Added In

I was helping out in my grandson’s first-grade class.

An active bunch. (If any of you have seen the movie, The Lion King, you will recognize the row of monkeys in the ‘future-king-presentation scene’. They were modeled after any first-grade class you find.)

Ahem . . .

The activity I was there to help with was an exercise in caring for animals. Each student chose an animal, then was given materials to build a little compound specifically suited for said animal’s needs. Food, water, sleeping arrangements, toys, entertainment.

Because what animal doesn't need its big-screen TV, right?

Moving on . . .

As coordinator of my little group of four boys, I was entrusted with the big bag ‘o treats. The feathers, popsicle sticks, foam sheets, paper cups, string, sticks, tape, glue and scores of other building materials.

It was a large bag.

And everyone was having a large time.

One of them asked for sticks and I dove into the mass of materials and dug out a small container of bundles of sticks. Colorful little bundles of sticks.

And just like that, I was transported back fifty-five years to my grade one class.

And no, it wasn't held in a cave . . .

Our teacher, Miss Woronoski had laid out multi-colored sticks. Some singles. Some in bundles of five and ten.

And with a combination of those singles and bundles, we were learning to count and add.

I loved it.

I especially loved saying the word ‘bundles’.

I would manipulate little packs of sticks, laying them out in regimental order, and add them. Then re-arrange and add again.

Sometimes I would concentrate so hard, I would completely miss what was going on around me . . .

“Your Gramma isn’t listening to me!”

“Gramma! Gramma!”

Like now.

Sigh.

Giving Thanks

‘Please bow your head and all give thanks for blessings you’ve been given,’

I did as I was told, then thought of this old life I’m live-n.

I’ve fam-i-ly, that’s number one and a modicum of wealth,

And food to eat and clothes to wear and yes, I’ve got my health.

There’s things that I can do that make each day diverse and fun,

And friends and family to help (that keep me on the run).

I’ve tales and articles to write and some to read as well,

And always there’s a grandchild near and stories I can tell.

I’ve got my job, I’ve got my faith, I’m grateful for them both,

And even problems when they come, assuring spiritual growth.

I’m grateful for my childhood, and parents I hold dear,

And all my precious memories that still remain so clear.

My friends both near and far I simply could not do without,

I’m grateful for their caring, even when they bawl me out!

I’m grateful for my country and the freedoms I enjoy,

And happy, too, that I can choose just how I’ll be employed.

My list goes on and on and, yes, it truly humbles me,

When I think of all I have and all that I can be,

And so, today, you’ll find me, folding arms, with eyes shut tight,

For blessings I’ve been given I thank Him with all my might!

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?

Inspired by Delores, next week,

We'll talk of DOORS--it will be sweet!

The Other Side

The two of them watched as the family picked its way reverently through the cemetery, stopping to exclaim over one headstone or another.

“Look at this one!” the mother exclaimed. “This man served as a soldier in the First World War!”

Her three kids gathered around her and stared down at the marker.

“Ooh!” the oldest boy said. “A soldier!”

The three-year-old looked at his brother. Ooh!” he echoed.

Their sister simply stared, then reached for her mother’s hand.

“Come over here and look at this one!” The father had worked his way to the oldest part of the cemetery.

The family moved toward him . . .

The man snorted. “Look at them! Ooh-ing and ah-ing over the epitaphs!”

His companion smiled gently. “I think it’s charming!”

He looked at her. “Charming?! To wander among the dead, exclaiming over what their relatives thought appropriate to carve on their expensive headstones?”

“In a word? Yes.”

“Pfff.” He turned back to the family. “Look at them, wandering around in their hideously mundane existence! Just look!” He pointed to the youngest son. “He’s picking his nose. How charming is that?”

His companion laughed. “He’s a child!”

“Oh, and now he’s . . .!” The man shuddered. “You know what the difference is between broccoli and snot, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “Maybe I don’t want to . . .”

“Kids won’t eat broccoli!”

“James! That’s revolting!” She made a face.

“Yes. Revolting!” He turned a slightly nasty smile toward the wandering family.

“Well I, in probably what is a lone opinion, think they are precious! I hope they enjoy their time here today. And I dispense with any formalities and give them franchise to make a thorough and enlightening tour of the entire grounds!”

