Floored

I love ancestor stories . . .

1854.

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

And borrowed tools.

My Great Great Grandfather (hereinafter known at 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'?!

Starting Out Bad

Our second son, he of the six foot eight inches in height, has been a pillar (pun totally intended) of the local city police force for nearly two decades.

But, the experiences he has gathered over all of those years, serving as one of Edmonton's finest, still haven't been able to erase the experiences of his early days of training.

Case in point:

Each new officer must demonstrate his ability to continue to work under the most trying and difficult of circumstances.

Scenarios are crafted especially to create such a premise.

One of these is designed to demonstrate how well the new officer can function after being sprayed in the face with pepper spray.

The recruit stands to one side of the exercise yard and receives, directly in the face, a full dose of pepper spray.

That would be where a lessor man, ie. me, would just lay down and die.

But this is only the beginning.

Once sprayed, the officer, nearly blind and almost incapable of breathing, must call for backup and subdue and handcuff not one, but two suspects. Then finally, he may find his way to the sink at the far side of the yard to receive the blessed spray of water to clear eyes and air passages.

It is a gruelling, trying five minutes.

And ends with said recruits silent and contemplative as they sit blinking brilliantly reddened eyes, and breathing blessed pure air.

Fortunately for them, with the completion of this test, that particular day of training is over.

Family members are allowed to come and pick them up.

My son performed well.

He thinks.

Certainly he received a passing grade.

One can only assume what must happen if a recruit receives a failing grade . . .

Moving on . . .

As he sat there, blinking and sniffing, his new wife (of less than a month) arrived to take him home.

With much sympathetic cooing, she tucked him into a corner of the couch.

With a cool compress for his poor eyes.

And a warm, snuggly blanket.

Then she made him a batch of her famous cookies.

Remember where I said that his more recent experiences haven't erased those of his early training?

Well, I didn't say they were all bad.

Clock(s) 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, Daddy 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.

Many 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:

At the age of 89, failing health forced many changes for Daddy. The first was the giving up of his beloved workroom. There were no more clocks from those gifted hands.

Then, a year later, he went home.

Suddenly, my collection took on a whole new meaning.

Demon Cleaner

See? Don't you wish you had one?
Mom's had little white 'eyes'.

Mom’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.

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.
Or use the handy-dandy 'chalkboard spinner' in the basement.

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 . . .

Sharp and Pointy

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.

A Very Tall Tale

It's Poetry Monday again!

Today we're discussing Vacation Days.

My joy of vacation days? The freedom to continue telling silly stories . . .

The good Lord read a new report that made him feel quite grim,

Now I have to tell you this report did really not please Him,

It said, of his retirees, only 5 percent were good,

While 95 percent were doing other than they should!

The good Lord was admissibly dismayed by all He read,

And sent another angel to endorse what had been said.

Sadly, when the man returned, he’d confirmation, true.

95 percent were doing things they shouldn’t do.

The good Lord sent an email to the 5 percent who tried,

To tell them they were doing well and he was satisfied.

But now a question I must ask, you really can’t ignore…

I haven’t got my email yet. Have you all gotten yours?

Mondays to get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thought--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week as we come and go,
We'll talk of people that we know!

Crossing the Plains

It was 1848 and the time had come.
Paternal Great, Great, Great Grandmother Polly Hendrickson Stringham's daughter, Elmeda and her husband were living in a small community in Nebraska.
It was their turn for a move west.
A couple of experiences in Elmeda's words:
We were very busy getting ready for our departure to the valley in the mountains where the first pioneers had located a permanent home for the poor travel worn people.
We had a good team of 2 oxen, also 2 cows, 2 heifers, 2 chickens, 1 pig and 1 horse with provisions enough to last a year, so we were all very happy to be on our way to our future home.
We crossed the Horn River on a raft, where we joined the camp under the leadership of Heber C. Kimball and were placed in Brother Isaac Higbee's company of 60 wagons.
At one time on our journey along the Platte River, a band of [natives] came to our camp.
They were always asking for food and watching a chance to take a horse or ox.
They were given as much food as we could spare, for it was wisdom to keep on friendly terms with them.
I noticed a fine-looking [native]--evidently the chief--talking to my husband, counting on his fingers as though offering something in a swap or trade.
My husband kept shaking his head--no--no. 
Afterward, he told me the Chief wanted to buy me, offering him 20 ponies for me.
After that incident, we women were cautioned to stay close by the wagons when we were walking ahead of the train.
We arrived in the Valley September 24, 1848 and camped in Pioneer Square.
As soon as we were camped, the women of the company got our kettles of water hot and went to washing our dirty clothes...

