Family Light

 

My Siblings

Mom's Family: The Bergs

Dad's Family: The Stringams

My Family

In our corner of the world, in winter, the nights are very long.

For a period of time, the street lights are coming on when the school children are just getting home.

And don't shut off until said children are safely back in class the next morning.

One does everything in the dark.

Early morning walks.

Paper routes.

Extra curricular activities.

Chores.

You might think that it would be aggravating; having so few hours of sunlight during our 'waking' part of the day.

But I love it.

For a few months, Life seems to slow down.

Family comes home earlier.

And stays longer.

But I have one memory that makes the darkness . . . special.

Let me tell you about it . . .

On the ranch, meals were served like clockwork.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner appeared with amazing regularity.

And an equal amount of delicious-ness.

During winter, at least two of those meals were prepared and served with stars in the sky.

With the modern conveniences of electricity, this was not a handicap.

Mom worked with every imaginable electronic gadget.

In a brilliantly lit kitchen.

As the rest of the house darkened with the fading sunlight, the kitchen remained a beacon.

Calling to all of us.

As suppertime neared, I would shut off the lamp in my bedroom and, without stopping to turn on any more lights, walk quickly along the dark hallway.

And that's the part I remember most clearly.

Seeing the light flooding out of every doorway leading into the kitchen.

Moving from the dark into a world of light, fragrance, warmth.

And family.

Mom orchestrating and/or supervising numerous pots and kettles and children.

The rest of the kids gathering or already seated.

An evening of great food and wonderful company ahead of me.

Mom is gone, now.

My siblings scattered throughout North America.

But whenever I come from a darkened hallway into a lighted kitchen, I feel that same anticipation.

That same joy I first felt over fifty years ago - and that time and life experiences cannot fade.

Stepping from darkness into light.

The light that is family.

Seasonal Dressing

Clockwise from right: Aly (Hired man's son),
Anita, Blair, and Me - in my little gold beauty.

It wasn't often that we kids were able to go on a field trip with my Dad.

When it happened, we were eager.

When it happened at Christmas, we were beyond excited.

Ecstatic!

Exuberant!

Exhilarated!

Elated!

Euphoric!

Electrified!

That's all of the 'E' words I can think of.

Except that 'energetic' should be stuck in there somewhere.

And, for me, usually immediately followed by, "Empty all tanks!"

When I think about it, I guess it's not surprising that we didn't go on field trips with my Dad very often.

Back to my story . . .

Dad was taking us four oldest kids to the Sweetgrass Hills to cut down our family's Christmas tree.

It was the 60's.

Families did things like that back then.

But we had to make a quick stop in Milk River at the Robinson's store to get me a winter coat.

I had outgrown my old one and Dad wasn't excited about trailing me through the forest wrapped in my blanket.

Go figure.

So the excitement level for this trip had just been dialed way up.

In fact, I was so elated, that Dad didn't even wait for the 'announcement' (see above), but sat me in the car with a bucket already in my lap.

Smart man.

We made the 20 miles to Milk River without incident. (see above . . . again.)

And entered the store.

I should explain here that the Robinson's Store was the only shop in Milk River that featured clothing.

There were neat piles of everything wearable.

And the wood plank floors creaked delightfully.

And if you were really lucky, you got to watch Theo Barrows gift wrap packages at her counter in the middle of the store.

The curling of the ribbons was especially fascinating.

Where was I  . . .?

Oh, yes.

New coat.

Dad asked the manager where we could find coats in my size and was conducted, with me tagging eagerly behind, to a rack at one side of the store.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a gold, furry, wonderful garment.

I reached out a hand and brushed the soft fur.

Oooooh! "This one, Daddy! This one!"

"Okay, we'll try this one," Dad said.

I dropped my blanket and slipped my arms into the sleeves.

Perfect!

"I guess we'll take it," Dad said.

Good thing, too, because there was no way they were ever going to pry me out of that coat.

Dad paid and we trooped back out to the car.

The other kids excited now to get to the real reason for this trip.

Me brushing and brushing the soft fur on my arms and chest.

We had fun finding the tree.

I think.

We did end up with one.

I really don't remember much about it.

Me and my coat were happy, sitting in the car together.

And watching through the windshield.

Because, after all - one couldn't wear one's new coat out into nature!

What if it got soiled?

Dad later said something about 'waste of time and money'.
But who listened?

Later:
Anita and Blair (in my now-outgrown coat which he hated). 
The original recycling program

The Mitten of Invention

A repost of my favourite Christmas shopping story.