“Hmph! Like they need your permission!”

“Nevertheless, they have it!” She nodded decisively. Her face softened. “We who sleep, dream; wait 'neath marble slabs and blowing grass . . .”

James stared at her. “What are you talking about, Anne?! You didn’t wait fifteen seconds ‘neath marble slabs and waving grass!”

She laughed, rather self-consciously. “Well, I am a bit claustrophobic.”

“Claustrophobic?! How can you be claustrophobic when you’re dead?!”

“Well, you're dead too!” Anne shot back.

“Yes, I am!” James glanced at the family once more. “And here are these awful people stomping around without the least respect for the people they are tramping heedlessly over!”

“They’re not awful!” Anne said. “They’re . . .” She paused, then pointed. “Look!”

James spun around.

The little family had reached the furthest corner of the grounds. A small, slightly overgrown area, rough with tree roots from the encroaching forest growth. The father had knelt down and was pulling carefully at some grass and weeds. “Look at this!” he said softly.

“What is it dear?” The mother and her children crowded close.

“These must be the oldest graves in the cemetery! See this one?!” The man leaned closer. “Sixteen . . . something.”

The mother knelt beside him and bent over, pulling her glasses to her nose and peering over them. “I think it’s a seventy-four.” She nodded. “Yes. I’m sure it is. 1674.”

The father traced the faded carving gently. “James Marion. . . Coville? Goville?”

“I think it’s Coville. See, there has been a part chipped off to make it look like a ‘G’.”

He nodded, then pulled out a small, obviously well-used notebook and scribbled something. “James Coville.” He said. “1674.” He touched the small slab gently. “Well, that’s as good a place to start as any!”

“Wait, Dad!” The oldest boy had moved to one side. “Look! Here’s another beside it, but it has tipped over and is almost covered.”

The man got to his feet and joined him. “Huh. You’re right, son.” He knelt again and pulled away the overgrowth, then brushed off the stone. “This one has been more exposed and is more worn.”

“I can’t make out a date,” the mother said. She traced the stone with reverent fingers. “It looks like . . . Anne?”

“That’s about all I can see, too,” the father said. He stood up and studied the two stones. “They are the only two over here, so I’m going to assume that they are connected somehow and go from there.” Again, he made a note in his book.

The mother nodded. “Good idea.”

The father pocketed his notebook and reached for his smallest son’s hand. “Well, shall we go? I have a feeling that there is a lot of work to do.”

The mother nodded. “Come on kids.”

The family began to pick their way to the entrance.

Anne watched them go, then turned and elbowed her companion. “A penny for your thoughts?”

For the first time in over 400 years, James was silent.

Sundays are for ancestors. 

Today was for someone else's.

Tell me about yours!

Behind the Scenes

Just when you thought you knew what went on back there...

My daughter works in Theatre.

It is an adventurous, kaleidoscopic, challenging, exciting, sometimes disturbing way to make a living.

It also requires one to think quickly on one’s feet and handle any (and all) challenges that may be thrust in one’s way.

Because the show must go on.

Throughout her career, she has built sets, created props, installed/focussed/programmed lights, produced/managed entire shows and everything in between.

This story is about one of those ‘in-betweens’.

And the whole ‘show-must-go-on’ scenario.

The Fringe Festival was gearing up.

(The Edmonton International Fringe Festival is an annual arts festival held every August in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Produced by the Fringe Theatre Adventures (FTA), it is the oldest and largest fringe theatre festival in North America. The Edmonton Fringe is a founding member of the Canadian Association of Fringe Festivals.)

Just FYI.

Signage needed to be installed.

Attached to the existing street lights.

Someone ridiculously tall needed to be found.

Or maybe they would just find a person who could run the forklift presently residing in the Fringe yards.

The call went out, in usual Theatre jargon. “I need someone to take their lives in their hands.”

And was quickly answered by my daughter. “I’ll do it!” A forklift was a machine. A benign, helpful, non-dangerous machine. I mean – what’s the worst that could happen?

Dutifully, she slipped into the driver’s seat and twiddled the unfamiliar controls.

Her braver-than-smart co-worker stepped into the appropriately-named man-cage and buckled up.

They were ready.

They approached the first light pole.

