Doors

Daddy's Favourite!
And who better to put the topic of DOORS to rhyme than Spike Jones and his City Slickers!
I can still hear Daddy singing along...



Also for your enjoyment: The best article about doors I've ever read!
Mumblings

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?

Though some of us have just signed up,

Next week's about The Grandma Club!

The Other Boy

Shiny Black (Waterproof) Magic

It started out well.

But magical doesn’t always remain magical.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When Dad was three, his Mom and Dad came home from their monthly Lethbridge shopping trip with something special.

A pair of rubber boots just his size.

Boots that came without any pesky laces.

Overjoyed at being able to don them himself, he quickly did so. Then marched triumphantly around the house.

“Those are for walking in water,” his mother pointed out. Then she pointed out. “Outside.”

Excited at the prospect of being able to step in water without worrying about spoiling precious shoes, Dad hurried to comply.

He stood in the yard for a moment, glancing quickly about, looking for a currently boy-less puddle of water.

In the garden where his mother had been running the sprinkler, he found exactly what he sought. A shiny pool of water just the right size.

Eagerly, he made a dash for it.

For a second, he paused at the edge, letting the anticipation of the moment . . . erm . . . wash over him. Then he stepped into the water.

Oooooo!

He moved further. The water came a little higher on his new rubber boots.

For a time, he kept his eyes on the magical, world-altering foot gear as he splashed around. Then he stopped and watched the ripples slowly still. The pool became calm.

And it was then he noticed that there was a small, blond-haired boy staring back at him out of the water.

He shrieked and spun around, intent on finding either his mother or the nearest far-away place as quickly as possible.

But toddler feet, new boots, mud and water in combination don’t make for graceful, gazelle-like moves.

Hopelessly tangled up, Dad landed backside-first in the puddle. Where his amazing, magical, life-changing boots promptly filled with water.

A few minutes later a nearly hysterical, decidedly soggy, mud and tear-streaked boy appeared at the back door of the house – boots sloshing with water.

I don’t know what his Mom said. I expect something soothing – over the chuckles – as her small son poured out his story.

And his boots.

Sundays are for ancestors.

Tell me about yours!

Getting 'Real'

It started as a normal day.

Okay, yes. You’re right. We don’t have those in our house.

Consider it satire.

Let me start again.

The day began . . .

Mom had made her usual breakfast of champions. My favourite: hotcakes, sausages, eggs . . . and onions. Okay, it’s a personal ‘haute cuisine’ thing.

Cause I’m such a classy person.

Ahem . . .

Sally had been mostly absent during the meal; staring into space. Not an unusual thing. For her.

I’m pretty sure she had a good reason today, though. Mom doesn’t allow electronics at the table and Sally had just gotten a new Roller Coaster game for her DS. I’m pretty sure she was playing it in her head.

Okay, let’s not talk about Sally’s head.

Moving on . . .

Mom and I were actually enjoying the peace and quiet. Sally had been razzing Mom all week because she wanted a ‘Playstation VR’, which was, to her, the greatest virtual-reality/life-changing system ever! But, to quote Mom, was: “So far out of the realm of possibility that it wasn’t even a faint blip on the Hubble Telescope.”

But you who know Sally, also know that she doesn’t take such a frivolous word as ‘no’ seriously. In fact, the introduction of that one tiny word had been known to morph into discussions that encompassed topics from the dawn of creation to the end of days.

Mom had finally relented so far as to buy Sally the aforementioned Roller Coaster game.

For a short time, she'd been appeased.

Breakfast ended. I’d drawn the short straw, so Mom and I started the clean-up.

Sally drifted off.

As I was wiping the table a few minutes later, I saw my sister head out the front door. She had her bike helmet on. And a roll of duct tape in one hand and her DS in the other.

I really didn’t think anything of it. It is Sally we’re talking about.

Silly me.

I was putting the last of the dishes away. Mom turned, our glass milk jug in her hands. “Honey, you’re taller than me. Could you put this up there?” She nodded her head toward the upper cupboard over the fridge. “Then I don’t have to get the stool.”

“Sure.”

Such normal, natural talk.

Sigh.

Just as Mom reached out to pass me the jug, something in the window caught her eye.

I spun around and our passing/reaching ended in the shattering of said jug on the linoleum.

Neither of us noticed because I had glimpsed what so distracted Mom.

A body falling past the window.

Large body.

Roughly ‘Sally’ sized.

We jumped over the shattered mess that had formerly been our sparkling-clean source of all things milky and headed for the door.

Mom is older than me, but her aged limbs . . . okay, she’s thirty-six . . . passed me like a shot.

By the time I’d cleared the door and joined her at the prostrate figure lying in our formerly pristine flower bed, Mom had already knelt down.

