Brakes

...or something similar...

I don’t know where he got it.

And I'm certainly am not surprised things turned out the way they did.

Maybe I should start at the beginning . . .

Sally is home.

This time—with the outbreak of Covid-19—she is here for the foreseeable future.

Apparently movie stars are just as susceptible as the rest of us.

Go figure.

Woe be unto us.

I should probably explain that there have been a few changes in our household.

For one thing, the household.

A couple of months ago, Sally—she of the handsomely-paid movie star job—bought a new, significantly larger house a couple of blocks from our old neighbourhood. Then begged Mom and I to move in with her.

I will admit she captured me with the promise of my own bedroom.

With my own bathroom.

And a beautiful yard.

We had just finished moving in when the call came to stay at home.

This is self-isolating deluxe!

Oh, also Mort is sharing our stay-at-home-i-ness with us. It had started as a week-long thing while his parents had their house renovated.

And the timing was bad.

He now has the basement suite.

Can you believe I actually live in a house with something besides storage in the basement?

Yeah, I keep catching Mom pinching herself, too.

Anyways, back to this morning . . .

Mort appeared from his sunrise walk with an ancient bicycle.

Tandem.

Apparently it had been rusting happily among the weeds of Little Pearl Creek for some years. With all this time on his hands, he decided he could give it the extensive care it needed.

And a home.

He spent much of the morning in the garage (yes, we have a garage!) fixing said bicycle. Greasing. Adjusting.

I don’t know. Doing ‘bike’ things.

Finally, he and his new friend emerged.

One pedal was missing its rubber thingamee and had been reduced to the basics. Both the front and back fenders had to be removed because of possible tetanus-y stuff.

In lieu of two fully-functioning seats, he had tied on a couple of towels.

It was just as rusty and disreputable-looking, but now it had been ‘oiled’ and ‘upgraded’ (his words).

“Sally!” he shouted from the front walk.

I’ll tell you, she could be anywhere, doing anything (because she is, you know, Sally) but that girl could hear that boy’s call no matter what was going on.

She appeared at the front door, with Mom and me close behind.

We find it’s best to start any new adventure with our eyes on Sally.

Let’s face it, it’s just safer.

“Come for a ride with me!”

While Mom and I were still gazing at the sad vehicle with something akin to horror, Sally squealed with delight and leaped aboard the drivers ‘seat’.

Have I mentioned that girl is game for anything?

Mort swung his long legs on behind and, with a quick wave for those of us with too much sense to even approach, they were off down the drive.

Mom and I looked at each other, then shrugged and went back inside.

I had been in the middle of creating a nice slow-cooker stew for supper and was soon happily absorbed in chopping vegetables once more.

The handy little kitchen gadget was bubbling merrily, earning its keep, and I was tidying up when I heard Mom shriek.

I dropped the dishcloth and ran.

Hey. I live with Sally. Something dangerous and/or entertaining was surely happening . . .

Mom was standing in the open front door, staring outside.

I joined her.

Sally and Mort were just coming up the drive.

Both looked a little different than when they had left 20 minutes before.

Sally was soaking wet.

And Mort had sprouted leaves and petals.

The bicycle was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you hurt?” Mom asked.

“Nope!” Sally said brightly.

“Soooo . . . want to tell me about it?”

They stopped at the bottom of the steps.

“Nope!” Sally said again.
Mom turned to Mort. “Mort?”

He brushed at some of his greenery. “Ummm . . . you may want to avoid that Mrs. Talent and her flower garden just to the east of us here.”

Mom sighed, then cocked an eyebrow. “And . . .?”

Sally broke in. “If anyone asks, we have no idea how the old flour mill got knocked into the creek.”

Mom blinked. “The whole mill? Like, the building that’s been there since the dawn of time?”

Sally nodded and headed past Mom and me into the house.

Mort followed more slowly, then stopped and smiled, rather ruefully. “Funny thing,” he said. “Did you know that bikes need brakes?”

Today is a word challenge. My favourite thing!