Red Mittens - not just for hands any more!

We were shopping. I will admit, here, that shopping is not my favourite activity. I need a really good excuse.
It was Christmas.

Okay, Christmas is a really good excuse . . .
My youngest two children and I were out to find a gift for Husby.
Their Dad, my Sweetheart.
The hardest person to shop for.
After much wrinkle-browed thought, we had decided that whatever we were seeking would best be found at Lee Valley Tools. My husband's favourite place on earth.
Really.
It is a long-standing family joke that he must go once a month to LVT to pay homage to Thor, the Tool God.
But I digress . . .
We set out.
It was December.
Winter.
In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, winter equals snow. Ask anyone.
But avoid those with chattering teeth. Th-th-they c-c-c-can n-n-n-never be t-t-t-trusted.
Or understood.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Winter. Shopping. Setting out.
At first, things went well. A heavy, wet snow was falling thickly, but the window wipers were managing to keep the windshield clear – sort of.
We made it into the city. And immediately slowed to a snail's pace.
Let me describe the scene for those of you not familiar with travel accompanied by snow: All roads are now white. And slippery. All surfaces have become heavily coated in ice. Nothing is recognizable. Little is even visible.
The windshield wipers are your best, and only, friends.
But even they, too, get clogged with snow and need the occasional boost. This is accomplished by stopping. Getting out of the vehicle. And slapping said wiper against the window hard enough to remove any accumulated snow.
Or, if you are my husband, by opening the driver's window and catching the wiper when it is in its furthest upright position and giving it a quick snap while it is still in motion.
It's all about timing. And coordination.
Neither of which I have.
And both of which were to be needed shortly.
Several times, I pulled out of the crawling traffic and performed the necessary operation to clear the windshield. Then waited for a break in the traffic and pulled back in. Total time wasted? Hours.
Okay, well, it seemed like hours.
There must be a better way. I would try Grant's method!
Genius!
When the traffic had stopped for yet another light, or stalled vehicle, I quickly rolled down the window. Then I reached out.
I waited for just the right moment, when the wipers were at their apex (neat word, right?)
Closer. Closer. There!
I reached out and caught the top of the wiper.
Snap! Okay, that didn't sound good.
As the wipers began their downward stroke, I realized what I had done. The blade was still in my hand.
I had snapped the entire thing off its arm.
Umm . . . oops?
The window quickly became covered in a blanket of white. Well, half of it at any rate.
Unfortunately, it was the driver's half. Rather necessary if you want to see where you are going.
And usually, the driver does.
Something needed to be done. And there was no one but me to do it.
Rats!
Quickly, I climbed out and switched my only remaining wiper blade to the driver's side. Okay. Now I could see. That's important.
But now, the other side of the windshield was suffering from the lack of wiper-age.
Hmm.
I looked around. Our options were . . . limited.
“What about this?” My daughter's voice from the back seat.
She was holding up her red mitten.
I stared at it. Huh. Might work. I took it and, climbing out into the storm once more, proceeded to tie it to the other wiper arm.
There.
Perfect.
We switched on the wipers.
Wipe.
Wipe.
It worked!
Now we had a wiper and a . . . mitten.
I don't have to tell you how it looked. In point of fact, we giggled every time that mitten came into sight.
We finished our trip. Shopping done. Purchases made. Van safely parked back on the driveway.
And Husby replaced the wiper that had so inconveniently decided to come off.
Stupid thing.
The wiper, not Husby.
I learned several things from this:
1. Don't shop.
2. Don't drive.
3. Don't live in Canada
4. Don't go anywhere without your red mittens.
Okay, you're right. I didn't learn anything because:
1. I still shop.
2. I still drive.
3. I still live in Canada.
Pack your mittens!

You get the picture . . .

Goldi-Locked

 

She was supposed to be weeding the garden. But the warm afternoon sun beckoned and, let’s face it, she had a short attention span. So Goldilocks dropped hoe, dusted hands, and went exploring.

Okay, so it’s not like she was strictly ‘forbidden’ said activity. It was more like an understood… erm… understanding that dire things could happen if she did so. And Little Goldie lacked discipline.

Deep into the forest that bordered her mother’s small patch of ground, Goldie walked. Enjoying the warm sunshine and the plethora (real word roughly meaning: lots) of birds, scurrying furry animals and insects.