Of course, it was Sally. I mean, who else would it be?

Still wearing her bike helmet, but with something added to the front.

With the duct tape.

Mom reached out and grabbed the ‘something’ and pulled it off with one great jerk; handing it to me.

I looked down. Sally’s DS. With roller coaster game still running.

Sally’s blue eyes looked up at us. “You’ve got to try this!” she gasped out. She raised herself up on one elbow. “My own virtual reality! I think I’m on to something!”

Mom shook her head and she and I stood up. I dropped Sally’s DS beside her and the two of us headed for the door.

“Hey! Don’t you want to hear about it?! I mean, leaping from the rooftop in reality as well as in the . . .”

I closed the door. Hard.

And considered locking it.

“She’ll only find some other way in,” Mom said. 

This story is fiction, although I'm sure most of you have a for-real 'Sally' in your life!
Today is a word challenge.

Karen of Baking in a Tornado takes from the repository of words supplied by her slaves good friends, shuffles them, and then gives back to those same . . . erm . . . people.

To do with as they see fit.

The result is the Use Your Words challenge!

This month, my words, satire ~ breakfast of champions ~ morph ~ haute ~ tape ~ virtual reality, came from my friend, Jenniy of Climaxed. What fun! Thank you, Jenniy.

Now go and see what the others have done with the challenge!

Baking In A Tornado

The Bergham Chronicles

The Blogging 911

Cognitive Script

Climaxed

The Phone Less Thrifty

Call me!

One of Dad’s elder brothers, Alonzo (hereinafter known as Uncle Lonnie), became a wealthy man by the simple practices of thrift, caution and wise investment.

Besides being brothers, he and Dad were good friends and often ranched together.

Which necessitated good communication.

Living fifty miles apart, this meant telephoning.

I should explain here that, in the late sixties, phone plans had not yet been invented.

To avoid the high costs of calling long distance, people resorted to many individual 'tricks'.

But, officially, you had only two options.

You dialed a number directly and paid.

Or, if you weren't certain the person you wanted was home, you dialed ‘person-to-person’ and had an operator facilitate the call. This was more expensive if your party turned out to be there, but cost you nothing if they weren't.

Understand?

Moving on . . .

Uncle Lonnie, he of the sound mind and thrifty practices, needed to talk to Dad.

But it was the middle of the day, a time when phone calls were at their most expensive. Uncertain if he would find Dad at home, he opted to have an operator place the call.

Dad answered the phone. The call went something like this . . .

Dad: “Hello?”

Operator: “I have a person-to-person call for Dr. Mark Stringam.”

Dad: “This is Dr. Stringam.”

Operator: “Go ahead, sir!”

Uncle Lonnie: “If I’d known you were actually there, I’d have dialed directly!”

Dad: “Well, I'm here!” And he hung up the phone.

Pumpkin Time

I love pumpkin. Quite a lot.

Love it cold. And love it hot.

Made in soups or cakes or pies,

I even like my pumpkin fries!

And so in honor of this treat,

I have some jokes that can’t be beat,

My grandkids found them, it is true,

And so I’ll share them, now, with you!

What waddles; is orange, white and black?
A penguin with a pumpkin pack.

How are you? What did pumpkin say?
‘I’m feeling very vine today.’

Why sits the gourd on the porch floor?
He has no hands to thump the door.

How do you fix a gourd that’s broke?
A pumpkin patch! (My favorite joke!)

What is the pumpkin’s favorite sport?
It’s squash! (They don’t play on a court…)

A pretty pumpkin. What’s it called?
It’s Gourdgeous. Please don’t be appalled…

What kind of gourd grows up in trees?
A plumkin. If you look, you’ll see.

Who helps the small gourds cross the street?
The crossing gourd. It’s quite a feat!

What’s a pumpkin that is fit?
A jock o’ lantern. They don’t quit.

An overweight-y pumpkin is?
A Plumpkin. Hey! I love this quiz!

How is a pumpkin’s family known?
They are his Pump-kin. E’en when grown.

Who is the leader of the gourds?
The Pumpking. They all call him ‘Lord’.

Best thing to put in pumpkin pie?
Your teeth. Come on now, don’t be shy.

Post-Thanksgiving, what’d gourd say?
Good-pie, All! Hope you had a nice day!

The Grands and I had lots of fun,

Just telling jokes till we were done,

D’you like them? Did we strike a cord?

I guess it’s back to the drawing board…

Each month our ‘boss’ finds something new,

And then we cogitate and stew,

Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes ‘ewww!’

The fun is sending it to you!

This month’s theme was PUMPKIN (time).

And we all got it down in rhyme!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Team Pumpkin

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Pumpkins

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: 4 Little Pumpkins

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!