Here’s how it works. Our intrepid leader, Karen collects word from her loyal followers, which she then re-issues back to said loyal followers.

No one knows whose words they will acquire or what will be done to the words they’ve given.

Get it?

See? Totally fun!

My words today: flower ~ flour ~ petal ~ pedal were given to me by Karen herself! Thank you so much, my friend! This. Is. Awesome!

There’s more fun ahead:
Baking In A Tornado
Spatulas on Parade
Wandering Web Designer

Part-time Working Hockey Mom
Sparkly Poetic Weirdo
Climaxed
Follow Me Home

Mom

What do I remember?

Warm hugs and cuddles.

Clean clothes, clean sheets, clean house.

And wonderful, many-times-a-day food.

Stories.

A superwoman who could leap tall buildings at a single bound. Or at least scale mighty towers to rescue an erring two-year-old daughter.

And also pull that same daughter from the slavering jaws of death dressed up as a Holstein cow who mistook said tot for something . . . threatening.

A midnight sewer. Because there simply wasn’t time to make her six children’s clothes in the light of day.

A gardener extraordinaire. And canner and preserve-er, ditto.

A woman who treasured the written word.

Pie-maker unequaled.

An extra hand in the corrals and at round-ups, despite all her other duties.

A game board enthusiast. Whose record for ‘Battleship’ still hasn’t been beat.

A holidaymaker and sewer of costumes.

A woman firm in her beliefs who would, with her hand tight in her husband’s, lead her family along the path of faith.

A person who laughed easily.

And encouraged constantly.

And who gave up a university education and a promising career as a baseball player to stay home and 'help out'.

Nurse. 5-star chef. Writer. Athlete. Wisewoman. Cheerleader. Math coach. rancher. Gardener. Teacher. Story-teller. Cuddler.

Mom went home 18 years ago today.

She was the light in my life.

She will be my light forever.

Un-Safe

Me.

Occasionally, when Mom got tired of driving twenty miles of dirt roads for everything, my parents would move the family to our townhouse.
The one . . . umm . . . in town.
It was a whole different lifestyle for me.
I had a tricycle. A hand-me-down from three siblings before me.
Red.
Sturdy.
With a single plastic tassel hanging from one handle grip that waved in the breeze when I went really, really fast.
Which I did.
Often.
I was the master of the universe!
I could go anywhere!
As long as I stayed on the sidewalk.
The streets around our block were 'dangerous'.
There were dragons there.
Okay, so Mom described the dangers as speeding cars that would flatten me into a pancake, but I put my own spin on it. It was so much better.
So, back on the tricycle . . .
I rode it endlessly.
Doing laps of our block.
The different homes there were categorized according to points of interest and/or what foodstuffs could be procured on the premises.
Lodemier's house, where the baloney sandwich ruled supreme at snack time, and where best friend, Laurie, lived. Reese's house, where good cookies could be found at any time. Madge's house, another food emporium. Winter's house, with the cute, fuzzy Pomeranians. And so on.
It was paradise.
For me, anyway.
I'm not sure what they thought when Diane pulled onto their driveway on her trusty steed.
At least they were kind.
And polite.
All of this is just my long-winded way of saying there was nothing more interesting than the homes on our block.
Why would anyone venture out onto dragon-infested gravel street in search of anything else?
It just didn't make sense.
So I stayed on my sidewalk.
And was safe . . .
There was an alley running the length of our block. The back yard of every home opened onto it. It was a hive of activity every day as dozens of children ran and played.
Occasionally, it was used for vehicles. Our neighbour, especially, was known to park his huge grain truck there during harvest, to keep the behemoth (real word) off the street.
And that simple act diminished the safety margin by a factor of 100.
I don't know what that means, but it sounds . . . unsafe.
On this particular afternoon, our neighbour had come into town from his farm for lunch.
Having finished said lunch, he had strolled back out to his truck to return to work.
I had also recently finished my lunch. And was on my way to his house for a much-needed cookie fix.
For a short while, the two of us occupied the same general space.
But his vehicle was vastly superior to mine.
Okay, well, it was bigger.
I was just crossing the entrance to the alley, safely staying on my sidewalk as he was backing his truck up.
I should mention here that trucks in those days didn't have warning beepers or rear-view cameras.
In fact, they barely had mirrors.
Needless to say, my neighbour didn't see me.
Or my tricycle.
It could have been a disaster.
I pulled into the alley entrance.
And stared, transfixed at the enormous blue box of the truck backing, slowly but steadily, towards me.
Closer. Closer.
Hmmm. Something whispered that maybe I should get off my tricycle and move to the side.
I did so.
The truck kept backing.
Backing.
There was a tiny crunching sound as it ran over my tricycle, folding it in two.
Huh. There's something you don't see every day.
The driver kept backing, oblivious to what had just happened.
He waved at me cheerfully as he went past. Then, reaching the street, he reversed direction and headed out.
I watched him go.
Then looked at my tricycle.
Or the little mashed-together bits of metal that used to be my tricycle.
Sigh.
Dad would fix it.
I ran home.
Dad did fix it. And it looked even better when he was through.
Brighter red.
And two little tassells instead of one.
And I think he made it a little bigger.
Dads could do anything.
Soon I was back on the sidewalk again.
Conquering worlds.
Staying safe.

