When Needed

Every time I have a need,

The good Lord sends a pet to me.

It’s true, It’s happened all my life,

Whenever life is filled with strife.

There’s Cheetah. Yes. She was my first,

In barking she was very versed,

It didn’t take long for it to pall,

Except when cougars came to call.

Then Mike, he of the size and hair,

Who followed us kids everywhere,

And when we six would swimming go,

He guarded us from friend and foe.

Then Muffy. Man I loved that dog,

Though she was bigger than a hog,

When I moved out, she came to stay,

And kept the bad guys all away!

Then Panda, Sheepdog number two,

She raised puppies—not a few—

And ran with me before the light,

And kept me safe throughout the night.

And now we’re in a time of trial,

With troubles gathered in a pile,

My Pandy (sheepdog number three),

Gives all the cuddles that I need!

You know, I given lots of thought,

To what’s important, what is not.

When I think of all the pets He’s given,

I must be loved by that Man in Heaven!

Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week being

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?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Next week, cause ‘writing’ is our ‘zen’

Come back, we’ll talk of writing then!

An Education

School is memorable for so many reasons.

Friends. Enemies. Sports.

Life lessons.

The occasional chance bit of 'learning' that slips in and the teacher(s) who accidentally accomplish it . . .

In Lethbridge, Alberta in the early ‘40s, there a great teacher.

Young and energetic, he was one of those inspiring men with the enthusiasm and determination needed to pour knowledge into thirty-plus mostly-resistant heads.

One of which was my dad’s.

Every day, this teacher would painstakingly write out his lessons—filling the blackboard.

Then, just before the end of the period arrived, just as painstakingly review everything he had struggled so hard to put down.

And, every day, he would begin said review with these words: “Class? Watch the board while I go through it.”

Now, admittedly, to him, these words were supposed to suggest exactly what he said. The review was about to begin.

To his students, something far different was understood.

And they waited, day after day, for it to happen.

But never, in all the years this man taught my dad did he actually go through the board.

Rats.

Because that would have been an education.

Watching the Cow

Don’t ask me how he got it,

(I don’t know anyway!)

But Bill Jones owned a golden watch,

‘Twas with him every day.

Then, one sad day, he lost it,

Out, somewhere in the plain.

Mid grazing cows and antelope,

And miles of golden grain.

For hours his household hunted,

(It was that dear, you see),

But none could catch one glint of gold,

Though all searched carefully.

The watch was not recovered,

And years all passed away,

At times, Ol’ Jones still pondered hard

‘Bout where it went that day.

Then, one day, took to market,

A grand old ‘herbivore’,

It was her time, the poor old dear,

To serve the carnivores.

The butcher soon discovered,

(With meat before him spread),

A glint of gold in the old girl’s gut,

(She’d clearly been well fed.)

The watch had been discovered,

And this I must admit:

Restored to the old farmer there,

When it’d be cleaned a bit.

Now the part that’s hard to ‘swallow’,

Is this part coming now . . .

For the golden watch was running true!

After years inside the cow.

Now how could this one object,

So miraculously found,

Survived the years down deep inside,

While keeping itself wound?

The experts speculated,

Their investigations done.

That the churning of the stomach there,

Had made the gold watch run.

Well, now you’ve heard the story,

As Dad told it to me,

Of farmer, cow and running watch,

Do you--like me--believe?

Doing the Swing

Photo Credit

Dances are fun.

Even for the unenlightened (ie. non-dancer).

In my Dad’s younger days, dancing was one of few forms of entertainment.

Alongside books (Google it) and games.

Let’s face it. It was the 1930s. Electricity was just out of the gate. Radio was the sought-after-but-not-yet-universally-available ‘new’ home amusement and only Jules Verne or H.G. Wells had any conception of electronic devices.

Soooo . . . dances.

Dad went to a lot of them. Some at his school, but most in the basement of the local church.

Taught basic steps by his Sunday School teacher, he tried to wow the ladies in his adolescent circle. In those days, it wasn’t really a necessity. Everyone danced with everyone, regardless of danceability or social prowess.

One evening, his future brother-in-law, Ken, was one of the dancers.

A Virginia Reel was introduced.

