And she was worried about looking silly? Yeah, this was a conversation I never saw me having.

She held up the jar. “I was thinking ketchup and relish.”

“Ummm—”

She propped the backs of her hands on her hips. “A little mindfulness will make any party a success!”

I smiled. I had wondered if the word ‘mind’ would come into this conversation. As in ‘someone’s lost theirs’.

She lifted the jar and stared at it, shoving her helmet up once more. “Perhaps if I—”

Again her voice faded away.

Suddenly something flew out of the open kitchen door. Something distinctly jar-like and yellow.

It hit the floor just in front of Norma, shattering and spattering my sister’s legs as it spread its contents over a four-foot radius.

Both of us stared down at it.

I looked at Norma. “Well, I guess we can rule out mustard.” 

Use Your Words

Each month Karen of Baking in a Tornado give her groupies an exercise. A collection of words from their co-groupies. Everyone submits words. And Karen re-submits. 

My words this month were: dispense ~ decrease ~ mindfulness ~ helmet ~ relish

And were submitted by my friend Rena at: http://theblogging911.com

 Admit it. This is fun.

Care to see what the others have done?

Head on over!

Baking In A Tornado
Spatulas on Parade
Part-time Working Hockey Mom

The Blogging 911                   

The Bergham Chronicles                  

Simply Shannon                            

Southern Belle Charm                       

The Global Dig                                  

Climaxed                                              

Breakfast Carbon

Daddy at 5.
Background: his brother, Bryce.
Ignore the gun . . .

Dad was the youngest in a family of 11 children.
He had never been anywhere.
When Dad was five, his father decided he was old enough, finally, to go along when he took supplies to one of the family cow camps - about 35 miles away over roads that were mostly trails across the prairie.
The two of them started out.
Though the day had started out beautiful, the weather quickly turned sour.
As often happens in Southern Alberta.
And before they could start for home, a blizzard had blown in.
Travel quickly went from difficult to impossible.
Granddad decided that he and his youngest son would have to bunk with the rotund keeper (who also served as cook, bottle washer, chore boy, range rider and chief spinner of horrendous tales) of the camp.
Dad was beyond excited.
It was his very first time sleeping away from home.
The next morning dawned bright and clear.
Something else that often happens in Southern Alberta . . .
And Granddad decided that travel home would be attempt-able.
Before the two of them left, however, they were offered breakfast by the keeper.
He made bacon and eggs and, because the old, wood-burning, camp stove was rather unpredictable, biscuits that were burned black.
At first, Dad turned up his nose at the sight of the large, black lumps, but, after seeing his father eat a couple, he decided to try.
They weren't too bad.
He even got through a second.
Safely back at home a few hours later, as they were sitting down to lunch, his mother asked how he had liked it at the camp.
Dad was quite excited about the whole experience and talked about it enthusiastically.
He wished he could have stayed.
His Mom asked what he had eaten for breakfast.
It had been great, he enthused.
And he had eaten all of it!
"What did you have?" his mother asked.
"Bacon 'n eggs 'n coal!" Dad said proudly.
No wonder people were hardier back then.

Putting the 'Father' in Fatherhood

It starts out with a snuffle--a voice he's never heard before,

And suddenly, he's a Father with a whole new world in store.

The time goes by, he's changed a thousand diapers, maybe more,

His hair's grown grey along the sides, his back is bent and sore,

He knows feeding, changing--s'expert on most everything that's sold,

Imagine how much more he'll know when his child is two days old . . .

The years fly past, his baby's reached the great old age of three,

That wondrous time when head and hands reach *ouch* above the knee,

The scars have healed from babe's first tooth, the child can even talk,

The tiny hard hat's put away--his little one can walk.

The child is toilet-trained, survived each illness, scratch and sore,

Dad knows it all. Good thing because his wife just had two more.

His babes grow tall--or he grows small--there's quite a shift in size,

He's not as smart as he once was, through his adolescent's eyes.

He's older now and he can see both sides of any fight,

But it matters not 'cause like his child, he knows that he is right.

And as he watches, painfully, the sometimes good and bad,

There's one thing that will never change--the fact that he's their dad.

And so it goes, he does his best, survives on little rest,

He goes to work each day, comes home and simply does his best.

There is little recognition for the work he does each day,

A baby hug, a chocolate kiss may be his only pay.

