It’s All Relatives

Two of my relatives.
Gramma and Grampa Stringam

I love to hear the stories of my relatives who went before,

Great Grandfather, whose neighbour’s hammer helped to build a second floor,

Then, when he went to lunch, was buried somewhere neath those planks of yore,

Discovered when that place was razed at the ripe old age of 54!

For a visit, Grandma took four kids and she was heading home,

Was quite a distance train and wagon, that those five would have to roam,

When partway there, their not-so-trusty beasts belied their chromosomes,

And backed the wagon off the cliff at the apex of the mountain’s dome.

When Grampa found some steer’s legs hidden far beneath the large hay pile,

He knew a poacher had been there. He brought police ‘cross country miles,

A young dad charged, his starving kin had nowhere they could stay a while,

Gramp took them home and had them stay till Dad’s return brought back their smiles.

1918, the world was in the grip it called, “The Spanish Flu”

But Grampa’s family lived on onions—seemed to make them all immune,

For several weeks, he did the chores of those in Stirling’s small commune,

Milking cows and feeding stock from rise of sun to rise of moon.

Gramma, she was famous for the cookies baked at Christmastime,

Selections packed in tins, but there was one we all found so sublime,

Those were the first that disappeared. Be it snacks or mealtimes.

When she passed, she took the method with her. It was such a crime.

My mom was famous for the scrumptious pies that she would always bake,

In groups of six, they left her oven, for her fam-i-ly’s intake,

Now, once a year, on March 14, we think of Mom as time, we take,

Constructing crusts and fillings for our flaky Pi Night bellyache.

When I and Future Husby went for what would be a date, our first,

My Daddy locked the door on me, I tell you, it was just the worst,

We broke in through a window and I breached the hallowed halls headfirst,

And Dad forever teased about our ‘break-and-enter’. May he be cursed.

Each one of them has stories and I’m fortunate I have their store,

And as I read them, I’m excited. Truly, how could one be bored?

And they must be remembered, so I vow to never close that door

On those wondrous thrilling tales of relatives who went before.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we,

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Merry Mae

Next week, cause it’s my favourite, true,

We’ll talk about the colour: BLUE!

Watch-ing

Mark. Keeping watch.

1945. Mandatory military training in Cornwallis, Nova Scotia.

To the young man attending college in Guelph, Ontario, it was a two-week adventure . . .

Canada is a big country.

Mark had never been past Guelph, Ontario. Actually, before college, he had never been east of Alberta.

Like millions of other servicemen, the military life was his first glimpse of a wider world.

The highlight was a stint on the disabled destroyer, HMCS Saguenay, on permanent anchor in the harbour at Cornwallis.

While on the destroyer, one of the duties of the young would-be sailors was a turn on anchor watch.

A fairly mundane exercise.

All one had to do was ‘watch’.

You’d think it would be easy.

Two things you need to know:

1.  There was a strong wind blowing and

2.  Mark's friend, Bill, had very poor eyesight.

Back to my story . . .

It was 2 AM and Bill was just coming on watch.

As he stepped up onto the deck, he realized that there was quite a stiff breeze coming in off the water. Quickly, he grabbed the strap of his hat to pull it under his chin and behind his ears.

The wind was quicker.

It took his hat—and incidentally his glasses—out to sea.

As his watch was only two hours in length, he assumed he could get along without the extra paraphernalia and didn’t bother to report the problem.

He was wrong.

Remember what I said about Bill’s poor eyesight?

That comes into play here.

Being on anchor watch consisted of keeping track of certain lights on the shore.

If the lights were out of position, the boat was out of position.

Bill couldn’t see the lights.

And when the ship broke loose from its anchor (because of course that would happen now), Bill couldn’t tell.

Until the ship ran aground near the shore.

The men were jolted from their bunks and the call for ‘All Hands on Deck’ brought them topside.

The tide was high and the ship had to be refloated before it went out.

Fortunately, there was a tug nearby and the job was accomplished quickly and with little problem.