Un-Seen

I always was afraid at night

When Mother would turn out the light,

Into the darkness, I would stare

And look for monsters waiting there.

My terror's lasted all my life,

E’en after I became a wife,

Though I admit there's far less fear

When someone else is sleeping near.

But still, the darkness frightens me.

Still harbours scary things, you see.

Into the darkness, I will stare

For thugs and villains waiting there.

Once, Husby took me out to see

A great new movie, just released.

About a girl, so sweet and kind

Who could control things with her mind.

That night, my world again askew,

The light stayed on because I knew

The darkness, into which I stared?

For certain, Carrie waited there.

And beings who would steal your mind

Performing tests on all mankind.

Into the darkness I still stare

And watch for aliens waiting there.

And so it’s been - the darkness wins,

The light goes off, and my mind spins.

Creating creatures in the night

That disappear by the morning light.

Last night I stumbled down the hall

Intent on answering nature’s call

And when I glanced into the mirror,

My reflection was just one pale blur.

For my trifocals help me out,

So I can see my way about.

If in the darkness, I did stare,

I’d not see anything waiting there.

Hmmm . . .

What you can't see won’t hurt you, right?

Shhh . . . I’m turning off the light.

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

Discovering Gentlemen

Me and Golly Gee.
And yes, that is a band-aid on my nose.
Sexy!

