A Harvest of Love

A true story.

Most visitors were welcomed in this quiet, prairie town,
But no one hailed this guest when it circulated ‘round.
With indiscrimination, it touched friends and family too,
What horror! They were stricken by the dreaded Spanish ‘Flu.

Now Uncle George’s fam’ly, were, like the others, caught,
A son and three small children gone. With sorrow all were fraught,
As one by one he brought them, and prepared them tenderly,
With aching heart, he placed them ‘neath the lonely willow tree.

Then sadly turned, with younger son, and to their land they wheeled,
Where their crop of beets awaited, frozen in the field.
But as they drove along the road, some farmers came their way,
Each driver had a wagon load. A kindly word to say.

“Sure praying for you, George!” said one. Another shook his head.
A third reached out and gripped his hand then turned and looked ahead.
One by one the wagons passed, each full as those before,
George wiped his eyes, “I wish t’was ours all harvested and stored!”

A final wagon passed, a youngster stood up and he called,
Said, “That’s the last now, Uncle George! And everything is hauled!”
Old George, he wiped a tear and put an arm about his son.
Then sadly smiled and said, “I wish ‘twas our beets that were done.”

They rode a little further and finally came into their field,
Then stopped and stared as suddenly the truth was now revealed,
The tears they'd held inside were flowing freely down their cheeks.
Their crop had all been harvested. Every. Single. Beet.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--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's Thanksgiving, we'll be frank,

My friends and me will all give thanks!

Loom-ing Old Age

I come from a long line of ‘workers’.

The enthusiastically employed, I’ll call them.

People who believed in hard work and industry. That idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

My grandma Stringam is one of the first and foremost in that long line.

The things she managed to accomplish in her lifetime are varied . . . and astounding.

Raising eleven children would probably be considered a good life’s work. But she didn’t stop there. She served her family and entire community as nurse, midwife, secretary, teacher, general aide, social leader and counselor.

Her husband passed away in 1959 at the age of 83 after a battle with cancer.

Grandma was 74 at the time and had worked many long years.

Most of us (ie. me) would have relaxed and coasted gently into our sunset years.

But Grandma decided that what she needed was a new interest.

She had dabbled in crafts most of her life. When time allowed.

Now she became serious about mastering them.

Especially weaving.

She purchased a large, floor loom.

And spent many of her waking hours (and a few of her sleeping ones, I’m sure) seated at that loom.

Creating amazing works of art.

Which she then fashioned into other works of art.

Every one of her numerous grandchildren received something from the talented hands of their grandmother.

I received several. Each carefully crafted and beautiful.

At the age of 75, Grandma, who was also serving as the Work Director for her church, was asked to travel to Salt Lake City to do a demonstration on weaving. She packed up her loom, 68 articles to display, her daughter and a long-time friend. And did it.

The demonstration.

At 75.

Grandma is one of my heroes.

Her example gives me the courage to try new things.

I love you, Grandma!

Sundays are for my Ancestors.

Tell me about yours!

Nutella Protocol

I love Nutella.

For many reasons.
This is the main one . . .

Sometimes, miracles are tasty!

Five years ago . . .

My Husby had been ill.

Scary ill.

We first noticed it in September.

He was . . . tired.

Through October and November, he just couldn't seem to get enough rest.

We attributed it to the fact that he was busy producing yet another play for our drama society.

A stressful job.

The play closed on November 21st and we were on the road for a book tour on the 24th.

No time for rest.

By the time we returned home two weeks later, he was very ill.

But he concluded that he was simply overtired and determined to get some real rest.

Which stretched into sleeping twenty hours a day.

And giving up food.

A rather important part of every day, in my mind.

In a two week period, he lost fifteen pounds.

I finally decided to ignore his protestations and made an appointment with our physician.

Who immediately ordered him into emergency.

Where they began pumping blood into him.

The next few days were touch and go as they tried to treat him/determine just what the problem was.

They finally decided that his body was systematically attacking and destroying his blood.

Not good.

Throughout this time, he still wasn't eating.

Nothing appealed.