Still, to the land-bound sailors, it was an adventure.

And they learned something:

Turns out, if someone is on watch, they need to be able to...you know...'watch'.

Sooo, if for some reason one can’t do a job, even for a short time, one can’t do a job.

Good advice.

Another picture of Mark. Also keeping watch. Ahem.

Hooked

1940. Lethbridge Alberta. The Safeway meat department.

A whopping $.25 an hour.

A fifteen-year-old new employee had just gotten his first glimpse of Heaven . . .

Moving into the big city had been an adventure. For a boy used to chores and hard work, it was a reprieve. For someone accustomed to few people, it was an education.

For a lad whose only source of income to date had been an allowance, it was admittance into the world of high finance.

Mark loved working at the meat counter. He soon got through the basics of sorting, assisting and wrapping and was working on learning to cut—first with knives and then with the machines.

Nothing says ‘you’re a man’ quite like a job that involves things sharp and deadly.

And/or power tools...

And to add to the perks of the job, he got along well with his co-workers.

Life was perfect.

However, like most work places, there soon proved to be a joker in the midst.

Garth, one of the younger cutters, sent Mark on an errand.

Back to the storeroom for a ‘sky hook’.

Obediently, Mark disappeared.

For some time, he searched the orderly shelves and office, growing more and more alarmed when what he sought simply couldn’t be found.

Finally deciding he would have to return to Garth to report failure, he started for the door.

Another cutter was standing there. He asked Mark what he was searching for.

When the young man told him, the cutter smiled. “You’ve been duped, son,” he said.

Huh. Mark turned this over in his mind.

Remember, this is a boy from the ranch. One who had been the butt of pranks by professionals.

He smiled and hurried back to Garth. “We were out of those hooks,” Mark told him. “So I went next door to the hardware and ordered one.”

Then he went back to his duties, but kept an eye on the young cutter.

He didn’t have to wait long.

As soon as he turned away, Garth was out the door like a shot and headed to the hardware store.

Oddly enough, Mark never heard the term ‘sky hook’ used again.

Yep.

There was a joker among the staff at the meat counter in the Lethbridge Safeway.

Just not the one everyone knew.

Three Goats. And a Troll

It started with a bridge.

Okay, maybe not with a bridge, but with the troll that lived under it.

Or maybe with the three goats that simply wanted to get across.

Let me start again . . .

There were once three goats.

Brothers (or Billys) by the name of Gruff.

They lived in a meadow at the foot of Cold Mountain. Beside the Whispering Woods.

Near Clearwater Stream.

You know the spot.

It was lovely there. Plenty to eat.

Shelter from the occasional storms.

Really fresh, cold water.

Yep. Lovely.

All fall and winter, the three of them ate the lush grass and did goat stuff.

Finally, as summer was just starting peep out along the branches of the trees and creep up into the crevices of Cold Mountain, Big Billy Goat Gruff, hereinafter known as BB, made a momentous proposal.

“Hey, bros! Why don’t we go up the mountain and eat the new, green grass that is sure to be growing there!”

Now, you have to know that, for three goats who hardly—okay, never—went anywhere, this truly was an ‘out-there’ suggestion.

The other two thought about it for .68 seconds.

“I’m for it!” Little Billy (LB) said excitedly.

Middle Billy (MB) shrugged. “Why not? I probably won’t be getting any calls from my publisher any time soon, so what have I got to lose?”

“Let’s do it!” LB took off at a run.

Little brothers. Am I right?

The other two followed at a more sedate pace. Well, MB did.

I think it was BB’s turn to do the dishes, so he was a bit behind the other two.

It should come as no surprise that LB reached the stout, stone bridge crossing Clearwater Stream quite a bit ahead of the others. Without even pausing to consider the possible ramifications involved in crossing an unknown—albeit local—landmark, he started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Okay, that probably doesn’t accurately describe the sound made by four small goat hooves on the aged wooden decking of a local landmark.

Go with me on this . . .

LB had just reached the center of the bridge when something happened.