I should probably mention, if you are not already aware, that the Virginia Reel is a fun, old-time dance that involves a lot of swinging. And/or whooping.

Usually at the same time.

But occasionally for different reasons . . .

Ken’s partner was a woman of . . . well, let’s just say she was large and leave it at that.

Ken was a stick of a man. Tall and slender.

The two had been doing well to this point in the dance. Then came the swing.

Hooking elbows in the tried and true technique, they started in.

Now, normally, there is no cause for alarm during this manoeuvre.

The partners simply swing around and return to their usual positions.

Easy.

Except when there is . . . enthusiasm.

And a difference in weights.

As they swung, Ken felt himself being lifted right off his feet.

In a blind panic, he let go.

The woman went down on her . . . erm . . . posterior, and slid ten feet across the dusty, waxed floor; sweeping a nice, clean path two feet wide.

The dancers froze.

Then the whole room erupted into laughter.

The whole room.

Dancers and slider.

Say what you will about dancing.

Even for the non-participant, it has entertainment potential.

Six Forty-One’s

There are many negatives swirling about concerning the Covid-19 Pandemic. And we are right to be concerned. But I was determined to find something positive. And I did. From a woman quarantined with her housing complex in the storm center, Wuhan.

In their pre-pandemic days, she and her husband, schoolteachers, would dart off in the early morning to work. Their children were dropped into the arms of day care workers. Evenings were more bustle. Occasionally they would manage an evening meal together.

Now every day is spent together. They play games together. Eat meals together. Talk. And listen. For the first time, they are getting to know each other. This, to her, is the great blessing of the Pandemic. Time with her family.

Their complex surrounds a large, beautiful courtyard. The formerly great empty space is now filled with people. Neighbours who care for each other. She walks circuits of the courtyard with a next-door neighbour she hadn’t even met . . . before . . .

Every day, the people in her complex order their groceries from nearby stores. The boxes are quietly delivered to the courtyard and the workers quickly disappear. But it doesn’t matter if they have no outside contact. Because they have inside friends.

Even though there is much worldwide fear and uncertainty in our present circumstances, this woman has shown me that we can find the positives in any situation. Even the scariest ones. We just have to slow down and look for them.

Words Counters is a word challenge. Each of us in submits a number, which is then assigned to another in the group. It’s totally challenging. And totally fun!

My number this month, 41, came from my good friend Mimi. Thank you so much!

Want some more Word Counters?

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade

Messymimi’s Meanderings       

Woe$

Things are fairly upside down right now with fear and confusion everywhere.

My blog will continue to post only cheer.

I hope it helps!

This week's poetry topic?

Money!

Thank you, Jenny!

We hear talk of ‘tainted’ money,

Earned illegally,

Through sales of illicit things,

Or gamb'ling cheerily,

But a friend of mine has said it right,

A man who’s sure and tough,

“Tainted money?” he guffawed,

“There jus ‘taint’ ne'er enough!”

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?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

A lot of us are feeling blue,

And so we’ll try to cheer a few,

We’ll give that ol’ despair a shove…

Next week: Pets, I’ve Known and Loved.

Gwen's Turn

Sally has been quiet.

Usually, this would be a cause for concern all on its own.

But she’s on a shoot somewhere in Texas, with fairly normal people (or at least people who can ACT normal) and with on-duty guards militarily (is that a word?) trained to tackle/shoot if the need arises.

And I’m quite sure her movie-making employers have noticed, as have Mom and I, that when you keep her busy, there is infinitely less breakage/scream-age/disaster-age/goodlordharry-age.

So Mom’s and my (and Mort’s) worries have been . . . lessened.

With Sally, they never really go away. (Remember the kidnappers?)

Anyways, Mom and I have been living a more-or-less quiet existence. We have almost daily correspondence from our famous family member, but Sally-at-a-distance is diluted enough for even the most pallid palate.

Sooo . . . quiet.

I work at a local printers. Aksel’s: The Place for Print.

Aksel’s is run by a family. The Pedersen’s. Whose grandfather was named (wait for it) Aksel.

I know. Big leap there.

They are a fun-loving bunch. Supportive of their employees. Cheerful.

I mean, they don’t encourage truancy or other minor infractions, but they aren’t about to fire you for the occasional gaffe. Though they won’t tolerate deliberately sloppy procedures on the line or any form of malicious gossip around the water-cooler.