But he strangles his impatience as he watches tiny hands,

And he gently speaks when teenage heads just do not understand.

His prods and pushes--anger, too, he tempers, 'cause he cares,

His one reward, his children's love, he treasures through the years.

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado gathers the poets in her circle and gives us a challenge.

The theme for this month is Fatherhood.

Zip over to the others and see what they've created!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Fatherhood
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: My Boys Are Dads
Lydia of Cluttered Genius: “Daddy Wins”

Times Tabled

Second row: Me
Bottom row: My nemesis.

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!)

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. Calm. Collected. Cool.

Sigh.

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.

Dislike Mike

Old Mike, he’s quite the ornery guy,

But if you ever ask him why,

Rather than his ways decry,

‘Tis likely he’d just not reply.

Mike’s wife, upon the other hand,

Is someone who is really grand,

Tries very hard to understand,

And to placate his demands.

One day, she thought the time had come,

She’d try to please her crabby chum.

To make him happy, up, she’d drum,

The perfect breakfast. Every crumb.

His least demands, she would regard,

She’d maybe catch the man off guard.

Some notes, she made upon a card,

When he said, “Eggs. One soft, One hard.”

She cooked and stirred, then did present,

The food for which her spouse had sent,

Thereby, so hoping to prevent,

Their usual morning argument.

So carefully, she did array

His lovely breakfast on a tray,

He frowned, then nodded. Happy day!

She finally had got her way!

But all her efforts, he’d discard,

When he spoke, the old blowhard,

And said (With verve. And disregard),

“Dear wife, you boiled the wrong one hard!”

With me, Old Mike’d face no backlash

O’er his head, no dishes smash,

No screaming and no teeth to gnash.

I’d just firmly place him in the trash!

Here, Monday's are for poetry,

If, like Delores and Jen-ny,

And me. You find that you agree,

Then go to visit them and see.

And you have till midnight to vote for my book cover, Daughter of Ishmael!

Please, please go and cast your vote. I'll be soooo grateful!

http://indtale.com/polls/creme-de-la-cover-contest

Neighbourhood Haunt

You see misfortune. We saw 'scaaaary'!

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 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.

My book is still in the running for best cover!

But there are only two days left and the competition has passed me!

Please go to http://indtale.com/polls/creme-de-la-cover-contest and vote for my cover, Daughter of Ishmael! Then share! Share! Share!

Thank you so much!

A Yarn

The store with everything.
At just the right price . . .

Dad was running an errand for his mother.

It was 1937 and the family had just recently moved to Lethbridge from Glenwood, Alberta.

He enjoyed the independence of being able to walk the few blocks downtown to the big stores and was happy to have an excuse.

Plus, his mother paid well.

She handed him a quarter and he set out.

A little side note . . .

The yarn that his mother wanted him to pick up for her at Woolworths cost fifteen cents.

Which left ten cents change.

All his for running the errand.

Also, the candy store came first on his route.

Moving on . . .

Dad happily calculated how to spend his newfound wealth.

Planning ahead is everything. And his planning quickly became reality.

Then, bag of candy in hand, he continued on towards Woolworths.

Only to discover that the yarn that his mother had sent him for was now seventeen cents.

He had already spent the change.

He didn’t have enough.

Rats.

Dad looked down at his bag of candy.

No way would the store take it back.

And no way he could go home and confess to his mother what he had done.

How to fix this?

He stood outside the store for some time.

Dismay apparent.

Finally someone inside the store next door noticed him and came out.

“Something wrong?”

Dad explained.

“Oh, no problem, we have the same yarn. We’ll sell it to you for fifteen cents.”

Dad stared at them.

Surely his problem wasn’t going to be solved this easily?

But it was.

And in the right colour.

Happily he trotted home.

Clutching both candy and yarn.

I don’t know if his mother ever found out.

She had her yarn.

And Dad had his candy.

All was well.

The part of this story I have a hard time believing is not that someone noticed a forlorn little boy out on the sidewalk of a big city and helped him solve his monumental problem.

No.

It was the fact that yarn cost fifteen cents.

And that he could buy a bag of candy for ten.

I'd like to have lived in those days . . .

The cause of so much trouble . . .

Truth About Trousers

Emily

Mary

The two sisters were both loving and caring. Hardworking and generous. But there, the similarities ended.