Something big and loud and scary.

And no, it wasn’t a broadcast of the most recent out-of-control political discussion.

Although that would be equally frightening . . .

No. It was a troll.

One who had taken up residence beneath that very bridge.

And we all know that, in a troll world, possession is 9/10s of the law.

Actually more like 35/36s.

“Who’s trip-trapping on my bridge?!” the troll shouted, leaping onto the bridge.

Do you think this comment suggests another sound may have been acceptable?

What are your thoughts . . .

“Eek!” LB replied. Then, in a shaky ‘little-goat-brother’ voice, “It is I. Little Tinesy Billy Goat Gruff. The littlest, tiniest, not-much-meat-on-him goat in the Gruff family of fine goats.”

The troll blinked. “Umm . . .”

LB rolled his eyes and decided to simplify. “Don’t eat me!”

“But you’re on my bridge. And anyone caught trip-trapping over my bridge gets eaten!”

See? There’s that ‘trip-trapping’ again. Am I right in thinking LB would have done just fine if he’d—I don’t know—salsa danced across?

“Oh, but I’m just so wee,” LB said in his tiniest, squeakiest voice. “There’s not much to eat. You’d lose more calories than you gained. Like eating celery. All work. Small reward.”

The troll stared at him.

LB sighed. “My bigger, fatter, tastier brother is right behind me. Why don’t you wait for him? Much better meat-to-bone ratio.”

The troll thought about this for a moment, then finally shrugged. Why not? “Fine,” he said. “But stick around, just in case.”

LB didn’t wait for the troll to clarify, but trip-trapped the rest of the way across and out of sight.

The troll ducked back beneath the bridge.

A few minutes later, MB appeared. Seeing no one and nothing untoward, he started across. Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Notice how it’s a little louder? That’s called Bigger Font.

“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?!” the troll shouted. He leaped onto the bridge in his finest ‘I’m-a-troll-and-I’m-awesomely-scary’ fashion.

MB and the troll regarded each other. “It is I. Middle Billy Goat Gruff,” MB said in his most polite voice. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

“You can bring me lunch!” The troll laughed his most troll-like laugh. Which, you have to admit is pretty rough and creaky and . . . okay, yes . . . scary.

“I’d be happy to,” said MB, still in his ‘I-don’t-know-you-but-why-can’t-we-be-friends?’ voice. What is it I can get you?”

“YOU!” The troll shouted gleefully and started forward.

“Oh you don’t want to eat me!” MB put up a hoof to ward the large, and decidedly over-eager troll off.

“I don’t?”

“Oh, no! I’m much too small and puny.”

The troll frowned. “You look pretty good to me.”

“Well, trust me, I’m not. I’m in terrible shape and I never eat a proper diet. My BMI is through the roof! You can do much better.”

The troll looked around. “How?”

MB leaned closer. “Okay, I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he said conspiratorially, “but there is another goat right behind me who is MUCH bigger than I am. And he works out. Totally eats right. Low fat. Low sodium. If you eat him, not only will there be more, but it will be much better for you!”

The troll pursed his huge troll-lips thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said finally. “But stick around, just in case.”

MB nodded and completely ignoring what the troll asked, skedaddled.

Once more, the troll took up his patented ‘troll’ position beneath the bridge.

This may be a good time to explore the whole ‘troll-beneath-the-bridge’ thing. I mean, why on earth would one choose to live beneath a bridge? Damp to wet conditions pretty much constantly. Noisy, as the whole ‘trip-trapping’ would suggest. Subject to the whims of the weather. Fishermen.

I mean, really?!

And another thing, what makes him think it is HIS bridge? Does he have title?

Did he, you know, pay someone for it?

These are questions that need explanation.

Back to our story . . .

BB arrived. Assuming his brothers were trip-trapping happily further ahead, he leaped onto the bridge and started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Yow! He certainly is a big fellow.

Once again, the troll shouted, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge!” And made a truly spectacular appearance on the mountain side of the bridge.