If they had a water-cooler.

It is doubly attractive for me because it is also well within commuting distance for me and Hairy Barry, my trusty bicycle.

Enough background . . .

I was working with the main printer, “Big Ed”, in his royal residence (aka the back room).

Big Ed was busily coughing out copies of the newest edition of ReMARKETable. A small run magazine for collectors.

He was just completing the print when, quite suddenly, he just . . . stopped.

A small red light blinked into existence. A light I’d never noticed before.

I hopped off my stool.

You have to know that, to date, Big Ed and I had enjoyed a fairly comfortable relationship. No real conflicts or name-calling. And we’ve certainly never come to blows.

All of that was about to change.

I approached the humming, shivering behemoth.

Just as I reached out toward the red button, a ding on my phone indicated a text.

I pulled the phone from my pocket, then moved away from Big Ed to look at it.

Sally.

I’d answer her later.

Shoving my phone back into my jeans, I started to turn.

Just as the entire machine disintegrated in a blast of smoke and hot air.

Rather like a politician.

Ahem . . .

Aksel the Third appeared almost immediately in the doorway.

I was still standing there.

My mind frantically cataloguing and checking off important parts of my anatomy.

When all seemed to be accounted for, I turned to him. “Erm. There seems to be something wrong with Big Ed, Aksel.”

He stared at the mound of smoking rubble where the mammoth machine had stood, largely intact, only moments before. “What did you do?!” He looked at me as he approached slowly. “Tell me exactly!”

“I was sitting. Big Ed stopped. There was a red button. I moved toward it. Got a text. Decided to answer it later and shoved my phone back in my pocket. Started forward again . . .”

“Text? Red button?”

I frowned. “The text I'm pretty sure of. The red button, less so. Should I have done something?”

“How should I know? I didn’t even realize there was a red button!”

He began to poke around, then pulled out his phone and dialed. “Dad? I think Big Ed is toast.”

He listened for a moment, then pocketed his phone and looked at me. “You should probably go home, Gwen. Maybe get checked out by the doctor.”

I nodded and turned (a little shakily) toward the door.

“By the way, who was the text from?”

“Sally.”

“Figures.”

I spun around and looked at him, but he was already back poking at the debris.

I frowned and headed for my bicycle. The (fortunately few) people I saw on my homeward commute seemed to have a special look for me as I rode past.

But I really didn’t think about it. My mind was churning over the fact that Sally had messaged me just before a major malfunction in my company’s equipment.

Could she jinx things from a distance? And more importantly had she, in point of fact, saved me?

This was something that should (or maybe not) be checked into.

I noticed Mom’s car in the drive as I rode across the lawn.

Parking Hairy Barry in his usual home next to the hedge, I hurried to the front door.

Mom was in her favourite recliner, her eyes on the peaceful scene just outside the window.

“Hey, Mom,” I said.

She looked at me, her smile of welcome evaporating. “Gwen, honey?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are your eyebrows?”

Each month, our little band of intrepid, unstoppable scribblers contributes a series of words. Which our gracious leader, Karen shuffles and re-distributes.

Those words then form the basis of everything from recipes to flash fiction.

My words this month--hopped ~ hairy ~ bicycle ~ truancy ~ sloppy ~ gossip--came to me, via Karen, from Jenniy at Climaxed.

Thank you so much, Jenniy! This was the best fun!

Want to keep the fun going?
Head out and see what the others have created!

Baking In A Tornado

Spatulas on Parade 

Wandering Web Designer

Follow Me Home 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom   

Climaxed 

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

Honey For Sale

Perfect for each other.