I learned two things that summer.
1.      Barbed wire gates are tricky.
2.      Some young gentlemen, though they look strong, aren't.
Oh, and . . .
3.      They're still gentlemen.
I was herdsman for my Dad. Had been for two years.
It was a simple job, now that calving season was pretty much over.
My duties consisted of making sure that all four-footed red and white creatures were safe and happy.
Much like a mother hen.
On horseback.
The perfect job.
The only difficulty lay in the fact that all summer, there had been gangs of young men between the ranch buildings and the fields. Seismic crews, more-or-less busy laying out lines and setting the charges that would indicate hidden reserves of oil.
The difficult part was in riding past them. 
It made me feel rather . . . conspicuous.
Particularly if they weren't busy at the moment and had nothing, other than me, to watch.
On this particular day, in full view of about ten pairs of eyes, I slid off my horse and effortlessly opened the gate.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Sigh.
I smiled, then hurriedly pulled my horse through and closed the gate.
I wasted no time in heading to the far side of the field, hoping that, when I was done, they would have moved a little further down the road.
It didn't happen.
By the time I finished my sweep, they had finished their work and were standing around, just outside the gate, waiting for their data to be collected.
And with nothing to do but watch me.
Perfect.
I dismounted and opened the gate.
Again, the cynosure (real word) of all eyes.
I led my horse through.
“Can I help you with that, Miss?”
I turned.
One of the young men, obviously a gentleman, had stepped forward.
I looked at the gate post in my hand, then back at him. “Umm . . . sure. Thank you.”
I handed him the post and stepped back.
He stuck the post into the bottom loop, then pushed it upright.
It didn't come anywhere near the all-important top loop.
I should point out here that a barbed-wire gate is held shut by two loops of wire - one top and one bottom - on the lead post. If the bottom loop isn't high enough on said post, the gate is increasingly harder to fasten.
The young man had obviously seen me open the gate.
With the swat of one hand.
His manhood was now on the line.
He pushed while trying not to appear that he was pushing.
Still no progress.
He began to get red-faced.
He put his shoulder to the post and pushed some more.
Still a gap of two or three inches.
A mile in 'gate' terms.
I suggested that he push the bottom loop a little higher on the post.
He did so.
And was still an inch out.
Oh, man.
He had offered to help me.
And he couldn't.
I couldn't bear to stand there and witness his embarrassment.
I told him, “I have to get to the ranch. I'll just leave you with that. Thank you so much!”
And gave him my biggest smile.
Then I jumped on my horse and made a quick exit.
A short time later, when the crew had moved on, I went back and checked the gate.
It was fastened.
I don't know if the poor man did it himself, or if half the crew had to help him.
At least I wasn't around to witness it.
But I will always be grateful.
He was a true gentleman who personified my favourite expression: Nothing so strong as gentleness. Nothing so gentle as real strength.
You never know when you'll run into a true gentleman. Best to keep your eyes open.

A Knowing Knose

The nose is okay. The teeth . . .

Okay, yes, I had been told never to do it.

In fact, I had been threatened with certain death punishment if I did do it.

But it was my favourite indoor thing to do!

I was four. I admit it, my world was small.

My family was living in the ranch house on the Stringam ranch.

Two bedrooms downstairs.

And . . . umm . . . two bedrooms up? (I think. Counting past four made my mind crazy. And it was dark and scary up there.)

I had my own room on the ground floor.

I had recently graduated from my little ‘kitty’ bed to my own giant, iron bed.

My giant, iron bouncy bed.

You can probably see where this is going . . .

During the night, bouncy iron beds are good for sleeping.

During the day, they make perfect trampolines.

Yeah. My mom didn’t get it, either.

She would come into my room. Kiss me awake. Make the bed.

And leave.

Probably the part where she ‘left’ was her biggest mistake.

Or making the bed.

It’s a toss-up.

There was this remarkably smooth surface.

That was incredibly bouncy.

It was a no-brainer. Literally.

So I did.

Bounce, that is.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

First, on my knees.

Then, graduating to my feet.

Oh, you can really catch air when you use all of you!

This is fun!

“Diane! Are you jumping on the bed?”

Stopping. “Umm . . . no!”

“Don’t jump on the bed! You’ll get hurt!”

I looked around at my lovely, soft friend. Pffff! How could I possibly get hurt?

Boing. Boing.

“Diane!”

How did she know?!

Boing.

“Diane!”

Man, that woman could see through walls!

I sat there for a moment.

Then I heard the kitchen door close.

Mom had stepped outside for some reason.

My time had come!!!

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boiing. Booiing. Booiinng. Booiinngg!

Okay, now I was really flying!

You remember when I mentioned that mine was an iron bed?

Well, this is where that fact comes into play.

And FYI? If noses and iron come into contact?

Noses lose.

CRUNCH!

It took a moment for me to realize that something had happened.

Because something had definitely happened.

“Ahhhhhh!!! Moooooommmm!!!!” I can’t quite produce it here. Think of something high-pitched and piercing. Like an air raid siren.

Mom ran into the room and wrapped her erring daughter in warm, loving, Kleenex-bearing arms.

My little nose was shattered at the point of contact. The bridge.

I sported two very black eyes and a sore snout for many, many days.

I’d like to say I learned my lesson.

And I did. Sort of.

After my wounds had healed, and when Mom wasn’t looking, I still jumped on the bed.