I don’t know about you, but I’m scared . . .

“It is I! The Big Billy Goat Gruff. And what makes it your bridge?”

See? I’m not the only one who is wondering.

“Ummm . . .” said the troll.

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“Lunch!” the troll shouted, pouncing.

But BB was very large indeed. And had a fine, large pair of horns to go with his enormous size.

Quicker than you can blink, he had used those horns to toss that old troll right over the side.

Okay, you’re right, the chances of the old guy getting hurt were probably quite slim.

Truth to tell, it was his ego that took the brunt of everything. First of all, he’d been soundly defeated by a goat. And secondly, as he was going over, he screamed like a little girl.

I’m not lying. He did.

He hit the stream with an enormous splash, then waded to the bank and pulled himself out. He stood there for a moment, turned and looked up at BB, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, then sighed and started walking. Down the stream and out of sight.

BB nodded and finished crossing the bridge.

The three brothers spent a happy, lovely summer on the slopes of Cold Mountain. Growing fat on the rich grasses and just generally enjoying themselves.

As the weather began to cool, they once more made their way back down the mountain to their old meadows.

They did exhibit some caution when crossing the little bridge, but the troll hadn’t returned.

He was happily ensconced under another bridge further downstream. Finding new goats to annoy.

Some trolls never learn.

Half-Way Home

We’ve been on Guadeloupe for a little over a month.

For the first two weeks, we struggled with a plethora (real word) of set-backs vis-a-vis housing.

But have really enjoyed the island itself. 

Warm waters. 

Soft sands. 

Lush vegetation.

It really is quite a prosperous island. Certainly anything ‘government-related’ (museums, gardens, aquarium) has been uber well done!

We are living in Deshaies.

Interestingly enough, where they shot (or continue to shoot-I’m rather fuzzy on the whole ‘next season’ info) Death in Paradise. One of Husby’s and my favourite programs.

It’s fun. There are pictures all over the town of the actors...acting.

We’ve seen the building that ‘houses’ the Honore Police.

Eaten at the restaurant that doubles as ‘Chez Catharine’.

They even do Death in Paradise tours.

Which we haven’t taken...

So here’s where I show you what we HAVE done!

Little critter we found at the Botanical Gardens.
And no, he wasn’t friendly...

Also at the Botanical Gardens.

Ditto

Sunset over Deshaies.
If you look closely, the Star Clipper is on the horizon.
We’ve sailed on it several times!

Fort Delgris 

More Fort Delgris

The view from...

Getting ready to climb Soufrier

Breakfast in January on Guadeloupe.
Yep. I could get used to this!

The first ‘wetting of the feet’!

Commanding the waves...

And That brings us to today.
It’s sunny and warm. The island breezes are blowing.
I see snorkelling in our future!
Wish you were here!

Sweet Water

For today’s Poetry Monday challenge, we chose the topic of ‘Water’.

And oh, the directions that water will flow today...

Now the Milk River flowed right around the ranch buildings on the old Stringam Ranch.

And in it or on it, we kids spent our childhood days.

The best memories...

When I was wee, a sound I’d hear,

That could be heard, both far and near,

Was water.

It flowed around the ranch. And me.

In its flight toward the sea,

That water.

In summer—in it, I was found,

With siblings gathered all around,

Pure water.

In winter, frozen it would be,

The skating good, (though hard on knees),

Cold water.

And now in mem’ry it must stay,

Though it flows still unto this day,

Sweet water.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought...

Did we help?

Or did we not? 

See what directions the water flows for my friends...

Jenny
Mimi
Charlotte
Merry Mae

Just a Wee Bit Nippy

Just add boy . . .

Kids raised on a ranch grow into their jobs.

Quite literally.

For example, first, their job is to feed the chickens and gather the eggs.

Then, when a little older, they start cleaning the coop.

At the great age of seven, when his next older brother Bryce moved up into the milk cowman job, Dad graduated from the first to the second.

A heavy job for a seven-year-old.

Tiring.

But it did have its perks.