And there, in the center (or as close as we can estimate without a yardstick) of those woods stood a tidy, little cottage. A cute little cottage. Owned by someone Goldie didn’t know.

Now that fact alone would have caused anyone else to either knock politely and await a response, or, at the very least, holler. And when either greeting failed to raise a resident—leave.

Remember where I said Goldie lacked discipline? Turns out she also lacked common courtesy. And basic manners. Because though she did knock, perfunctorily, she didn’t await a response, but simply walked right in.

Now, this little cottage wasn’t owned by just anyone. Nope. The three names on the title (they are still there if you’d care to look) were Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear.

Of course some time has passed since the happenings penned here, so Baby Bear is no longer a baby, but an enormous fully grown Papa himself. With a large family of his own.

But for our purposes, we’ll stick to the timeline wherein these things actually took place. Sooo… Goldilocks. Cottage. Lack of courtesy. Trespassing. I think that takes us all where we need to go.

The first thing she noticed in the tidy kitchen that opened directly off of the back door were three steaming bowls of porridge. Well—one steaming. And two in varied stages of cooling-off-ed-ness.

It was at that moment Goldilocks realized she hadn’t eaten in some time. Since breakfast, in fact. Her stomach and several attached and/or dependent systems suddenly reminded her with a low growl.

And just like that, she decided that a bowl of yummy porridge in the hand was worth any number of distant and possibly uninteresting lunches at home. No matter who it belonged to.

She found a spoon and tasted the first—largest—bowl. “Yow!” she wailed. “Too hot!” Okay, yes, the steam should have been a dead give-away. It suggests a distinct lack of observation skills.

She moved to the second-biggest bowl. “Ugh. Too cold.” Say what you will about Goldilocks—though her talent for observation may be lacking, this girl is an authority when it comes to porridge.

And she doesn’t give up easily. By the time we had reached the third bowl, many of us would have thrown in the spoon. But Goldie remained undeterred by her two appetite-curbing failures.

Still tingling with enthusiasm—and/or hunger—she dove in. And was correct (if not right) by so doing. The third bowl, though the smallest, was perfect in both temperature and content! Trés yummy!

In no time, the porridge was gone. And Goldie was needing a spot to sit and rest her weary—though distinctly dishonest—bones. A chair was indicated. Remarkably, there were three on offer.

One too hard. One too soft. And one just right. But surprisingly poorly constructed. Or at least that’s what Goldie told herself when the whole da…darn thing collapsed into a heap of splinters.

Now urgently needing a place to recover from the shock of becoming subject to the foibles of shoddy construction practices, Goldie sought out the bedroom. And the three tidy beds she found therein.

Again a short-term dilemma. Too hard. Too soft. Just right. Goldie sank into the comfy mattress and immediately was lost in the arms of Morpheus. A fictional character. Unlike Goldie who is…never mind.

While she slumbered, the aforementioned cottage owners returned from wherever they had gone. They noticed immediately that something was amiss. Let’s face it, what Goldie lacked in manners…she also lacked in neatness.

First they spotted the empty bowl. Then the shattered chair. Yes, you’re right. Pretty hard to miss. And finally, they came upon the culprit, soundly and rosily asleep in Baby Bear’s little bed.

It was at that moment Goldilocks woke up. “Three bears!” she screamed. Leaping up, she again showed her lack of societal training and manners by simply running past them and out the door.

Papa, Mama and Baby bear looked at each other. What had just happened? Not only were they the victims of a home invasion, they had been made to feel distinctly labeled and typecast.

Mama Bear looked out the window as the golden-haired (thus, her name) eater of porridge, breaker of chairs and sleeper of beds disappeared into the woods. She sighed and turned to her family.

“I feel distinctly labeled and typecast(!),” she said. Baby Bear nodded, “And I feel violated. I’m the one who lost my breakfast and my place to sit. And should probably wash my sheets.”

Papa Bear put a fatherly hand on Baby Bear’s shoulder. “So what do we learn from this, son?” Baby Bear frowned. “Even though we live in Canada, we should learn to lock doors?”

Word Counters is a monthly word challenge.
Participants choose a number.
And the rest of us stick to it.
Sound fun?
Join us!
'Word Counters' was brought to you this month by the number: 33 

And the person: Karen of Baking in a Tornado

Our good friend Mimi of Messymimi's Meanderings is also participating!

Ginger-dread

My daughter works in theatre,

A carpenter. It’s true.

She’s very good at what she does,

Is always in demand because,

You seldom see her make faux pas,

Excels with nails and glue.