Daughter carefully, though rather jerkily, raised the cage plus co-worker.

Sign was duly attached.

Sighs of relief were heard.

Co-worker was lowered.

They approached the second pole.

This went on for some time.

Daughter was beginning to feel quite skilled. 

Then they reached one of the 104 Street light poles.

There was nothing to suggest that this was any different than the scores of others they had already approached and conquered.

But what they failed to see was the decorative 104 Street sign dangling from the bracket on said light pole.

Co-worker saw it first. And tried to halt the inevitable: “You’re too close to the sign! Stop! Stop!! Stop!!!”

Crunch.

Oops.

The 104 Street sign, to this day, sports an impressive dent. Every time we see it (And it happens often because we are, after all, theatre people.) we point it out to whoever may be with us.

Our daughter’s handiwork.

We’re so proud.

Misnomer

My eldest son is 41.

41.
Wow. I've just realized how old that makes me.
Sigh.
The following is a story from many years ago.
When he was little.
And cute.

Okay, I still think he's cute . . .

Little Mark. And a friend.

Big Mark

Dr. Mark Reed Stringam.

My Dad.

Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. Adviser. Confidante. Friend.

Veterinarian.

Rancher extraordinaire. Breeder of purebred polled Herefords, single-handedly working to improve the beef industry in Alberta and around the world.

And succeeding.

With so great a man as his example, our eldest son could only profit from sharing his name.

And so we decided to name him Mark.

Enough background.

My parents had taken my husband, myself, and our (then) two small sons to dinner to celebrate my birthday. It had been a lovely time. Wonderful roast beef for which the restaurant was famous. Wonderfully sparkling, satisfying conversation. Two well-behaved little boys. (Hey! This is my story. I can remember it the way I want!)

We were replete. On every level.

It was time to go.

I packed the baby into his carrier and my dad picked up Mark, his fourth grandson (the first named for him) and we headed toward the door.
In the entry, we paused for a few moments, waiting for my Mom.
Mark Jr., safely ensconced in his grandfather's arms, began to look around. He discovered a pin in the lapel of his grandfather's suit jacket.
A spiffy solid-gold pin in the shape of a polled Hereford.
Oooh. Shiny.
The small hand reached out, caressing the fascinating bit of gold.
Pretty.
"Do you like that, Mark?"
"Mmmm."
"Do you know what it is?" A note of pride crept into the grandfatherly voice.
Small head nodding.
"What is it?"
Our son, the namesake of the great Hereford breeder who was holding him could not help but get this right.
We waited breathlessly for the answer.
Mark screwed up his face thoughtfully. Then smiled. "Pig!" he said.
Oops.

Bed Wars

I'm a maker-of-beds; a bed-maker, me.

I do it to make things as neat as can be.

My Husby’s a nest-er; glad burrower, he.

Rolled in the bedclothes, cocooned in debris.

I'm ready as soon as my feet hit the floor,

To straighten and tighten and tuck and restore.

While Husby, yes he of the im-press-ive snore

[Through his actions], explains just what bedding is for.

We don’t argue or fight – we’re above all of that,

We don’t even have what you might call ‘a spat’.

But with such different wishes, his – messy; mine – flat,

You’re wondering how we've avoided combat . . .

Well . . .

There’s something that you need to know about me,

I'm sneaky. Hereafter, I'm sure you’ll agree.

Through the night, he may bundle as tight as can be,

But, sooner or later, he’ll have to go [pee].

Forgive my crass blurting of natural acts,

But this is what happens. Yes. These are the facts.

As he nips to the ‘john’ to regroup and relax,

His spouse leaps from bed, morning ritual enacts.

Emerging, he sees, once again, he’s been bossed.

That his needed relief didn't come without cost.

He looks at the blankets, once comfy and tossed,

Heaves a soft, simple sigh for his Paradise Lost.

Speaking Tree

My Trees . . . and some of their brothers

It was lovely and cool for my walk this morning.

-2C (28F), which is, I admit a little cool for the 3rd of October.

It's been worse. A few years ago on the same date, it was -28C (-18F) with a nasty, evil north-westerly wind blowing. Temperature allowing for wind chill = -40C (-40F).

I walked fast.

The most difficult part of my walk is past the south end of a wide park.