Or maybe 'jerk's.

Let me tell you the story . . .

Dad was taking care of his new Saturday chore. Cleaning the coop.

He had finally finished hauling out the old and dirty straw.

And had moved on to bringing in the new, clean and sweet-smelling.

As he was raking it into the coop, a litter of young pigs discovered him.

And his bounty of new, clean and sweet-smelling (see above).

Ahhh! Perfect for a group of small, pink-hided brothers and sisters in search of someplace nap-worthy.

They snuggled down and were instantly asleep.

Dad stared down at them.

They looked so comfortable.

And he had been working so hard.

Happily, the small boy snuggled in with the small pigs.

When he turned, they turned.

And when they turned . . . you get the point.

All was well.

Then, the decisive move.

Either he turned out of turn, or they did.

One of them was out of sync.

Because the little piggy next to him—his new ‘brother-in-straw’—took offence and bit him. 

On the ear.

With a gasp and a hand held to the offended member, Dad jumped up and glared at the offender.

Then rousted the whole crew out of his straw and finished his job.

I guess nothing says ‘get back to work’ quite like a sharp nip on the ear.

I’m going to remember that with my kids . . .

The High Cost of Freedom

Daddy. Fettered.

To the small boy from the ranching family, they were a sign of oppression.

And their absence?

Freedom.

Maybe I should explain . . .

During the 1930s, in Glenwood, Alberta, there were many families who did without.

Oh, they had food to eat and a roof over their heads, but there were things they simply did not have.

Things like shoes.

Their absence was a sure sign of the family’s poverty.

But to six-year old Mark (my Dad) those boys who got to come to school shoeless were free.

He dreamed of enjoying the same freedom.

Daily, he begged his mother to let him walk to school unhampered by his sturdy, leather shoes and hand-knitted socks. 

And daily, she told him he would be wearing said shoes and socks.

And Moms always win.

One warm, spring day, he got a brilliant idea. He would circumvent his local law enforcement.

A block from home, he sat down and pulled off the hated footwear with accompanying woolen socks.

And left them in a heap beside a post.

While he was at it, he decided to lose the equally oppressive jacket and cap.

Hanging the latter on the same post.

Happily, he skipped off barefoot and unfettered to school.

Later, after a day spent luxuriating in his freedom, he returned to the post.

Only to find it bare and rather shoeless.

Frantic, he looked around.

Nary a jacket, cap, shoe or sock in sight.

In a panic, he ran home, creating scenarios in his head to explain their absence.

But when he stepped inside the front door he discovered, to his relief, that all of his accoutrements were there. Shoes and socks neatly sitting where they should be and jacket and cap on their hook by the door.

All had been returned earlier by a helpful neighbour who had seen and recognized.

Relieved, he turned.

To see his mother, arms folded, standing beside him.

Uh-oh.

Dad learned that freedom comes at a cost.

Breaking the Bunnies

Dishes and I have a history.

Okay, yes, I use them at meals.

But we regard each other with deep suspicion.

I’ve recounted one experience here.

But the one I’m about to describe is the first I can remember . . .

On the Stringam ranch, mealtimes were an exciting gustatory trip down the trail to deliciousness.

When the meal ended, the work began.

Well, for the rest of us. Mom had obviously already been at . . . never mind.

I was five.

The work, for me, consisted of transporting non-breakables from the table to the sink.

Yep. The spoons, butter knives and forks were my special friends.

Occasionally, I also branched out and dealt with such things as: napkins. Salt and pepper. Toothpicks.

My work load was exhausting.

Leftovers were carefully covered and stored in the ‘fridge.

Anything left on the plates was scraped into one container and taken out to the dogs, who then thought they had been sent to doggie heaven.

It was 1960. Doggie nutrition and diet hadn’t been invented yet.

Back to my story . . .

On this particular day, the scraps had been placed in my little brother’s ‘bunny’ bowl.

A cute little china bowl with a bunny scene in the bottom and bunnies running all around the outside.