My Mom had been raised on a ranch.
She knew cattle and could speak the language with anyone.
But there were times when she very much longed to change the conversation . . .
She and Dad were out with a group of friends.
Fellow Hereford breeders.
The conversation veered, as it always did, to the discussion of the newest miracle bull.
"That 55L! What a bull! Longest animal I've ever seen!"
An animal's length is important. More beef on the hoof.
Just FYI.
The men were enraptured.
The women, silent, polite listeners.
Mom tried to add some colour other than red and white to the conversation.
"We did something different this weekend," she said. "We went to a Gilbert and Sullivan . . ."
But the men's conversation continued unabated.
"You know, 55L was unknown until his calves hit the ground! Long. Tall. Big as colts!"
"We saw the Pirates of Penzance," Mom finished weakly.
No one heard her.
She sighed and withdrew.
But her mind was working busily.
A few days later, Mom again took a back seat to Dad's cows. Giving up on a much anticipated wedding because Dad couldn't go.
That was the last straw.
The next day, she decided to play a prank on him.
She called the local paper and had this ad inserted:
            HUSBAND FOR SALE - Cheap
            Complete with blue jeans, SSS monogrammed shirt,
            rubber boots, old floppy hat, B.S. spattered coveralls,
            pitch fork, scoop shovel, feed bucket,
            25 Hereford cows and one grumpy bull.
            Not home much.
            Speaks only COW. Call 244-2108
Then she waited.
Not a word was said, though she saw my father reading the paper and knew that he always finished every word.
The next day, another ad appeared, directly below Mom's.
This one read:
            HONEY FOR SALE
            The sweetest gal this side of Texas. Good mother,
            helpful, kind, patient, understanding, loving,
            cheerful, caring, cooperative, self-sacrificing,
            grateful for all favours, especially a frugal income,
            and as a bonus, is beautiful and loves
            my Hereford cows. Call 244-2108.
Enough said.

When Lion’s Bad

The small boy and the minister looked gravely at each other,

“Today,” the man said firmly, “We’ll talk lyin’, Little Brother.”

The small boy nodded at him, though he looked a bit unclear,

“Don’t worry!” smiled the man, “We’ll make confusion disappear!”

“Okay,” the small boy whispered, “But will this take very long?”

“It’s important,” said the minister, “So that you learn right from wrong.”

The boy sat down across from him and nodded his small head,

“Father Bryon, let’s begin.” Said Father, “Okay, Ned.”

“Now, firstly, son, can you tell where it is you go for lyin’?”

The small boy simply stared at him. “Of course, old Father Bryon.”

“Well tell me, son, I’d like to know.” The little boy said, “Bah!

I know that one, silly! Everyone knows: Af-ri-ca!”

With Karen it all started and, through her, it carries on,

This monthly ‘poem’ ritual and resulting liaison,

So if you’ve enjoyed my contribution, just you wait and see,

The poems that my writing friends have all now brought to be!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: In the Den
Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Lions Galore 1, 2, 3, 4

Moving Meetings

See? 4-H. Totally important.

 I was raised on a ranch near the small town of Milk River, Alberta.

On the Alberta/Montana border.

Farming and ranching country.

We were, quite literally, children of the prairies.

Big brother, George. And calf.

And the highlight of our young lives - the very pinnacle we could aspire to – was 4-H Calf Club.

Our world was small, I admit it.

Yep. When we turned the age of twelve, we could – at last! – join the calf club.

We learned many things there.

Of course, the main (and most obvious) were the care and feeding of your calf.

In my case, handled almost exclusively by my big brother, George.

Because he’s amazing. (Are you reading this, George?)

Big brother, Jerry, ditto.

But there was also the record keeping. (Which George completely refused to do for me. Sigh.)

And the monthly meetings.

Wherein (Oooh! Good word!) we were supposed to learn the proper, accepted, efficient way to run a gathering of that type.

I emphasize the words ‘supposed to’.

Because we didn’t.

Always.

In fact, at some point during many of our meetings, our current club president would throw up his hands and exclaim, in loud and carrying tones, “I don’t know why I do this! I’m getting outta here!”

Something he never did.

Returning to the idea of running a proper meeting . . .

Me. With glasses. And calf.

We had been taught that, if we had something to offer, we should do it in the form of a ‘motion’. As in: ‘I would like to make a motion.’ And then followed by ‘I move . . .’

We were getting it. We were.

One evening, the meeting had been going well.

Everyone had been unusually attentive.

And our leader hadn’t, even once, cried out in despair.

Then one shy young man stuck up his hand.

He was recognized by the ‘Chair’.

And he proceeded. “I-I-I w-would like to m-make a movement!”

There was silence. Then some sniggers.

Umm . . . first door down the hall? Says ‘boys’ on the door?

One of the leaders whispered into his ear, “Motion.”