In the summer, it is truly beautiful.

In the winter, with a north-westerly (see above) wind blowing, it is an open space where the elements can really get up a head of steam. 

So to speak.

As with many things in life, though, once one gets through the worst, the best appears. 

Just past the park is a stand of hundred-year-old pines.

Instantly, the force of the wind is lessened to insignificance.

There is only a soft 'hiss' as it threads its way through the green boughs. 

I stopped, as I do every morning, to listen.

Instantly transported back to a special time in my childhood . . .

In 1938, as a young man, my dad planted two pines in back of the family's home on the Stringam ranch.

Twenty-two years later, those same trees, now behemoths among their lesser brothers, sat in the front yard of the newly-constructed ranch house.

The kitchen, dining room and garage faced those trees.

And my bedroom.

It was summer.

One of those special days of pure, clear air, blue skies and soft wind.

When living on the prairies is a gift of inestimable value.

It was early. Mom had been stirring in the kitchen since dawn.

I was lying awake in my bed, listening to a sound that drifted in through my opened windows and was, at once, calming and intriguing.

I had never noticed it before.

A soft ssssssssssssss.

Mom came into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Time to get up, Pixie-Girl.”

“Mom, what's that sound?”

She cocked her head to one side and listened. “What sound, Sweetheart?”

“Listen.”

She went still.

“There. Hear it? That ssssss.”

She smiled. “That's the wind in the trees outside your window.”

I stood up on the bed and looked outside.

The two great trees were there in the front yard, effectively screening the house from the rest of the ranch buildings.

They were still.

Then I heard it again. Ssssss.

This time, I noticed some movement in the huge branches. Slight. But there if you looked.

My trees were speaking to me!

Standing there this morning, surrounded by the massive evergreens, I closed my eyes and I was a little girl again, lying in her bed.

With my mom busy in the kitchen.

And my trees whispering and murmuring to me from the front yard.

The sweet sound of memories.

That Smile

Dad was story-telling.

Surely the best of times . . .

College Boy.

Christmas, 1946. The newly-minted college boy was back from school in Guelph, Ontario for his first Christmas break.

His home town of Lethbridge, Alberta, was in a justifiably holiday mood.

Parties.

Get-togethers.

Dances.

A gathering had been organized at the new church hall.

College boy decided it would be fun to go.

Standing at the edge of the dance floor, he began to wonder if going had been a mistake. None of the people he knew were there.

Oh, there were plenty of girls.

Beautiful girls. Most of them, the younger sisters of his friends who had, surprisingly, sprouted during his absence.

He just didn’t recognize any of them.

Standing there, uncertainly, he was approached by the mother of one of said friends. “Mark!” she said. “Go and dance with my daughter!”

“All right,” he said, smiling. “Happy to!”

She moved off and Dad turned back to the large group in front of him.

Now I should point out here, that this girl was well-known to my dad. He just hadn’t seen her for a while and in his absence, she had grown up.

The nerve of her.

He studied the faces of the girls on the dance floor and milling the hall. They smiled back at him encouragingly, but recognition was no closer.

Hmm.

Finally, not wanting to embarrass himself by approaching the girl’s mother, he wandered over to a group of boys and asked them. The girl was immediately pointed out.

Dad dutifully walked over to her and asked her to dance.

Whew! Mission accomplished.

She was a pretty girl.

Fun.

Vivacious.

Dad enjoyed dancing with her.

Feeling just a bit proud of his success, he moved with her around the floor. Then he spotted the girl’s mother in the crowd.

With a large, satisfied smile on her face as she watched the two of them.

A ‘hundred-watt’ smile.

Now, as a mother myself, I can understand that smile. Her daughter was dancing with a nice, handsome young man from a solid family, who was studying to be a doctor.

A rosy future looked tantalizingly close.

And distinctly possible.

I've used it myself. Most of the time, I'm sad to admit, it’s a relationship killer.

Sigh.

This particular relationship wasn't meant to be.

Though they enjoyed the evening, the two of them never really hit it off.

Soon Dad was back at school and once more hard at work.

The young girl went back to her life.

Dad doesn't remember much about her.

She was pretty. Fun. Sweet.

And her mother had that smile.

See what I mean?

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!