The favourite choice of the under-five group.

Which, at that time, consisted of my brother.

Moving on . . .

Everyone was busy.

I had finished my all-important silverware shuffle and was at a loose end.

Then I saw it. The bowl of dog scraps. Just sitting there, waiting for some grown-up person to transport it.

Me!

“Mom! I’m gonna take out the scraps!” I said, in my most authoritative voice.

“Mmm,” Mom said.

You have to understand that she was busy: effecting the organization of three other children, keeping a watch on the baby and talking to Dad.

“Yeah. I’m big enough!”

“Yes, dear.”

She said yes!

I grabbed the bowl and headed for the door.

"Diane!"

I turned.

"Don't drop the bowl. It'll break!"

"I won't!" 

Feeding the dogs on the ranch consisted of carrying the scraps across the cement driveway to the far copse of trees beside the old garage and tipping said scraps into the large, metal hubcap waiting there.

Sound easy?

Now picture several dogs (who had appeared as soon as the door opened) leaping and jumping around like idiots.

I suddenly realized why the job of taking out the scraps usually fell to a . . . bigger person.

I didn’t even make it across the driveway.

Blair’s little bunny bowl was knocked from my hand, breaking in half on impact.

The dogs happily started in on the scraps (glass fragments hadn’t been invented, either) and I collected the two pieces and returned, in tears of defeat, to my Mom.

It would be some years before I was again trusted with anything breakable. (See above.) Our little bunny bowl was gone forever.

But the worst? Mom was right.

Sigh.

P.S. There is a happy ending to this story.

During a recent trip to Costco with my son, I saw something that . . . . well, I‘ll just let you see for yourself.

Deja Vu. 

Deja Casse.

Dousing the Fire(man)

See? Easy.

Our third son, Duff, worked with Special Needs adults.

An exhausting, trying, patience-testing, infinitely rewarding sort of job.

Which entailed certain daily routines in and around the home and community.

As well as occasional forays into uncharted waters . . .

As part of their ongoing safety training, Duff and his clients were at a local fire station, receiving instruction in the dousing of a fire.

The obliging firemen had a controlled, but fair-sized fire going.

And each of the observers were given the . . . opportunity . . . to take one of a selection of fire extinguishers and actually use it to put out the fire.

All had gone well.

Even Duff’s clients had taken a hand at pointing, shooting and dousing.

It was finally Duff’s turn. The very last of the spectators.

He listened to the instructor’s careful instructions, nodded, gripped the handle of the extinguisher, and squeezed.

There was a slight ‘snap’ as the triggering mechanism broke, turning the stream of fire-retardant powder on full.

They were standing in the rain, it being Vancouver Island, and the nozzle was rain-slick.

The unexpected pressure caused it to slip from Duff’s hand.

The hose flipped around like something gone mad, spraying, first him, then his instructor with thick, white powder.

Duff got off easy. He was white from his mouth down.

But his instructor took the blast full in the face.

Full. In. The. Face.

It was like a scene out of a Laurel and Hardy film. (Google it . . .)

The man's fellow firemen, while trying to suppress their snickers, asked if he was all right.

“Yeah,” he said. “I managed to close my eyes.” He turned slowly and, blindly, made his way to the eye-washing station.

Duff, meanwhile, managed to recapture the errant hose and gradually force the valve shut.

The stream of white powder slowed. Then stopped.

Everyone surveyed the mess.

The entire area was heavily coated in white powder.

The fire?

Still burning cheerfully.

I don’t want you to think that anyone Duff worked with was in any danger.

This experience proved that he could certainly handle any emergency that arose.

And also supply the entertainment.

Grandfathering

I think he did just fine!

Many men take a very active role in child-rearing in this modern day.

There are baby-change-stations in public men's rooms.

And I've even seen a ‘Father’s Room’, complete with rocking chairs, for feeding and caring for babies and children.

It’s a good thing.

When I was growing up, it was not so.

Men were not only not encouraged to take part in the care of children.

At times, they were actually discouraged.