 

And you should see the things she builds!

They’re miracles, I swear,

A whole apartment on the stage,

An office, ship, a courtroom, cage,

‘Sets’ the scene for joy or rage,

All built with skill and care.

 

We’ve witnessed her artistic bent

In her own life as well.

Her décor can be called ‘unique’,

A mix of modern and antique,

With personality and ‘cheek’,

In vivids and pastels.

 

And better, yet, are holidays,

The artist does emerge,

With graves dug deep in our front yard,

Or lights with which our house is starred,

Or one enormous greeting card,

You see her talents surge!

 

But none are much more obvious than,

Her homes of gingerbread,

There’s never a bucolic scene,

Where lights and candles softly gleam,

And icing, trees and rooftops preen,

And only JOY is spread.

 

Instead, we have a ‘what we’d see’

If disasters hit:

An earthquake leaves you in the lurch,

With flames, a building is besmirched,

A Christmas train through a Christmas church,

Unusual, you’ll admit!

 

Sooo…

If homes of gingerbread you make,

And just want something sweet,

Even though your kids are bright and kind,

Fantastic at what they’ve designed,

To THEATRE, if they’re inclined,

Just stick with Trick or Treat!

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 Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next Monday's shortest of the year,

We'll see if we can find some cheer,

So come and celebrate with us,

The Winter Solstice, we'll discuss!

Sally Sitting

 It started like so many of our ‘adventures’. Quietly.
With me doing something normal, like putting a folded shirt in the laundry basket ready for transport. And examining the seam of another that looked as though it could use a mend.

Then Mom came into the room, ashen-faced.

I sat down. “Okay. What has Sally done this time?”

Mom shook her head. “It isn’t what she’s done, exactly. It’s the possibilities…” Her eyes wandered toward the window.

“Mom. Focus.”

She took a deep breath and looked back at me. “That new family? The ones who moved in next to Gary?”
“Scary Gary? I’m with you.”

“Well, apparently Gary’s mother, Mary, recommended our family as possible baby sitters for their three kids.”

I stiffened. “Well, we can just say no, right?”

“I actually did. It’s on Tuesday and both you and I are already committed…”

“Or should be,” I muttered under my breath.

“What, dear?”

“Nothing. Go on. Apparently, your refusal was…refused?”

“Well, Sally came to the door, just as I was offering my regrets.”

I help up a hand. “Say no more. I can see it all. She accepted?”

Mom nodded. “Do you think we could move to, say, Timbuktu by Tuesday?”

I rubbed one eye. “How about we just plan on spending the evening under the bed?”

“That’s almost as good.”

What is it about time? Particularly when something you’re dreading is approaching. It just moves faster.

True story.

Tuesday dawned bright and clear. And warm. Warmer than was seasonal.

Part of me wondered if it was because we were at the physical threshold of hell.

The day passed quietly. 

Comparatively.

You have to know by now that no day actually passes quietly with Sally around.

But sometimes the chaos sort of…takes a breath…so to speak.

Zero hour approached and Sally, armed with a large, well-stuffed shoulder bag, kissed Mort in the neighbourhood of his nose and waved cheerfully to Mom and me as she stepped out the door.

It swung shut with a hollow and cryptic boom.

Okay, that may have been my imagination. But it should have.

And we three were left biting our nails until she reappeared. Okay, well Mom and I were.

Mort seems to have the uncanny ability to see past all of Sally’s…erm…tendencies? Habits?

Never mind.

A few hours later, Mort was sitting at a table in one corner of the TV room, working on a puzzle. I was on the couch, with a can of coke handy, while I tried desperately to concentrate on a book that should have been riveting. The letters on the page just seemed to float in front of me.

Mom wandered into the room and snapped on the TV.

The 9 o’clock news was already underway. A field reporter was speaking.

“The child was spotted by a family taking their turn to view the city lights from the top of the Toyota building.”

A long shot of the newest, tallest building in our city’s downtown, lit from top to bottom. Flashing red lights could be seen at the base and emergency crews milled about the grounds.

A slightly disheveled, masked woman appeared. “It was so frightening!” the woman gasped out. “My Freddie was the first to see her. This little girl…just clinging to the sloping windows there at the top of the building!”

The field reporter returned. “The new Toyota building, as most of you know, is capped with a series window banks which meet at a point at the apex, forming a pyramid-like top to the structure. This holiday season, small cohort groups have been booking time there to get an unparalleled view of both the city lights and the stars.”