Here's where I mention that, for me, any long journeys are never undertaken without hotel (and quite possibly dinner) reservations.
And though I admit I would have been a bit flattered to be a '20-horse-woman', I'm just as happy that, for me, a kettle is used strictly for making tea.

Sundays are for Ancestors!
There are just so many stories . . .

Empty

I should probably mention, right up front, that Husby and I are empty-nesters.
For the first time.
It's been quite an adjustment.
First, there were our six little chicks and those years of 'oh-my-word-what-else-could-happen'!
You know what I'm talking about.
Then there were the moving-out-to-go-to-college-serve-missions-and-or-in-the-army years. And the moving-back-in when those cycles passed.
A lot of to-ing and fro-ing.
Then there were the marriages. And the moving-back-in-with-mom-and-dad-while-we-save-for-that-all-important-deposit-on-our-first-own-home phase.
And now, with each ensconced in their own place, Husby and I are well-and-truly alone.
Fortunately, most of our chicks and chicklets are nearby, so there is still quite a bit of to-ing and fro-ing.
But for the most part . . .
Today, this being alone really struck home. (So to speak.)
I was in the kitchen. We had some overripe bananas that were just calling out to be made into the yummy, deliciousness that is known as banana bread.
Note: Bananas really do call out. You just have to be on the same wavelength to hear them.
Ahem . . .
I finished mixing the batter and pulled out the beaters. Then, out of habit, I called out, "Anyone want to lick the bowl?"
That all-important point wherein the lucky contestant is handed the big mixing bowl and a spatula.
And for the first time--ever--no one answered.
No little bodies came swarming eagerly up the stairs.
No one appeared in the kitchen doorway.
There was no fighting. No arguing over 'who-got-it-last-time!'
Nothing.
I stood there, spatula half-raised, and stared at my empty kitchen.
And realized that empty-nesting is not all it's cracked up to be.

P.S. Okay, yes, I got to lick the bowl, also for the first time--ever--but it was only slight compensation.

Spun Pudding

Daddy, George and Me.
I'm the one in the dress . . . and curlers.

My Dad had made me a new toy.
It was a large - very large (about 5 inches in diameter) button on a string.
Intriguing.
You would thread a long, heavy string through the holes of the button and knot it. Then you would push the button to the centre and grip one of the two loops of the string in each hand.
Now you held something that resembled . . . a button on a string.
But then came the exciting part. If you wound up the button, you could pull the string out away from the button on each side and it would unwind and rewind the opposite way.
If you handled it just right, you could keep it going.
All day.
Which I did.
And it created a bit of a breeze if you got it going very fast.
Which I also did.
Enough background . . .
Mom had just made a large pot of pudding and set it on the cupboard to cool.
I was waiting, rather impatiently, for the temperature to drop below the boiling lava stage.
That was when I got my, to date, greatest idea.
My button could generate a breeze. I had felt it. It would cool the pudding and I could eat it that much faster!
I pushed a stool over to the cupboard and climbed up.
Carefully, I manoeuvred my button over the pudding and pulled the strings.
It worked!
For a moment.
Until I relaxed my hands on the ‘rewind’ or maybe the ‘unwind’ stroke.
Then, it dipped and skimmed the top of the scalding hot pudding straight into my face.
And my hair.
And the ceiling.
The covering properties of a button on a string have never been fully explored. I think they should be.
I believe Mom was cleaning up pudding from the most impossible places for months.
Long after I had healed.
P.S. I still like pudding. I just prefer it on the inside.

Hockey for the Hungry

The Arena

Ice hockey season, that time feverishly awaited by millions, has just ended.

A moment of silence . . .

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 getting paid, sticks, skates, thrown gloves, or referees. (Although we could probably use one or two of those latter.)

And has a lot 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 water 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 immediately follows a large dollop of embarrassment.

Knowing the Quoting

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

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

  2. And a family of movie quote-ers. Who are now into the third generation.

On to my story . . .

       Six-year-old 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

Fluff

No

Yes

Remember the 'fashion' dolls of the fifties?