“Motion!” he corrected himself, turning bright red. “I-I w-would like to make a motion!”

Things carried on.

But the mood had definitely been lightened.

Who says meetings have to be boring?

4-H. Don't you wish you were here?

The grand finale.

The New(d) Game

She had spent the day in catching up and putting things away,

Vacuuming and cleaning in her housework ‘dust ballet’,

And in between, the laundry in the small room down the stairs,

Washing, drying, folding and then making stocking pairs,

When going down the last time; spied the helmet of her son,

The one he wore when playing football—making scoring runs,

Her arms were full, she placed the helmet snugly on her head,

And once she dropped the laundry off, would throw it on his bed.

Because this was the last load, she’d include the clothes she wore,

And so she stripped them off and dropped each item to the floor,

Then, naked, shoved them in the washer; turning at a sound,

To behold the wide-eyed meter man (who’d been duty bound),

“It’s not too hard to guess,” he said, “If you play ‘shirts’ or ‘skins’!

“And Ma'am, though I don’t know this sport, I hope that your team wins!”

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?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Small, Medium or Large

My youngest daughter and I were grocery shopping.

That in itself may seem unremarkable.

But, in the course of the conversation as we were wandering up and down aisles, she reminded me of something.

Allow me to share . . .

Our family is large. In a couple of ways.

Six kids, most of whom are over six feet in height.

When they were all still home, these large people ate large meals.

Back then, our supplies were, justifiably, bought in bulk.

It was a necessity if one didn’t want to shop for groceries every. Single. Day.

Which I didn’t.

Sooo . . . bulk.

To us, it was a normal way to live. Peanut butter, miracle whip, honey, pickles, salad dressings, oil, margarine and other foods by the pail. Ketchup in a bag. Soups in gallon containers. Large quantities were deposited in the cold storage according to directions. Then small containers were filled from larger containers and kept in the kitchen for easy access.

By the time the younger kids were helping with meal preparation, this had been the ongoing practice for as long as they’d been alive. Even the older kids had forgotten their ‘long-ago’ when food was purchased in normal-sized containers.

We walked past a tub of margarine. I looked at it. “Huh. Remember when we bought margarine in that size?”

My daughter laughed. “I remember when we bought it in the five-gallon pail and I had to take a smaller container and fill it from the big one!” She went on. “One of my first discoveries when I moved away from home was that food comes in smaller containers. I thought they were so cute and tiny. Little jars of peanut butter and miracle whip. I even had to bring one home to show you.”

“I remember.”

“My roommates thought I was crazy.”

“That goes without saying.” For that comment, I got ‘the look’.

“A person learns so many things when you leave home.”

It’s true.

Life comes in all shapes and sizes.

Small, medium, large. Extra large.

The trick is finding which you need.

Modern Day Archaeology

Looking for this?

In 1979, Husby and I moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba, so he could complete his Master’s degree in history.

It was an interesting, eye-opening experience for a girl who had never been off the ranch for more than a few days.

We were there for eight months.

It was as long as I could be away from my beloved Alberta prairies.

But moving back to Alberta necessitated some commuting back and forth as he completed his thesis.

These trips, a necessity for him, were pure holidays for me.

One, in particular, stands out . . .

We had packed up another couple, parked our kids with our respective mothers, and headed out.

It was a joyous, happy group that talked and laughed our way across Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba.

One evening, the four of us camped at Buffalo Pound Provincial Park, a historic buffalo hunting site just outside of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. (Yes, there really is a place called Moose Jaw.)  Years ago, native hunters used to drive herds of buffalo into the bogs in the area, dispatching them easily as they struggled in the mud.

Umm . . . ick.

Remember where I said that Husby’s thesis was in history?

Well, that would become important here . . .

 Because such sites are good places to find artifacts. Husby’s favourite pastime.

And what else would one want to do when holidaying?

Immediately after setting up camp, the two husbys set out, most notably looking for arrowheads.

We wives stayed at the campsite, visiting, preparing the evening meal and generally enjoying the outdoors and the fact that we weren’t sitting in a car.

About half-an-hour after they set out, our Husbys returned.

With broad grins denoting success.

“We found an arrowhead!” they announced.