But I hung onto the iron headboard.

That way, it couldn't leap out at me unexpectedly.

Because they do that.

I'm happy to report that today, over 60 years later, I no longer jump on beds. The ceiling is simply too close for comfort.

But I do jump on trampolines.

Oddly enough, whenever I do, my nose hurts.

It remembers.

Waiting...

When I was four, my parents had a TV.

A wonderful, marvelous creation that stood on its own four legs in one corner of the living room.

And, if one waited, showed the most magical, amazing programs. Like Friendly Giant.

If one waited.

After breakfast, I would hurry to the living room—and the TV therein—and look to see if something had appeared.

Usually, nothing had.

Let’s face it. I lived on a ranch. Breakfast was E.A.R.L.Y.

And the TV stations didn’t wake up until long after morning chores were done.

Wussies.

I would stare at the dark screen for a while, quietly willing something to happen.

Then begin playing.

During those early hours, play often consisted of something that kept me close to said TV.

Or following Mom around, asking when Friendly Giant would be on.

Once in a while, the genius woman would say, “Soon,” park her repetitive and annoying daughter in front of the set, and turn it on.

The Indian Head test pattern would show its familiar face. So to speak.

And keep me entertained for some time.

Did you know that, if you stare at it long enough, it . . . changes?

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Eventually, ‘O, Canada’ would start and, immediately after that, I would see tiny little figures and ‘that big boot’.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

My day had officially begun.

Moving forward a generation . . .

No longer did one ever stare at a blank screen or a test pattern.

For my eldest son, it was a matter of watching some lessor show whilst waiting for Sesame Street to come on.

Because the programs just kept on coming.

Another generation forward . . .

My granddaughter (Hereinafter known as Little Girl—or LG for short—was sitting in her parents’ bedroom.

Looking up at the big screen TV on the wall.

The conversation went something like this:

LG: “Mo-om! I’m done watching that. I want to watch this, now!”

Daughter: “Well, here’s the remote. Choose which one you want.”

LG: “It’s taking too long.”

Me: “Sigh.”

Not Forgotten

April 1. Daddy's birthday. He would be 95 today. I hope they have cake in Heaven!
Remembering you today and every day, Daddy! I love you!

Something like this.

Dad had a new toy.

A small musical instrument called a ‘musette’.

The fact that he was in his first year of university didn’t stop him from playing it.

He and a group of friends were riding the streetcar home from Sunday Services.

They were a happy bunch.

Talking.

Laughing.

Dad was tinkering about on his new toy.

Much to the discomfort of the other passengers.

I should mention, here, that Dad had a beautiful singing voice.

I’ve never heard him play the musette.

Possibly because of what follows . . .

The streetcar conductor called back to the group of boys, “You! On the harmonica! Please stop playing!”

Dad stopped.

For a moment.

Then, thinking that the conductor could no longer hear him over the noise of the rest of the passengers, he started again.

“You! Stop playing or I’ll have to kick you off the bus!”

Dad sighed and dropped the musette into his lap.

He looked down at it.

Just one more . . .

“Okay. That’s it!
The bus slid to a sudden stop.

“You! With the harmonica! Off!”

Dad got to his feet.

“And the rest of you with him! Off!”

His friends looked at each other.

Then, disgusted, they too got to their feet and followed the author of their misfortunes off the bus.

And began the long walk back to the University.

Moving ahead seventy years . . .

My Husby and I had moved our family to Edmonton.

Six hours north of where I was raised.

I met an elderly couple at church.

We started to visit.

They discovered that my maiden name was Stringam.

“Well, who do you belong to?” the man asked.

“Mark is my dad,” I said proudly.

“Mark,” he said. Then, “Mark! He got me kicked off the streetcar!”

The good things we do are quickly forgotten.

The mistakes?

They go on forever.

Generations of Lava

“Gaahh! Mom! You’re standing in the lava!”