They finally sent him home from the hospital, but with strict instructions to come back every day for more testing/treatments.

And to start eating.

Sigh.

Still nothing appealed.

Finally, as he was rummaging through the cupboard, he discovered a jar of Nutella, mostly full.

I should mention, here, that Grant lived in France for two years before we were married. Nutella was a habit he brought back with him.

Huh. Holding the familiar jar, it suddenly looked . . . good.

He spread it on a piece of homemade bread and took a bite.

It was good.

Over the next couple of days, he went through that jar of Nutella.

Sometimes spread on a bit of bread.

Sometimes on a banana.

Sometimes with a spoon.

Then he bought more.

And ate those.

He was finally eating.

I don't know what they put in Nutella.

Hazelnuts and chocolate and yumminess. And, let's face it, if you spread Nutella on a hubcap, I'd eat it.

But there must be some other secret goodness in there, because it brought him back from the brink.

And I do mean brink.

He calls it the Nutella Protocol.

I call it a miracle in a bottle.

It kept his motor running.

Gentlemen, raise your spoons!

Taken the day before he went into hospital.

P.S. Husby still struggles with this little health problem.
But with regular treatments, he is able to live a completely normal life.
Well...regular treatments along with the regular 'application' of  Nutella!

Cattle Showed

Dad (Right) and one of his classmates, Grant.
Oh, and their dates for the Little Royal.
You probably can't see it, but they are standing just outside of . . . well, read on . . . 

Dad was a veterinarian.

He received his education at the University of Guelph in Ontario, Canada.

It was an . . . interesting three years.

For everyone involved . . .

In the spring of each year, everyone in the area geared up for the much-anticipated Little Royal Agricultural Show. There were numerous displays put on by all three colleges in the area: The Vets (My Dad’s group) from Guelph Veterinary College, the Aggies from the Ontario Agriculture College, and the Mac Hall girls from the MacDonald Institute for Women.

There was also a show of livestock right on the campus.

Being a Hereford enthusiast, Dad chose to show a Hereford cow. Two of his classmates chose similarly and the three of them spent most of their evenings working with their animals, gentling and training them.

A week before the show, they decided that their animals had worked hard enough to have earned a little R and R (Rousing and riotous fun).

Because . . . Dad. I'm sure I don't need any further explanation . . .

The quiet, gentle animals were led out into the compound.

All was well.

The boys led them around the campus.

Still good.

Finally, they led the cows up the stairs and into the humans’ residence. Happily, the animals trotted along behind.

The three men and their ‘exhibits’ circled the hall to loud acclaim, (Okay, there was a lot of shouting and laughter, I’m going to call it ‘acclaim’.) and started back toward the door.

Which suddenly became blocked.

By the Dean of Men.

Oops.

For a moment, the three boys and their Dean simply stared at each other. Then, without a word, the Dean backed away and let them out onto the porch.

After a quick couple of pictures there (What event doesn't need to be recorded – or proved?), the cows were meekly led back to their barn and re-in-stalled. So to speak.

For a week, Dad walked about gingerly, expecting at any moment to be called onto the Dean’s carpet.

Nothing happened.

I guess because the cows didn't leave anything on the dorm carpet, the Dean was happy to overlook the whole episode.

Then, too, he probably knew my dad . . .

Dad-robics

My Daddy and me

My Dad and I had a trick.

Something that only Daddy and I could do.

It was my favourite thing in the world.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Dad was strong.

And tall.

He could take my hands and hold me steady while I walked up his body.

I know this sounds like something out of Cirque Du Soleil, but it’s true.

I would lift my feet and plant them on his legs, then walk up till I reached his chest.

Then - and this is the exciting part - I would flip over and start again.

It was immensely fun.

For a four-year-old, hugely entertaining.

And didn’t happen nearly enough.

Dad would come in the door and be greeted by, “Daddy! Daddy! Pick me up!”

Obligingly, he would take my hands and let me use him as an acrobatic frame for my . . . acrobatics.

Again and again.

Then smile and set me down and go on with his duties.

I would happily return to mine.

This went on for years.