“Really?” Okay, we wives were a little bit surprised. Pleased for them. But surprised.

“It really wasn’t that hard! We just looked around and there it was, lying right out in the open!”

“Well, let us see it! Let us see it!”

A hand was extended and there, in the palm, was indeed an arrowhead.

A real arrowhead.

Rubber. With a suction cup on one end.

Carbon dating is ongoing . . .

Up in the Air

Okay. It looks easy here...

Sometimes, walking softly and carrying a big stick isn’t all that effective.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Uncle Leif, then eight or nine years old, had been assigned to go to the field and retrieve Sorrel.

I should probably tell you that Sorrel was a flashy-looking, reddish-brown mare. A passably good cow horse except for a couple of glaring faults. Faults that involved teeth and hooves.

Sorrel liked her own company. And only her own company. When other horses came too near, she would bite or kick viciously.

Woe unto anyone trying to bring her in from the field. She would wait until the climactic moment, then let fly with both hind legs.

One had to be especially vigilant to avoid skin and/or bone-breakage.

With accompanying discomfort.

On this particular day, Leif, mounted on poor, long-suffering Shorty, tried for some time to manoeuvre/avoid.

It was a tricky task.

Finally, he grew tired of Sorrel’s ‘shenanigans’.

Clever out-foxing was indicated.

Returning to the farm, he found a fifteen-foot pole-vault pole (On a farm with eight brothers, such a thing was entirely too common). This ‘lance’ would allow him to herd the mare while staying happily out of reach of anything sharp or bite-y.

Thus armed, he returned to the field and his arch-nemesis.

Moving stealthily into position near the grazing mare, he grasped his weapon by the very end to allow for the greatest safety margin, raised the pole into the approved jousting/poking position . . .

And charged.

But before he could get close enough to contact his victim, said victim took to her heels.

Not one to be outdone by such an obvious manoeuvre, Leif, lance still raised, urged Shorty to increase his pace and follow.

Now all would have been well except for one thing. Leif was holding the pole by the very end.

Arm extended for greatest reach.

Control was fast becoming a problem.

Just as he was pulling the reins to stop his horse, the lance tip . . . dipped.

And poked into the ground.

Launching Leif spectacularly into the air. He landed some feet away.

On his back.

With a thud.

Fortunately, the only damage was the loss of air from tortured lungs.

After some minutes, he recovered both air and equilibrium.

But lost all inclination to complete his assigned task.

Sorrel, happily munching grass, watched him go.

Stupid/smart horse.

Getting Pinched

Five of the six siblings. Husby is the cutie on the far right.

Family travel in the late fifties was . . . interesting.

I don’t know how we survived it.

The kids were herded, en masse, into the back seat of the car and the door was shut.

The youngest invariably rode up front, between Mom and Dad.

No one was buckled in.

The kids rolled around in the back seat like dried peas.

Interaction between the two quadrants of the car was usually accomplished by someone in the back standing up and leaning comfortably over the front seat.

As a sop to safety, the driver often extended an arm sideways when braking.

Yep. Interesting.

Six-year-old Husby was traveling with his family.

Mom. Dad. Six kids.

Their sedan was hurtling over paved roads at speeds close to 60 MPH.

They passed a road sign.

Suggested speed – 60 MPH.

“Dad.” Husby was standing up, leaning over the seat. “What does that sign mean?”

His dad glanced at the sign. “That means we’re supposed to travel at sixty miles-per-hour,” he said. He pointed to the speedometer. “See?”

“Oh.”

Just then, another car sped past them, obviously going far faster than the ‘suggested’ speed.

“How come that guy is going faster?”

“Because he isn’t obeying the law.”

“Oh.”

Things were quiet for a moment. Well, as quiet as a car carrying eight people can be.

Then, “Dad. What happens if you go too fast?”

“The police will pinch you.”

“Oh.”

Husby thought about this for a long time. The police will ‘pinch’ you?

Obviously, it was something to be avoided and/or feared. Husby had been pinched before. It was momentarily painful, but not terribly so. The police must do something really different to make people afraid of being pinched.

Finally, “Dad? When the police pinch you, do they use pliers?”

A six-year-old mind hard at work . . .