Mom and Dad had taken us kids to see the movie ‘Krakatoa, East of Java’.
(Okay, yes, I know that the title is geographically incorrect, but that was what it was called.)

It had scared me to death. All my young, six-year-old mind could think of after that was trying to get away from the slowly-flowing river of death.

And my favourite game became the daring death walk over precariously-placed pillows across the lava lake that was the front room.

I was at it again.

And Mom wasn’t cooperating.

“Oops! Sorry!” Mom jumped lightly onto the closest pillow.

Whew! That was close! I didn’t have a lot of Moms to spare. I’d sure hate to lose this one.

For hours, my brother and I made up scenarios that necessitated leaping back and forth across the pillows and landing, temporarily safe, on the couch or coffee table.

It was fun.

And, nimble kids that we were, we never got burned even once.

Fast forward a few years . . .

My kids were downstairs playing.

I went to check on them.

They had pillows placed at strategic intervals across the family room floor.

“Careful, Mom! Don’t step in the lava!”

Now, where did they get that idea?

The déjà vu was frightening.

And, moving forward again - a lot of years . . .

Recently, my daughter and I were visiting in the front room, seated comfortably in recliners.

Her daughter and another granddaughter were playing.

They had been through the toy box.

And had graduated to hiding under piles of cushions on the couch.

Giggling.

A few minutes went by.

“Careful!” the three-year-old said.

I turned to see what they were doing.

They had set the cushions out across the floor in a line and were hopping back and forth along them.

“Stay on the bridge!” the three-year-old cautioned. “Don’t get hurt!”

The two-year old jumped off the last cushion and onto the floor.

“Gaahh!” my daughter and I said together. “You’re stepping in the lava!”

Okay, now I see where it comes from . . .

Write-er

A large, prestigious college had a large, prestigious hall,

And through its doors came visitors. It welcomed one and all,

A bright, brass plaque was fixed o’er where the people walked each day,

Upon it clearly written the hall’s name of Hemingway.

There one day came a man, (a tourist and a writer, too)

Who took a tourist’s glee in all the rooms that he went through.

Who clapped with pleasure when he saw that name upon that plaque,

“Why, Hemingway’s my favourite!” said the man. (Let’s call him Jack.)

“As a fellow writer, I have read most everything he wrote,

“And don’t tell anyone, but he’s my favourite man to quote!

“It says something for your school that you would name a hall just so,

“I simply must explore before it’s time for me to go!”

His guide said, “Jack, I am afraid that you’re mistak-en be,

“This hall was not named for your Ernest, I must make you see,

“Though, yes by the name ‘Hemingway’ this hall is quite well known,

“You have to know it’s ‘Joshua’ who claims the name his own.”

“Joshua!” our Jack exclaimed. “Was he a writer, too?

“And was he a relation of the man that we all knew?”

“Though Hemingway’s his name, a tie to Ernest? Not a spec,

“And yes, he was a writer, for, to us, he wrote a check!”

Cause Monday’s 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

Next week, we’re all here anyhow,

Let’s talk of Things that Scare Us now.

And now for some funnies!

The Bell of St. Vital

There is not much happening today that we could call ‘normal’.

Normal has become merely another word that belongs to the distant past (of one month ago). Those long-ago days of hugs. Handshakes. School. Dining out. Attending Sabbath services. Concerts. Plays. Sporting events. Getting together with friends and family.

Playing with one’s grandchildren.

In fact, the old curse “May you live in Interesting Times” seems to have taken a firm hold.

And so we reach out eagerly, even desperately for anything that could be considered ‘normal’.

I live in the small city of Beaumont in North-Central Alberta, nestled snugly up against the greater-metropolis of Edmonton.

A community known for its quiet bustle.

Its warm, friendly neighbourhoods.

Its village parenting.

Like most other settlements across the globe, the usually busy streets are quiet as families shelter in place.

Community chat pages have sprung up offering support and advice.

Deliveries quietly appear on the doorsteps of those in need.

But still we seek for any sign that brings back that quiet, cared-for feeling of ‘normal’.