Years.

Then one day, I think I must have been about eight, Dad uttered the fateful words, “Sorry, honey, you’re just too heavy for me!”

I stared at him, aghast.

How could this be?

He was still taller than me.

Stronger than me.

Broader than . . . you get the picture.

How could I possibly be too heavy for him?

But, sadly, it was true.

And, just like that, my 'Daddy’s-Frame' climbing days were over.

Sigh.

Recently, I was watching one of our youngest granddaughters climb up her daddy.

Giggling happily as she did so.

And suddenly, I was remembering.

Being four-years-old again.

Holding my Daddy’s hands.

Using his help and his frame to do my acrobatics.

Daddy is gone now.

Climbing for each of us is in the past.

But we have the memory.

My newest novel is out!

Tom, Becoming is my first romance novel in over a decade. 

A sweet, tender story of a man who changes. And re-discovers the love of his wife and family.

And community.

It's available at Amazon.

Tom, Becoming (Amazon.ca)

Tom, Becoming (Amazon.com)

The reviews so far have been stellar!

Order your copy today!

Blowing My Own Horn

Yet another Diane Stringam Tolley novel has hit the shelves (so to speak!).
Tom, Becoming, my first romance in over a decade,  has . . . become.

Thomas Burroughs is a vicious businessman.

Measuring himself only by his financial successes and his overweening ambitions, Thomas eschews friendships and family to feed this one desire.

To his business associates, he is a force to follow. At a discrete distance.

To his family, someone to be avoided.

Then a simple wooden award, tossed unheeding into the trash, sets Thomas on a different path.

Can someone who has lived his life only for gain . . . change?

Truly change?

Then, faced with the decision to live as he was or die as he has become . . .

Well, what would you choose?

My first review is in and what a sweet one!

5 stars!

Thomas has everything and it's not enough. Mean and petty just because he can be, Thomas has so much he doesn't have the capacity to know he doesn't have what matters most. A beautifully written story, an easy read but you'll want to savor every word. Perfect for Book Club because there is much to explore. Keep a box of tissues near by and be prepared to feel your heart swell. As Thomas Becomes, you will be moved in ways only very special stories have the power to do. Treat yourself and read this, slowly.

Tom, Becoming is a piece of my heart and my soul. 

My take on whether or not a man can change.

I hope you'll give Tom a read!

Tom, Becoming (Amazon.ca)

Tom, Becoming (Amazon.com)

Bread or Chocolate

My daughter and son-in-law were sitting at the breakfast table.
Over delicious French toast, they were discussing their grocery list.
The subject of bread came up.
And the best places to get the least expensive.
“We never buy our bread at the regular grocery,” my daughter told me. “That’s far too expensive!”
“Yes,” my son-in-law agreed. “We always get ours in packages of three loaves for $6.00. It’s much, much cheaper.”
I stared at him.
Okay. I admit it. It has been some time since I actually ‘purchased’ bread.
We’re a homemade kind of family.
So it was quite a shock to hear someone describe a two-dollar loaf of bread as inexpensive.
Yes. I’m deplorably, woefully behind the times.
Perhaps because I spend so much of my day in the past.
Moving on . . .
As the discussion went on, I suddenly remembered the first time I saw my Mom purchase bread.
(She was a homemade kind of person, too.)
We were in Ellert's Red and White grocery store in Milk River.
Mom had a cart and was getting important things done.
I was perusing the candy display.
Also important.
Mom passed me on her way to the dairy case.
“Diane, could you please run over to the bakery aisle and see what the price of bread is?”
I tore my eyes away from the tempting display of chocolate bars and made some quick mental calculations.
Hmm. Was there time to run to the bakery and get back before Mom again walked past the candy on her way to the checkout?
 I should mention, here, that the Red and White, though one of Milk River’s two modern grocery stores, could hardly be described as ‘large’.
There were, maybe, six aisles.
With the bakery being two aisles away.
I could do it if I scurried.
“Okay!” I shouted.
Then scurried.
There was a large sign tacked up at the end of the row.
‘Bread – 8 Loaves for a Dollar’.
I sprinted back, just in time to see Mom grab a couple of cartons of milk.
“It says eight for a dollar!” I hollered.
Mom looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Grab eight, then.”
Sigh.
I made the twelve-foot dash once more and, with a bit of finesse, managed to grab the ends of eight plastic bags.
Then I manoeuvered them into Mom’s cart.
Whew.
Mom started toward the front of the store.
It was now or never.
“Mom? Can I have a chocolate bar?”
Chocolate bars were ten cents.
Surely she could spend ten cents on a chocolate bar if she could spend a dollar on . . .
“Sorry, dear, we can’t afford it today.”
. . . stupid bread.