The woman returned. “Those windows have to be at—like—a 45 degree angle. And there was that little girl. Just clinging there.” She placed a hand over her heart and took a deep breath. “It nearly gave me heart failure to see her out there seventy stories in the air!”

“So what did you do?” the field reporter asked.

“What any parent would do. Ran to the window to see if we could get it open and get her in.” The woman closed her eyes. “She was screaming or shouting something. We couldn’t make out the message. And we couldn’t find any way to open the window.” She shook her head. “My husband dialled 911 and the kids and I gathered under her and just tried to hold her there with thought alone!”

“Now my understanding is that, by the time emergency services arrived, the girl was gone?”

The woman nodded. “She slid…upward. We watched her go.” She shuddered. “If she fell, we never saw it.”

Once again, the camera panned across the brightly-lit building, then zeroed in on the fire chief, speaking to a group of firefighters. He turned to the camera. “We have combed the area and, thankfully no body has been discovered but we are left with far more questions than answers. We will continue to search for clues, but, as of this moment, we have no information.”

The field reporter returned. “We just have to hope that this little girl, and whoever rescued her, are safe and sound…somewhere. This is Lise Roberts reporting for KDC News.”

Mom shut off the TV.

“Hey! I was listening to that!” Mort protested.

Mom and I looked at each other.

“Surely not,” Mom whispered.

I shook my head. “She’s been just a couple of doors down the street this whole night.”

Mom just stared straight ahead.

“Right, Mom? Right?”

Just then the door opened and Sally’s cheerful face appeared. “Hi-ho, everyone! Have a good evening?” She dumped her bag on the floor next to the door and pulled off snowy boots.

Mom slowly stood up. “Tell me you stayed in the house all evening, Sally.”

Sally frowned. “What? Oh by the way those new kids say they won’t EVER have any other babysitter but me!”

“Tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“That you stayed in the house all evening!”

“O-kay. We stayed in the house all evening.”

“But is it the truth?”

“Nope.”

 

Use Your Words is a word challenge. Each of the participants submits words which are then re-distributed to the other participants. None of us knows who will get our words and what will be done with them. Totally fun!

This month, my words were:

folded ~ mend ~ handy ~ message ~ float

And submitted by my friend Jenniy at https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com               

                              

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

 

Baking In A Tornado  https://bakinginatornado.com/

Wandering Web Designer  https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog

Climaxed https://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com

Part-time Working Hockey Mom https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.com/

The Crazy Mama Llama  https://crazymamallama.blogspot.com/ 

To Cat Herders I Have Known..

 

I love cats, you know I do,

They’re smart. And entertaining, too,

Sometimes, they just don’t think things through,

Or fail when trying to construe,

Wind up in something of a stew,

And give you something fun to view…

To drapes and screens, they stick like glue,

Have inconvenient timing, true,

Mess up the portrait you just drew,

Or bid your brand new rug adieu,

Your hugs and kisses they eschew,

Until the times when they want to,

Beneath your window, half-past two,

Loving, fighting right on cue,

Until you’d like to throw a shoe,

And think you’d rather have a gnu,

But I think you would be so blue,

If you didn’t have your ‘ballyhoo’,

You’d have to find a new way to

Be entertained by something new,

So, here’s to cats, I’ve known a few,

I love their ways and their miscues,

Love watching antics on ‘YouTube’,

But one more thing and then I’m through…

Love most that they belong to you!

Today's a challenge--po-et-ry,

We're having fun, my friends and me,

And you get rhyming all for free!

Now you've read mine, so go and see

The others. I know you'll agree,

They've everything a poem should be!

Karen of Baking in a Tornado

Imported

Hmmm . . . maybe we can make it work...

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the nearest bus route.

But it still managed to attract a lot of employment-seekers.

In the earlier days, cowboys would arrive on their horses.

In my day, they arrived by phone call or ‘thumb’. (They had been pointed in our direction when they got off the bus in Milk River and no one driving that lonely road would ever pass by someone on foot.)

So they arrived.

Often hot and sweaty.

But usually ready to work.

There were exceptions.

Oh, they still arrived, hot and sweaty.

It was the ‘work’ thing that they weren’t ready for.

Those didn’t last long.

Case in point:

A young man arrived on the bus from Hawaii.

Okay, yes, I know that’s impossible.

Let’s just say he arrived on the bus.

And that he was from Hawaii.

He told the local bus-terminal operator that he was a cowboy looking for work.