Today, at 9:00 AM, I found one, when the silvery tones of the great St. Vital church bell rang out across the quiet city.

As it has done for over 100 years.

Since the end of another plague.

A tiny, silvery bit of ‘normal’.

Corn-eeeee

I can only dream.

I’ve never been able to grow corn.

The planets are aligned against it.

Why am I thinking of this at the end of March?

Because it’s still winter here.

But we're hoping spring (and growing season) are sometime in our near future.

Moving on . . .

For over forty years, I’ve kept a garden.

Oh, it has changed in that time.

Mostly gotten smaller.

For many, many of those years, I attempted to grow corn.

Corn-on-the-cob just says summer to me.

Most of the time, my tidy little corn plants merely peeked above ground.

Sighed.

And died.

Twice, they grew to maturity.

Developed ears, even.

And then . . .

Well, let me tell you about it.

I had a large garden behind our mobile home just outside of Orton, Alberta. (Near Fort MacLeod)

It was growing beautifully.

The weather had cooperated.

The rains had come when they were needed.

Plenty of sun.

For the first time, ever, I had mature corn plants.

Nearly ready to harvest mature corn plants.

Then, one sunny, but slightly breezy day, the county sprayer drove by.

Spraying the ditches.

For weeds.

Now, if there is any wind, the county sprayers are supposed to be cautious. Not spray near homesteads. Avoid people.

This sprayer . . . wasn’t.

And did.

And the next day, I walked out into my garden and noticed that everything looked . . . wilted.

My first thought was frost.

Okay, it was July, the only month of the year when frost is . . . uncommon.

Then I remembered the sprayer.

Long story short – the weed-killer had lived up to its name.

My garden – and my beautiful corn – was dead.

Sigh.

A couple of years later, in a different small house and with a different garden patch, I again saw my efforts to grow corn rewarded.

Saw ears develop.

And then . . . grasshoppers.

In 1983, in Southern Alberta, we had a ‘plague of locusts’. A real plague – look it up. They were so numerous that cars were known to slip in the tide that constantly flowed across the roads. They devoured crops and hay.

And my corn. Drilled holes right through those babies.

Another sigh.

Oh, I didn’t give up.

I tried.

And tried.

And tried.

But never again did my corn amount to anything more than tall, attractive (earless) plants.

I still eat corn.

And corn-on-the-cob still shouts summer to me.

But, alas, someone else has to do the growing.

I will stick with the appreciating.

And devouring.

The two things I’m obviously best at.

A 'Little' Story

She was supposed to be raking leaves.

But you know how an assigned job can be forgotten. Or an assigned worker . . . sidetracked.

I know it happens to me. Why, once . . .

Never mind.

Chicken Little Feathers, of the Merrywoods Feathers, was supposed to be working. C. Little, as she preferred to be called, had been asked to rake the leaves in the front yard.

Now admittedly, the front yard was enormous, taking in, as it did, most of the forest.

But C. Little, full of energy and good intentions started in with a will.

An hour later, with several enormous piles of well-raked leaves behind her and several thousand more ahead, she decided to take a well-deserved break.

Any of us would have done it. I know I would.

She flopped down into one of her heaps of crunchy, brightly-coloured leaves.

For a few seconds, she lay there happily, totally relaxed.

A small breeze sprang up, cooling her slightly over-heated self.

But this breeze, unbeknownst (Ooh! Good word!) to her, also twirled cheerfully around the tree just over her head.

An oak tree.

With dozens of baby oaks—AKA: acorns—nestled snugly against their parent.

Well most of them were snug.

One or two, not so much.

You can probably guess what happened next.

Yep. One of them lost its grip and dropped straight down (This acorn wasn’t going to fall far from the tree!) onto the head of the little would-be gardener thirty feet below.

Now I know there are often comparisons made between mighty oaks and their tiny, little acorns.

And acorns are comparatively tiny.

But drop one from thirty feet onto your head and see how you feel.