Game-y

The theme for Poetry today, 

Is Games our family liked to play.

I'm not sure if they're games or not,

But skiing and riding's what we got! 

My Sister. She only looks tough.

In youth, I was a daring sort,

A heedless, reckless charge-right-in.

In games, activities and sports,

In all events, through thick or thin.

My sister, she of softer mien,

Would often follow where I led.

On dusty trails or tracks unseen,

The paths where ‘Angels fear to tread’ . . .

Upon Montana’s ski slopes there,

A smooth trail beckoned through the woods.

A path, the incandescent air,

Promised everything that’s good.

But I’m a cowgirl to my toes,

Even up upon the mountain side,

I had one speed and t’wasn’t slow.

My sister’s caution, I’d deride.

Spectacular and fast, my run,

I made a final, breathless stop.

Then waited for my Chris to come,

And happily scanned the mountain top.

She didn’t show, I’m sure you’ve guessed.

She’d fallen, twisted up her knee.

And now her holiday was messed

Cause she’d been trying to catch me.

One summer, as we headed home,

Bedecked in prairie dust and grime,

From checking through the herds that roam,

(And it was nearing supper time).

The lot fell to my sister there,

To man the gate so we’d get through.

She finished the small task with flair,

Re-mount was all she had to do.

But as she slipped her foot into

The stirrup, something went awry,

Impatient me had spurred my horse

And off t’ward home this goose did fly.

My sister’s horse did start to run

And spilled her owner in the dirt

A badly injured knee (not fun),

And for my Sis, a world of hurt.

The message that I’ve tried to frame

In my telescopic, silly way,

Is: We all know the one to blame

And who the piper is we pay.

If adventure’s what you crave,

If, into sports, you plow headfirst,

Remember: Though they may seem brave,

Avoid the cowgirls. They’re the worst!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--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, because it's harvest time,

We'll talk of harvest. All in rhyme!           

One More Horse

The Depression gave us many sad stories.

But there are also stories of service and sacrifice that are truly inspiring . . .

My Grampa Stringam was a rancher.

He also served as an MLA in the provincial legislature.

It kept him busy.

And gave him a much broader scope in which to help those in need.

One morning, he announced to Grandma that he was heading over to the neighbours.

When Grandma asked why, he told her that the neighbour had a horse to sell.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know we needed another horse.”

Her response? A cryptic, “We don’t.”

Grampa disappeared, returning some time later. Without the horse.

When Grandma asked him if his business had been concluded satisfactorily, he nodded and smiled.

Fixing him with her best frown, she asked him what was going on.

His smiled widened. “I bought the neighbour’s horse.”

“But why? When you admitted that we didn’t need another.”

“Well, his wife needs medical help and he needs the money to pay for it.”

Enough said.

There is a codicil . . .

Grampa paid the man for the horse.

A fair sum for the times.

The man’s wife got the medical help she needed.

And all was well.

But there is one other point to this story.

An important one.

Grampa never did go and get the horse he had paid for.

Grandma was right.

He didn’t need another horse.

Today is Ancestor Sunday.

Tell me about yours!

A Crime of Coffin

Husby getting into character for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'.

Husby has a scar on his chin.

A long scar from a large wound.

A wound that took several stitches to close.

And I gave it to him.

Well, me and a coffin.

You’re right. Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby and I have, for more years than I care to count, been involved in the theatre scene.