One, Emily, was the elder. A tall, spare, maiden lady. Teacher. At times, self-professed critic.

The other, Mary, a shorter, rounder, mother of numerous children. Full of good humour and good conversation.

Emily lived with their mother in the city.

Mary, with her husband and children in the country nearby.

Mary had stopped off at her mother’s home for a short visit. Wearing—gasp!—trousers.

Something Emily had freely admitted in the past that she heartily disapproved of.

The sisters met as Mary strode down the hall toward the kitchen.

Okay, I wasn’t there, but I’ve heard the story and I think it went something like this:

Mary: Hello! I’ve dropped by for a visit! Is Mother here? (They always called Grandma ‘Mother’.)

Emily: Hello! It is so nice to see you. And yes, she is. She’s in the kitchen. (Emily and Mary had their differences in life callings, but they were always affectionate and friendly as sisters.)

Grandma enters the scene here and the visiting continues for a few minutes.

Until . . .

Emily: Mary, you’re wearing trousers.

Mary: Yes.

Emily: I really don’t care for trousers.

Mary: I know.

Emily: Mary, those trousers made your backside look big.

Mary (cheerfully): It’s not the trousers, Emily. My backside is big.

Emily: Ummm . . .

I mean, how can you respond to that?

I don’t want to make Emily look bad here. She was a kind person, who just happened to disapprove of women in trousers. Particularly her sister whom she loved.

But I’ve just decided. When I grow up, I want an attitude like Mary’s!

Some stupendous news!

The cover for my newest book, Daughter of Ishmael has been nominated for an award!

Please, please, please go to this site and vote for it.

I promise to love you forever . . .

And if you share this news among your friends, I’ll love you even more!

http://indtale.com/polls/creme-de-la-cover-contest

From Here to There

Source: I Heart My Snap
Boy on the bridge

Life is a bridge from here to there,

Some years of joy, some years of care,

It's sometimes hard, while forward bound,

To stop.

And take a look around.

At times, clear footsteps on the wood

Will tell you life is sound. And good.

With all things joyful in your track

You look ahead, and never back.

But other times the winds will blow,

And send down hail, and sleet, and snow.

The struggle's more than you can bear,

You're bowed before your load of care.

Then storms move off, as all storms do,

The sun returns, and warmth anew.

And life goes on, from day to day,

With times of toil and times of play.

Life is a bridge from here to there,

Some years of joy, some years of care.

And though it's hard, while forward bound,

Please stop.

And take a look around.

Welcome to Poetry Monday!

The perfect way to start a new week.

Delores and Jenny are also involved.

Zip on over and see what they have done to start their week!

Getting What You Want

Oh, hey. While you're up . . .

Okay, yes, he probably would have gotten it anyways.
But the genius is in the method of asking . . .
There was often pie in the Stringam household.
Fresh-baked and flaky and amazing.
Much of the time, amazing meals were followed by even this more amazing dessert.
Which just nicely topped off a very satisfying experience.
Or occasionally, later in the evening, a snack of the same would also go down very well.
Just because.
But when it didn't appear spontaneously, Dad would facilitate matters by asking.
And that's when things got interesting.
He could probably come out with such zingers as: Ooh, lovely meal! Did you plan to serve some pie? -or- I saw some of your wonderful pie! Any chance of getting some?
I mean, that's what I would have done.
But not Dad. No.
His requests were couched in a more 'creative' manner.
This was usually preceded by a clearing of the throat. "Enes, (my Mom's name) my dear, would you mind terribly getting me a small scoop of ice cream?" (Picture hands indicating something football sized.)
Then, as Mom nodded and started toward the freezer: "And could you please slide a piece of pie under it?"
See? Creative.
And soon Dad was happily munching.
Usually joined by whoever was present for the exchange.
A pause here while I picture past delicious-ness. Mmmm . . .
Occasionally, he would change things up a bit.
Come out with a request that was equally entertaining.
And effective.
"Enes, my dear. Grant (or whoever may be sitting nearby) needs a slice of pie and ice cream. And while you're at it, could you bring me one?"
Why just ask when you can ASK.
Right?
Hmmm. Now I'm craving pie.
Excuse me . . .

Happily Hammered

Grandma and Grandpa Stringam. Where the humour comes from . . .