Dutifully, the operator called Dad to see if the Stringam Ranch could use an extra couple of hands if they were attached to a large, happy, Stetson-sporting fellow from Hawaii.

Well, this was something new.

Our first Hawaiian cowboy.

Dad drove the twenty miles to bring this curiosity home.

He was a pleasant fellow.

Charming and cheerful.

And he sure loved Mom’s cooking.

So far so good.

Dad gave him an assignment. An easy one to start. Tear out the fence along the tree-lined drive.

Dad wanted to replace it and he needed the old one removed.

Our newest hand was given tools.

Instructions.

And left on his own.

Some time later, he was discovered, lying in the shade, visiting with my eldest sister while she shelled peas.

He looked at Dad.

“Oh!” he said, jumping to his feet and hurrying back to work.

Dad went on with his day.

Only to stumble across the young man, once more, lying in the shade and visiting with my sister as she snapped beans.

Dad merely raised his eyebrows.

“Guess I’d better get back to work,” the young man said, pushing himself to his feet and sauntering back to his job.

Sometime later, the bell rang, calling everyone to supper.

The young man was first in line.

Smacking his lips over more of Mom’s cooking.

After supper, he remained in his seat and chatted with my sister while she washed the dishes.

For the next two days, he managed to find time to talk to my sister whenever she set foot outside.

He talked as she weeded the garden. Washed the 4-H calves. Hauled hay. And shucked corn.

Are we seeing a pattern forming here?

Progress on his own project was minimal.

Actually, non-existent.

On the third day, Dad loaded him into the car after breakfast and gave him a ride back to the bus stop in town.

The job that had taken him three days?

My brothers finished it in three hours.

That was our one and only experience with a Hawaiian cowboy.

I’m sure there are others.

Cowboys from Hawaii, I mean.

That are very hard workers.

They just haven’t made it to Milk River, yet.

New-ish Traditions

 

We moved away from kith and kin in 1983,

‘Twas not an easy time for us, I know you will agree…

Cause our traditions then depended on those fam’ly ties,

And eating, playing games and FUN (and all that word implies),

But work would call us northward. So for years we made the hike,

At Christmas time o’er icy roads with all our toys and tykes.

And then that year. The mercury, at minus 40, stopped,

And Husby found just what it’s like to drive a curling rock…

With all six kids (and packages) in blankets in the back,

All praying for a little warmth before they outright cracked!

T’was at that moment, we decided for our fam’ly’s good,

We would start our own traditions—staying where we should.

With new PJ’s on Christmas eve and pasta for the meal,

Rummoli and assorted games; and movies for the ‘feels’,

Christmas Bears and other baking, gifts beneath our tree,

And visiting beside the fire with choc-o-late or tea.

Then Christmas morning, trying to drag their dad out of the sack,

Avoiding traps and crafty tricks (assured to give flashbacks),

When finally, he had arrived, to the tree they all would scoot,

Then tearing, and excitement and “Just look at all my loot!”

Eggs Benedict for breakfast and then visiting until,

The turkey dinner, guaranteed all empty spots to fill,

More games and puzzles all together while we would digest,

With talk and laughter constantly and feeling mighty blessed.

Each year, our family has grown, with chicks and chicklets, too,

And now there’s over thirty gather (yes, it’s quite a crew!),

And sometimes when it’s quiet, which I must admit, is rare,

I’m glad we are at home, instead of taking things elsewhere,

And have we been successful in creating ‘fun’ our own?

Now our kids pack their tykes and toys and join us here at home!

 

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 Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

 

Next week, some joy we hope to spread,

With houses out of gingerbread!

 

Brain Cell

 My cell phone’s a necessity,

Without it, I just can’t be me!

My e-lec-tron-ic brain, oh, yes.

And so much more, I do confess.

No cell? The time—I would not know,

Couldn’t Google Map the way to go,

Be forced to grade six math so I,

Could add, subtract and multiply.

I couldn’t call a single friend,

(‘Cause I ‘select’ and then hit ‘send’.)

I would not even know the date,

For all appointments, I’d be late.

Go back to being ignorant

(Without Google, data’s scant.)

Could not take those wond’rous pics,

With which, my family, I transfix.

I couldn’t text, could not emote,

I couldn’t bake or sew or vote.

And don’t forget that cell phone spark

That keeps you walking in the dark.

For forty years, I did without,

I found my way, I did not doubt,

What do I miss with my long rant?

Being lost, alone and ignorant!