Writing, directing, producing, acting, building, equipping, costuming, makeup-ing.

An almost endless round of ‘ing’.

For one of those productions, Husby had constructed a coffin.

Okay, we can’t for the life of us remember which production – one of the hundreds – but it was built for the sole purpose of looking coffin-ish onstage.

After the production, it ended up residing (along with thousands of other props and set pieces), in the large storage space belonging to our theatre group. A space that needed to be periodically reshuffled to make room for more and newer.

Ugh.

At this particular point in time, the coffin, which until then had had a special spot on the floor, was going up on top of a cabinet.

Okay, I said this was a storage room, I never said anything about safety standards.

Back to my story . . .

Husby and I were, as per usual, the shufflers. We had shifted and sorted and made room. Cleared a path to facilitate.

Hefted the coffin.

And started in.

And that’s where the whole scenario came crashing down.

Literally.

Husby, on the front end, tripped.

Me, on the back end, didn’t super-humanly grab the coffin and heft it into the air and out of damaging range.

Thus, with our forward momentum, exacerbated (Ooh! Good word!) by bulky coffin, Husby went to his knees.

And plowed headfirst into a wooden chair.

A chair that had been in the kitchen of several plays.

The bedroom of several more.

And at least ten living rooms.

A sturdy chair; built to last. I probably don’t have to tell you which - when wood met chin - lasted.

When I finally pulled the coffin off my man, he was holding a hand to his face.

And blood was dripping through his fingers.

Don’t you hate it when that happens?

After I had exclaimed and swabbed, we examined.

“I think it’s all right,” Husby said. But as he spoke, I watched the split in his lower lip puff and blow with each word.

Ewwww.

A hospital and stitchery were indicated. I drove him there and he received prompt medical attention.

And a sexy scar.

Which he gladly shows to anyone even remotely interested. While he graces them with lurid tales of his wife’s ongoing abuse.

Sigh.

P.S. Don’t ask about the scar up on his cheek from - and I swear this is true - a ‘friendly’ little game of football.

Carpent(h)er

See?

Her Mama (Daughter #2) is a carpenter.

Has been for over a decade.

Soooo . . . since long before Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as GD6) was born.

Mama is remarkably talented at building stage sets. In the dark backstages of Edmonton Alberta’s theatrical world, she is considered a tech bright light.

So to speak.

Ahem . . .

Yes. That is a kitchen...

Her mother was building sets and props in their kitchen when GD6 was only a week old.

I have a picture of Mama painting the floor of a set with GD6 snug as a bug in a carrier.

At the age of five months, GD6 and Grandma took up residence in one of the change rooms at one of the theatres while Mama was building down the hall in the shop.

It was fairly entertaining to watch Mama blow the sawdust of herself when it was time to come and nurse the baby!

But I digress . . .

To say that GD6 has grown up with it is probably an understatement.

In her little world, Mama is a carpenter. The end.

A couple of days ago, GD6 got a bit of a shock.

Let me tell you about it . . .

They were out and about. Mama collecting materials for the building of a set for the soon-to-open Pinocchio by Alberta Opera.

Then working on said set in the bowels of yet another Edmonton theatre.

GD6 had been tagging along. Watching the fabrication.

Playing on her IPad.

Doing those things she has been doing for much of her six years.

As they drove home, they passed some building construction.

A fairly common sight in the always-growing city of Edmonton.

They had stopped for traffic. There outside the window was a house currently being assembled.

GD6 sat, looking at it. Then she noticed something. “Mama! There’s men carpenters!” She pointed.

Her Mama nodded. “Yep.”

“Huh! I didn’t know there could be men carpenters!”

Truly the world is a place of surprises.

One of many.

Pocket Prizes

Mom (seated in the light-colored dress)
And her parents. And her eight brothers...