My dad started child-raising in the 40s. I don’t think he changed a diaper in his whole life.

Husby started fatherhood in the late 70s. He changed plenty of them.

And my sons rearing children in the present day? Even more.

But it’s not really the diaper-changing that I'm talking about. It’s what it represents.

A chance to take a more active role, and be closer to, their children.

My dad had observed this shift in the parenting paradigm.

With regret.

Let me tell you about it . . .

In the earlier days of our marriage, Husby and I lived in a small home that he had built. A very small home. 306 square feet.

Cozy.

In that tiny space, we still managed all of the amenities. I had my washer and drier. And even my dishwasher.

There was a minuscule front room, carpeted with tacked-down rug samples from our local carpet store.

Luxury.

One day, my dad stopped by for a chat.

I happily sat down with him in the front room.

There, between us on an otherwise tidy floor, lay a broom.

Two things stand out in the aforementioned (Oooh, good word!) statement.

One, that the room was tidy.

Weird.

And two . . . hmmm . . .

Okay, just one.

Dad noticed the broom. “Um, Diane,” he said. “Why do you have a broom in the middle of your carpeted front room floor?”

I looked at it. “Oh.” Then, “Erik!”

My two-year-old bounced into the room.

“Your steed!” I said.

Erik grinned and, picking up the broom, he straddled it and ‘rode’ it out of the room.

Then I turned back to Dad.

He was shaking his head and had tears in his eyes.

“Dad! What’s wrong?”

“I never enjoyed you kids when you were little,” he said. “Never spent enough time with you. I should have.”

Dad was a product of his time. A time when men weren't expected to take that more proactive role.

It’s a great pity.

P.S. Dad made up for his perceived lack of involvement with his own kids by being very proactive in his grandkids. 

It was a beautiful thing.

Done Duty

We, all of us, have duties that we like to take to heart,

Some take lots of brains, a certain modicum of ‘smart’,

While others need some passion and a sprinkling of skill,

And a third group, well, let’s face it—everything is just downhill…

Now Harold was a good ol’ boy. A friend to everyone,

And pitched right in if there’s a job that needed to be done,

He answered everybody’s call, was first to volunteer,

That’s how he was right there to help to unload Bob’s new steer.

Now Bob was driving. Harold’s job was shouting ‘BACK!’ or ‘WOAH!’

So Harold took his place, then raised his hands and hollered, “Go!”

And Bob, he backed the trailer up, as neat as neat could be,

With Harold acting bravely as Bob’s ‘Back-Up’ appointee.

“Now back and back and back some more!” old Harold shouted, clear,

His words were heard quite easily by folks both far and near,

“Back and back.” And then a CRuNCh! And then a “WOAH!” was heard,

Then Bob, he sighed, and yes, he may have said a nasty word.

Confronting Harold, he inquired just what it was he knew,

And did he know to holler ‘WOAH!’ before the CruNCh! came through?

Then Harold nodded eagerly. For sure he’d get it right.

And they’d unload the steer this time sans incident or blight.

Then “Back and back and back some more!” the helpful fellow cried,

Then, CruNCh! Then “WOAH!” (Not helpful, no. What would you decide?)

And Bob hopped from his pickup, gave his friend a nasty look,

Said, “Harold you’re an imbecile in anybody’s book!”

“You’re going to wreck my trailer, maybe cripple my new steer!

“Not to mention, this unload is taking half-a-year!”

So Harold reassured his friend, said, “This time I’ll be true,

“Just give me one more chance and you will see what I can do!”

So once again he took his place and Bob slid ‘neath the wheel,

Bob put the truck into reverse, his friend began his spiel,

“Back and back! And back some more!” Yep. Harold’d learned a bunch,

Cause this time it was after “WOAH!” that Bob would hear the CruNCh!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we

Have crafted poems for you to see!

And now you’ve seen what we have wrought...

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny
Charlotte
Mimi
Merry Mae

Next week, we’re going to have a time,
With ‘Water’ in the subject line!