My Dad had a great sense of humour.
He came by it rightly.
Let me explain . . .
Dad was in Lethbridge, running errands, shopping.
He stopped by the local hardware store.
There, in a bin just inside the door, was a pile of hammers.
Ordinary, wooden-handled hammers.
He stopped.
He was a rancher.
Hammers were in constant use.
Building.
Repairing.
And they were just as constantly disappearing.
He could always use another one.
He reached out, picking up the one on top.
And made an important discovery.
These weren't normal hammers.
They were light rubber.
But painted so perfectly that they could easily fool even the most scrutinizing (real word) glance.
The only way to tell was to actually pick one up.
Dad picked up several.
In fact everything the store had.
On his way home, he stopped off at his parent's comfortable home near the center of the city.
His father, George, a man past eighty, was seated in his recliner in the front room.
Sounds and delicious aromas were emanating tantalizingly from the kitchen.
Obviously, Dad had come at a good time.
He walked in, tossing a greeting to everyone in general, then entered the front room.
And whacked his father on the knee with one of the hammers.
Grandpa jumped.
"Oh!" Then he chuckled. "I thought you had lost your mind!"
Dad laughed.
Grandpa reached for the hammer. "Well. Isn't that remarkable!" He turned it over and over in his hands.
Then he leaned back in his chair. "Vina!" he called.
My Grandmother bustled in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. "What is it, George? Dinner's almost . . ."
That's as far as she got.
As soon as she came around the corner, Grandpa threw the hammer at her.
"Oh!" she said as the soft rubber bounced off her chest. She put one hand to her heart. "I thought you'd lost your mind!" she gasped, unconsciously repeating Grandpa's words.
Grandpa chuckled as Grandma picked up the trick hammer and threw it back at him.
Yep. Humour is inherited.

Fashion Police

Sure. Now she's smiling...

Studying for final exams is hard work.

Time consuming.
Often lasting into the wee hours of the morning.
And even, at times, throughout the night.
It was exam time.
My roommate, Debbie, and I were cramming, comfortably dressed in something warm and comfy.
The clock struck three AM and there was no end in sight.
Time for a pick-me-up.
Food was indicated.
Preferably hot food prepared by someone else.
Someplace else.
Now, I should mention, here, that I always wore a long nightgown. High at the neck, full sleeved. Lovingly made of dark red flannel by my mother.
Disclosing nothing.
Debbie was also dressed in flannel. But there all similarity ended. Her flannel was in the form of ‘jammies’.
Pyjamas that had once consisted of a button-front jacket and long pants.
The jacket was now held shut by one last, tenacious button.
The pants had long since ceased to even approximate reaching the ankle and were now permanently formed to the bend of Debbie’s knee.
She loved them.
But fashionable, they weren’t.
Back to my story . . .
Our minds were too fuzzy from studying to even consider changing our clothes.
Okay, yes, there could be a valid argument made for said fuzzy minds operating machinery, ie. the car, but it was 3 am. Who would listen?
I threw on the long dressing gown that my Mom had made to go over my long nightgown.
And a coat.
I was ready.
Debbie had her short car coat which reached just above her knee. Said coat left an obvious several inches of creatively bent ‘jammies’ hanging below.
Hmmm . . .
She frowned slightly, then leaned over and rolled up the tell-tale flannel.
All was well.
We set out.
Now there weren’t many places open to the public in Lethbridge, Alberta at 3 AM in 1974.
But, happily, the pizza place was.
I pushed the door open.
Every head in the joint turned to look in my direction.
All two of them.
Both cops.
I smiled and waved cheerfully and they smiled back.
Then their attention turned to the girl behind me.
The one frozen in place with one hand on the door.
And a pyjama leg dangling obviously below the hem of her coat.
They stared at each other.
One of the policemen beckoned.
Debbie shook her head, backing slowly towards the car.
I frowned at her.
What was the matter?
A moment before, she had been cheerfully ready go out in public, unconventionally dressed as she was.
What made the difference?
Policemen?
I could guarantee that they had probably seen much worse than a couple of girls collecting a pizza while dressed in pyjamas.
But Debbie retreated to the car and left me to pick up the pizza by myself.
Sigh.
Jammies. Good for everything. Lounging. Studying. Sleeping.
But used for dining out only under certain circumstances.
So if you’re planning a late night run to the restaurant?
Wear your nightie.