My Mom had eight brothers.
And each of them had a sister.
Most of the time, this was a good thing.
They played together.
Worked together.
And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, the boys 'protected' her.
It was a good balance.
Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.
Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.
Cooking, cleaning, dishes.
Laundry.
Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.
Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.
You never knew what you would find . . .
There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.
You cleaned your plate at mealtime.
Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.
Each of the sons and the daughter had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.
If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.
Or get creative.
Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, took the second option.
He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.
Just not inside of him.
What to do?
Hmmm.
No dog or pet was allowed inside the house so one couldn't slip food to them under the table and his parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.
His options were definitely limited.
But he would think of something . . .
When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.
Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprise.
Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.
Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes and that while he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenious and inventive method of making them disappear. He was wearing trousers. And they had . . . pockets.
What followed was inevitable.
Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.
Clever.
And, as I said, entertaining.
And that was just the laundry.
Imagine what he could do with such things as chores.
Livestock.
But that is another story.

More Than Talk

Because today is, in many parts of the world, Talk Like A Pirate Day, I am re-introducing the Tolley Pirate Ship!

From a post of July 2, 2012:

For several months, my Husby's health wasn't . . . very good. 

In fact, we were quite worried about him.

But, with excellent medical care and ongoing treatment, he has stepped back from the brink. I'll bless forever the Canadian Health Care system!

Ahem . . .

The conception and planning for a new project completed the cure.

I present his 'cure'.

The New Tolley Grandchildren Playhouse

We now have a pirate ship in our backyard.

Or as my Husby prefers to call it, a 'Pie-Rat' ship.

I won't mention the looks we have been getting from the neighbours.

Or the speculation over whether 'we know something they should know'.

And the watching of the sky for the threat of heavy rains.

Moving on . . .

Our ship is built completely out of recycled and scavenged materials.

It consists of three levels.

Spiral staircase.

Rope ladders.

A plank, ideal for walking into the family pool.

A slide.

Swings.

And a flag picturing a pie and crossed forks.

I should probably mention that we rather like pie.

Hence the renaming of all grandchildren, 'Pie-Rats'.

Looking forward

The spiral

Looking back
Photos by: Kallie Tolley

We opened it to the grandchildren - ahem - Pie-Rats, on Saturday (June 30, 2012).

Following very brief speeches.

The tossing of a pie.

And the equipping of grandchildren with the necessities.

Pirate headscarves.

Swords.

And lots and lots of food.

I think it is a hit.

Who says the Tolleys don't know how to party?!

P.S. This story was picked up and broadcast worldwide a few months after the 'launch'. Enjoy!

https://edmonton.ctvnews.ca/video?clipId=437861

Identified

Okay, they look a little funny, but we love them.

A couple of years ago, our youngest daughter and her daughter moved back to Edmonton from the west coast.

They had been away for far too long.

It was cause for celebration.

So everyone came over to . . . celebrate.to

I should probably explain here that, at that time, when all of our kids and their families gathered, we numbered twenty-five people.

Twelve of whom were under the age of ten.

Organized confusion.

Generally, the parents and very youngest members gathered in the front room upstairs to chat.

The oldest of the grandkids fled to the basement.

Where the toys were.

Now, these kids were used to being together.

And treated each other like siblings.treated

Getting along fabulously for the most part.

With occasional bouts of tears and irritation . . .

It was a fairly normal evening.

Adults – visiting.

Kids downstairs – playing.

Someone started to cry.

Our six-year-old came running up the stairs.

“Someone’s crying!” he announced. Needlessly, I might point out.

I looked at him. “Who is crying?”

Now, my daughter’s daughter hadn't been around for some time. And when she was here last, she had been a babe in arms. While the rest of his cousins were decidedly well known to this young man, this little girl was not.

He handled the confusion well.

“That baby, who I have no idea who she is!”

Ah. Identification complete.

Maybe we should put that on her passport.

The Baker

Then

My blonde-haired son with eyes of brown,

Who rode his bike all over town,

He’d reached the grand old age of nine,

Had learned so much in all that time.

But mostly, how he loved to eat,

My cookies were a special treat,

He’d lick a beater, taste the dough,

Then grab a handful, off he’d go.

But soon, my boy just wanted to

Find out how he could make them. True.

And so he watched and so discovered,

His baking soon surpassed his mothers.