The straight-standing, frozen featured, supposedly beautiful dolls?

That creative people crocheted or knitted clothes for.

Or sunk into cakes.

Those dolls.

Well, besides being known for arriving 'without wardrobe', they were also known for their pre-styled, fine, beautiful hair.

Hair that was not comb-able.

That stuck together in a tight ball and defied any efforts at style change.

I know that hair well.

Because I was born with the same stuff.

Fine.

Soft.

And matted permanently together.

Candy-fluff hair, my Mom called it.

Okay, 'candy fluff', I loved.

Candy fluff on my head?

Not so much.

Every morning, and several times throughout the day, Mom would come at me with a comb.

Or some other implement guaranteed to make my hair behave.

None of them worked.

All of them . . . hurt.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! I'm almost done!”

Me: “Waaah!”

And so it went.

As I grew, my hair . . . changed. Subtly.

Oh, it was still fine and soft.

But it no longer stuck together in one fuzzy lump.

No.

Now it stuck together in several fuzzy lumps all over my head.

Sigh.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! There's just one more!”

Me: “Waaah!”

Finally, by about age eight, I outgrew the 'fuzzies'.

But made another important discovery.

Yes, my hair no longer matted together, defying all attempts at style.

And it was now longer and straighter.

But . . . it still hurt to comb it.

Yes. I was a hair wuss.

Mom: “Diane, hold still! Your hair will look beautiful!”

Me: “Waaah!”

Finally, in frustration one day, she uttered the fateful words, “Diane, don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”

I stared at her. “Really?”

She nodded sagely.

Wow.

I put it together.

If I suffered, I would be beautiful.

It was that simple.

This went on for several years.

Every day, I suffered.

Every day, I looked in the mirror.

Nope. Same face as yesterday.

Finally, at age fifteen, I challenged my mother's hypothesis.

Me: “Mom! I've suffered! Why aren't I beautiful!?”

Mom (In true 'Mom' form): “Oh, honey, you ARE beautiful!”

Right. Waaait. I see where this is going . . .

Moving ahead several years . . .

I was combing my granddaughter's fiery red, naturally curly hair.

ME: “Kyra, hold still! I'm almost done!”

Kyra: “Waaah!”

Me: “Don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”

She stared at me. “Really?”

And so the story continues . . .

Gnome, Sweet Gnome

‘Twas a surprise, my Husband said, this gnome with lederhosen, red,

Cause I needed something to regard, and help adorn my dreary yard.

His words embarrassed, just a bit, but rather than to pitch a fit,

I tried to show him I was pleased, and smiled and gave my man a squeeze.

Then dutifully, I embraced, my acquisition and I raced,

To prove to Hubs I was a fawner, I put it in a place of honour.

And there it sat, all smiles and glee, and pleasing everyone but me.

But Hubs was happy, so I was, too, and life went on a day or two.

“I saw him in the window, thought... they’d be a pair, and so I bought!”

And thus he brought Gnome number two. This one, with lederhosen, blue.

Dear Husband bought with such great glee. And so I placed it carefully,

And now two faces in my yard, dressed red. And blue. And standing guard.

“A little trio! Look. And See. That one is there on bended knee.

‘Tis a proposal… (Oh, what fun!) …of marriage to that other one!

The third a preacher. Ready. Set. Just how much better can it get?!”

And thus acquired four, five and six. And added to my little mix.

And so it went. With each new day, more little figures came my way,

For Husband, thinking they gave joy, bought little Gnomish girls and boys.

And I placed each and every one, to try to please my Honeybun.

And soon, one couldn’t walk or run, without colliding with someone!

Now my yard’s crowded, oh, dear me! There’s gnomes as far as one can see,

Some are seated, some stand up. They’ve kittens, horses, birds and pups.

I think there’s three that carry snails. Look! One has brought me gnomish mail!

Those painted eyes, they do not see, repeated pleas to leave me be.

And so I know what I must do, to save my yard (and reason, too).

I’ll have a little garden sale. It’s what I need, it cannot fail!

The sign, I’ll make so carefully, it’s letters large and filled with glee:

For sale, one husband, not alone, with him come 80 Garden Gnomes!

Mondays to get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thought--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week through our working haze,
We'll celebrate vacation days!

Men in Training

To all the amazing Fathers.

And especially to those in my life...

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.