My 'Great' Aunt

Teacher of all things important.
Care-taker extraordinaire.

Sometimes you think you know someone.

But you really don't . . .

My Dad is the youngest of eleven children.

Nine boys.

And two girls.

The youngest girl, my Aunt Mary, was a short, round, happy lady with numerous children and even more numerous grandchildren.

More about her in another post . . .

His other sister, Emily, was an entirely different person.

Emily was the eldest child in the family.

She was a tall, spare, maiden lady.

Erect and correct.

And I was terrified of her.

Emily had served a mission for her church in her early twenties.

Briefly - and tragically - entertained the thought of marriage.

And lived the rest of her life teaching home economics and helping her mother care for the family home.

She was the professed cleaner to my Grandmother's cooking.

The maker of everything tidy.

The bestow-er of a set of sewing scissors to every niece who reached grade nine.

And the dragon in the den at the top of the stairs.

A note . . .

Aunt Emily's office was the first room to the left as one went up the stairs of the family home.

It was a lovely place. Neat and organized.

With a little window/door that opened out onto the roof/sundeck of the garage.

Us kids loved to sneak into that room and let ourselves out onto that deck.

But only when Aunt Emily wasn't about.

Back to my story . . .

Throughout my childhood, I loved visiting Grandma Stringam's home with my parents.

But walked softly around Aunt Emily.

When I was eighteen, all of that changed.

I had moved to the city to attend college.

Journalism.

Go figure.

For four months, I stayed with my Grandma and Aunt Emily.

At first, though I'm sure they tried to make me feel welcome, I spent very little time in their home.

Choosing, instead to study at the college or at a friend's and returning only at bedtime.

Then I got sick.

Really, really sick.

Strep throat.

Ugh.

One evening, after we had put the paper to bed (a newspaper term for sending everything to the press and washing our hands of all responsibility), I collapsed.

My friends carried me, quite literally, to my grandmother's home and to my little bed on the second floor.

I remember very little of it.

There, safely ensconced, I lost all consciousness for several days.

Someone took care of me.

Gave me liquids.

Fed me.

Cleaned up after me.

Helped me to the bathroom.

Hauled me to the hospital for a shot in the backside.

I do remember that . . .

And generally took excellent care of me.

As I slowly became more cognisant, I realized that the person who had been so patiently and lovingly nursing me was my scary Aunt Emily.

One afternoon, I opened my eyes and felt . . . almost human.

Aunt Emily appeared beside my bed.

“Feeling better?”

I nodded uncertainly.

“Oh, I'm so glad! I'm going to the store to get you something special. What would you like?”

And it was then that I realized that eighteen years had gone by without me knowing my special aunt at all.

Eighteen years of misunderstanding and unwarranted fear.

Wasted years.

I wasted no more.

In the following weeks and months, we became friends.

Aunt Emily died at the age of 85 from complications following surgery.

We were given twenty five years of friendship.

I will always be grateful.

Fastidious-ness

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--even fastidious--about what you share . . .

The Sendoff

Another 'Daddy' Story:

It's all true!

“Great Grampa,” said the strong young chap,

You’ve lived a very long lifetime,

Please share with me just what to do,

To stay forever in my prime.”

The aged cowboy tipped his hat

And gave the boy a level look,

“Don’t git your lariat in a knot. There

Ain’t no script and no guidebook.

But one thing I kin tell you, sure,

(Though first, the thought may not appeal!)

It has to do with eatin’, Son,

Each mornin’, gunpowder on your meal.”

The boy just nodded. That, he’d try.

Then every day, without debate,

He’d sprinkle just a pinch or so

Of sulfur, charcoal, and nitrate.

Yep. Every morn on his oatmeal.

It worked! He saw a hundred three,

And when he died, at that great age,

He left a large posterity.

He left his children. (Fourteen!) Yep.

And grandkids? Thirty. It is true.

And great-grands, forty-five of them.

And great-greats? five and twenty. Whew!

And there’s one more thing he left behind,

I’ll mention it and then I’ll quit.

The handsome crematorium?

Now a twelve-foot, smoking pit.

I love Mondays!

Because the week begins with Poetry!

Delores and Jenny agree with me.

Hop on over and see what they've created this Monday.

Oh, and have a great week!