Tonight he joined us in our home,

He brought his wife and kids along,

We sat and talked and had such fun,

‘Twas hard to think it'd soon be done.

The grandkids said they had a yen

Our boy went in the kitchen then,

And set the oven, got some ‘stuff’,

Then added till he had enough.

It only took a moment, till,

He, all his kids’ dreams, he’d fulfilled,

And cookies warm were on the tray,

Enough to last till end of day.

And now, it was his mom. T’was so!

Who licked the beaters, tasted dough,

Then, as the cookies, warm, emerged

Stole a few, by hunger urged.

We gathered them (Just one more bite!),

To send with folks into the night,

I watched him pack up kids and then,

I thought of ‘now’ and thought of ‘when’.

It’s not so long since he was nine,

And still so young and still all mine,

Where did the years all pass away?

Did this not happen yesterday?

Today is his, it’s his turn now,
I wouldn’t change things anyhow,

I wave to them from on the porch.

I’m happy now. I’ve passed the torch.

Now

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--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, us three, both me and they,

We'll talk of games we liked to play!           

Respect

The work is getting done. Guess who's in charge.

Husby is retired now.

As am I.

He had been at the same organization for over thirty years.

He knew the business inside and out.

Wrote most of its policies.

And conceived and implemented nearly every one of its processes.

Yep. Inside and out.

But in his organization, a new wave of up-and-comers were . . . up and coming.

They’d not changed any of the policies. Yet.

But they were beginning to tinker with the procedures.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s fine.

There are always new and improved ways to do things. I have no problem with that.

What I do have a problem with was the way they regarded my Husby.

Suddenly this man who has been a main cog in the great machine was being regarded as a bit rusty.

Out of date.

Useless.

The fact that he had personally schooled and guided every single one of these young people meant nothing once they’d gotten their momentum.

And they’d definitely gotten their momentum.

Sigh.

Our story is not unique.

I see it happening all around me. Older people who were once at the forefront of their fields of expertise are being sidelined. Disregarded.

Ignored.

Those who, though they may have fallen a bit behind in the technological side, could still be viewed (and utilized) as a source of wisdom and knowledge.

And experience.

Husby and I were speaking of it one morning. The lack of . . . respect.

Is it something the new generation has not been taught?

All of this is my long-winded way of telling a story.

Which I’m ready to begin. Finally . . .

During its heyday, the Stringam ranch was a hub of activity and a great source of employment.

Cowhands came and went. Learned a little or a lot.

But left better than when they had ridden in.

And a large part of that was due to my Dad’s example.

He led, choosing to work with the men rather than give orders and watch from the sidelines. He counselled. Disciplined. Instructed. Corrected. Instructed again.

And the men respectfully listened.

Oh, there was the occasional man who didn’t like the discipline that the Stringam ranch demanded. But even they learned to show respect during their short stay.

Most of the men went on to lives of industry. Some to direct their own enterprises.

All spoke of my Dad with respect and affection.

One man came to my parents fresh out of high school and had then stayed a number of years under the tutelage of my Dad. In his quiet way, he soaked up everything he could learn.

Then he married and finally left to begin his own ranching enterprise.

The bond of friendship remained strong.

One day, he called my Dad at Dad’s room in the local senior’s lodge. The man, and his son who was now running their family ranch, had a difficulty and needed some advice.

Who did they turn to?

My dad was nearly ninety.

His days of directing the affairs of a large ranch, riding the range and commanding crews of hired men were long behind him.

But the respect for his knowledge and expertise and the genuine affection went on.

Is this being taught today?

Do we look at the elderly people around us (and they are growing in number) and see someone who is merely old? Redundant? Stupid?

Or do we see the person they were? A person full of life and new ideas. Contender and driving force and world changer of their generation. A person who could still be a fund of knowledge and experience.

A person upon whose shoulders the newest generation is standing.

I hope so.

If not, it’s a great waste.

And a pity.

P.S. About the picture. The guy in charge is the one kneeling on the ground, holding the calf.

Sundays are for my Ancestors. Okay, yes it was about my dad again.
What did your ancestors do? I’d love to hear!