Gary

Poor Gary Gnome was quite a sight,

His hair was never a delight,

In fact, most times it was a fright,

Could hair induce a fight? This might!

So Gary’s friends launched a crusade

By Gary’s hair, they weren’t dismayed,

And certainly, they weren’t afraid,

Cause soon they’d have his hair arrayed.

They bought supplies, shampoo and foam,

Some bobby pins, a brush and comb,

Some perfume in a bottle, chrome,

Then sat him in his chair. At home.

They went to work upon his mane,

Determined it’d not be the same,

Coiffeur-al glory they’d attain,

He’d thank them (when his anger waned).

But when they, first, the comb applied,

Collective eyes were opened wide,

What was it each of them had spied?

Why, Gary’s bald head hid inside.

His head was quite a nice one, true,

There was no fuss, not much ado,

Each to the same conclusion, flew:

Just think what he’ll save on shampoo!

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 posted 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, we'll have a little fun,
We'll talk of 'sports'. It's being done...

Influenza Nurse

Watching the headlines as the Corona Virus health scare spreads.

It's frightening.

I'm reminded of my paternal grandmother and her journal entries about the Great Pandemic of 1918.

I had a little bird,

Its name was Enza.

I opened the window,

And in-flu-enza.

-A children’s skipping rope chant from the 1918 flu epidemic

The influenza pandemic of 1918-1919 killed more people than the Great War, known today as World War I (WWI), at somewhere between 20 and 40 million people. It has been cited as the most devastating epidemic in recorded world history. More people died of influenza in a single year than in four years of the Black Death Bubonic Plague from 1347 to 1351. Known as "Spanish Flu" or "La Grippe" the influenza of 1918-1919 was a global disaster.

My Grandmother, Sarah Lovina Stringam was the nurse in the tiny town of Glenwood, Alberta. Called upon for everything from bruises and scrapes to severe frostbite, she became accepted as the hands and knowledge that made the difference between life and death.

Then came 1918. The Great and horrible war was finally winding down.

The Spanish Flu epidemic was just getting started . . . 

From her journals and in her own words, Grandma gives us quite a glimpse of her life at that time:

“I did quite a bit of nursing during the year of the flu epidemic, both for the family and for the neighbours.  It was frightening because there were so many deaths, especially women who were pregnant.

One of our hired men was the first to have it at our house. I kept him in his room and wouldn’t let him out until he was over it. My husband took it next and I kept him isolated from the rest of the family until he was well. He was just over it when Lono Brown, one of our friends, came to see if I would help him with his wife.

Lono’s first wife had died a few years before, leaving him with two small boys. He had married a young widow from Utah with two small girls. They had been married less than a year.

I told him, when he came for me, that I was still nursing a baby and would have to come home every four or five hours for that.

There was only one telephone in Glenwood, a toll office at the home of Edward Leavitt. He took me to the telephone and we talked to the doctor.

The doctor was getting only two to four hours sleep a day and just couldn’t keep up with all the calls. He told me what to do and said he could come as soon as he could.

For three days, I went to the Brown home and did what I could.

Every few hours I would go home and drop my clothing into a box in our wash house to fumigate them. Then I would change into clothing I kept in another box and go into my home to nurse the baby and see how the household was managing.

Eldest daughter, Emily was twelve at that time.

On the fourth day, Sister Brown, who was six months pregnant started with labour pains. By this time the doctor had come. He stayed for a while but it looked like it would be some time before the baby came and there were other people needing him so much so he decided he had better go.

Right after he went it looked as if things were going to happen so I asked Lono to go for a midwife, Sister Newby.

She came and delivered the baby, who was stillborn.

She said because she was a midwife she was not allowed to handle a dead body. She told me how to wash and prepare the baby for burial and when I had finished, she went home.

The next few hours were hard. I kept praying that her [Mrs. Brown’s] life would be spared because of the children and because she was so far away from her old home and her people but she kept getting weaker and weaker.

She died about six hours after the baby.

Sister Newby came back and told me what to do to prepare her for burial.

I did it and I was surprised that I was able to do it. It was a testimony to me that you can receive divine guidance in time of need if you ask for it.”

What a truly heartbreaking and terrifying experience. I admire my grandmother and others, like her, who simply ‘carried on’ and made all the difference in their world.

Thank you.