C. Little gasped and sat straight up, one wing over the rapidly-swelling bruise on her little head. She looked up into the tree and came to the only conclusion possible. A piece of the sky, barely glimpsed between the thick branches of the towering oak, must have somehow become detached and fallen.

Okay, yes, there are other conclusions. Each of which would have been vastly superior to the one jumped to.

But we’re talking about a little, feather-headed chicken here.

C. Little leaped to her feet and screamed.

Loud enough for one of her nearby friends, Goosy Loosy (hey, I didn’t name these people) to hear her. She hurried over.

“What is it, Lit? What’s wrong?”

“Loos! The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” C. Little pointed in the general direction of up.

Goosy Loosy tipped her head, peering along the trajectory of the pointing feather. She frowned a rather goosy frown, then looked back at C. Little. “I don’t see any . . .”

And it was at that precise moment that the second of the not-so-snug acorns lost its not-so-powerful hold on its parent.

Hitting Miss Loosy right on top of her rounded goosy head.

“Gahhh!” she screamed. “It’s true! It’s true!”

Okay, say what you will about panic. It has been known to motivate people to do amazing things.

Most of them bad.

“We must go and warn the king!” C. Little screamed. “The entire kingdom is at risk!”

And, just like that, the two of them were off.

Now I won’t bore you with the details of their encounters with several other members of the feather-headed variety that peopled (you know what I mean) the forest.

Suffice it to say their hysteria was contagious and leave it at that.

Soon there was a panicky, but determined group of would-be saviours on their way to warn the king of the imminent danger to, and probable destruction of, his kingdom.

Partway there, they came upon a rather shifty fellow by the name of Loxy. First name Foxy.

Who, quite notably, wasn’t panicking.

“Wooah, Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

Now, normally, when there exists a mob situation, the individuals in it have ceased to think as individuals.

This was far from a normal situation.

But part of it, notably the whole not-thinking-for-themselves part, was still very much in effect.

Sigh.

Moving on . . .

“You might not have noticed it yet,” C. Little started out . . .

“BUT THE SKY IS FALLING!” The rest of the group chimed in.

Mr. Loxy looked up at the cloudless, blue sky, then back to them. “Seriously?”

Several feathered heads nodded.

He raised a rather foxy eyebrow. “Huh!”

“We’re on our way to warn the king!” C. Little said importantly.

“I bow to your selflessness and industry,” Mr. Loxy said. Again he looked at the sky. “It’s funny how serene everything looks. You’d never know there was a problem.”

“Hah! Remember the Titanic! And how serene it appeared to be in the early minutes after striking the iceberg!”

Everyone turned to look at Miss Loosy.

“Say what?” Mr. Loxy said. “Ti-. . .”

Goosy Loosy’s eyes shifted away. Then back. “. . .-tanic. It was a ship. That . . .  you know what? Never mind.”

Mr. Loxy gave her a long look, then took a deep breath. “So back to our discussion. You’re on your way to warn the king?”

C. Little nodded. “Yes. It’s our civic duty.”

“It’s a long way to the palace from here,” Mr. Loxy said. “Look. Why don’t you come to my apartment and just post things on Forestbook. Everyone will get the message and of course they will believe it. And share it millions of times. The king is sure to hear.”

“Oooh! That sounds so much easier,” Ducky Lucky said. He held out one of his little, duck feet. “All this walking is making my arches fall.”

The little feather-headed mob was soon in agreement (see above vis-à-vis mob mentality) and following Mr. Loxy toward his apartment/lair.

It will probably not be a surprise to learn that Mr. Loxy, contrary to what he said, had absolutely no intention of helping them out.

In fact, he was more concerned with what was going into his stomach than what may be falling out of the sky.

And it will probably be equally non-shocking to hear that none of the good-hearted but woefully-ignorant citizens ever emerged from Mr. Loxy’s lair.

There are several lessons to be learned.

1.                When the world around you seems to be panicking, don’t.

2.                Seek credible sources.

3.                Not everyone has your best interests at heart.

4.                Troubles bring out the good or the bad in people.

5.                Be one of the good.